Chapter XXIII: The Wisdom of the Wise

BUT Mr. Chetwynd sat long in his study, gazing into the fire, and playing with a glass letter-weight upon the table. Somehow he could not easily shake off the impression of the double warning which he had so singularly received. It was evidently a mere coincidence, and quite undesigned, though very probably the result on both sides of some conversation upon the subject that afternoon.

And the two coming thus closely together—the warning of Madge Hardwicke, the simple-minded strong-hearted cottager; and the warning of Mona, his gentle niece—had left an impression behind. It was a confused impression at first. A good deal of annoyance, and a good deal of hurt feeling, were mingled with some genuine reproaches of conscience. The words of Madge alone, or of Mona alone, might scarcely have sufficed to do so much, but coming together, they had shaken him out of his usual self-satisfied composure. He found there would be small likelihood of sleep, till he had come to some sort of an understanding with himself. So he sat still, and thought the matter out.

Mona had said some hard things to him—that slight young creature, whom he had regarded as scarcely more than a child. If he had ever soberly considered the matter, he would have supposed her to be quite incapable of entering into the real meaning of such remarks, as those in which he had often indulged himself before her. He little knew the dormant capacities for speculation in the mind of many such a girl as Mona.

And "he" had led her to the precipice-edge! And "his" words had done the mischief! And "he" had been the source of pain and misery to the child of his lost and only sister. Why, he would have given his very life to save hers any day. And yet—

Amos Ackman had narrowly escaped becoming the murderer of his child. But he had had no power, in all his sullen anger, to touch the life enshrined within that little frail body. Mr. Chetwynd, it might be, had narrowly escaped guilt of a still more awful dye—even the death of the soul of one who was to him as a child of his own!

He did not know of the crimson stain, which the old man on the hill had so nearly gained. But Mona's words had brought dimly before him something of what he himself had well-nigh done.

"It was the work of Satan that he had taken up,—Satan, a hard and bitter taskmaster,—letting alone the judgments of the Lord Himself on those who should meddle in His work!" What! He—the scientific intellectual trusted physician, the clever well-informed leading man in Alyn—he a servant of Satan! The words stared him boldly in the face. He would not meet them, and turned away—only to find others starting up in their place.

"It was you who led me there! Thank God, He did not let you send me over! And if you should do the same to others,—" Why, he had done the same to others, scores of times. A day never passed that he did not indulge himself in some light sneer or cutting sarcasm upon religious questions. Was every word thus uttered indeed a drop of poison allowed to fall, for which future account must be rendered at the bar of the eternal God? Would lost souls be verily laid to his charge—souls which but for him might have attained to the joys of heaven?

"Stuff. Nonsense!" he said petulantly. "One would think I had caught a reflection of Madge's notions to-night!"

But what if these things were not nonsense? What if he himself stood in the black darkness, of which Mona had spoken in such low-voiced horror,—if he had stood there so long that he knew not what it was even to wish for light?

One after another these questions came to him, in much the same speculative fashion in which questions did come to him, by mere force of habit and bias of mind, at all times. But he could not now, as on other days, shake them lightly aside.

What if he did not believe the Bible to be the Word of God? Could he in very truth say that he did? Then—"No hope! No pardon! No Saviour! No heaven!"

So Madge had assured him! But who was Madge to dare to speak such words to him? What right had she, a poor ignorant cottager, to stamp him as a man in such awful case? A desolate helpless creature, standing apart from God for ever! He to be thus!

Apart from God! Why, that there was a God he knew full well. His doubtings were at least the doubtings of a man of sense as well as intellect,—not the mad dreamings of a clever fool. He literally had too much of common every-day manly sense, to give in to shallow theories of atoms developing themselves into worlds, or of a universe somehow sprouting up spontaneously out of nothing. He had some sort of vague belief in the Bible, taken generally—only he had always insisted upon holding in his own hand the scales of judgment, that he might retain or reject each separate doctrine, according as it suited or opposed his private notions of truth.

And here had this woman come in, breaking down his calm security, dashing aside his proud serenity, and telling him boldly, face to face—albeit with all meekness—that no such middle course lay open to him, that he must either believe or not believe, that he must either accept, with implicit faith, the Word, and the Saviour of whom the Word testified, or find himself cut off from God and heaven for ever. "All Scripture is given by inspiration of God." There lay a hard rock against which to stumble.

"What 'do' you believe in the Bible?" The gentle question came back and back to him persistently. What did he believe? What did he? Half unconsciously, he found himself searching for an answer,—seeking into his own belief as he had never honestly sought before.

How about the power of prayer? No doctrine is more closely interwoven with the very texture of the Bible, than that of prayer and its workings. But Mr. Chetwynd had simply disbelieved it altogether.

How about the fallen condition of man, and Christ Jesus as the only hope of salvation? No doctrines in the Bible stand out with more sharp and decided outline. But Mr. Chetwynd had rejected all notion of man's degradation; and while not denying the great fact of the death of Christ, he had had most hazy ideas respecting the necessity for any such sacrifice.

How about the hidden spiritual life? No Bible doctrine is more full in its development than this. Mr. Chetwynd had sneered at its professed experiences, professed lofty superiority to its weaknesses, despised its faith, and discredited its very existence.

If these things were true, where was he in his captious standing apart from God? If not—?

"He that believeth not God hath made Him a liar." These things were plainly written in the Word of the living God. If he did not believe them, "then" he believed not God; "then" he made God even as a liar; "then" there remained to himself—what? Again Madge Hardwicke's words rang mournfully in his ears: "No hope! No pardon! No Saviour! No heaven!"

