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The Doctor: A Tale Of The Rockies, a novel by Ralph Connor |
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Chapter 13. A Man That Is An Heretic Reject |
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_ CHAPTER XIII. A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT The college year had come to an end. The results of the examinations had been published. The Juniors were preparing to depart for their summer work in the mission field. Of the graduating class, some were waiting with calm confidence the indications of the will of Providence as to their spheres of labour, a confidence undoubtedly strengthened by certain letters in their possession from leading members of influential congregations. Others were preparing with painful shrinking of heart to tread the weary and humiliating "trail of the black bag," while others again, to whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds of distant battle, were making ready outfits supposed to be suitable for life and work in the great West, or in the far lands across the sea. Two high functions of college life yet remained, one, the Presbytery examination, the other, Professor Macdougall's student party. The annual examination before Presbytery was ever an event of nerve-racking uncertainty. It might prove to be an entirely perfunctory performance of the most innocuous kind. On the other hand, it might develop features of a most sensational and perilous nature. The college barometer this year was unusually depressed, for rumour had gone abroad that the Presbytery examination was to be of the more serious type. It was a time of searchings of heart for those who had been giving, throughout the session, undue attention to the social opportunities afforded by college life, and more especially if they had allowed their contempt for the archaic and oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To these latter gentlemen the day brought gloomy forebodings. Even their morning devotions, which were marked by unusual sincerity and earnestness, failed to bring them that calmness of mind which these exercises are supposed to afford. For their slender ray of hope that their memory of the English text might not fail them in the hour of trial was very materially clouded by the dread that in their embarrassment they might assign a perfectly correct English version to the wrong Hebrew text. The result of such mischance they would not allow themselves to contemplate. On the other hand, however, there was the welcome possibility that they might be so able to dispose themselves among the orientalists in their class that a word dropped at a critical moment might save them from this mischance. And there was the further, and not altogether unreal, ground of confidence, that the examiner himself might be uneasily conscious of the ever-present possibility that some hidden Hebrew snag might rudely jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the mare ignotum of oriental literature. Of course, the examination would also include other departments of sacred learning, for it was the province and duty of Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness in the faith of the candidates before them. On this score, however, few indulged serious anxiety. Once the Hebraic shoals and snags were safely passed, both examiner and examined could disport themselves with a jaunty self-confidence born of a thorough acquaintance with the Shorter Catechism received during the plastic years of childhood. It was, however, just in these calm waters that danger lurked for Boyle. On the side of scholarship he was known to be invulnerable. Boyle was the hero and darling of the college men, more especially of the "sinners" among them, not simply by reason of his prowess between the goal posts where, times without number, he had rescued the college from the contempt of its foes; but quite as much for the modesty with which he carried off his brilliant attainments in the class lists. Throughout the term, in the college halls after tea, there had been carried on a series of discussions extending over the whole range of the "fundamentals," and Boyle had the misfortune to rouse the wrath and awaken the concern of Finlay Finlayson, the champion of orthodoxy. Finlay was a huge, gaunt, broad-shouldered son of Uist, a theologian by birth, a dialectician by training, and a man of war by the gift of Heaven. Cheerfully would Finlay, for conscience' sake, have given his body to the flames, as, for conscience' sake, he had shaken off the heretical dust of New College, Edinburgh, from his shoes, unhesitatingly surrendering at the same time, Scot though he was, a scholarship of fifty pounds. The hope that he had cherished of being able to find, in a colonial institution of sacred learning, a safe haven where he might devote himself to the perfecting of the defences of his faith within the citadel of orthodoxy was rudely shattered by the discovery that the same heresies which had driven him from New College had found their way across the sea and were being championed by a man of such winning personality and undoubted scholarship as Richard Boyle. The effect upon Finlayson's mind of these discussions carried on throughout the term was such that, after much and prayerful deliberation, and after due notice to the person immediately affected, he discovered it to be his duty to inform the professor in whose department these subjects lay of the heresies that were threatening the very life of the college, and, indeed, of the Canadian Church. The report of his interview with the professor came back to college through the realistic if somewhat irreverent medium of the professor's son, Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely course toward a medical degree. As Tom appeared in the college hall he was immediately surrounded by an eager crowd, the most eager of whom was Robert Duff, the sworn ally of Mr. Finlayson. "Did Finlayson see your father?" inquired Mr. Duff anxiously. "Sure thing," answered Tom. "And did he inform him of what has been going on in this college?" "You bet your life! Give him the whole tip!" "And what did the professor say?" inquired Mr. Duff, with bated breath. "Told him to go to the devil." "To what?" gasped Mr. Duff, to whom it appeared for the moment that the foundations of things in heaven and on earth had indeed been removed. It was only after the shout of laughter on the part of the "sinners" had subsided that Mr. Duff realised that it was the spirit only, and not the ipsissima verba, of the devout and reverent professor, that had been translated in the vigorous vernacular of his son. Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his heretical tendencies had reached other ears than those of the sane and liberal-minded professor, those, namely, of that stern and rigid churchman, the Rev. Alexander Naismith, some time minister of St. Columba's. Not through Finlayson, however, be it understood, did this report reach him. That staunch defender of orthodoxy might, under stress of conscience, find it his duty to inform the proper authority of the matter, but sooner than retail gossip to the hurt of his fellow-student he would have cut off his big, bony right hand. The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, which gained for him the cognomen of "Squeaky Sandy," and a most irritatingly persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates and examiners were disporting themselves in the calm waters of Systematic Theology, fell poor Dick, to his confusion and the temporary withholding of his license. It was impossible but that in the college itself, and in the college circles of society, this event should become a subject of much heated discussion. Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student parties. They were never attended from a sense of duty. This was undoubtedly due, not so much to the popularity of the professor with his students, as to the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge of human nature generally and of student nature particularly, on the part of that gentle lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. Macdougall was of the old school, with very beautiful if very old-fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole life was one poetic setting forth of the manners and deportment proper to ladies, both young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit and kindly heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The consequence was that, while she herself sat erect in fine scorn of the backs of her straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was furnished with an abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and arranged with cosey nooks and corners calculated to gratify the luxurious tastes and lazy manners of a decadent generation. Her shrewd wit was further discovered in the care she took to assemble to her evening parties the prettiest, brightest, wickedest of the young girls in the wide circle of her friends. As young Robert Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, "There were no last roses in her bunch." Moreover, the wise little lady took pains to instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the young men of the college. "You must exert yourselves, my dears," she would explain, "to make the evening pleasant for the young men. And they require something to distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of their studies." And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw themselves into this particular duty that there were, even of the saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their lectures in absentia for at least two days in order that they might recover from the all too successful distractions of the Macdougall party. Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, but even more for the sake of her mother, who had been Mrs. Macdougall's college companion and lifelong cherished friend. The absorbing theme of conversation, carried on in a strictly confidential manner, was the sensational feature of the Presbytery examination. The professor himself was deeply grieved, and no less so his stately little lady, for to both of them Dick was as a son. But from neither of them could Margaret extract anything but the most meagre outline of what had happened. For full details of the whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert Kidd, second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face and fresh innocence of manner won for him the sobriquet of "Baby Kidd," or more shortly, "Kiddie." "Tell us just what happened," entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, with a glance of such heart-penetrating quality that Kiddie promptly acquiesced. "Well, I'll tell you," he said, adopting a low confidential tone. "I could see from the very start that old Squeaky Sandy was out after Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay low till everything was lovely and they were falling on each others' necks over the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow is supposed to be quite safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, 'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly state what you consider the correct theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't got any.' By Jove! everyone sat up. 'You believe in the doctrine, I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart stopped till he went on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is that, sir? If you believe in it you must have a theory. What do you believe about it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I have no theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle as a sucking dove. Then the Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it." "Who was it?" inquired Miss Belle. "Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. Pre-mill, too, you know. Well, he chipped in and got him past that snag. But old Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went after Boyle on every doctrine in the catalogue where it was possible for a man to get off the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, the Mosaic Authorship, and the whole Robertson Smith business. You know that last big heresy hunt in Scotland." "No," said Miss Belle, "I don't know. And you don't, either, so you needn't stop and try to tell us." "I don't, eh?" said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep himself in a perfectly sane condition under the bewildering glances of Miss Belle's black eyes. "Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I couldn't make you understand." "Hear him!" said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. "Go on. We are interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?" "Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it seemed to me that Boyle's theology was a tattered remnant. Some of the brethren interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young man after their kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This is most serious, Mr. Moderator!' he sung out. 'This demands the most searching investigation! We all know what is going on in the Old Land, how the great doctrines of our faith are being undermined by so-called scholarship, which is nothing less than blasphemy and impudent scepticism.' And so he went on shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst was yet to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to take Boyle on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,' stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.' 