This morning the unwelcome memory returned and returned, and, in order to be rid of it, he began to pity himself for the loneliness of his life and the misfortune which had attended all his affections.

"There was old Lord Cramer, his apparent kindness was all a plot to get a little posthumous fame out of my intellect. His one thousand pounds was a miserable price for the work he proposed for me, and he tried to pa.s.s it off as a kindness. I hate the man, and I hate myself for being fooled by him. Lady Cramer--nay, I will let her go--another has judged her now. Donald, whom I idolized, nearly broke my heart, gave a son's love to a stranger, married a Spaniard and a Roman Catholic, and has not noticed me for years. I dare say Donald and that Scotchman have had many a laugh over my leaving the ministry. Jessy went to them, and she could tell them every circ.u.mstance of the event. And, though Marion writes whiles, and has called her son after me, I never see her unless she happens to be at Uncle Hector's when I go to see him. And, of course, I cannot call at Lord Cramer's house, not even to see my daughter. Was any man ever so undeservedly deserted as I am?"

He was slowly pa.s.sing through a little village as he troubled his heart with these thoughts. And, as he looked at the small dark cottages wanting the usual gardens of flowers, he said to himself, "It is a mining village; there must be many of them in this locality;" and so was returning to his unprofitable musing when a tremendous explosion occurred, and the women from every cottage ran crying to the pit mouth.

Ian also hastened there, and, when he said he was a physician, was taken down in the first cage. It stopped at an upper gallery and the men ran backward into the mine. Ian thought he had suddenly awakened from life and found himself in h.e.l.l. He heard only cries and groans and shouts, and the running of men and their frantic calling of names. And he was spellbound at the first moment by the sight of a boy about nine years old, lying in a narrow cut of the coal, with a great block of coal across his body. His father stood beside him, his face full of unspeakable love and pity, for the mute anguish of the child was terrible. But, ere he could speak to them, there was a frenzied rush of men crying, "Fire! Fire! After-damp!" For just one minute they stood at the cut where the child lay, and called, "For G.o.d's sake, Davie, come, come, come!" and Davie shook his head slightly, and answered,

"_Nay, I'll stay with the lad._"

And when Ian heard these words, they smote him like a sword, and he cried out: "_I have seen G.o.d's love!_ This hour _I have seen G.o.d's love_--like as a father pitieth his children--even unto death--so G.o.d pities and loves. My G.o.d, love me! Teach me how to love! I am thy faithless son, Ian; forgive me and love me!"

He was in an ecstasy, and, even as he prayed, a still, small voice ran, like a swift arrow of flame, through all the black galleries of the mine--a voice like the noise of many waters, but sweet as the music of heaven, and it spoke but one word:

"_Ian!_"

Through all that earthly h.e.l.l, filled with death and horror of suffering, above the crying of the men, above the screams of the wounded, the voices of fear and agony, this wonderful voice pa.s.sed along, swift as the lightning, yet full of the divinest melody.

These events so marvelous to Ian had not occupied more than a moment or two of time. Then there was another rush of men with the a.s.surance that it would be the last. They swept Ian with them, but Davie, still standing by his child, just shook his head and repeated his decision, "_Nay, I'll stay with the lad_"; and the crowd, with fire behind them, struggled to the cage and were drawn up to the sunshine.

At the pit mouth Ian met the rescue company of the pit and the physicians, and he untied his horse and rode away into the woods and hills. He was weeping unconsciously, washing every word he uttered with tears of repentance and love.

"Oh, it is wonderful!" he cried. "_Wonderful! Wonderful!_ Out of all the millions of men in this world, _G.o.d knew my name_. He knew _where I was_. He _called me by my name_. Oh, miracle of love!"

All the way to Ambleside he rode slowly. He was in a transport of love and joy--had he not been veritably taken by G.o.d's love "out of h.e.l.l"? He was thrilled with wonder, and he would make no haste. He bent his soul to the heavenly influences which had made the last few hours forever memorable. So his prayers grew sweeter and calmer. They had in them the voices of the night wind, the awe of the stars, and the rustle of unseen wings. And, just as he was entering Ambleside, his Bible took part in his happiness and whispered to his heart a verse he had read hundreds of times, but which at this hour seemed to have been written specially for him.

"Fear thou not. I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by thy name.

Thou art mine."--Isaiah 43:1.

He knew then what he was to do.

CHAPTER XII

AFTERWARD

"Christ is G.o.d's realized idea of perfected humanity."

"Think, when our Soul understands The Great Word which makes all things new, When earth breaks up and heaven expands, How will the change strike me and you In the house not made with hands?"

"Pouring Heaven into this shut House of Life!"

According to a literary scripture, my story should end here. I have satisfied my proposition--the man who lost G.o.d has found Him; therefore, to say more is to pa.s.s my climax and break a very prominent canon of criticism. But I am sure that there are many who have followed the struggle of Ian Macrae into the Second Birth who will desire to know what the New Man did with his New Life; and I think it better to grant a good wish than to keep a literary law.

In that blessed night, full of the presence of G.o.d, which Ian had spent on the hills surrounding Ambleside, he had looked steadily and hopefully into the future, and clearly understood what he must do. So he never thought of returning to London, but early in the morning took a train to Glasgow. In the place where he had doubted and denied G.o.d he must show Him forth publicly as the Father and Lover of Souls, the G.o.d gracious and long-suffering, full of mercy and truth. He was anxiously longing to begin this work; he grudged the hours in which he had to be silent, and was full of a buoyant joyfulness so sincere and so radiant that people looked into his face and involuntarily smiled.