"Anything rather than that!" he murmured. And he rose and took down his mother's Bible, unused for many years. He had a dim impression of the last time he had ever stood at her knee, and of her making him spell aloud to her a few verses in the First Epistle to the Corinthians. Like a man revisiting a garden, seen long before, and wandering instinctively to one remembered corner,—for notwithstanding all Mr. Chetwynd's church-going, family prayers, general knowledge of Biblical doctrines, and special knowledge of popular cavils, the Bible had been with him for years a neglected book,—he turned to that same Epistle. He began glancing through it slowly, as he sat there, with the lamp-light falling on his bent and troubled brow.

"It is written, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring
to nothing the understanding of the prudent."

Was that meant for him? Was he one of "the wise?"

"God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise."

He stopped there again, and another verse, learnt in early boyhood, flashed across his mind:—

"I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes."

He thought of little Nannie—of Madge Hardwicke—of Mona. How he had looked down upon them, in his conscious intellectual superiority! Was it in very truth that God Himself had veiled these matters of mighty import from him, in his pride of earthly learning, while revealing deep mysteries of love and grace to the simple-hearted women and children? Mr. Chetwynd had been wise and prudent in his generation; but these things had been hidden from him; so that he, hearing of them, yet in his blindness seeing them not, had deemed their very existence but a fable.

"Not many wise—not many noble—are called."

"Not many." But, thank God, it does not say, "Not any." He thought of Mr. Prior. Madge Hardwicke all untaught in worldly lore, and Mr. Prior, with whose strong intellect Mr. Chetwynd would scarcely have cared to measure his own, met here upon the same level. With the one, indeed, was to be found the spirit of deep research, and a full knowledge of historical and critical evidences; while the other knew and cared little for evidences beyond her own practical knowledge of the life and truth and peace which she had found in her Bible. But alike they entered the Kingdom of Heaven, alike receiving the teaching of the Word with the simple loving trust of little children.

"Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the wise in their own craftiness. And again, The Lord knoweth the thoughts of the wise, that they are vain."

He read so far, and then he sat and thought—thought, till all in the house but himself had gone to bed,—thought, till his lamp flickered and failed for lack of oil, leaving the study in darkness. Mr. Chetwynd did not even notice the change. He sat with his hand over his eyes, deeply communing with his own soul.

Had he ever honestly searched into these matters before? Had he not rather skimmed recklessly over their surface, in a spirit of semi-sceptical criticism, and measureless self-conceit? There seemed to open out before him at last some insight into things unseen—some power to pierce through the veil, which for long years past had shrouded him in darkness.

"And I have been one of these 'wise,'" he said to himself. "Wise with the wisdom which is foolishness in the sight of God! Is that the meaning of the intellect, which men worship in the present day? Plain words spoken here—uncompromising as steel. Can it be that I have been one of these self-deceivers—seeming, and only seeming, to be wise? If so, 'let him become a fool, that he may be wise!' Become one! What if I have been a fool all along—ay, worse than a fool, daring to set up my puny notions in the very face of what God has revealed to us!

"As well meet the matter boldly. I am not a coward, at all events. What if I have been altogether in the wrong? 'The Lord knoweth!' How St. Paul's words seem to meet one at every point . . . Will Madge think she has gained a victory? Not to triumph at any rate. Better that, than to find, too late, my whole life a failure,—I, with all my wisdom, shut out from heaven,—and very fools pressing in before me!"

He sat upright, felt for a box of matches, took a silver candlestick from the mantelpiece, and struck a light. The open page of the Bible lay still beside him.

"If this indeed be the Word of God, through and through, the very truth of God,—then where am I, and what am I, at this moment?

"Ay,—no doubt what Madge would say. An unsaved sinner,—apart from God,—worthless and helpless. I know it all by heart,—have heard it often enough,—have laughed the notion to scorn. What if, after all, it be very truth—and my wisdom there be very foolishness?

"A helpless sinner,—standing apart from God! So they say,—and so it may be. How can I prove the contrary? There are things which the wisest living cannot fathom. Suppose a clue lies here. But never mind generalities just now. Suppose 'I' am in that condition,—a condemned man, cut off from my Maker,—needing—needing what?"

Did he pause here, with a feeling like that which constrained Job, in olden days, to cry aloud for a "Daysman" to stand between him and a holy God? Something of the kind it must have been. And an answer came once more breathing softly across his heart, in words learnt long ago from a mother's lips:—

"There is One Mediator between God and man, the Man Christ Jesus."

For a moment there was stillness,—a hush of body and mind, as he slowly grasped the wondrous words, and caught a glimpse of their boundless meaning. And then, he bent his head,—reverently, as for long years past he had never done,—and uttered half aloud—

"God be merciful to me, a sinner,—for Christ's sake."

The first step was taken. Mr. Chetwynd had a hard lesson to learn, but he did not quail before it. He was not far from the Kingdom of Heaven that night. Madge Hardwicke's and Mona's words, which but a few weeks back might have passed unheeded, save by smile or sneer, had reached him at the right moment. They had fallen like seed into prepared ground,—prepared, all unknown to himself, through the Holy Spirit's guidance, under the influence of Mr. Prior's teaching, and of Mona's illness following. And the day was not far distant, when the once careless half-unbelieving caviller thanked Madge from his very heart, for the kindly boldness of her warning words that evening.