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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9154-0.txt b/9154-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7107f14 --- /dev/null +++ b/9154-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7410 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Salted With Fire, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Salted With Fire + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9154] +[Most recently updated: August 7, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Jonathan Ingram, Debra Storr and Distributed Proofreaders +and Richard Tonsing + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE *** + + + + +SALTED WITH FIRE + + +By George MacDonald + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +“Whaur are ye aff til this bonny mornin’, Maggie, my doo?” said the +soutar, looking up from his work, and addressing his daughter as she +stood in the doorway with her shoes in her hand. + +“Jist ower to Stanecross, wi’ yer leave, father, to speir the +mistress for a goupin or twa o’ chaff: yer bed aneth ye’s grown unco +hungry-like.” + +“Hoot, the bed’s weel eneuch, lassie!” + +“Na, it’s onything but weel eneuch! It’s my pairt to luik efter my ain +father, and see there be nae k-nots aither in his bed or his parritch.” + +“Ye’re jist yer mither owre again, my lass!—Weel, I winna miss ye that +sair, for the minister ’ill be in this mornin’.” + +“Hoo ken ye that, father?” + +“We didna gree vera weel last nicht.” + +“I canna bide the minister—argle-barglin body!” + +“Toots, bairn! I dinna like to hear ye speyk sae scornfulike o’ the gude +man that has the care o’ oor sowls!” + +“It wad be mair to the purpose ye had the care o’ his!” + +“Sae I hae: hasna ilkabody the care o’ ilk ither’s?” + +“Ay; but he preshumes upo’ ’t—and ye dinna; there’s the differ!” + +“Weel, but ye see, lassie, the man has nae insicht—nane to speak o’, +that is; and it’s pleased God to mak him a wee stoopid, and some thrawn +(_twisted_). He has nae notion even o’ the wark I put intil thae wee bit +sheenie (_little shoes_) o’ his—that I’m this moment labourin ower!” + +“It’s sair wastit upo’ him ’at canna see the thoucht intil’t!” + +“Is God’s wark wastit upo’ you and me excep’ we see intil’t, and +un’erstan’t, Maggie?” + +The girl was silent. Her father resumed. + +“There’s three concernt i’ the matter o’ the wark I may be at: first, +my ain duty to the wark—that’s me; syne him I’m working for—that’s +the minister; and syne him ’at sets me to the wark—ye ken wha that is: +whilk o’ the three wad ye hae me lea’ oot o’ the consideration?” + +For another moment the girl continued silent; then she said— + +“Ye maun be i’ the richt, father! I believe ’t, though I canna jist +_see_ ’t. A body canna like a’body, and the minister’s jist the ae man I +canna bide.” + +“Ay could ye, gi’en ye lo’ed the _ane_ as he oucht to be lo’ed, and as +ye maun learn to lo’e him.” + +“Weel I’m no come to that wi’ the minister yet!” + +“It’s a trowth—but a sair pity, my dautie (_daughter—darling_).” + +“He provokes me the w’y that he speaks to ye, father—him ’at’s no fit +to tie the thong o’ your shee!” + +“The Maister would lat him tie his, and say _thank ye_!” + +“It aye seems to me he has sic a scrimpit way o’ believin’! It’s no like +believin’ at a’! He winna trust him for naething that he hasna his ain +word, or some ither body’s for! Ca’ ye that lippenin’ til him?” + +It was now the father’s turn to be silent for a moment. Then he said,— + +“Lea’ the judgin’ o’ him to his ain maister, lassie. I ha’e seen him +whiles sair concernt for ither fowk.” + +“’At they wouldna haud wi’ _him_, and war condemnt in consequence—wasna +that it?” + +“I canna answer ye that, bairn.” + +“Weel, I ken he doesna like you—no ae wee bit. He’s aye girdin at ye to +ither fowk!” + +“May be: the mair’s the need I sud lo’e him.” + +“But hoo _can_ ye, father?” + +“There’s naething, o’ late, I ha’e to be sae gratefu’ for to _Him_ as +that I can. But I confess I had lang to try sair!” + +“The mair I was to try, the mair I jist couldna.” + +“But ye could try; and He could help ye!” + +“I dinna ken; I only ken that sae ye say, and I maun believe ye. Nane +the mair can I see hoo it’s ever to be broucht aboot.” + +“No more can I, though I ken it can be. But just think, my ain Maggie, +hoo would onybody ken that ever ane o’ ’s was his disciple, gien we war +aye argle-barglin aboot the holiest things—at least what the minister +coonts the holiest, though may be I think I ken better? It’s whan twa +o’ ’s strive that what’s ca’d a schism begins, and I jist winna, please +God—and it does please him! He never said, Ye maun a’ think the same +gait, but he did say, Ye maun a’ loe ane anither, and no strive!” + +“Ye dinna aye gang to his kirk, father!” + +“Na, for I’m jist feared sometimes lest I should stop loein him. It +matters little about gaein to the kirk ilka Sunday, but it matters a +heap aboot aye loein ane anither; and whiles he says things aboot the +mind o’ God, sic that it’s a’ I can dee to sit still.” + +“Weel, father, I dinna believe that I can lo’e him ony the day; sae, wi’ +yer leave, I s’ be awa to Stanecross afore he comes.” + +“Gang yer wa’s, lassie, and the Lord gang wi’ ye, as ance he did wi’ +them that gaed to Emmaus.” + +With her shoes in her hand, the girl was leaving the house when her +father called after her— + +“Hoo’s folk to ken that I provide for my ain, whan my bairn gangs +unshod? Tak aff yer shune gin ye like when ye’re oot o’ the toon.” + +“Are ye sure there’s nae hypocrisy aboot sic a fause show, father?” +asked Maggie, laughing. “I maun hide them better!” + +As she spoke she put the shoes in the empty bag she carried for the +chaff. “There’s a hidin’ o’ what I hae—no a pretendin’ to hae what I +haena!—I s’ be hame in guid time for yer tay, father.—I can gang a heap +better withoot them!” she added, as she threw the bag over her shoulder. +“I’ll put them on whan I come to the heather,” she concluded. + +“Ay, ay; gang yer wa’s, and lea’ me to the wark ye haena the grace to +adverteeze by weirin’ o’ ’t.” + +Maggie looked in at the window as she passed it on her way, to get a +last sight of her father. The sun was shining into the little bare room, +and her shadow fell upon him as she passed him; but his form lingered +clear in the close chamber of her mind after she had left him far. And +it was not her shadow she had seen, but the shadow, rather, of a great +peace that rested concentred upon him as he bowed over his last, his +mind fixed indeed upon his work, but far more occupied with the affairs +of quite another region. Mind and soul were each so absorbed in its +accustomed labour that never did either interfere with that of the +other. His shoemaking lost nothing when he was deepest sunk in some +one or other of the words of his Lord, which he sought eagerly to +understand—nay, I imagine his shoemaking gained thereby. In his leisure +hours, not a great, he was yet an intense reader; but it was nothing in +any book that now occupied him; it was the live good news, the man Jesus +Christ himself. In thought, in love, in imagination, that man dwelt in +him, was alive in him, and made him alive. This moment He was with him, +had come to visit him—yet was never far from him—was present always +with an individuality that never quenched but was continually developing +his own. For the soutar absolutely believed in the Lord of Life, was +always trying to do the things he said, and to keep his words abiding in +him. Therefore was he what the parson called a mystic, and was the +most practical man in the neighbourhood; therefore did he make the best +shoes, because the Word of the Lord abode in him. + +The door opened, and the minister came into the kitchen. The soutar +always worked in the kitchen, to be near his daughter, whose presence +never interrupted either his work or his thought, or even his +prayers—which often seemed as involuntary as a vital automatic impulse. + +“It’s a grand day!” said the minister. “It aye seems to me that just on +such a day will the Lord come, nobody expecting him, and the folk all +following their various callings—as when the flood came and astonished +them.” + +The man was but reflecting, without knowing it, what the soutar had +been saying the last time they encountered; neither did he think, at the +moment, that the Lord himself had said something like it first. + +“And I was thinkin, this vera meenute,” returned the soutar, “sic a +bonny day as it was for the Lord to gang aboot amang his ain fowk. I +was thinkin maybe he was come upon Maggie, and was walkin wi’ her up the +hill to Stanecross—nearer til her, maybe, nor she could hear or see or +think!” + +“Ye’re a deal taen up wi’ vain imaiginins, MacLear!” rejoined the +minister, tartly. “What scriptur hae ye for sic a wanderin’ invention, +o’ no practical value?” + +“’Deed, sir, what scriptur hed I for takin my brakwast this mornin, or +ony mornin? Yet I never luik for a judgment to fa’ upon me for that! +I’m thinkin we dee mair things in faith than we ken—but no eneuch! no +eneuch! I was thankfu’ for’t, though, I min’ that, and maybe that’ll +stan’ for faith. But gien I gang on this gait, we’ll be beginnin as +we left aff last nicht, and maybe fa’ to strife! And we hae to loe ane +anither, not accordin to what the ane thinks, or what the ither thinks, +but accordin as each kens the Maister loes the ither, for he loes the +twa o’ us thegither.” + +“But hoo ken ye that he’s pleased wi’ ye?” + +“I said naething aboot that: I said he loes you and me!” + +“For that, he maun be pleast wi’ ye!” + +“I dinna think nane aboot that; I jist tak my life i’ my han’, and awa’ +wi’ ’t til _Him_;—and he’s never turned his face frae me yet.—Eh, sir! +think what it would be gien ever he did!” + +“But we maunna think o’ him ither than he would hae us think.” + +“That’s hoo I’m aye hingin aboot his door, luikin for him.” + +“Weel, I kenna what to mak o’ ye! I maun jist lea’ ye to him!” + +“Ye couldna dee a kinder thing! I desire naething better frae man or +minister than be left to Him.” + +“Weel, weel, see til yersel.” + +“I’ll see to _him_, and try to loe my neebour—that’s you, Mr. Pethrie. +I’ll hae yer shune ready by Setterday, sir. I trust they’ll be worthy +o’ the feet that God made, and that hae to be shod by me. I trust and +believe they’ll nowise distress ye, sir, or interfere wi’ yer comfort +in preachin. I’ll fess them hame mysel, gien the Lord wull, and that +without fail.” + +“Na, na; dinna dee that; lat Maggie come wi’ them. Ye wad only be puttin +me oot o’ humour for the Lord’s wark wi’ yer havers!” + +“Weel, I’ll sen’ Maggie—only ye wad obleege me by no seein her, for ye +micht put _her_ oot o’ humour, sir, and she michtna gie yer sermon fair +play the morn!” + +The minister closed the door with some sharpness. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +In the meantime, Maggie was walking shoeless and bonnetless up the hill +to the farm she sought. It was a hot morning in June, tempered by a +wind from the north-west. The land was green with the slow-rising tide +of the young corn, among which the cool wind made little waves, showing +the brown earth between them on the somewhat arid face of the hill. +A few fleecy clouds shared the high blue realm with the keen sun. As +she rose to the top of the road, the gable of the house came suddenly +in sight, and near it a sleepy old gray horse, treading his ceaseless +round at the end of a long lever, too listless to feel the weariness of +a labour that to him must have seemed unprogressive, and, to anything +young, heart-breaking. Nor did it appear to give him any consolation +to be aware of the commotion he was causing on the other side of the +wall, where a threshing machine of an antiquated sort responded with +multiform movement to the monotony of his round-and-round. Near by, a +peacock, as conscious of his glorious plumage as indifferent to the +ugliness of his feet, kept time with undulating neck to the motion of +those same feet, as he strode with stagey gait across the cornyard, now +and then stooping to pick up a stray grain spitefully, and occasionally +erecting his superb neck to give utterance to a hideous cry of +satisfaction at his own beauty— a cry as unlike the beauty as ever was +discord to harmony. His glory, his legs and his voice, perplexed Maggie +with an unanalyzed sense of contradiction and unfitness. + +Radiant with age and light, the old horse stood still just as the sun +touched the meridian; the hour of repose and food was come, and he knew +it; and at the same moment the girl, passing one of the green-painted +doors of the farm-house, stopped at the other, the kitchen one. It +stood open, and in answer to her modest knock, a ruddy maid appeared, +with a question in her eyes, and a smile on her lips at sight of the +shoemaker’s Maggie, whom she knew well. Maggie asked if she might see +the mistress. + +“Here’s soutar’s Maggie wanting ye, mem!” said the maid, and Mistress +Blatherwick, who was close at hand, came; to which Maggie humbly but +confidently making her request, had it as kindly granted, and followed +her to the barn to fill her pock with the light plumy covering of the +husk of the oats, the mistress of Stonecross helping her the while +and talking to her as she did so—for the soutar and his daughter were +favourites with her and her husband, and they had not seen either of +them for some while. + +“Ye used to ken oor Maister Jeames i’ the auld lang-syne, Maggie!” for +the two had played together as children in the same school, although +growth and difference in station had gradually put an end to +their intimacy, so that it became the mother to refer to him with +circumspection, seeing that, in her eyes at least, Maister Jeames was +now far on the way to becoming a great man, being a divinity student; +for in the Scotch church, although it sets small store on apostolic +descent, every Minister, until he has shown himself eccentic or +incapable of interesting a congregation, is regarded with quite as +much respect as in England is accorded to the claimant of a +phantom-priesthood; and therefore, prospectively, Jeames was to his +mother a man of no little note. Maggie remembered how, when a boy, he +had liked to talk with her father; and how her father would listen to +him with a curious look on his rugged face, while the boy set forth +the commonplaces of a lifeless theology with an occasional freshness +of logical presentation that at least interested himself. But she +remembered also that she had never heard the soutar on his side make +any attempt to lay open to the boy his stores of what one or two in the +place, one or two only, counted wisdom and knowledge. + +“He’s a gey clever laddie,” he had said once to Maggie, “and gien he +gets his een open i’ the coorse o’ the life he’s hardly yet ta’en haud +o’, he’ll doobtless see something; but he disna ken yet that there’s +onything rael to be seen, ootside or inside o’ him!” When he heard that +he was going to study divinity, he shook his head, and was silent. + +“I’m jist hame frae peyin him a short veesit,” Mrs. Blatherwick went on. +“I cam hame but twa nichts ago. He’s lodged wi’ a dacent widow in Arthur +Street, in a flat up a lang stane stair that gangs roun and roun till ye +come there, and syne gangs past the door and up again. She taks in han’ +to luik efter his claes, and sees to the washin o’ them, and does her +best to haud him tidy; but Jeamie was aye that partic’lar aboot his +appearance! And that’s a guid thing, special in a minister, wha has to +set an example! I was sair pleased wi’ the auld body.” + +There was one