Chapter XIX: The Taint of Heresy

Our son was growing into a goodly lad (everything happened either before or after baby was born) when it first actually broke on me that Gordon's Doctorate had been a dear-bought prize. For Gordon was now a Doctor of Divinity--and he had won it by examination, too, long years of severe study and wide reading having gone before. I didn't begrudge the time, and the seclusion, this had implied; but I just hated the whole thing when I found out how it had affected Gordon's views. I never did believe much in ministers being such terrible students as many of them are; I verily believe as many preachers are spoiled by books as are helped by them, for they often grow less human while they're growing more profound. The Bible and the daily paper--truth and human life--some great preacher pronounced his two main books, and I'm inclined to agree with him. Gordon gave me one of his deep books to read once--Harnack, I think, was the name of the man who wrote it--and I went to sleep over it for my husband's sake but not for Mr. Harnack's. Gordon may call that kind of theology new, I thought, but it's not interesting.

The whole thing--about Gordon's views, I mean--came out this way. Of course I fancy a good many already suspected he was rather modern in his creed; especially Mr. Ashton, who became more orthodox every time he cut the wages of the poor girls in his factory. But I never knew, nor any one else, how far Gordon had drifted from the old moorings, till a certain evangelist came to hold a mission in Hertford. He was a converted prize-fighter--changed from a pounder into an ex-pounder, so to speak--and he loved to give us a whiff of his malodorous past every time he got a chance; I reckon he fancied any one who had had such a violent attack of sin was immune for the rest of his days. I went to hear him several times; but one night he said if he had to choose between a pack of cards in his house or a rattlesnake turned loose among his children, he'd take the snake. I knew then he was either a fool or a liar, one--and I had no mind to listen to either--so I never went near him again.

However, Gordon was presiding one night when this man was preaching; and the evangelist suddenly broke out with the statement that the most moral, or the most philanthropic, man in the whole world would get as hot a place in hell as the worst murderer or thief, if he didn't believe what he ought to believe.

"Isn't that so, Dr. Laird?" he said, turning to my husband.

"No," said Gordon, "it's not."

Well, as you may understand, there was something pretty to pay. The evangelist nearly fainted on the spot; as soon as he came to himself he asked them all to join in prayer--and he prayed that Gordon might be converted that very night. Gordon! whose shoe's latchet he was not worthy to unloose.

"You've denied your Master, sir," Mr. Ashton accused Gordon afterwards, having waited for him at the door; "you've repudiated the great doctrine of salvation--in the presence of a thousand people, sir."

Gordon motioned him aside. When he told me all about it afterwards, he avowed himself ashamed of the degree of temper he had shown, but I said I'd have been ashamed of him if he hadn't.

"What's this you accuse me of?" demanded Gordon.

"You aren't fit to be a minister," affirmed Mr. Ashton hotly; "I'm ashamed of you as the pastor of St. Andrew's, sir."

"Why?" pursued Gordon.

"Because our church, sir, our church has always been noted for its orthodoxy. We've always held to the simple Gospel--and you've gone back on it, sir. I knew it was coming; I could tell it by the things you preached about."

"What things?" although Gordon knew right well.

"Well, take last Sunday for instance; you preached on the duty of employers of labour--a lot of stuff about fresh air, and short hours, and taking care of sick hands--a lot of unspiritual stuff like that. When I go to church, sir, I want the Gospel, the simple Gospel--and nothing but the Gospel. Mr. Seybold's the same way; he says he's disgusted with many of your sermons, about worldly things. You stick to the Gospel, sir, and worldly things will take care of themselves," concluded Mr. Ashton, wagging his pious head.

"You mean Seybold the brewer, don't you?" enquired Gordon.

"Yes," said Mr. Ashton; "and he's one of the richest men in our church, as you know yourself."

"I don't know anything about it," was Gordon's curt reply; "but I don't wonder at his zeal for the Gospel--or yours either. I don't know any men that have more need to make their calling and election sure. He's a vampire, sir--and so are you."

"A what?" roared Mr. Ashton. "I'm a what?" He did not know what a vampire was, of course; but there was something in Gordon's voice and eye that made the word tell its meaning. Gordon would have withered him just the same if he had called him a rectangular hypotenuse.

