XXXI
LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER ALL
All things were in readiness, and the people of St. Cuthbert's were awaiting the Sabbath day with eager souls. For it was the Sabbath of the sacrament, dispensed but twice a year, according to the custom of their fathers. I myself looked forward to this communion with a kindling heart, for I knew its healing grace; and this was the first dispensation since the shadow of that ordination day had fallen on our church's life.
The morning came, radiant in its robe of early spring, and we knew that a great multitude would throng St. Cuthbert's. For the aged and long imprisoned, denied the regular services of the kirk, would yet venture forth to show the Lord's death once again, some to drink that cup no more till they should drink it new in their Father's kingdom.
Down the aisle would they come, leaning heavily upon the staff—but they knew their accustomed places, the places which were so soon to know them no more forever; when the service was over, they would retrace their steps to the door of the now deserted church, and backward turning, would cast one longing, lingering look behind, then set their peaceful faces towards their home, the long rough journey near its end at last.
The elders, including the four recently added to their number, met as usual, for preparatory prayer. More than ordinary tenderness seemed to mark their petitions, for their hearts were with the absent; and the senior elder thrilled us when he prayed for "him whom we had hoped to begin his ministry this day, and for Thy servant who was wont in the days that are past to serve with us before Thine altar."
As I walked into the pulpit, I caught a glimpse of Margaret's face, and never have I seen sweeter peace than rested upon it. Her eyes reposed on the snowy cloth that hid the emblems of a greater sacrifice, and she knew, as few could know, the deep sacramental joy.
But hardly had my heart warmed at sight of her before sorrow chilled its ardour; for right opposite Margaret's pew was that of Michael Blake—and its emptiness smote my heart with pain. Not there, nor in his rightful place among the elders, was my old-time friend. Where, I could not help but wonder, where to-day is the unhappy man who has cast his ministry behind him? And bitter memories of varied verdicts flitted before me as I went up the pulpit steps.
We had begun the psalm, and were in the midst of the line—never can I forget it:
"As far as east is distant from
The west, so far hath he"
when I noticed the volume of song become gradually less, and a nameless sense of discomfort possessed me.
I looked up, and could scarce restrain a cry.
For I saw the face of Michael Blake—and he was walking down the aisle—— And that other, who is that? For beside him is a woman's comely form, her sweet face lowly bent as though it would be hidden, the light of purity mingling with the conscious flame.
Upon Mr. Blake's face is the humble chastened look of one whom God has touched—in the hollow of his thigh, mayhap—and the limp may be seen of all men to the last. But pride is there too, the solemn pride of one who has wrestled and prevailed, to go henceforth forever halting, but forever heavenward.
Down the aisle, the same aisle by which he had departed from us, they walked together, while wondering faces drank in the meaning of it all, joy breaking forth upon them like the sun when darkening clouds have gone.
He leads her to his old-time pew, and she takes the place that is henceforth to be her own. The singing has stopped, save those silent strains with which God is well pleased, the same as angels echo round the throne.
It was hard for me to proceed with the service, for I knew that God Himself had spoken. The sacred bush was in flame before us as in the olden time, and the place whereon we stood was holy ground. The portion I had chosen for the reading was from 1 Corinthians, the apostle's great eulogy on love; and my voice faltered as I read some of its wondrous words.
Before I had finished it, my resolve was taken. I came down from the pulpit and stood before it, the elders all about me.
"Let us have our unbroken number," I began; "the kirk session is constituted, and I call upon such as have been chosen to serve within it, to come forward and assume the holy office. After this, the sacrament of forgiving love will be dispensed."
I paused—and no one of all the multitude seemed to breathe. But a moment passed, and then a sound broke the stillness. It was the sound of moving feet, and the elder-elect arose and came slowly forward, his head bowed as he came.
"Kneel down, Angus," I said, softly. He kneeled, and I had almost begun, my hands outstretched above his head. He raised his face to mine, lowered to meet it. A moment told me what he wished to say.
"Stand up," I whispered.
When he had risen, I said aloud: "Angus Strachan, ordained already, I give you the right hand of fellowship into the eldership of St. Cuthbert's church. The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift the light of His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."
Again I raised my voice as I faced the worshippers.
"I extend yet another invitation in my Master's name. I call upon any who may be among us, once serving in the eldership of this church, to come forward and aid us to dispense the pledges of forgiving love to other sinful men."
I waited, but there was no response. One sat with bowed head, his hand held in the gentle keeping of another's. The moments passed, but still silence reigned.
"Come awa', man,"—it was Ronald McGregor's trembling voice from among the elders—"come awa'; it's the wounded hand that beckons ye—we're a' here o' the Saviour's grace alane."