in the Edinburgh lodging, however, of whom Mrs. +Blatherwick had but a glimpse, and of whom, therefore, she had made no +mention to her husband any more than now to Maggie MacLear; indeed, she +had taken so little notice of her that she could hardly be said to +have seen her at all—a girl of about sixteen, who did far more for the +comfort of her aunt’s two lodgers than she who reaped all the advantage. +If Mrs. Blatherwick had let her eyes rest upon her but for a moment, she +would probably have looked again; and might have discovered that she was +both a good-looking and graceful little creature, with blue eyes, and +hair as nearly black as that kind of hair, both fine and plentiful, ever +is. She might then have discovered as well a certain look of earnestness +and service that would at first have attracted her for its own sake, and +then repelled her for James’s; for she would assuredly have read in it +what she would have counted dangerous for him; but seeing her poorly +dressed, and looking untidy, which at the moment she could not help, the +mother took her for an ordinary maid-of-all-work, and never for a moment +doubted that her son must see her just as she did. He was her only son; +her heart was full of ambition for him; and she brooded on the honour +he was destined to bring her and his father. The latter, however, caring +less for his good looks, had neither the same satisfaction in him nor an +equal expectation from him. Neither of his parents, indeed, had as yet +reaped much pleasure from his existence, however much one of them might +hope for in the time to come. There were two things indeed against such +satisfaction or pleasure—that James had never been open-hearted toward +them, never communicative as to his feelings, or even his doings; +and—which was worse—that he had long made them feel in him a certain +unexpressed claim to superiority. Nor would it have lessened their +uneasiness at this to have noted that the existence of such an implicit +claim was more or less evident in relation to every one with whom +he came in contact, manifested mainly by a stiff, incommunicative +reluctance, taking the form now of a pretended absorption in his books, +now of contempt for any sort of manual labour, even to the saddling of +the pony he was about to ride; and now and always by an affectation of +proper English, which, while successful as to grammar and accentuation, +did not escape the ludicrous in a certain stiltedness of tone and +inflection, from which intrusion of the would-be gentleman, his father, +a simple, old-fashioned man, shrank with more of dislike than he was +willing to be conscious of. + +Quite content that, having a better education than himself, his son +should both be and show himself superior, he could not help feeling that +these his ways of asserting himself were signs of mere foolishness, and +especially as conjoined with his wish to be a minister—in regard to +which Peter but feebly sympathized with the general ambition of Scots +parents. Full of simple paternal affection, whose utterance was quenched +by the behaviour of his son, he was continuously aware of something that +took the shape of an impassable gulf between James and his father and +mother. Profoundly religious, and readily appreciative of what was new +in the perception of truth, he was, above all, of a great and simple +righteousness—full, that is, of a loving sense of fairplay—a +very different thing indeed from that which most of those who count +themselves religious mean when they talk of the righteousness of God! +Little, however, was James able to see of this, or of certain other +great qualities in his father. I would not have my reader think that he +was consciously disrespectful to either of his parents, or knew that his +behaviour was unloving. He honoured their character, indeed, but shrank +from the simplicity of their manners; he thought of them with no +lively affection, though not without some kindly feeling and much +confidence—at the same time regarding himself with still greater +confidence. He had never been an idler, or disobedient; and had made +such efforts after theological righteousness as served to bolster +rather than buttress his conviction that he was a righteous youth, +and nourished his ignorance of the fact that he was far from being the +person of moral strength and value that he imagined himself. The person +he saw in the mirror of his self-consciousness was a very fine and +altogether trustworthy personage; the reality so twisted in its +reflection was but a decent lad, as lads go, with high but untrue +notions of personal honour, and an altogether unwarranted conviction +that such as he admiringly imagined himself, such he actually was: he +had never discovered his true and unworthy self! There were many things +in his life and ways upon which had he but fixed eyes of question, he +would at once have perceived that they were both judged and condemned; +but so far, nevertheless, his father and mother might have good hope of +his future. + +It is folly to suppose that such as follow most the fashions of this +world are more enslaved by them than multitudes who follow them only +afar off. These reverence the judgments of society in things of far +greater importance than the colour or cut of a gown; often without +knowing it, they judge life, and truth itself, by the falsest of all +measures, namely, the judgment of others falser than themselves; they do +not ask what is true or right, but what folk think and say about this +or that. James, for instance, altogether missed being a gentleman by his +habit of asking himself how, in such or such circumstances, a gentleman +would behave. As the man of honour he would fain know himself, he would +never tell a lie or break a promise; but he had not come to perceive +that there are other things as binding as the promise which alone +he regarded as obligatory. He did not, for instance, mind raising +expectations which he had not the least intention of fulfilling. + +Being a Scotch lad, it is not to be wondered at that he should turn +to Theology as a means of livelihood; neither is it surprising that +he should do so without any conscious love to God, seeing it is not in +Scotland alone that untrue men take refuge in the Church, and turn the +highest of professions into the meanest, laziest, poorest, and most +unworthy, by following it without any genuine call to the same. In +any profession, the man must be a poor common creature who follows +it without some real interest in it; but he who without a spark of +enthusiasm for it turns to the Church, is either a “blind mouth,” as +Milton calls him—scornfullest of epithets, or an “old wife” ambitious +of telling her fables well; and James’s ambition was of the same +contemptible sort—that, namely, of distinguishing himself in the +pulpit. This, if he had the natural gift of eloquence, he might well do +by its misuse to his own glory; or if he had it not, he might acquire a +spurious facility resembling it, and so be every way a mere windbag. + +Mr. Petrie, whom it cost the soutar so much care and effort to love, and +who, although intellectually small, was yet a good man, and by no means +a coward where he judged people’s souls in danger, thought to save +the world by preaching a God, eminently respectable to those who could +believe in such a God, but to those who could not, a God far from lovely +because far from righteous. His life, nevertheless, showed him in many +ways a believer in Him who revealed a very different God indeed from the +God he set forth. His faith, therefore, did not prevent him from looking +upon the soutar, who believed only in the God he saw in Jesus Christ, +as one in a state of rebellion against him whom Jesus claimed as his +father. + +Young Blatherwick had already begun to turn his back upon several of the +special tenets of Calvinism, without, however, being either a better or +a worse man because of the change in his opinions. He had cast aside, +for instance, the doctrine of an everlasting hell for the unbeliever; +but in doing so he became aware that he was thus leaving fallow a great +field for the cultivation of eloquence; and not having yet discovered +any other equally productive of the precious crop, without which so +little was to be gained for the end he desired—namely, the praise of +men, he therefore kept on, “for the meantime,” sowing and preparing to +reap that same field. Mr. Petrie, on the other hand, held the doctrine +as absolutely fundamental to Christianity, and preached it with power; +while the soutar, who had discarded it from his childhood, positively +refused, jealous of strife, to enter into any argument upon it with the +disputatious little man. + +As yet, then, James was reading Scotch metaphysics, and reconciling +himself to the concealment of his freer opinions, upon which concealment +depended the success of his probation, and his license. But the close of +his studies in divinity was now near at hand. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Upon a certain stormy day in the great northern city, preparing for +what he regarded as his career, James sat in the same large, shabbily +furnished room where his mother had once visited him—half-way up the +hideously long spiral stair of an ancient house, whose entrance was in a +narrow close. The great clock of a church in the neighbouring street had +just begun to strike five of a wintry afternoon, dark with snow, falling +and yet to fall: how often in after years was he not to hear the ghostly +call of that clock, and see that falling snow!—when a gentle tap came +to his door, and the girl I have already mentioned came in with a tray +and the materials for his most welcomed meal, coffee with bread and +butter. She set it down in a silence which was plainly that of deepest +respect, gave him one glance of devotion, and was turning to leave the +room, when he looked up from the paper he was writing, and said— + +“Don’t be in such a hurry, Isy. Haven’t you time to pour out my coffee +for me?” + +Isy was a small, dark, neat little thing, with finely formed features, +and a look of child-like simplicity, not altogether removed from +childishness. She answered him first with her very blue eyes full of +love and trust, then said— + +“Plenty o’ time, sir. What other have I to do than see that you be at +your ease?” + +He shoved aside his work, and looking up with some concentration in his +regard, pushed his chair back a little from the table, and rejoined— + +“What’s the matter with you this last day or two, Isy? You’re not +altogether like yourself!” + +She hesitated a moment, then answered— + +“It can be naething, I suppose, sir, but just that I’m growin older and +beginnin to think aboot things.” + +She stood near him. He put his arm round her little waist, and would +have drawn her down upon his knees, but she resisted. + +“I don’t see what difference that can make in you all at once, Isy! +We’ve known each other so long that there can be no misunderstanding of +any sort between us. You have always behaved like the good and modest +girl you are; and I’m sure you have been most attentive to me all the +time I have been in your aunt’s house.” + +He spoke in a tone of superior approval. + +“It was my bare duty, and ye hae aye been kinder to me than I could hae +had ony richt to expec’. But it’s nearhan’ ower noo!” she concluded with +a sigh that indicated approaching tears, as she yielded a little to the +increased pressure of his arm. + +“What makes you say that?” he returned, giving her a warm kiss, plainly +neither unwelcome nor the first. + +“Dinna ye think it would be better to drop that kin’ o’ thing the noo, +sir?” she said, and would have stood erect, but he held her fast. + +“Why now, more than any time—I don’t know for how long? Where does a +difference come in? What puts the notion in your pretty little head?” + +“It maun come some day, and the langer the harder it’ll be!” + +“But tell me what has set you thinking about it all at once?” + +She burst into tears. He tried to soothe and comfort her, but in +struggling not to cry she only sobbed the worse. At last, however, she +succeeded in faltering out an explanation. + +“Auntie’s been tellin me that I maun luik to my hert, so as no to tyne’t +to ye a’thegither! But it’s awa a’ready,” she went on, with a fresh +outburst, “and it’s no manner o’ use cryin til’t to come back to me. I +micht as weel cry upo’ the win’ as it blaws by me! I canna understan’ +’t! I ken weel ye’ll soon be a great man, and a’ the toon crushin to +hear ye; and I ken jist as weel that I’ll hae to sit still in my seat +and luik up to ye whaur ye stan’, no daurin to say a word—no daurin +even to think a thoucht lest somebody sittin aside me should hear’t ohn +me spoken. For what would it be but clean impidence o’ me to think ’at +there was a time when I was sittin whaur I’m sittin the noo—and thinkin +’t i’ the vera kirk! I would be nearhan’ deein for shame!” + +“Didn’t you ever think, Isy, that maybe I might marry you some day?” +said James jokingly, confident in the gulf between them. + +“Na, no ance. I kenned better nor that! I never even wusst it, for that +would be nae freen’s wuss: ye would never get ony farther gien ye did! +I’m nane fit for a minister’s wife—nor worthy o’ bein ane! I micht +do no that ill, and pass middlin weel, in a sma’ clachan wi’ a wee bit +kirkie—but amang gran’ fowk, in a muckle toon—for that’s whaur ye’re +sure to be! Eh me, me! A’ the last week or twa I hae seen ye driftin +awa frae me, oot and oot to the great sea, whaur never a thoucht o’ Isy +would come nigh ye again;—and what for should there? Ye camna into the +warl’ to think aboot me or the likes o’ me, but to be a great preacher, +and lea’ me ahin ye, like a sheaf o’ corn ye had jist cuttit and left +unbun’!” + +Here came another burst of bitter weeping, followed by words whose very +articulation was a succession of sobs. + +“Eh, me, me! I doobt I hae clean disgraced mysel!” she cried at last, +and ended, wiping her eyes—in vain, for the tears would keep flowing. + +As to young Blatherwick, I venture to assert that nothing vulgar or +low, still less of evil intent, was passing through his mind during this +confession; and yet what but evil was his unpitying, selfish exultation +in the fact that this simple-hearted and very pretty girl should love +him unsought, and had told him so unasked? A true-hearted man would +at once have perceived and shrunk from what he was bringing upon her: +James’s vanity only made him think it very natural, and more than +excusable in her; and while his ambition made him imagine himself so +much her superior as to exclude the least thought of marrying her, it +did not prevent him from yielding to the delight her confession caused +him, or from persuading her that there was no harm in loving one to whom +she must always be dear, whatever his future might bring with it. Isy +left the room not a little consoled, and with a new hope in possession +of her innocent imagination; leaving James exultant over his conquest, +and indulging a more definite pleasure than hitherto in the person and +devotion of the girl. As to any consciousness in him of danger to either +of them, it was no more than, on the shore, the uneasy stir of a storm +far out at sea. Had the least thought of wronging her invaded his mind, +he would have turned from it with abhorrence; yet was he endangering all +her peace without giving it one reasonable thought. He was acting with a +selfishness too much ingrained to manifest its own unlovely shape; while +in his mind lay all the time a half-conscious care to avoid making the +girl any promise. + +As