Читать книгу Afterwards, and Other Stories - Ian Maclaren - Страница 9

Table of Contents

“Just ventured to look in for a single minute, Mr. Rutherford, at the close of this eventful day, to say how thankful we all are that you were so wonderfully sustained. But you are busy—making notes for next Sabbath, perhaps—and I must not interrupt you. We must keep ourselves open to the light; in my small way I find there are times when the thoughts just drop upon one. If we were more lifted above the world they would come oftener, far oftener.”

A very “sleekit” personage indeed, as they say in Scotland, with a suave manner, a sickly voice, and ways so childish that simple people thought him almost silly; but those who happened to have had deals with him in business formed quite another opinion, and expressed it in language bordering on the libellous.

“Will you be seated?” Rutherford laid aside a letter beginning “Dearest Magdalen,” and telling how it had fared with him on his first Sunday in St. Bede's, Glasgow, W., a kirk which contained many rich people and thought not a little of itself. “You have a meeting on Sunday evening, I think you said. I hope it was successful.”

“There was blessing to-night, I am sure. I felt the power myself. Lord Dunderhead was passing through Glasgow and gave the address. It was on 'The Badgers' Skins* of the Tabernacle, and was very helpful. And afterward we had a delightful little 'sing.*' You know his lordship?”

“No, I never saw him,” said Rutherford shortly, with a Scot's democratic prejudice against religious snobbery, forgetting that people who will not listen to a reasoned discourse from a clergyman will crowd to the simplest utterance of a lord.

“You will allow me to introduce you on Tuesday evening; you got Mrs. Thompson's card. I hope we may have a profitable gathering. Captain Footyl, the hussar evangelist, will also be present—a truly delightful and devoted young man.” Rutherford had not forgotten the card—