'Are you a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I saw his head go back for the first time. Before this he had been sitting like a convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did you ever attend the theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at once what the old inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a roar, and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery to me how he got there. There were three pews between him and the desk, and I swear he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator, I protest', he shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a regular sand storm! About the only thing visible was the lightning from Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all know what Mr. Naismith means by this method of inquisition. But let me tell Mr. Naismith--' Don't know what in thunder he was going to tell him, for the next few moments they mixed it up good and hot. Say! it was a circus with all the monkeys loose and the band playing seventeen tunes all at once! But finally Grant had his say and treated the Presbytery to a pretty full disquisition of his own theology, and when he was done my pity was transferred from Boyle to him, for it seemed that on every doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And I believe the whole Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how slight, by contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had fallen. Then Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the result that Boyle was turned over to a committee--and that's where he is now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for journalism. The Telegraph wants him." "Journalism?" cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the dark-faced old lady up in the country who was counting the days till her son should be sent forth a minister of the Gospel. "Yes," said Kiddie. "And there's where he'll shine. See what he's done with the Monthly. He's got great style. But wasn't there a row at the college!" continued Kiddie. "Old Father Finlayson there," nodding across the room at the Highlander, who was engaged in what appeared to be an extremely interesting conversation with his hostess, "orthodox old beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on Squeaky Sandy's house. You know he has been at war with Boyle all winter on every and all possible themes. But he fights fair, and this hitting below the belt was too much for him. He was raging up and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle came in. 'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and seizing him by the hand and working it like a pump-handle in a fire, 'it was a most iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy whatever with that sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had Boyle almost in tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his socks, will you!" The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed horror the Highlander's great feet encased in a new pair of carpet slippers adorned with pink roses and green ground, which made a startling contrast with his three-ply worsted stockings, magenta in colour, which his fond aunt had knit as part of his outfit for the Arctic regions of Canada. "You may laugh," continued Bob. "So would I yesterday. But, by Jingo! he can wear magenta socks on his head if he likes for me! He's all white, and he has the heart of a gentleman!" Little Kidd's voice went shaky and his eyes had the curious shine that appeared in them only in moments of deepest excitement, but if he had only known it, he had never been so near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart as at that moment. She showed her sympathy with Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life," as Kiddie himself remarked. So assiduously, indeed, did she devote herself to the promotion of Mr. Finlayson's comfort and good cheer that that gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to inform her incidentally of the existence of Miss Jennie McLean, who was to "come out to him as soon as he was placed." He was surprised, but entirely delighted, to discover that this announcement made no difference whatever in Miss Belle's attentions. At the supper hour, however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, yielded her place to Margaret, who continued the operation of giving Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life." But not a word could she extract from him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill that might have made a Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled her leading questions with a density of ignorance unparalleled in her experience, until she let it be known that Dick was an old schoolmate and dear friend. Then Mr. Finlayson poured forth the grief and rage swelling in his big heart at the treatment his enemy had received and his anxious concern for his future both here and hereafter. In a portion of this concern, at least, Margaret shared. And as Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself, during the walk home, regarding the heresies in Edinburgh from which he had fled and the heresies that had apparently taken possession of Dick's mind, her heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that the opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all she had held true from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, however, did she listen to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman carried back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its burden, but withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental grasp of the young ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he dwell upon this theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean set herself devoutly to pray, either that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the professors might cease giving parties. The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears it. For if he be young and shallow enough to enjoy the distinction, it will only increase his vanity and render his return to sure and safe paths more difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and a horror of darkness, the brand will burn in and drive him far from his fellows, and change the kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, perchance, he light upon a friend who gives him love and trust unstinted and links him to wholesome living. After all, in matters of faith every man must blaze his own path through the woods and make his own clearing in which to dwell. And he may well thank God if his path lead him some whither where there is space enough to work his day's work and light enough to live by. With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a friend who could understand. But he was not allowed to feel himself to be quite abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at his side Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery good sense and whose loyalty to right-doing helped him and strengthened him and so made it possible to wait till the better day dawned. _ |
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