to her fitness for a minister’s wife, he had never asked himself a +question concerning it; but in truth she might very soon have grown far +fitter for the position than he was for that of a minister. In character +she was much beyond him; and in breeding and consciousness far more of +a lady than he of a gentleman—fine gentleman as he would fain know +himself. Her manners were immeasurably better than his, because they +were simple and aimed at nothing. Instinctively she avoided whatever, +had she done it, she would at once have recognized as uncomely. She did +not know that simplicity was the purest breeding, yet from mere truth of +nature practised it unknowing. If her words were older-fashioned, that +is, more provincial than his, at least her tone was less so, and her +utterance was prettier than if, like him, she had aped an Anglicized +mode of speech. James would, I am sure, have admired her more if she +had been dressed on Sundays in something more showy than a simple cotton +gown; and I fear that her poverty had its influence in the freedoms he +allowed himself with her. + +Her aunt was a weak as well as unsuspicious woman, who had known better +days, and pitied herself because they were past and gone. She gave +herself no anxiety as to her niece’s prudence, but continued well +assured of it even while her very goodness was conspiring against her +safety. It would have required a man, not merely of greater goodness +than James, but of greater insight into the realities of life as well, +to perceive the worth and superiority of the girl who waited upon him +with a devotion far more angelic than servile; for whatever might +have seemed to savour of the latter, had love, hopeless of personal +advantage, at the root of it. + +Thus things went on for a while, with a continuous strengthening of the +pleasant yet not altogether easy bonds in which Isobel walked, and +a constant increase of the attraction that drew the student to the +self-yielding girl; until the appearance of another lodger in the house +was the means of opening Blatherwick’s eyes to the state of his own +feelings, by occasioning the birth and recognition of a not unnatural +jealousy, which “gave him pause.” On Isy’s side there was not the least +occasion for this jealousy, and he knew it; but not the less he saw +that, if he did not mean to go further, here he must stop—the immediate +result of which was that he began to change a little in his behaviour +toward her, when at any time she had to enter his room in ministration +to his wants. + +Of this change the poor girl was at once aware, but she attributed it +to a temporary absorption in his studies. Soon, however, she could not +doubt that not merely was his voice or his countenance changed toward +her, but that his heart had grown cold, and that he was no longer +“friends with her.” For there was another and viler element than mere +jealousy concerned in his alteration: he had become aware of a more +real danger into which he was rapidly drifting—that of irrecoverably +blasting the very dawn of his prospects by an imprudent marriage. “To +saddle himself with a wife,” as he vulgarly expressed it, before he had +gained his license—before even he had had the poorest opportunity of +distinguishing himself in that wherein lay his every hope and +ambition of proving his excellence, was a thing not for a moment to +be contemplated! And now, when Isobel asked him in sorrowful mood some +indifferent question, the uneasy knowledge that he was about to increase +her sadness made him answer her roughly—a form not unnatural to +incipient compunction: white as a ghost she stood a moment silently +staring at him, then sank on the floor senseless. + +Seized with an overmastering repentance that brought back with a rush +all his tenderness, James sprang to her, lifted her in his arms, laid +her on the sofa, and lavished caresses upon her, until at length she +recovered sufficiently to know where she lay—in the false paradise of +his arms, with him kneeling over her in a passion of regret, the first +passion he had ever felt or manifested toward her, pouring into her ear +words of incoherent dismay—which, taking shape as she revived, soon +became promises and vows. Thereupon the knowledge that he had committed +himself, and the conviction that he was henceforth bound to one course +in regard to her, wherein he seemed to himself incapable of falsehood, +unhappily freed him from the self-restraint then most imperative upon +him, and his trust in his own honour became the last loop of the snare +about to entangle his and her very life. At the moment when a genuine +love would have hastened to surround the woman with bulwarks of safety, +he ceased to regard himself as his sister’s keeper. Even thus did Cain +cease to be his brother’s keeper, and so slew him. + +But the vengeance on his unpremeditated treachery, for treachery, +although unpremeditated, it was none the less, came close upon its +heels. The moment that Isy left the room, weeping and pallid, conscious +that a miserable shame but waited the entrance of a reflection even now +importunate, he threw himself on the floor, writhing as in the claws of +a hundred demons. The next day but one he was to preach his first sermon +before his class, in the presence of his professor of divinity! His +immediate impulse was to rush from the house, and home hot-foot to his +mother; and it would have been well for him to have done so indeed, +confessed all, and turned his back on the church and his paltry ambition +together! But he had never been open with his mother, and he feared his +father, not knowing the tender righteousness of that father’s heart, +or the springs of love which would at once have burst open to meet the +sorrowful tale of his wretched son; and instead of fleeing at once +to his one city of refuge, he fell but to pacing the room in hopeless +bewilderment; and before long he was searching every corner of his +reviving consciousness, not indeed as yet for any justification, but +for what palliation of his “fault” might there be found; for it was the +first necessity of this self-lover to think well, or at least endurably, +of himself. Nor was it long before a multitude of sneaking arguments, +imps of Satan, began to assemble at the agonized cry of his +self-dissatisfaction—for it was nothing more. + +For, in that agony of his, there was no detestation of himself because +of his humiliation of the trusting Isobel; he did not loathe his abuse +of her confidence, or his having wrapt her in the foul fire-damp of his +miserable weakness: the hour of a true and good repentance was for him +not yet come; shame only as yet possessed him, because of the failure +of his own fancied strength. If it should ever come to be known, what +contempt would not clothe him, instead of the garments of praise of +which he had dreamed all these years! The pulpit, that goal of his +ambition, that field of his imagined triumphs—the very thought of +it now for a time made him feel sick. Still, there at least lay yet a +possibility of recovery—not indeed by repentance, of which he did not +seek to lay hold, but in the chance that no one might hear a word of +what had happened! Sure he felt, that Isy would never reveal it, and +least of all to her aunt! His promise to marry Isy he would of course +keep! Neither would that be any great hardship, if only it had no +consequences. As an immediate thing, however, it was not to be thought +of! there could be at the moment no necessity for such an extreme +measure! He would wait and see! he would be guided by events! As to +the sin of the thing—how many had not fallen like him, and no one the +wiser! Never would he so offend again! and in the meantime he would let +it go, and try to forget it—in the hope that providence now, and at +length time, would bury it from all men’s sight! He would go on the same +as if the untoward thing had not so cruelly happened, had cast no such +cloud over the fair future before him! Nor were his selfish regrets +unmingled with annoyance that Isy should have yielded so easily: why had +she not aided him to resist the weakness that had wrought his undoing? +She was as much to blame as he; and for her unworthiness was he to be +left to suffer? Within an hour he had returned to the sermon under his +hand, and was revising it for the twentieth time, to perfect it before +finally committing it to memory; for so should the lie of his life +be crowned with success, and seem the thing it was not—an outcome of +extemporaneous feeling! During what remained of the two days following +he spared no labour, and at last delivered it with considerable unction, +and the feeling that he had achieved his end. + +Neither of those days did Isy make her appearance in his room, her aunt +excusing her apparent neglect with the information that she was in bed +with a bad headache, while herself she supplied her place. + +The next day Isy went about her work as usual, but never once looked up. +James imagined reproach in her silence, and did not venture to address +her, having, indeed, no wish to speak to her, for what was there to be +said? A cloud was between them; a great gulf seemed to divide them! He +wondered at himself, no longer conscious of her attraction, or of his +former delight in her proximity. His resolve to marry her was not yet +wavering; he fully intended to keep his promise; but he must wait the +proper time, the right opportunity for revealing to his parents the fact +of his engagement! After a few days, however, during which there had +been no return to their former familiarity, it was with a fearful kind +of relief that he learned she was gone to pay a visit to a relation in +the country. He did not care that she had gone without taking leave of +him, only wondered if she could have said anything to incriminate him. + +The session came to an end while she was still absent; he took a formal +leave of her aunt, and went home to Stonecross. + +His father at once felt a wider division between them than before, and +his mother was now compelled, much against her will, to acknowledge to +herself its existence. At the same time he carried himself with less +arrogance, and seemed humbled rather than uplifted by his success. + +During the year that followed, he made several visits to Edinburgh, and +before long received the presentation to a living in the gift of his +father’s landlord, a certain duke who had always been friendly to the +well-to-do and unassuming tenant of one of his largest farms in the +north. But during none of these visits did he inquire or hear anything +about Isy; neither now, when, without blame he might have taken steps +toward the fulfilment of the promise which he had never ceased to regard +as binding, could he persuade himself that the right time had come for +revealing it to his parents: he knew it would be a great blow to his +mother to learn that he had so handicapped his future, and he feared the +silent face of his father at the announcement of it. + +It is hardly necessary to say that he had made no attempt to establish +any correspondence with the poor girl. Indeed by this time he found +himself not unwilling to forget her, and cherished a hope that she had, +if not forgotten, at least dismissed from her mind all that had taken +place between them. Now and then in the night he would wake to a few +tender thoughts of her, but before the morning they would vanish, +and during the day he would drown any chance reminiscence of her in a +careful polishing and repolishing of his sentences, aping the style +of Chalmers or of Robert Hall, and occasionally inserting some +fine-sounding quotation; for apparent richness of composition was his +principal aim, not truth of meaning, or lucidity of utterance. + +I can hardly be presumptuous in adding that, although growing in a +certain popularity with men, he was not thus growing in favour with +God. And as he continued to hear nothing about Isy, the hope at length, +bringing with it a keen shoot of pleasure, awoke in him that he was +never to hear of her more. For the praise of men, and the love of that +praise, having now restored him to his own good graces, he regarded +himself with more interest and approbation than ever; and his continued +omission of inquiry after Isy, heedless of the predicament in which +he might have placed her, was a far worse sin against her, because +deliberate, than his primary wrong to her, and it now recoiled upon him +in increased hardness of heart and self-satisfaction. + +Thus in love with himself, and thereby shut out from the salvation of +love to another, he was specially in danger of falling in love with the +admiration of any woman; and thence now occurred a little episode in his +history not insignificant in its results. + +He had not been more than a month or two in his parish when he was +attracted by a certain young woman in his congregation of some inborn +refinement and distinction of position, to whom he speedily became +anxious to recommend himself: he must have her approval, and, if +possible, her admiration! Therefore in his preaching, if the word +used for the lofty, simple utterance of divine messengers, may without +offence be misapplied to his paltry memorizations, his main thought was +always whether the said lady was justly appreciating the eloquence and +wisdom with which he meant to impress her—while in fact he remained +incapable of understanding how deep her natural insight penetrated both +him and his pretensions. Her probing attention, however, he so entirely +misunderstood that it gave him no small encouragement; and thus becoming +only the more eager after her good opinion, he came at length to imagine +himself heartily in love with her—a thing impossible to him with +any woman—and at last, emboldened by the fancied importance of his +position, and his own fancied distinction in it, he ventured an offer +of his feeble hand and feebler heart;—but only to have them, to his +surprise, definitely and absolutely refused. He turned from the lady’s +door a good deal disappointed, but severely mortified; and, judging it +impossible for any woman to keep silence concerning such a refusal, and +unable to endure the thought of the gossip to ensue, he began at once +to look about him for a refuge, and frankly told his patron the whole +story. It happened to suit his grace’s plans, and he came speedily to +his assistance with the offer of his native parish—whence the soutar’s +argumentative antagonist had just been removed to a place, probably not +a very distinguished one, in the kingdom of heaven; and it seemed to all +but a natural piety when James Blatherwick exchanged his parish for that +where he was born, and where his father and mother continued to occupy +the old farm. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +The soutar was still meditating on things spiritual, still reading the +gospel of St. John, still making and mending shoes, and still watching +the development of his daughter, who had begun to unfold what not a few +of the neighbours, with most of whom she was in favour, counted beauty. +The farm labourers in the vicinity were nearly all more or less her +admirers, and many a pair of shoes was carried to her father for the +sake of a possible smile from Maggie; but because of a certain awe that +seemed to pervade her presence, no one had as yet dared a word to her +beyond that of greeting or farewell: each that looked upon her became at +once aware of a certain inferiority. Her beauty seemed to suggest behind +it a beauty it was unable to reveal. + +She was rather short in stature, but altogether well proportioned, with +a face wonderfully calm and clear, and quiet but keen dark eyes. Her +complexion owed its white-rose tinge to a strong, gentle life, and its +few freckles to the pale sun of Scotland, for she courted every breeze +bonnetless on the hills, when she accompanied her father in his walks, +or carried home the work he had finished. He rejoiced especially that +she should delight in feeling the wind about her, for he held it to +indicate sympathy with that spirit whose symbol it was, and which he +loved to think of as folding her about, closer and more lovingly than +his own cherishing soul. + +Of her own impulse, and almost from the moment of her mother’s death, +she had given herself to his service, first in doing all the little +duties of the house, and then, as her strength and faculty grew, in +helping him more and more in his trade. As soon as she had cleared away +the few things necessary for a breakfast of porridge and milk, Maggie +would hasten to join her father where he stooped over his last, for he +was a little shortsighted. + +When he lifted his head you might see that, notwithstanding the +ruggedness of his face, he was a good-looking man, with strong, +well-proportioned features, in which, even on Sundays, when he scrubbed +his face unmercifully, there would still remain lines suggestive of +ingrained rosin and heelball. On week days he was not so careful to +remove every sign of the labour by which he earned his bread; but when +his work was over till the morning, and he was free to sit down to a +book, he would never even touch one without first carefully washing his +hands and face. In the workshop, Maggie’s place was a leather-seated +stool like her father’s, a yard or so away from his, to leave room for +his elbows in drawing out the lingels (_rosined threads_): there she +would at once resume the work she had left unfinished the night before; +for it was a curious trait in the father, early inherited by the +daughter, that he would never rise from a finished job, however near +might be the hour for dropping work, without having begun another to go +on with in the morning. It was wonderful how much cleaner Maggie managed +to keep her hands; but then to her fell naturally the lighter work for +women and children. She declared herself ambitious, however, of one day +making with her own hands a perfect pair of top-boots. + +The advantages she gained from this constant intercourse with her father +were incalculable. Without the least loss to her freedom of thought, +nay, on the contrary, to the far more rapid development of her truest +liberty, the soutar seemed to avoid no subject as unsuitable for the +girl’s consideration, but to insist only on its being regarded from the +highest attainable point of view. Matters of indifferent import they +seldom, if ever, discussed at all; and nothing she knew her father cared +about did Maggie ever allude to with indifference. Full of an honest +hilarity ever ready to break out when occasion occurred, she was at the +same time incapable of a light word upon a sacred subject. Such jokes +as, more than elsewhere, one is in danger of hearing among the clergy of +every church, very seldom came out in her father’s company; and she +very early became aware of the kind of joke he would take or refuse. +The light use, especially, of any word of the Lord would sink him in a +profound silence. If it were an ordinary man who thus offended, he might +rebuke him by asking if he remembered who said those words; once, when +it was a man specially regarded who gave the offence, I heard him say +something to this effect, “The maister doesna forget whaur and whan he +spak thae words: I houp ye do forget!” Indeed the most powerful force +in the education of Maggie was the evident attitude of her father toward +that Son of Man who was even now bringing the children of God to the +knowledge of that Father of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is +named. Mingling with her delights in the inanimate powers of Nature, in +the sun and the wind, in the rain and the growth, in the running waters +and the darkness sown with stars, was such a sense of His presence that +she felt like him, He might at any moment appear to her father, or, +should it so please Him, even to herself. + +Two or three miles away, in the heart of the hills, on the outskirts of +the farm of Stonecross, lived an old cottar and his wife, who paid a few +shillings of rent to Mr. Blatherwick for the acre or two their ancestors +had redeemed from the heather and bog, and gave, with their one son +who remained at home, occasional service on the farm. They were much +respected by the farmer and his wife, as well as the small circle to +which they were known in the neighbouring village—better known, and +more respected still in that kingdom called of heaven; for they were +such as he to whom the promise was given, that he should yet see the +angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man. They had long +and heartily loved and honoured the soutar, whom they had known before +the death of his wife, and for his sake and hers, both had always +befriended the motherless Maggie. They could not greatly pity her, +seeing she had such a father, yet old Eppie had her occasional moments +of anxiety as to how the bairn would grow up without a mother’s care. +No sooner, however, did the little one begin to show character, than +Eppie’s doubt began to abate; and long before the time to which my +narrative has now come, the child and the child-like old woman were fast +friends. Maggie was often invited to spend a day at Bogsheuch—oftener +indeed than she felt at liberty to leave her father and their common +work, though not oftener than she would have liked to go. + +One morning, early in summer, when first the hillsides had begun to look +attractive, a small agricultural cart, such as is now but seldom seen, +with little paint except on its two red wheels, and drawn by a thin, +long-haired little horse, stopped at the door of the soutar’s house, +clay-floored and straw-thatched, in a back-lane of the village. It was +a cart the cottar used in the cultivation of his little holding, and his +son who drove it, now nearly middle-aged, was likely to succeed to the +hut and acres of Bogsheuch. Man and equipage, both well known to the +soutar, had come with an invitation, more pressing than usual, that +Maggie would pay them a visit of a few days. + +Father and daughter, consulting together in the presence of Andrew +Cormack, arrived at the conclusion that, work being rather slacker than +usual, and nobody in need of any promised job which the soutar could not +finish by himself in good time, Maggie was quite at liberty to go. She +sprang up joyfully—not without a little pang at the thought of leaving +her father alone, although she knew him quite equal to anything +that could be required in the house before her return—and set about +preparing their dinner, while Andrew went to execute a few commissions +that the mistress at Stonecross and his mother at Bogsheuch had given +him. By the time he returned, Maggie was in her Sunday gown, with her +week-day wrapper and winsey petticoat in a bundle—for she reckoned on +being of some use to Eppie during her visit. + +When they had eaten their humble dinner, Andrew brought the cart to the +door, and Maggie scrambled into it. + +“Tak a piece wi’ ye,” said her father, following her to the cart: “ye +hadna muckle to yer denner, and ye may be hungry again or ye hae the +lang road ahint ye!” + +He put several pieces of oatcake in her hand, which she received with a +loving smile; and they set out at a walking pace, which Andrew made no +attempt to quicken. + +It was far from a comfortable carriage, neither was her wisp of straw in +the bottom of it altogether comfortable to sit upon; but the change from +her stool and the close attention her work required, to the open air +and the free rush of the thoughts that came crowding to her out of +the wilderness, put her at once in a blissful mood. Even the few dull +remarks that the slow-thinking Andrew made at intervals from his perch +on the front of the cart, seemed to come to her from the realm of +Faerie, the mysterious world that lay in the folds of the huddled hills. +Everything Maggie saw or heard that afternoon seemed to wear the glamour +of God’s imagination, which is at once the birth and the very truth of +everything. Selfishness alone can rub away that divine gilding, without +which gold itself is poor indeed. + +Suddenly the little horse stood still. Andrew, waking up from a snooze, +jumped to the ground, and began, still half asleep, to search into the +cause of the arrest; for Jess, although she could not make haste, never +of her own accord stood still while able to keep on walking. Maggie, +on her part, had for some time noted that they were making very slow +progress. + +“She’s deid cripple!” said Andrew at length, straightening his long back +from an examination of Jess’s fore feet, and coming to Maggie’s side of +the cart with a serious face. “I dinna believe the crater’s fit to gang +ae step furder! Yet I canna see what’s happent her.” + +Maggie was on the road before he had done speaking. Andrew tried once +to lead Jess, but immediately desisted. “It would be fell cruelty!” he +said. “We maun jist lowse her, and tak her gien we can to the How o’ the +Mains. They’ll gie her a nicht’s quarters there, puir thing! And we’ll +see gien they can tak you in as weel, Maggie. The maister, I mak nae +doobt, ’ill len’ me a horse to come for ye i’ the morning.” + +“I winna hear o’ ’t!” answered Maggie. “I can tramp the lave o’ the ro’d +as weel’s you, Andrew!” + +“But I hae a’ thae things to cairry, and that’ll no lea’ me a han’ to +help ye ower the burn!” objected Andrew. + +“What o’ that?” she returned. “I was sae fell tired o’ sittin that my +legs are jist like to rin awa wi’ me. Lat me jist dook mysel i’ the +bonny win’!” she added, turning herself round and round. “—Isna it jist +like awfu’ thin watter, An’rew?—Here, gie me a haud o’ that loaf. I s’ +cairry that, and my ain bit bundle as weel; syne, I fancy, ye can manage +the lave yersel!” + +Andrew never had much to say, and this time he had nothing. But her +readiness relieved him of some anxiety; for his mother would be very +uncomfortable if he went home without her! + +Maggie’s spirits rose to lark-pitch as the darkness came on and +deepened; and the wind became to her a live gloom, in which, with no +eye-bound to the space enclosing her, she could go on imagining after +the freedom of her own wild will. As the world and everything in it +gradually disappeared, it grew easy to imagine Jesus making the darkness +light about him, and stepping from it plain before her sight. That +could be no trouble to him, she argued, as, being everywhere, he must be +there. He could appear in any form, who had created every shape on the +face of the whole world! If she were but fit to see him, then surely he +would come to her! For thus often had her father spoken to her, talking +of the varied appearances of the Lord after his resurrection, and his +promise that he would be with his disciples always to the end of the +world. Even after he had gone back to his father, had he not appeared to +the apostle Paul? and might it not be that he had shown himself to many +another through the long ages? In any case he was everywhere, and always +about them, although now, perhaps from lack of faith in the earth, he +had not been seen for a long time. And she remembered her father once +saying that nobody could even _think_ a thing if there was no possible +truth in it. The Lord went away that they might believe in him when out +of the sight of him, and so be in him, and he in them! + +“I dinna think,” said Maggie aloud to herself, as she trudged along +beside the delightfully silent Andrew, “that my father would be the +least astonished—only filled wi’ an awfu’ glaidness—if at ony moment, +walkin at his side, the Lord was to call him by his name, and appear +til him. He would but think he had just steppit oot upon him frae some +secret door, and would say,—‘I thoucht, Lord, I would see you some day! +I was aye greedy efter a sicht o’ ye, Lord, and here ye are!’” + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +The same moment to her ears came the cry of an infant. Her first thought +was, “Can that be Himsel, come ance again as he cam ance afore?” + +She stopped in the dusky starlight, and listened with her very soul. + +“Andrew!” she cried, for she heard the sound of his steps as he plodded +on in front of her, and could vaguely see him, “Andrew, what was yon?” + +“I h’ard naething,” answered Andrew, stopping at her cry and listening. + +There came a second cry, a feeble, sad wail, and both of them heard it. + +Maggie darted off in the direction whence it seemed to come; nor had she +far to run, for it was not one to reach any distance. + +They were at the moment climbing a dreary, desolate ridge, where the +road was a mere stony hollow, in winter a path for the rain rather +than the feet of men. On each side of it lay a wild moor, covered +with heather and low berry-bearing shrubs. Under a big bush Maggie saw +something glimmer, and, flying to it, found a child. It might be a year +old, but was so small and poorly nourished that its age was hard to +guess. With the instinct of a mother, she caught it up, and clasping it +close to her panting bosom, was delighted to find it cease wailing the +moment it felt her arm. Andrew, who had dropped the things he carried, +and started at once after her, met her half-way, so absorbed in her +treasure trove, and so blind to aught else, that he had to catch them +both in his arms to break the imminent shock; but she slipped from them, +and, to his amazement, went on down the hill, back the way they had +come: clearly she thought of nothing but carrying the infant home to her +father; and here even the slow perception of her companion understood +her. + +“Maggie, Maggie,” he cried, “ye’ll baith be deid afore ye win hame wi’ +’t! Come on to my mither. There never was wuman like her for bairns! +She’ll ken a hantle better nor ony father what to dee wi’ ’t!” + +Maggie at once recovered her senses, and knew he was right—but not +before she had received an instantaneous insight that never after left +her: now she understood the heart of the Son of Man, come to find and +carry back the stray children to their Father and His. When afterward +she told her father what she had then felt, he answered her with just +the four words and no more— + +“Lassie, ye hae ’t!” + +Happily the moon was now up, so that Andrew was soon able to find the +things they had both dropped in their haste, and Maggie had soon wrapped +the baby in the winsey petticoat she had been carrying. Andrew took up +his loaf and his other packages, and they set out again for Bogsheuch, +Maggie’s heart all but overwhelmed with its exultation. Had the precious +thing been twice the weight, so exuberant was her feeling of wealth in +it that she could have carried it twice the distance with ease, although +the road was so rough that she went in constant terror of stumbling. +Andrew gave now and then a queer chuckle at the ludicrousness of their +home-coming, and every second minute had to stop and pick up one or +other of his many parcels; but Maggie strode on in front, full of +possession, and with the feeling of having now at last entered upon her +heavenly inheritance; so that she was quite startled when suddenly they +came in sight of the turf cottage, and the little window in which a +small cresset-lamp was burning. Before they reached it the door opened, +and Eppie appeared with an overflow of question and anxious welcome. + +“What on earth—” she began. + +“Naething but a bonny wee bairnie, whause mither has tint it!” at once +interrupted and answered Maggie, flying up to her, and laying the child +in her arms. + +Mrs. Cormack stood and stared, now at Maggie, and now at the bundle that +lay in her own arms. Tenderly searching in the petticoat, she found at +last the little one’s face, and uncovered the sleeping child. + +“Eh the puir mither!” she said, and hurriedly covered again the tiny +countenance. + +“It’s mine!” cried Maggie. “I faund it honest!” + +“Its mither may ha’ lost it honest, Maggie!” said Eppie. + +“Weel, its mither can come for’t gien she want it! It’s mine till she +dis, ony gait!” rejoined the girl. + +“Nae doobt o’ that!” replied the old woman, scarcely questioning that +the infant had been left to perish by some worthless tramp. “Ye’ll maybe +hae’t langer nor ye’ll care to keep it!” + +“That’s no vera likly,” answered Maggie with a smile, as she stood in +the doorway, in the wakeful night of the northern summer: “it’s ane o’ +the Lord’s ain lammies ’at he cam to the hills to seek. He’s fund this +ane!” + +“Weel, weel, my bonnie doo, it sanna be for me to contradick ye!