He reached Glasgow before the noon hour, and as soon as he was inside his uncle's house he called him in resounding tones, full of eager, wistful excitement. And the Major, who was in his private office, recognized the voice and went hastily to meet his nephew.

"Why, Ian, Ian! What is the matter?" he cried. "Whatever has come to you? You look--you speak like a different man!"

"Uncle! _Brother of my father!_ I have found what I lost! I have found Him whom my soul loveth!" Then they sat down, and Ian related the wonderful story of the last wonderful twenty-four hours; and the old man listened with a joy past utterance. His face radiated wonder and love, his blue eyes shone through reverential tears, unconsciously his head and hands were uplifted, and his lips whispered the prayer of thanksgiving that was in his heart.

"It is a heavenly story, Ian," he said, "and the greatest wonder is this--though numberless souls have such experiences, every one has its own solemnly distinct personality. And their number never makes them common. They are always wonderful. They are never doubted, and they never fail. But, Ian, no one that has been 'called by name' can ever forget the voice that called him; it haunts and hallows life forevermore. Now, then, what are you going to do?"

"I am going to preach the Love of G.o.d!--the patient, everlasting Love of G.o.d! O Uncle, can I ever forget the love in that father's face as he stood waiting to die with his child? I was not told, I did not read of it, I _saw_ the love of G.o.d in that father's face, and knew in that moment how G.o.d so loved the world that He gave His Son for its salvation. Now, through all the days of my life, I am going to preach the Love of G.o.d."

"That is right. You shall have a church here--in Glasgow."

"Somewhere among the teeming habitations of the poor."

"No. The rich need the gospel you have to preach more than the poor do.

We will build among the terraced crescents, where the rich dwell. And we will build of good gray granite, and finish it with the best of everything--and the pulpit will be yours."

"Dear Uncle, no pulpit! I could not go into one again. I have two memories of a pulpit. I wish to forget them. But there is something we have not spoken of that I desire greatly to have in connection with my church. I mean a dispensary. Christ healed the body as well as the soul; for it is not a soul, nor is it a body we wish to train upward--it is a _Man_, and we ought not to divide them."

So they talked over the dispensary with perfect accord, all the time the table was being laid for dinner and the meal eaten. Nothing interfered with this interest. It was quite a fresh one to the Major, and he was greatly delighted with the idea. Indeed, it was the old soldier who first proposed a small surgery connected with the dispensary. "When I was at the wars," he said, "I saw many a poor man suffering for want of the knife and a bandage. We must have a little surgery, Ian." And Ian joyfully acceded to the proposition.

"It will be a big increase in your work, Ian, but----"

"O Uncle, I am here to work--not to study and dream. I must work, I must preach; I must help the sick and sorrowful. How soon can the church be ready?"

"I do not know exactly, but we will build the surgery and dispensary as soon as we have got the proper location. They will give you many good opportunities while the church is building. And I hope you have not forgotten duties kin and kindred to yourself. They cannot be overlooked, Ian."

"I will overlook none of them, Uncle. I have been a great sinner in this respect."

"For instance, Marion has never weaned herself from you. She talks of you constantly when she comes here, and we have had some tearful hours about your silence and neglect."

"I will atone for them as soon as may be. I have often been sorry that I did not stay and see her marriage."

"It was a grand affair. Nothing like it was ever seen in Glasgow before or since. There were the Bishop and two clergymen to perform the ceremony and a notable company to see that it was properly done. Among this company were three officers from the Household troop, and, if I had the words, I would tell you about their splendid uniforms and stars and ribbons of honor. And there was Lochiel, in full Highland costume, looking more like some old G.o.d than a man--and McAllister and McLeod and Moray, and half a dozen more in all their varieties of kilts and plaids and philabegs; velvet vests and gold b.u.t.tons, and eagle feathers in their Glengary caps. They were a splendid and picturesque background for the lovely bride, clothed in white from head to foot and looking like an angel. McAllister had sent a basket of white heather for bridal bouquets, and every Highlander there wore a spray of it in his vest or cap. I had a stem or two at my own breast--and Marion's veil was crowned with a wreath of the lovely flowers."

"After the marriage, where did they go?"

"First of all, they came here, to my house--and we had a bridal breakfast that none will forget. Lord Glasgow toasted the bride, and the Provost of the City made answer for her. His speech was well enough, but a little o'er long--considering the occasion."

"And then?"

"They went to all the capital cities of Europe. It was a wonderful honeymoon trip. They might have been royalties themselves, they were that n.o.bly entertained. Well, well! Marion Macrae was a bonnie bride, and she is far bonnier and better now than she was then--the best of mothers, the best of wives, a n.o.ble woman every way. She has a son called 'Ian,' after you, and two little girls who wear the names of Agnes and Jessy--you know----"

"Yes--I know. How could I ever forget?"

"And there is poor Donald. You are not to slight Donald. You will write to him, Ian?"

"I will _go_ to him. I can never be quite satisfied until I have seen Donald. I was cruel and selfish then, but I loved him. I love him now better than ever. He sits in the center of my heart. I must go as soon as may be to California."

"You are right. We will buy our land and make our estimates, and set the men to work. Then you can go and kiss your banished son."