"A vampire, I said," Gordon hurled back at him; "both of you live on the defenseless and the poor. It's sickening," and Gordon's voice rang higher, "to hear you, or him, prating about the Gospel, while he makes his wealth out of human misery--and you, you oppress the poor--you grind their faces, and you know it. You take your blood money from poor girls that have to toil in that sweat-box of yours--and you don't care whether they live or die, so long as they serve your selfish ends. I have visited more than one dying girl that got her death in your employ--as Jennie McMillan did--and you prance your horses past the door when they're dying, and even after the crape is on it, and you never stop to ask for them; and then you come prattling to me about not preaching the Gospel!"

Gordon paused; out of breath, I reckon. By this time quite a number of the crowd had eddied back, listening attentively, you may be sure, to this candid conversation. One or two of them gave me a detailed account later on.

"I appeal," blustered Mr. Ashton, "I appeal to those who know me. I spoke to you as an officer of St. Andrew's. I have been a faithful supporter of the church--and I've always paid my debts," he blurted out irrelevantly, hard put to it to make defense.

"Ye ha'ena'," a squeaking voice came suddenly from the bystanders.

Mr. Ashton turned sharply round. "I haven't?--where's the man that dares to say I haven't?" he hectored, searching the group for the interrupter.

"I'm the mon," came quietly from the lips of a little old Scotchman as he moved slowly to the front; "ye didna' pay oor Jock what ye owed him. He took the consumption workin' for ye," the squeaky voice went on, "an' when he lay deein', ye never lookit near him; an' the day o' his funeral, ye drove by the hoose wi'oot lookin' at us. An' he was a foreman till ye for mair nor twenty year," the plaintive indictment proceeded--"an' ye owed him a wee bit mark o' respec' like that. An' ye never paid it--but it's ower late noo." Then the little man slipped back among the bystanders; Mr. Ashton followed him, loudly protesting that the dead servant had got his wages regularly, the second Tuesday of every month.

Gordon took advantage of the diversion to move away; and the story, substantially as I have told it, was given to me on his arrival home.

I did not question him closely about the original cause of the discussion--about his theological views, I mean; but it started an uneasiness that grew upon me day by day. And a few weeks later I learned something more that did not reassure me much.

I was sitting with Harold--we had named our son Gordon Harold; but the latter half was what we called him, to avoid confusion--one evening in the study; two ministers, visitors to some church gathering and guests of ours, were talking on the piazza. By and by Harold grew silent, and so did I; which, I suppose, led the two brethren to think I had disappeared. And they talked freely.

"It's too bad," one of them said, whereat I sat up and listened, "that Laird's gone that way. He can't hold those views, and his pulpit, at the same time."

"Have you any idea what his views really are?" the other asked.

"They're anything but sound," his friend replied, "and that's the plain English of it. Any man who holds them has no right to be in the ministry." My blood began to sizzle. I knew this reverend brother--a comfortable pastor of a comfortable congregation, who spent most of his time simply trying to be "sound," to use his own word; saving doctrines and losing men, as I heard Gordon say once in a sermon.

"What are they?" persisted the other.

"Well," began the first, "I don't believe he's very sound on the miracles. And then, he contends we're all divine--doesn't deny the divinity of our Lord, however. But I think he often closes his prayer without saying 'for Christ's sake'; at least, so I've heard."

"Perhaps he means it just the same," suggested his companion.

"Then he ought to say it--a prayer that hasn't that doesn't go higher than the roof, in my opinion. And I believe he contends no man can explain the Atonement--from an intellectual standpoint, that is. He told me as much--I told him I could explain it all right. He replied that he interpreted it more by his heart than his reason. And that's dangerous ground, Mr. Forest, very dangerous ground."

"Is that all?" the other enquired, evidently not overcome by the arraignment.

"No, it's not. They say he believes prayer has no power to influence the course of events--regards it only as a kind of pious communion; doesn't believe in praying for anything in particular, I'm told. And he has his doubts as to who wrote the Hebrews. I told him it was Paul--but he still seemed to have doubts. And he thinks the Confession of Faith is too long and too intricate. That's dangerous too--it's the thin end of the wedge, Mr. Forest, the thin end of the wedge," and from where I sat I could hear the censor shut his lips.