—But +wae’s upo’ me for a menseless auld wife! come in; come in: the mair +welcome ’at ye’re lang expeckit!—But bless me, An’rew, what hae ye dune +wi’ the cairt and the beastie?” + +In a few words, for brevity was easy to him, Andrew told the story of +their disaster. + +“It maun hae been the Lord’s mercy! The puir beastie bude to suffer for +the sake o’ the bairnie!” + +She got them their supper, which was keeping hot by the fire; and then +sent Maggie to her bed in the ben-end, where she laid the baby beside +her, after washing him and wrapping him in a soft well-worn shift of +her own. But Maggie scarcely slept for listening lest the baby’s breath +should stop; and Eppie sat in the kitchen with Andrew until the light, +slowly travelling round the north, deepened in the east, and at last +climbed the sky, leading up the sun himself; when Andrew rose, and set +his face toward Stonecross, in full but not very anxious expectation +of a stormy reception from his mistress before he should have time +to explain. When he reached home, however, he found the house not yet +astir; and had time to feed and groom his horses before any one was +about, so that, to his relief, no rendering of reasons was necessary. + +All the next day Maggie was ill at ease, in much dread of the appearance +of a mother. The baby seemed nothing the worse for his exposure, and +although thin and pale, appeared a healthy child, taking heartily the +food offered him. He was decently though poorly clad, and very clean. +The Cormacks making inquiry at every farmhouse and cottage within range +of the moor, the tale of his finding was speedily known throughout the +neighbourhood; but to the satisfaction of Maggie at least, who fretted +to carry home her treasure, without any result; so that by the time the +period of her visit arrived, she was feeling tolerably secure in her +possession, and returned with it in triumph to her father. + +The long-haired horse not yet proving equal to the journey, she had to +walk home; but Eppie herself accompanied her, bent on taking her share +in the burden of the child, which Maggie was with difficulty persuaded +to yield. Eppie indeed carried him up to the soutar’s door, but Maggie +insisted on herself laying him in her father’s arms. The soutar rose +from his stool, received him like Simeon taking the infant Jesus from +the arms of his mother, and held him high like a heave-offering to him +that had sent him forth from the hidden Holiest of Holies. One moment in +silence he held him, then restoring him to his daughter, sat down again, +and took up his last and shoe. Then suddenly becoming aware of a breach +in his manners, he rose again at once, saying— + +“I crave yer pardon, Mistress Cormack: I was clean forgettin ony breedin +I ever had!—Maggie, tak oor freen’ ben the hoose, and gar her rest her +a bit, while ye get something for her efter her lang walk. I’ll be ben +mysel’ in a meenute or twa to hae a crack wi’ her. I hae but a feow +stitches mair to put intil this same sole! The three o’ ’s maun tak some +sarious coonsel thegither anent the upbringin o’ this God-sent bairn! +I doobtna but he’s come wi’ a blessin to this hoose! Eh, but it was a +mercifu fittin o’ things that the puir bairn and Maggie sud that nicht +come thegither! Verily, He shall give his angels chairge over thee! They +maun hae been aboot the muir a’ that day, that nane but Maggie sud get +a haud o’ ’im—aiven as they maun hae been aboot the field and the flock +and the shepherds and the inn-stable a’ that gran’ nicht!” + +The same moment entered a neighbour who, having previously heard and +misinterpreted the story, had now caught sight of their arrival. + +“Eh, soutar, but ye _ir_ a man by Providence sair oppressed!” she cried. +“Wha think ye’s been i’ the faut here?” + +The wrath of the soutar sprang up flaming. + +“Gang oot o’ my hoose, ye ill-thouchtit wuman!” he shouted. “Gang oot +o’ ’t this verra meenit—and comena intil ’t again ’cep it be to beg my +pardon and that o’ this gude wuman and my bonny lass here! The Lord God +bless her frae ill tongues!—Gang oot, I tell ye!” + +The outraged father stood towering, whom all the town knew for a man of +gentlest temper and great courtesy. The woman stood one moment dazed and +uncertain, then turned and fled. Maggie retired with Mistress Cormack; +and when the soutar joined them, he said never a word about the +discomfited gossip. Eppie having taken her tea, rose and bade them +good-night, nor crossed another threshold in the village. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +As soon as the baby was asleep, Maggie went back to the kitchen where +her father still sat at work. + +“Ye’re late the night, father!” she said. + +“I am that, lassie; but ye see I canna luik for muckle help frae you for +some time: ye’ll hae eneuch to dee wi’ that bairn o’ yours; and we hae +him to fen for noo as weel’s oorsels! No ’at I hae the least concern +aboot the bonny white raven, only we maun consider _him_ like the lave!” + +“It’s little he’ll want for a whilie, father!” answered Maggie. “—But +noo,” she went on, in a tone of seriousness that was almost awe, “lat me +hear what ye’re thinkin:—what kin’ o’ a mither could she be that left +her bairn theroot i’ the wide, eerie nicht? and what for could she hae +dene ’t?” + +“She maun hae been some puir lassie that hadna learnt to think first +o’ His wull! She had believt the man whan he promised to merry her, no +kennin he was a leear, and no heedin the v’ice inside her that said _ye +maunna_; and sae she loot him dee what he likit wi’ her, and mak himsel +the father o’ a bairnie that wasna meant for him. Sic leeberties as he +took wi’ her, and she ouchtna to hae permittit, made a mither o’ her +afore ever she was merried. Sic fules hae an awfu’ time o’ ’t; for fowk +hardly ever forgies them, and aye luiks doon upo’ them. Doobtless the +rascal ran awa and left her to fen for hersel; naebody would help her; +and she had to beg the breid for hersel, and the drap milk for the +bairnie; sae that at last she lost hert and left it, jist as Hagar left +hers aneath the buss i’ the wilderness afore God shawed her the bonny +wall o’ watter.” + +“I kenna whilk o’ them was the warst—father or mither!” cried Maggie. + +“Nae mair do I!” said the soutar; “but I doobt the ane that lee’d to the +ither, maun hae to be coontit the warst!” + +“There canna be mony sic men!” said Maggie. + +“’Deed there’s a heap o’ them no a hair better!” rejoined her father; +“but wae’s me for the puir lassie that believes them!” + +“She kenned what was richt a’ the time, father!” + +“That’s true, my dauty; but to ken is no aye to un’erstan’; and even to +un’erstan’ is no aye to see richt intil’t! No wuman’s safe that hasna +the love o’ God, the great Love, in her hert a’ the time! What’s best in +her, whan the vera best’s awa, may turn to be her greatest danger. And +the higher ye rise ye come into the waur danger, till ance ye’re fairly +intil the ae safe place, the hert o’ the Father. There, and there only, +ye’re safe!—safe frae earth, frae hell, and frae yer ain hert! A’ the +temptations, even sic as ance made the haivenly hosts themsels fa’ frae +haiven to hell, canna touch ye there! But whan man or wuman repents and +heumbles himsel, there is He to lift them up, and that higher than ever +they stede afore!” + +“Syne they’re no to be despised that fa’!” + +“Nane despises them, lassie, but them that haena yet learnt the danger +they’re in o’ that same fa’ themsels. Mony ane, I’m thinking, is keepit +frae fa’in, jist because she’s no far eneuch on to get the guid o’ the +shame, but would jist sink farther and farther!” + +“But Eppie tells me that maist o’ them ’at trips gangs on fa’in, and +never wins up again.” + +“Ou, ay; that’s true as far as we, short-lived and short-sichtit +craturs, see o’ them! but this warl’s but the beginnin; and the glory +o’ Christ, wha’s the vera Love o’ the Father, spreads a heap further nor +that. It’s no for naething we’re tellt hoo the sinner-women cam til him +frae a’ sides! They needit him sair, and cam. Never ane o’ them was +ower black to be latten gang close up til him; and some o’ sic women +un’erstede things he said ’at mony a respectable wuman cudna get a glimp +o’! There’s aye rain eneuch, as Maister Shaksper says, i’ the sweet +haivens to wash the vera han’ o’ murder as white as snow. The creatin +hert is fu’ o’ sic rain. Loe _him_, lassie, and ye’ll never glaur the +bonny goon ye broucht white frae his hert!” + +The soutar’s face was solemn and white, and tears were running down the +furrows of his cheeks. Maggie too was weeping. At length she said— + +“Supposin the mither o’ my bairnie a wuman like that, can ye think it +fair that _her_ disgrace should stick til _him?_” + +“It sticks til him only in sic minds as never saw the lovely greatness +o’ God.” + +“But sic bairns come na intil the warl as God wad hae them come!” + +“But your bairnie _is_ come, and that he couldna withoot the creatin +wull o’ the Father! Doobtless sic bairnies hae to suffer frae the prood +jeedgment o’ their fellow-men and women, but they may get muckle guid +and little ill frae that—a guid naebody can reive them o’. It’s no +a mere veesitin o’ the sins o’ the fathers upo’ the bairns, but a +provision to haud the bairns aff o’ the like, and to shame the fathers +o’ them. Eh, but sic maun be sair affrontit wi’ themsels, that disgrace +at ance the wife that should hae been and the bairn that shouldna! Eh, +the puir bairnie that has sic a father! But he has anither as weel—a +richt gran’ father to rin til!—The ae thing,” the soutar went on, “that +you and me, Maggie, has to do, is never to lat the bairn ken the miss o’ +father or mother, and sae lead him to the ae Father, the only real and +true ane.—There he’s wailin, the bonny wee man!” + +Maggie ran to quiet her little one, but soon returned, and sitting down +again beside her father, asked him for a piece of work. + +All this time, through his own cowardly indifference, the would-be-grand +preacher, James Blatherwick, knew nothing of the fact that, somewhere in +the world, without father or mother, lived a silent witness against him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Isy had contrived to postpone her return to her aunt until James was +gone; for she dreaded being in the house with him lest anything should +lead to the discovery of the relation between them. Soon after his +departure, however, she had to encounter the appalling fact that the +dread moment was on its way when she would no longer be able to conceal +the change in her condition. Her first and last thought was then, how +to protect the good name of her lover, and avoid involving him in the +approaching ruin of her reputation. With this in view she vowed to God +and to her own soul absolute silence with regard to the past: James’s +name even should never pass her lips! Nor did she find the vow hard to +keep, even when her aunt took measures to draw her secret from her; but +the dread lest in her pains she should cry out for the comfort which +James alone could give her, almost drove her to poison, from which only +the thought of his coming child restrained her. Enabled at length only +by the pure inexorability of her hour, she passed through her sorrow and +found herself still alive, with her lips locked tight on her secret. +The poor girl who was weak enough to imperil her good name for love of +a worthless man, was by that love made strong to shield him from the +consequences of her weakness. Whether in this she did well for the +world, for the truth, or for her own soul, she never wasted a thought. +In vain did her aunt ply her with questions; she felt that to answer one +of them would be to wrong him, and lose her last righteous hold upon the +man who had at least once loved her a little. Without a gleam, without +even a shadow of hope for herself, she clung, through shame and blame, +to his scathlessness as the only joy left her. He had most likely, she +thought, all but forgotten her very existence, for he had never written +to her, or made any effort to discover what had become of her. She clung +to the conviction that he could never have heard of what had befallen +her. + +By and by she grew able to reflect that to remain where she was would be +the ruin of her aunt; for who would lodge in the same house with _her_? +She must go at once! and her longing to go, with the impossibility +of even thinking where she could go, brought her to the very verge of +despair, and it was only the thought of her child that still gave her +strength enough to live on. And to add immeasurably to her misery, she +was now suddenly possessed by the idea, which for a long time remained +immovably fixed, that, agonizing as had been her effort after silence, +she had failed in her resolve, and broken the promise she imagined +she had given to James; that she had been false to him, brought him to +shame, and for ever ruined his prospects; that she had betrayed him into +the power of her aunt, and through her to the authorities of the church! +That was why she had never heard a word from him, she thought, and she +was never to see him any more! The conviction, the seeming consciousness +of all this, so grew upon her that, one morning, when her infant was +not yet a month old, she crept from the house, and wandered out into the +world, with just one shilling in a purse forgotten in the pocket of +her dress. After that, for a time, her memory lost hold of her +consciousness, and what befel her remained a blank, refusing to be +recalled. + +When she began to come to herself she had no knowledge of where she had +been, or for how long her mind had been astray; all was irretrievable +confusion, crossed with cloud-like trails of blotted dreams, and vague +survivals of gratitude for bread and pieces of money. Everything she +became aware of surprised her, except the child in her arms. Her story +had been plain to every one she met, and she had received thousands of +kindnesses which her memory could not hold. At length, intentionally or +not, she found herself in a neighbourhood to which she had heard James +Blatherwick refer. + +Here again a dead blank stopped her backward gaze—till suddenly once +more she grew aware, and knew that she was aware, of being alone on a +wide moor in a dim night, with her hungry child, to whom she had given +the last drop of nourishment he could draw from her, wailing in her +arms. Then fell upon her a hideous despair, and unable to carry him a +step farther, she dropped him from her helpless hands into a bush, and +there left him, to find, as she thought, some milk for him. She could +sometimes even remember that she went staggering about, looking under +the great stones, and into the clumps of heather, in the hope of finding +something for him to drink. At last, I presume, she sank on the ground, +and lay for a time insensible; anyhow, when she came to herself, she +searched in vain for the child, or even the place where she had left +him. + +The same evening it was that Maggie came along with Andrew, and found +the baby as I have already told. All that night, and a great part of the +next day, Isy went searching about in vain, doubtless with intervals of +repose compelled by utter exhaustion. Imagining at length that she had +discovered the very spot where she left him, and not finding him, she +came to the conclusion that some wild beast had come upon the helpless +thing and carried him off. Then a gleam of water coming to her eye, she +rushed to the peat-hag whence it was reflected, and would there have +drowned herself. But she was intercepted and turned aside by a man who +threw down his flauchter-spade, and ran between her and the frightful +hole. He thought she was out of her mind, and tried to console her with +the assurance that no child left on that moor could be in other than +luck’s way. He gave her a few half-pence, and directed her to the next +town, with a threat of hanging if she made a second attempt of the +sort. A long time of wandering followed, with ceaseless inquiry, +and alternating disappointment and fresh expectation; but every day +something occurred that served just to keep the life in her, and at last +she reached the county-town, where she was taken to a place of shelter. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +James Blatherwick was proving himself not unacceptable to his native +parish, where he was thought a very rising man, inasmuch as his fluency +was far ahead of his perspicuity. He soon came to note the soutar as a +man far in advance of the rest of his parishioners; but he saw, at the +same time, that he was regarded by most as a wild fanatic if not as +a dangerous heretic; and himself imagined that he saw in him certain +indications of a mild lunacy. + +In Tiltowie he pursued the same course as elsewhere: anxious to let +nothing come between him and the success of his eloquence, he avoided +any appearance of differing in doctrine from his congregation; and until +he should be more firmly established, would show himself as much as +possible of the same mind with them, using the doctrinal phrases he had +been accustomed to in his youth, or others so like that they would be +taken to indicate unchanged opinions, while for his part he practised a +mental reservation in regard to them. + +He had noted with some degree of pleasure in the soutar, that he used +almost none of the set phrases of the good people of the village, who +devoutly followed the traditions of the elders; but he knew little as to +what the soutar did not believe, and still less of what he did believe +with all his heart and soul; for John MacLear could not even utter the +name of God without therein making a confession of faith immeasurably +beyond anything inhabiting the consciousness of the parson; and on his +part soon began to note in James a total absence of enthusiasm in regard +to such things of which his very calling implied at least an absolute +acceptance: he would allude to any or all of them as merest matters of +course! Never did his face light up when he spoke of the Son of God, +of his death, or of his resurrection; never did he make mention of the +kingdom of heaven as if it were anything more venerable than the kingdom +of Great Britain and Ireland. + +But the soul of the soutar would venture far into the twilight, +searching after the things of God, opening wider its eyes, as the +darkness widened around them. On one occasion the parson took upon him +to remonstrate with what seemed to him the audacity of his parishioner: + +“Don’t you think you are just going a little too far there, Mr. +MacLear?” he said. + +“Ye mean ower far intil the dark, Mr. Blatherwick?” + +“Yes, that is what I mean. You speculate too boldly.” + +“But dinna ye think, sir, that that direction it’s plain the dark grows +a wee thinner, though I grant ye there’s nothing yet to ca’ licht? Licht +we may aye ken by its ain fair shinin, and by noucht else!” + +“But the human soul is just as apt to deceive itself as the human +eye! It is always ready to take a flash inside itself for something +objective!” said Blatherwick. + +“Nae doobt! nae doobt! but whan the true licht comes, ye aye ken the +differ! A man _may_ tak the dark for licht, but he canna take the licht +for darkness!” + +“And there must always be something for the light to shine upon, else +the man sees nothing!” said the parson. + +“There’s thoucht, and possible insicht intil the man!” said the soutar +to himself.—“Maybe, like the Ephesians, ye haena yet fund oot gien +there be ony Holy Ghost, sir?” he said to him aloud. + +“No man dares deny that!” answered the minister. + +“Still a man mayna _ken’t_, though he daursna deny’t! Nane but them ’at +follows whaur he leads, can ken that he verily is.” + +“We must beware of private interpretation!” suggested James. + +“Gien a man hearsna a word spoken til his ain sel’, he has na the word +to lippen til! The Scriptur is to him but a sealed buik; he walks i’ the +dark. The licht is neither pairtit nor gethered. Gien a man has licht, +he has nane the less that there’s twa or three o’ them thegither +present.—Gien there be twa or three prayin thegither, ilk ane o’ the +three has jist what he’s able to receive, and he kens ’t in himsel as +licht; and the fourth may hae nane. Gien it comena to ilk ane o’ them, +it comesna to a’. Ilk ane maun hae the revelation intil his ain sel’, as +gien there wasna ane mair. And gien it be sae, hoo are we to win at ony +trouth no yet revealed, ’cep we gang oot intil the dark to meet it? Ye +maun caw canny, I admit, i’ the mirk; but ye maun caw gien ye wad win at +onything!” + +“But suppose you know enough to keep going, and do not care to venture +into the dark?” + +“Gien a man hauds on practeesin what he kens, the hunger ’ill wauk in +him efter something mair. I’m thinkin the angels had lang to desire +afore they could luik intil certain things they sair wantit; but ye may +be sure they warna left withoot as muckle licht as would lead honest +fowk safe on!” + +“But suppose they couldn’t tell whether what they seemed to see was true +light or not?” + +“Syne they would hae to fa’ back upo the wull o’ the great Licht: we ken +weel he wants us a’ to see as he himsel sees! Gien we seek that Licht, +we’ll get it; gien we carena for’t, we’re jist naething and naegait, and +are in sore need o’ some sharp discipleen.” + +“I’m afraid I can’t follow you quite. The fact is, I have been so long +occupied with the Bible history, and the new discoveries that bear +testimony to it, that I have had but little time for metaphysics.” + +“And what’s the guid o’ history, or sic metapheesics as is the vera sowl +o’ history, but to help ye to see Christ? and what’s the guid o’ seein +Christ but sae to see God wi’ hert and un’erstan’in baith as to ken that +yer seein him? Ye min’ hoo the Lord said nane could ken the Father but +the man to whom the Son revealt him? Sir, it’s fell time ye had a glimp +o’ that! Ye ken naething till ye ken God—the only ane a man can truly +and railly ken!” + +“Well, you’re a long way ahead of me, and for the present I’m afraid +there’s nothing left but to say good-night to you!” + +And therewith the minister departed. + +“Lord,” said the soutar, as he sat guiding his awl through sole and welt +and upper of the shoe on his last, “there’s surely something at work i’ +the yoong man! Surely he canna be that far frae waukin up to see and ken +that he sees and kens naething! Lord, pu’ doon the dyke o’ learnin and +self-richteousness that he canna see ower the tap o’, and lat him see +thee upo’ the ither side o’ ’t. Lord, sen’ him the grace o’ oppen e’en +to see whaur and what he is, that he may cry oot wi’ the lave o’ ’s, +puir blin’ bodies, to them that winna see. ’Wauk, thoo that sleepest, +and come oot o’ thy grave, and see the licht o’ the Father i’ the face +o’ the Son.’” + +But the minister went away intent on classifying the soutar by finding +out with what sect of the middle-age mystics to place him. At the same +time something strange seemed to hover about the man, refusing to be +handled in that way. Something which he called his own religious sense +appeared to know something of what the soutar must mean, though he could +neither isolate nor define it. + +Faithlessly as he had behaved to Isy, Blatherwick was not consciously, +that is with purpose or intent, a deceitful man. He had, on the +contrary, always cherished a strong faith in his own honour. But faith +in a thing, in an idea, in a notion, is no proof, or even sign that the +thing actually exists: in the present case it had no root except in +the man’s thought of himself, in his presentation to himself of his own +reflected self. The man who thought so much of his honour was in truth a +moral unreality, a cowardly fellow, a sneak who, in the hope of escaping +consequences, carried himself as beyond reproof. How should such a one +ever have the power of spiritual vision developed in him? How should +such a one ever see God—ever exist in the same region in which the +soutar had long taken up his abode? Still there was this much reality +in him, and he had made this much progress that, holding fast by his +resolve henceforward no more to slide, he was aware also of a dim +suspicion of something he had not seen, but which he might become able +to see; and was half resolved to think and read, for the future, with +the intent to find out what this strange man seemed to know, or thought +he knew. + +Soon finding himself unable, however, try as hard as he might, to be +sure of anything, he became weary of the effort, and sank back into the +old, self-satisfied, blind sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Out of this quiescence, however, a pang from the past one morning +suddenly waked him, and almost without consciousness of a volition, he +found himself at the soutar’s door. Maggie opened it with the baby in +her arms, with whom she had just been having a game. Her face was in a +glow, her hair tossed about, and her dark eyes flashing with excitement. +To Blatherwick, without any great natural interest in life, and in the +net of a haunting trouble which caused him no immediate apprehension, +the young girl, of so little account in the world, and so far below him +as he thought, affected him as beautiful; and, indeed, she was far more +beautiful than he was able to appreciate. It must be remembered too, +that it was not long since he had been refused by another; and at such +a time a man is readier to fall in love afresh. Trouble then, lack of +interest, and late repulse, had laid James’s heart, such as it was, open +to assault from a new quarter whence he foresaw no danger. + +“That’s a very fine baby you have!” he said. “Whose is he?” + +“Mine, sir,” answered Maggie, with some triumph, for she thought every +one must know the story of her treasure. + +“Oh, indeed; I did not know!” answered the parson, bewildered. + +“At least,” Maggie resumed a little hurriedly, “I have the best right to +him!” and there stopped. + +“She cannot possibly be his mother!” thought the minister, and resolved +to question his housekeeper about the child. + +“Is your father in the house?” he asked, and without waiting for an +answer, went in. “Such a big boy is too heavy for you to carry!” he +added, as he laid his hand on the latch of the kitchen door. + +“No ae bit!” rejoined Maggie, with a little contempt at his +disparagement of her strength. “And wha’s to cairry him but me?” + +Huddling the boy to her bosom, she went on talking to him in childish +guise, as she lifted the latch for the minister:— + +“Wad he hae my pet gang traivellin the warl’ upo thae twa bonny wee legs +o’ his ain, wantin the wings he left ahint him? Na, na! they maun grow a +heap stronger first. His ain mammie wad cairry him gien he war twice the +size! Noo, we s’ gang but the hoose and see daddy.” + +She bore him after the minister, and sat down with him on her own stool, +beside her father, who looked up, with his hands and knees in skilful +consort of labour. + +“Weel, minister, hoo are ye the day? Is the yerd ony lichter upo’ the +tap o’ ye?” he said, with a smile that was almost pauky. + +“I do not understand you, Mr. MacLear!” answered James with dignity. + +“Na, ye canna! Gien ye could, ye wouldna be sae comfortable as ye seem!” + +“I cannot think, Mr. MacLear, why you should be rude to me!” + +“Gien ye saw the hoose on fire aboot a man deid asleep, maybe ye micht +be in ower great a hurry to be polite til ’im!” remarked the soutar. + +“Dare you suggest, sir, that I have been drinking?” cried the parson. + +“Not for a single moment, sir; and I beg yer pardon for causin ye so to +mistak me: I do not believe, sir, ye war ever ance owertaen wi’ drink in +a’ yer life! I fear I’m jist ower ready to speyk in parables, for it’s +no a’body that can or wull un’erstan’ them! But the last time ye left me +upo’ this same stule, it was wi’ that cry o’ the Apostle o’ the Gentiles +i’ my lug—‘Wauk up, thoo that sleepest!’ For even the deid wauk whan +the trumpet blatters i’ their lug!” + +“It seems to me that there the Apostle makes allusion to the condition +of the Gentile nations, asleep in their sins! But it may apply, +doubtless, to the conversion of any unbelieving man from the error of +his ways.” + +“Weel,” said the soutar, turning half round, and looking the minister +full in the face, “are _ye_ convertit, sir? Or are ye but turnin frae +side to side i’ yer coffin—seekin a sleepin assurance that ye’re +waukin?” + +“You are plain-spoken anyway!” said the minister, rising. + +“Maybe I am at last, sir! And maybe I hae been ower lang in comin +to that same plainness! Maybe I was ower feart for yer coontin me +ill-fashiont—what ye ca’ _rude_!” + +The parson was half-way to the door, for he was angry, which was not +surprising. But with the latch in his hand he turned, and, lo, there in +the middle of the floor, with the child in her arms, stood the beautiful +Maggie, as if in act to follow him: both were staring after him. + +“Dinna anger him, father,” said Maggie; “he disna ken better!” + +“Weel ken I, my dautie, that he disna ken better; but I canna help +thinkin he’s maybe no that far frae the waukin. God grant I be richt +aboot that! Eh, gien he wud but wauk up, what a man he would mak! He +kens a heap—only what’s that whaur a man has no licht?” + +“I certainly do not see things as you would have me believe you see +them; and you are hardly capable of persuading me that you do, I fear!” +said Blatherwick, with the angry flush again on his face, which had for +a moment been dispelled by pallor. + +But here the baby seeming to recognize the unsympathetic tone of the +conversation, pulled down his lovely little mouth, and sent from it a +dread and potent cry. Clasping him to her bosom, Maggie ran from the +room with him, jostling James in the doorway as he let her pass. + +“I am afraid I frightened the little man!” he said. + +“’Deed, sir, it may ha’ been you, or it may ha’ been me ’at frichtit +him,” rejoined the soutar. “It’s a thing I’m sair to blame in—that, +whan I’m in richt earnest, I’m aye ready to speyk as gien I was angert. +Sir, I humbly beg yer pardon.” + +“As humbly I beg yours,” returned the parson; “I was in the wrong.” + +The heart of the old man was drawn afresh to the youth. He laid aside +his shoe, and turning on his stool, took James’s hand in both of his, +and said solemnly and lovingly— + +“This moment I wad wullin’ly die, sir, that the licht o’ that uprisin o’ +which we spak micht brak throuw upon ye!” + +“I believe you, sir,” answered James; “but,” he went on, with an attempt +at humour, “it wouldn’t be so much for you to do after all, seeing you +would straightway find yourself in a much better place!” + +“Maybe whaur the penitent thief sat, some auchteen hunner year ago, +waitin to be called up higher!” rejoined the soutar with a watery smile. + +The parson opened the door, and went home—where his knees at once found +their way to the carpet. + +From that night Blatherwick began to go often to the soutar’s, and soon +went almost every other day, for at least a few minutes; and on such +occasions had generally a short interview with Maggie and the baby, in +both of whom, having heard from the soutar the story of the child, he +took a growing interest. + +“You seem to love him as if he were your own, Maggie!” he said one +morning to the girl. + +“And isna he my ain? Didna God himsel gie me the bairn intil my vera +airms—or a’ but?” she rejoined. + +“Suppose he were to die!” suggested the minister. “Such children often +do!” + +“I needna think aboot that,” she answered. “I would just hae to say, +as mony ane has had to say afore me: ‘The Lord gave,’—ye ken the rest, +sir!” + +But day by day Maggie grew more beautiful in the minister’s eyes, until +at last he was not only ready to say that he loved her, but for her sake +to disregard worldly and ambitious considerations. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +On the morning of a certain Saturday, therefore, which day of the week +he always made a holiday, he resolved to let her know without further +delay that he loved her; and the rather that on the next day he was +engaged to preach for a brother clergyman at Deemouth, and felt that, +his fate with Maggie unknown, his mind would not be cool enough for him +to do well in the pulpit. But neither disappointment nor a fresh love +had yet served to set him free from his old vanity or arrogance: he +regarded his approaching declaration as about to confer great honour +as well as favour upon the damsel of low estate, about to be invited +to share in his growing distinction. In his late disappointment he had +asked a lady to descend a little from her social pedestal, in the belief +that he offered her a greater than proportionate counter-elevation; and +now in his suit to Maggie he was almost unable to conceive a possibility +of failure. When she would have shown him into the kitchen, he took +her by the arm, and leading her to the _ben-end_, at once began his +concocted speech. Scarcely had she gathered his meaning, however, when +he was checked by her startled look. + +“And what wad ye hae me dee wi’ my bairn?” she asked instantly, without +sign of perplexity, smiling on the little one as at some absurdity in +her arms rather than suggested to her mind. + +But the minister was sufficiently in love to disregard the unexpected +indication. His pride was indeed a little hurt, but he resisted any show +of offence, reflecting that her anxiety was not altogether an unnatural +one. + +“Oh, we shall easily find some experienced mother,” he answered, “who +will understand better than you even how to take care of him!” + +“Na, na!” she rejoined. “I hae baith a father and a wean to luik efter; +and that’s aboot as muckle as I’ll ever be up til!” + +So saying, she rose and carried the little one up to the room her father +now occupied, nor cast a single glance in the direction of her would-be +lover. + +Now at last he was astonished. Could it mean that she had not understood +him? It could not be that she did not appreciate his offer! Her devotion +to the child was indeed absurdly engrossing, but that would soon come +right! He could have no fear of such a rivalry, however unpleasant at +the moment! That little vagrant to come between him and the girl he +would make his wife! + +He glanced round him: the room looked very empty! He heard her +oft-interrupted step through the thin floor: she was lavishing caresses +on the senseless little animal! He caught up his hat, and with a flushed +face went straight to the soutar where he sat at work. + +“I have come to ask you, Mr. MacLear, if you will give me your daughter +to be my wife!” he said. + +“Ow, sae that’s it!” returned the soutar, without raising his eyes. + +“You have no objection, I hope?” continued the minister, finding him +silent. + +“What says she hersel? Ye comena to me first, I reckon!” + +“She said, or implied at least, that she could not leave the child. But +she cannot mean that!” + +“And what for no?—There’s nae need for me to objeck!” + +“But I shall soon persuade her to withdraw that objection!” + +“Then I should _hae_ objections—mair nor ane—to put to the fore!” + +“You surprise me! Is not a woman to leave father and mother and cleave +to her husband?” + +“Ow ay—sae be the woman is his wife! Than lat nane sun’er them!—But +there’s anither sayin, sir, that I doobt may hae something to dee wi’ +Maggie’s answer!” + +“And what, pray, may that be?” + +“That man or woman must leave father and mother, wife and child, for the +sake o’ the Son o’ Man.” + +“You surely are not papist enough to think that means a minister is not +to marry?” + +“Not at all, sir; but I doobt that’s what it’ll come til atween you and +Maggie!” + +“You mean that she will not marry?” + +“I mean that she winna merry _you_, sir.” + +“But just think how much more she could do for Christ as the minister’s +wife!” + +“I’m ’maist convinced she wad coont merryin you as tantamount to refusin +to lea’ a’ for the Son o’ Man.” + +“Why should she think that?” + +“Because, sae far as I see, she canna think that _ye_ hae left a’ for +_him_.” + +“Ah, that is what you have been teaching her! She does not say that of +herself! You have not left her free to choose!” + +“The queston never came up atween’s. She’s perfecly free to tak her ain +gait—and she kens she is!—Ye dinna seem to think it possible she +sud tak _his_ wull raither nor yours!—that the love o’ Christ should +constrain her ayont the love offert her by Jeames Bletherwick!—We _hae_ +conversed aboot ye, sir, but niver differt!” + +“But allowing us—you and me—to be of different opinions on some +points, must that be a reason why she and I should not love one +another?” + +“No reason whatever, sir—if ye can and do: _that_ point would be +already settlet. But ye winna get Maggie to merry ye sae long as she +disna believe ye loe her Lord as well as she loes him hersel. It’s no +a common love that Maggie beirs to her Lord; and gien ye loed her wi’ a +luve worthy o’ her, ye would see that!” + +“Then you will promise me not to interfere?” + +“I’ll promise ye naething, sir, excep to do my duty by her—sae far as +I understan’ what that duty is. Gien I thoucht—which the God o’ my life +forbid!—that Maggie didna lo’e him as weel at least as I lo’e him, I +would gang upo’ my auld knees til her, to entreat her to loe him wi’ a’ +her heart and sowl and stren’th and min’;—and whan I had done that, she +micht merry wha she wad—hangman or minister: no a word would I say! +For trouble she maun hae, and trouble she wull get—I thank my God, who +giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not!” + +“Then I am free to do my best to win her?” + +“Ye are, sir; and mair—afore the morn’s mornin, I winna pass a word wi’ +her upo the subjeck.” + +“Thank you, sir,” returned the minister, and took his leave. + +“A fine lad! a fine lad!” said the soutar aloud to himself, as +he resumed the work for a moment interrupted,—“but no clear—no +crystal-clear—no clear like the Son o’ Man!” + +He looked up, and saw his daughter in the doorway. + +“No a word, lassie!” he cried. “I’m no for ye this meenute.—No a word +to me aboot onything or onybody the day, but what’s absolute necessar!” + +“As ye wull! father,” rejoined Maggie.—“I’m gaein oot to seek auld +Eppy; she was intil the baker’s shop a meenute ago!—The bairnie’s +asleep.” + +“Vera weel! Gien I hear him, I s’ atten’ til ’im,” answered the soutar. + +“Thank ye, father,” returned Maggie, and left the house. + +But the minister, having to start that same afternoon for Deemouth, and +feeling it impossible, things remaining as they were, to preach at his +ease, had been watching the soutar’s door: he saw it open and Maggie +appear. For a moment he flattered himself she was coming to look for +him, in order to tell him how sorry she was for her late behaviour to +him. But her start when first she became aware of his presence, did not +fail, notwithstanding his conceit, to satisfy him that such was not her +intent. He made haste to explain his presence. + +“I’ve been waiting all this time on the chance of seeing you, Margaret!” +he said. “I am starting within an hour or so for Deemouth, but could not +bear to go without telling you that your father has no objection to my +saying to you what I please. He means to have a talk with you to-morrow +morning, and as I cannot possibly get back from Deemouth before Monday, +I must now express the hope that he will not succeed in persuading you +to doubt the reality of my love. I admire your father more than I can +tell you, but he seems to hold the affections God has given us of small +account compared with his judgment of the strength and reality of them.” + +“Did he no tell ye I was free to do or say what I liked?” rejoined +Maggie rather sharply. + +“Yes; he did say something to that effect.” + +“Then, for mysel, and i’ the name o’ my father, I tell ye, Maister +Bletherwick, I dinna care to see ye again.” + +“Do you mean what you say, Margaret?” rejoined the minister, in a voice +that betrayed not a little genuine emotion. + +“I do mean it,” she answered. + +“Not if I tell you that I am both ready and willing to take the child +and bring him up as my own?” + +“He wouldna _be_ yer ain!” + +“Quite as much as yours!” + +“Hardly,” she returned, with a curious little laugh. “But, as I daur say +my father tellt ye, I canna believe ye lo’e God wi’ a’ yer hert.” + +“Dare you say that for yourself, Margaret?” + +“No; but I do want to love God wi’ my whole hert. Mr. Bletherwick, are +ye a rael Christian? Or are ye sure ye’re no a hypocreet? I wad like to +ken. But I dinna believe ye ken yersel!” + +“Well, perhaps I do not. But I see there is no occasion to say more!” + +“Na, nane,” answered Maggie. + +He lifted his hat, and turned away to the coach-office. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It would be difficult to represent the condition of mind in which +Blatherwick sat on the box-seat of the Defiance coach that evening, +behind four gray thorough-breds, carrying him at the rate of ten miles +an hour towards Deemouth. Hurt pride, indignation, and a certain mild +revenge in contemplating Maggie’s disappointment when at length she +should become aware of the distinction he had gained and she had lost, +were its main components. He never noted a feature of the rather tame +scenery that went hurrying past him, and yet the time did not seem to go +slowly, for he was astonished when the coach stopped, and he found his +journey at an end. + +He got down rather cramped and stiff, and, as it was still early, +started for a stroll about the streets to stretch his legs, and see what +was going on, glad that he had not to preach in the morning, and would +have all the afternoon to go over his sermon once more in that dreary +memory of his. The streets were brilliant with gas, for Saturday was +always a sort of market-night, and at that moment they were crowded with +girls going merrily home from the paper-mill at the close of the week’s +labour. To Blatherwick, who had very little sympathy with gladness of +any sort, the sight only called up by contrast the very different scene +on which his eyes would look down the next evening from the vantage +coigne of the pulpit, in a church filled with an eminently respectable +congregation—to which he would be setting forth the results of certain +late geographical discoveries and local identifications, not knowing +that already even later discoveries had rendered all he was about to say +more than doubtful. + +But while, sunk in a not very profound reverie, he was in the act of +turning the corner of a narrow wynd, he was all but knocked down by +a girl whom another in the crowd had pushed violently against him. +Recoiling from the impact, and unable to recover her equilibrium, she +fell helplessly prostrate on the granite pavement, and lay motionless. +Annoyed and half-angry, he was on the point of walking on, heedless +of the accident, when something in the pale face among the coarse and +shapeless shoes that had already gathered thick around it, arrested him +with a strong suggestion of some one he had once known. But the same +moment the crowd hid her from his view; and, shocked even to be reminded +of Isy in such an assemblage, he turned resolutely away, and cherishing +the thought of the many chances against its being she, walked steadily +on. When he looked round again ere crossing the street, the crowd had +vanished, the pavement was nearly empty, and a policeman who just then +came up, had seen nothing of the occurrence, remarking only that the +girls at the paper-mills were a rough lot. + +A moment more and his mind was busy with a passage in his sermon which +seemed about to escape his memory: it was still as impossible for him to +talk freely about the things a minister is supposed to love best, as +it had been when he began to preach. It was not, certainly, out of the +fulness of the heart that _his_ mouth ever spoke! + +He sought the house of Mr. Robertson, the friend he had come to assist, +had supper with him and his wife, and retired early. In the morning he +went to his friend’s church, in the afternoon rehearsed his sermon to +himself, and when the evening came, climbed the pulpit-stair, and soon +appeared engrossed in its rites. But as he seemed to be pouring out his +soul in the long extempore prayer, he suddenly opened his eyes as +if unconsciously compelled, and that moment saw, in the front of the +gallery before him, a face he could not doubt to be that of Isy. Her +gaze was fixed upon him; he saw her shiver, and knew that she saw and +recognized him. He felt himself grow blind. His head swam, and he felt +as if some material force was bending down his body sideways from her. +Such, nevertheless, was his self-possession, that he reclosed his eyes, +and went on with his prayer—if that could in any sense be prayer where +he knew neither word he uttered, thing he thought, nor feeling that +moved him. With Claudius in _Hamlet_ he might have said, + + My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: + Words without thoughts never to heaven go! + +But while yet speaking, and holding his eyes fast that he might not +see her again, his consciousness all at once returned—it seemed to him +through a mighty effort of the will, and upon that he immediately began +to pride himself. Instantly thereupon he was aware of his thoughts and +words, and knew himself able to control his actions and speech. All +the while, however, that he conducted the rest of the “service,” he was +constantly aware, although he did not again look at her, of the figure +of Isy before him, with its gaze fixed motionless upon him, and began at +last to wonder vaguely