Michael Blake moved slightly, but his head was lower bowed.
"Gang forrit, Michael, gang forrit to the table He's been gey guid to us baith—an' oor Angus wants ye," whispered the woman beside him.
Then he came; and, as he walked to the table, the meaning of God's pardoning love seemed borne in upon us as it had never been before.
He had hardly taken his seat beside us when we heard a faint rustling sound, some one moving. I turned my head, and saw Margaret, her face lovely through its tears, slip into the empty place and take in her own the hand that had been just released. Burning hot it was, but she held it tight—and Janet took her into her heart forever.
Then the sacred emblems were poured and broken by our sinful hands, redeemed by love alone. The elders bore them forth to the waiting souls, and when Angus came to his mother's place, great grace was upon us all. He had bent one moment, before she took the chalice in her trembling hand. One word was spoken, only one, and what it was no one heard—nor Margaret, nor any one but God.
Because of more abounding grace, and because of that alone, I cherish the trembling hope that I shall yet hear the new and holy song in the blessed homeland yonder. Yonder, I say, for on clear days I have seen the dim outline of the hills beyond the river; and sometimes in the night I have caught the glow of an unsetting sun. Only for a moment, it is true—but it was enough. My sight is failing, they tell me, and the light is not so clear as in the early afternoon, but these yonder things are seen the clearest in the failing light, and by eyes that are past their best.
Wherefore, as I set out to say, I think I shall be welcomed thither by the pilgrims' friend, and hear that song of the redeemed.
But not till then can I expect to ever hear again such melody as poured from our hearts that morning in St. Cuthbert's. As for myself, I could scarcely sing; I was so torn 'twixt joy and sorrow. Sorrow for what? For all my stubborn wilfullness, that had stood so long between loving hearts—but I did it for the best; and God will forgive me, who knows a father's tender love.
Therefore my lips were almost dumb, but my heart joined in the swelling praise that rolled about St. Cuthbert's like a flood. And I heard one voice clear and sweet among all the rest; it came from the pew where sat our Margaret, but it was not Margaret's voice:
"Long hath the night of sorrow reigned
The dawn shall bring us light—"
Thus reads our noble paraphrase—and thus reads the providence of God. This it was we sang that day; and this all broken hearts shall one day sing, when life's long twilight breaks.
After the congregation had dispersed, I saw Margaret lead her mother to the pew. It was beautiful, my wife's gentle grace to the timid stranger, for Margaret received of her mother whatever of that gift she hath—and I have always said her mother's is the rarer of the two. I heard her bid her new-found friend to the manse, and I echoed the mandate to the man beside me, his head still bowed in prayer.
The elders retired in a body to the vestry, there to be dismissed by the benediction, which I pronounced upon them, the triune blessing of the triune God. Usually, they lingered for a little subdued conversation, but this day they went out with unwonted speed, each grasping the hands of the old elder and the new, and each without a word.
In a moment I saw their purpose, and went out along with them, leaving those twain together, the father and the son. We heard no word; but we knew the best robe, and the ring, and the shoes, were there, and that God would dispense them in sacramental love.
It was not long till they came out again, life's fragrance about them as they came. I had lingered in the church.
"Just wait a minute," I said as they came in, "I left my notes in the vestry and I will be back immediately."
I had hardly reached the room when a light footfall was heard behind me. It was my daughter.
"Margaret! Is this you? I thought you had gone home. Where is your mother?" Lovely was her face and beautiful the light of joy upon it.
She did not seem to hear, but came straight on, and in a moment her arms were about my neck, and the brave heart told all its story in tears of utter gladness.
"Daughter mine," I whispered, "you will forgive"—but the gentle hand stopped the words.
"Where is your mother?" I asked again.
"Gone to the manse—they went together," and the sun shone through the rain—"I waited for you."
"Wait a moment," I said, "stay here a moment,"—for I knew the ways of love.
I hurried without, and in the church I found the two men lingering for me.
"Mr. Blake, we will walk down to the manse together—Margaret is waiting for you in my room, Angus."
No maiden's fluttering form betrays the soul of love as doth a strong man's face. Ah me! as I looked on Angus's in that moment, I knew to whom my child belonged the most. But the broken emblems of Another's lay before me, and I made the lesser sacrifice with joy.
I watched his eager step, nor did he seek to control its pace. Swiftly he walked, and I could not forbear to follow with my eyes till he stood before the door.
A moment he paused, I know not why—then he slowly entered and the door was shut.
Footnotes:
[1] A small piece of metal with the words "This do in remembrance of Me," given in Scottish churches, before the Sacrament of The Supper, to those entitled to participate.
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