"He's a mighty devoted minister, anyway," the other interposed; "I've had long talks with him myself. And there's only one thing troubles me--I'm afraid, I really am, that he clings too much to a merely ethical Christ. He's tinged with that, I'm sure; glories in Him as a Teacher, and Healer of mankind, and all that sort of thing. Laird's a great healer himself, you know--he's a marvel with the sick, and the sorrowing, and the poor. But I'm afraid he's drifting--he began with Drummond, and ended with Harnack." I recognized the soporific name.

"Oh, yes, there's another thing," resumed the orthodox one; "Laird has doubts as to whether or not sorrow comes from God. Affliction, you know; bereavement, suffering, the death of little children--everything like that. He's inclined, I'm afraid, to attribute it to another source--doesn't seem to be clear that it's God's will for us to suffer," and I could hear the comfortable one settling back in the softly-cushioned chair. "Now, that never troubles me at all--I always feel certain our sorest sorrows come from God; was just saying so yesterday to a woman whose little boy was drowned. He was her only child."

"Did you ever lose a child?" the other minister asked quietly.

"Oh, no, I've never had any trouble of that kind, thank God. Ours are all well and strong. By the way, Forest, our train goes in a little over an hour. I suppose we'll have dinner before we go--it's tea here, I believe, in the evening. Doesn't suit me altogether, either--I've had a new kind of life since I began taking dinner in the evening," as he rose from his chair and began to move restlessly about.

I glided away noiselessly like one in a dream. My heart was leaden, and I thought it was all for love of Gordon and dread of what might thus befall him. My principal thought, as I remember, was of his relation to his work--and his position--and his future. Yet I know now that what gave me the deepest pain was a trembling fear lest those things should slip from _me_--as from him--the things I reckoned the foundation stones of the life that was so happy now. Without knowing it, ever since that night I saw Jennie die, the secret between my heart and Christ had been growing more rich and full. I esteemed Him the meeting-place whereon Gordon and I had found each other; and I feared, though I could not have put it into words, that distance from Him would mean distance from each other. Perhaps it was wrong; perhaps these two passions of my heart should have been reverently kept separate--but they were blended and intertwined in a union that was altogether holy.

I kissed Harold gently as I bended over his bed and tucked him in an hour later; he stirred in his sleep as my hot tears fell upon his face. Then I knelt beside him--I remembered how my mother used thus to kneel by me--and I prayed, pleadingly, in the new-found way that had grown so dear. My pleading was all for Gordon, passionate in its intercession, as though he were drifting out to sea, and God alone could bring him back.

I was hardly risen from my knees when Gordon came home. He came at once to where I was; and he smiled in that happy way he had, whenever he saw me bending over Harold. It always seemed to delight him so.

"You're an idolater, Helen, aren't you?" he said.

I clung to him in a very spasm of fondness, as if he were slipping from me. My heart cried out in a wild, hungry way, though my lips were still. I wanted to call him back, back to the shelter where our life's happiness began.

"And I don't blame you, dear," he went musingly on as he looked down on the rosy face; "life is all preface till you have children, isn't it?--the real volume comes after that."

"I could die for him," I said. (This was with a purpose. I was trying, for the first time, a lesson in theology. It struck me with a kind of amusing pain, my poor attempt to teach Gordon--Gordon so learned, so clever.)

"So could I," he murmured.

"It makes me understand how--how One died for us all," I faltered, coming to my point with desperate directness. How the angels must have smiled if they heard my first attempt at preaching! "It helps me understand how love and suffering must go together--God can't help it any more than we. If I were a preacher, Gordon, I'd preach that all the time."

He turned and looked at me in amazement. Then his arms went round me tight. "Darling," he said gently, "you're a lovely missionary--and I'm a heathen; I'm an idolater--like you--only you're my idol."

"But you believe that, don't you, Gordon?" I urged, "that--what I said? You do, don't you, Gordon?"

His eyes studied my face, and so gravely, for a moment.

"Is my wife growing alarmed about me too?" he said, half seriously; "don't be uneasy, darling--your husband's sound, all right. Only I still plead guilty to idolatry--kiss me, so I'll know you're human," he concluded, laughing.

I kissed him, and more than once. But my heart ached on.