whether she might not be dead, and come back from +the grave to his mind a mysterious thought-spectre. But at the close of +the sermon, when the people stood up to sing, she rose with them; and +the half-dazed preacher sat down, exhausted with emotion, conflict, and +effort at self-command. When he rose once more for the benediction, +she was gone; and yet again he took refuge in the doubt whether she had +indeed been present at all. + +When Mrs. Robertson had retired, and James was sitting with his host +over their tumbler of toddy, a knock came to the door. Mr. Robertson +went to open it, and James’s heart sank within him. But in a moment his +host returned, saying it was a policeman to let him know that a woman +was lying drunk at the bottom of his doorsteps, and to inquire what he +wished done with her. + +“I told him,” said Mr. Robertson, “to take the poor creature to the +station, and in the morning I would see her. When she’s ill the next +day, you see,” he added, “I may have a sort of chance with her; but it +is seldom of any use.” + +A horrible suspicion that it was Isy herself had seized on Blatherwick; +and for a moment he was half inclined to follow the men to the station; +but his friend would be sure to go with him, and what might not come of +it! Seeing that she had kept silent so long, however, it seemed to him +more than probable that she had lost all care about him, and if let +alone would say nothing. Thus he reasoned, lost in his selfishness, and +shrinking from the thought of looking the disreputable creature in the +eyes. Yet the awful consciousness haunted him that, if she had fallen +into drunken habits and possibly worse, it was his fault, and the ruin +of the once lovely creature lay at his door, and his alone. + +He made haste to his room, and to bed, where for a long while he +lay unable even to think. Then all at once, with gathered force, the +frightful reality, the keen, bare truth broke upon him like a huge, cold +wave; he had a clear vision of his guilt, and the vision was +conscious of itself as _his_ guilt; he saw it rounded in a gray fog of +life-chilling dismay. What was he but a troth-breaker, a liar—and that +in strong fact, not in feeble tongue? “What am I,” said Conscience, “but +a cruel, self-seeking, loveless horror—a contemptible sneak, who, in +dread of missing the praises of men, crept away unseen, and left the +woman to bear alone our common sin?” What was he but a whited sepulchre, +full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness?—a fellow posing in the +pulpit as an example to the faithful, but knowing all the time that +somewhere in the land lived a woman—once a loving, trusting woman—who +could with a word hold him up to the world a hypocrite and a dastard— + + A fixed figure for the Time of scorn + To point his slow unmoving finger at! + +He sprang to the floor; the cold hand of an injured ghost seemed +clutching feebly at his throat. But, in or out of bed, what could he +do? Utterly helpless, he thought, but in truth not daring to look the +question as to what he could do in the face, he crept back ignominiously +into his bed; and, growing a little less uncomfortable, began to reason +with himself that things were not so bad as they had for that moment +seemed; that many another had failed in like fashion with him, but +his fault had been forgotten, and had never reappeared against him! No +culprit was ever required to bear witness against himself! He must learn +to discipline and repress his over-sensitiveness, otherwise it would one +day seize him at a disadvantage, and betray him into self-exposure! + +Thus he reasoned—and sank back once more among the all but dead; the +loud alarum of his rousing conscience ceased, and he fell asleep in the +resolve to get away from Deemouth the first thing in the morning, before +Mr. Robertson should be awake. How much better it had been for him to +hold fast his repentant mood, and awake to tell everything! but he was +very far from having even approached any such resolution. Indeed no +practical idea of his, however much brooded over at night, had ever +lived to bear fruit in the morning; not once had he ever embodied in +action an impulse toward atonement! He could welcome the thought of a +final release from sin and suffering at the dissolution of nature, +but he always did his best to forget that at that very moment he was +suffering because of wrong he had done for which he was taking no least +trouble to make amends. He had lived for himself, to the destruction of +one whom he had once loved, and to the denial of his Lord and Master! + +More than twice on his way home in the early morning, he all but turned +to go back to the police-station, but it was, as usual, only _all but_, +and he kept walking on. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Already, ere James’s flight was discovered, morning saw Mr. Robertson +on his way to do what he might for the redemption of one of whom he +knew little or nothing: the policemen returning from their night’s duty, +found him already at the door of the office. He was at once admitted, +for he was well known to most of them. He found the poor woman miserably +recovered from the effects of her dissipation, and looking so woebegone, +that the heart of the good man was immediately filled with profoundest +pity, recognizing before him a creature whose hope was wasted to the +verge of despair. She neither looked up nor spoke; but what he could see +of her face appeared only ashamed, neither sullen nor vengeful. When +he spoke to her, she lifted her head a little, but not her eyes to his +face, confessing apparently that she had nothing to say for herself; and +he saw her plainly at the point of taking refuge in the Dee. Tenderly, +as if to the little one he had left behind him in bed, he spoke in +her scarce listening ear child-soothing words of almost inarticulate +sympathy, which yet his tone carried where they were meant to go. She +lifted her lost eyes at length, saw his face, and burst into tears. + +“Na, na,” she cried, through tearing sobs, “ye canna help me, sir! +There’s naething ’at you or onybody can dee for me! But I’m near the +mou o’ the pit, and God be thankit, I’ll be ower the rim o’ ’t or I hae +grutten my last greit oot!—For God’s sake gie me a drink—a drink o’ +onything!” + +“I daurna gie ye onything to ca’ drink,” answered the minister, who +could scarcely speak for the swelling in his throat. “The thing to dee +ye guid is a cup o’ het tay! Ye canna hae had a moofu’ this mornin! I +hae a cab waitin me at the door, and ye’ll jist get in, my puir bairn, +and come awa hame wi’ me! My wife’ll be doon afore we win back, and +she’ll hae a cup o’ tay ready for ye in a moment! You and me ’ill hae +oor brakfast thegither.” + +“Ken ye what ye’re sayin, sir? I daurna luik an honest wuman i’ the +face. I’m sic as ye ken naething aboot.” + +“I ken a heap aboot fowk o’ a’ kin’s—mair a heap, I’m thinkin, nor ye +ken yersel!—I ken mair aboot yersel, tee, nor ye think; I hae seen ye +i’ my ain kirk mair nor ance or twice. The Sunday nicht afore last I was +preachin straucht intil yer bonny face, and saw ye greitin, and maist +grat mysel. Come awa hame wi’ me, my dear; my wife’s anither jist like +mysel, an’ll turn naething to ye but the smilin side o’ her face, I s’ +un’ertak! She’s a fine, herty, couthy, savin kin’ o’ wuman, my wife! +Come ye til her, and see!” + +Isy rose to her feet. + +“Eh, but I would like to luik ance mair intil the face o’ a bonny, clean +wuman!” she said. “I’ll gang, sir,” she went on, with sudden resolve +“—only, I pray ye, sir, mak speed, and tak me oot o’ the sicht o’fowk!” + +“Ay, ay, come awa; we s’ hae ye oot o’ this in a moment,” answered Mr. +Robertson.—“Put the fine doon to me,” he whispered to the inspector as +they passed him on their way out. + +The man returned his nod, and took no further notice. + +“I thoucht that was what would come o’ ’t!” he murmured to himself, +looking after them with a smile. But indeed he knew little of what was +going to come of it! + +The good minister, whose heart was the teacher of his head, and who was +not ashamed either of himself or his companion, showed Isy into their +little breakfast-parlour, and running up the stair to his wife, told her +he had brought the woman home, and wanted her to come down at once. Mrs. +Robertson, who was dressing her one child, hurried her toilet, gave over +the little one to the care of her one servant, and made haste to welcome +the poor shivering night-bird, waiting with ruffled feathers below. When +she opened the door, the two women stood for a moment silently gazing +on each other—then the wife opened her arms wide, and the girl fled to +their shelter; but her strength failing her on the way, she fell to the +floor. Instantly the other was down by her side. The husband came to her +help; and between them they got her at once on the little couch. + +“Shall I get the brandy?” said Mrs. Robertson. + +“Try a cup of tea,” he answered. + +His wife made haste, and soon had the tea poured out and cooling. But +Isy still lay motionless. Her hostess raised the helpless head upon her +arm, put a spoonful of the tea to her lips, and found to her joy that +she tried to swallow it. The next minute she opened her eyes, and would +have risen; but the rescuing hand held her down. + +“I want to tell ye,” moaned Isy with feeble expostulation, “’at ye dinna +ken wha ye hae taen intil yer hoose! Lat me up to get my breath, or I’ll +no be able to tell ye.” + +“Drink your tea,” answered the other, “and then say what you like. +There’s no hurry. You’ll have time enough.” + +The poor girl opened her eyes wide, and gazed for a moment at Mrs. +Robertson. Then she took the cup and drank the tea. Her new friend went +on— + +“You must just be content to bide where you are a day or two. Ye’re no +to fash yersel aboot onything: I have clothes enough to give you all the +change you can want. Hold your tongue, please, and finish your tea.” + +“Eh, mem,” cried Isy, “fowk ’ill say ill o’ ye, gien they see the like +o’ me in yer hoose!” + +“Lat them say, and say ’t again! What’s fowk but muckle geese!” + +“But there’s the minister and his character!” she persisted. + +“Hoots! what cares the minister?” said his wife. “Speir at him there, +what he thinks o’ clash.” + +“’Deed,” answered her husband, “I never heedit it eneuch to tell! +There’s but ae word I heed, and that’s my Maister’s!” + +“Eh, but ye canna lift me oot o’ the pit!” groaned the poor girl. + +“God helpin, I can,” returned the minister. “—But ye’re no i’ the pit +yet by a lang road; and oot o’ that road I s’ hae ye, please God, afore +anither nicht has darkent!” + +“I dinna ken what’s to come o’ me!” again she groaned. + +“That we’ll sune see! Brakfast’s to come o’ ye first, and syne my wife +and me we’ll sit in jeedgment upo ye, and redd things up. Min’ ye’re to +say what ye like, and naither ill fowk nor unco guid sall come nigh ye.” + +A pitiful smile flitted across Isy’s face, and with it returned the +almost babyish look that used to form part of her charm. Like an +obedient child, she set herself to eat and drink what she could; and +when she had evidently done her best— + +“Now put up your feet again on the sofa, and tell us everything,” said +the minister. + +“No,” returned Isy; “I’m not at liberty to tell you _everything_.” + +“Then tell us what you please—so long as it’s true, and that I am sure +it will be,” he rejoined. + +“I will, sir,” she answered. + +For several moments she was silent, as if thinking how to begin; then, +after a gasp or two,— + +“I’m not a good woman,” she began. “Perhaps I am worse than you think +me.—Oh, my baby! my baby!” she cried, and burst into tears. + +“There’s nae that mony o’ ’s just what ither fowk think us,” said the +minister’s wife. “We’re in general baith better and waur nor that.—But +tell me ae thing: what took ye, last nicht, straucht frae the kirk to +the public? The twa haudna weel thegither!” + +“It was this, ma’am,” she replied, resuming the more refined speech to +which, since living at Deemouth, she had been less accustomed—“I had +a shock that night from suddenly seeing one in the church whom I had +thought never to see again; and when I got into the street, I turned so +sick that some kind body gave me whisky, and that was how, not having +been used to it for some time, that I disgraced myself. But indeed, I +have a much worse trouble and shame upon me than that—one you would +hardly believe, ma’am!” + +“I understand,” said Mrs. Robertson, modifying her speech also the +moment she perceived the change in that of her guest: “you saw him +in church—the man that got you into trouble! I thought that must be +it!—won’t you tell me all about it?” + +“I will not tell his name. _I_ was the most in fault, for I knew +better; and I would rather die than do him any more harm!—Good morning, +ma’am!—I thank you kindly, sir! Believe me I am not ungrateful, +whatever else I may be that is bad.” + +She rose as she spoke, but Mrs. Robertson got to the door first, and +standing between her and it, confronted her with a smile. + +“Don’t think I blame you for holding your tongue, my dear. I don’t want +you to tell. I only thought it might be a relief to you. I believe, if +I were in the same case—or, at least, I hope so—that hot pincers +wouldn’t draw his name out of me. What right has any vulgar inquisitive +woman to know the thing gnawing at your heart like a live serpent? +I will never again ask you anything about him.—There! you have my +promise!—Now sit down again, and don’t be afraid. Tell me what you +please, and not a word more. The minister is sure to find something to +comfort you.” + +“What can anybody say or do to comfort such as me, ma’am? I am +lost—lost out of sight! Nothing can save me! The Saviour himself +wouldn’t open the door to a woman that left her suckling child out in +the dark night!—That’s what I did!” she cried, and ended with a wail as +from a heart whose wound eternal years could never close. + +In a while growing a little calmer— + +“I would not have you think, ma’am,” she resumed, “that I wanted to get +rid of the darling. But my wits went all of a sudden, and a terror, I +don’t know of what, came upon me. Could it have been the hunger, do you +think? I laid him down in the heather, and ran from him. How far I went, +I do not know. All at once I came to myself, and knew what I had done, +and ran to take him up. But whether I lost my way back, or what I did, +or how it was, I cannot tell, only I could not find him! Then for a +while I think I must have been clean out of my mind, and was always +seeing him torn by the foxes, and the corbies picking out his eyes. Even +now, at night, every now and then, it comes back, and I cannot get the +sight out of my head! For a while it drove me to drink, but I got rid of +that until just last night, when again I was overcome.—Oh, if I could +only keep from seeing the beasts and birds at his little body when I’m +falling asleep!” + +She gave a smothered scream, and hid her face in her hands. Mrs. +Robertson, weeping herself, sought to comfort her, but it seemed in +vain. + +“The worst of it is,” Isy resumed, “—for I must confess everything, +ma’am!—is that I cannot tell what I may have done in the drink. I may +even have told his name, though I remember nothing about it! It must +be months, I think, since I tasted a drop till last night; and now I’ve +done it again, and I’m not fit he should ever cast a look at me! My +heart’s just like to break when I think I may have been false to him, +as well as false to his child! If all the devils would but come and tear +me, I would say, thank ye, sirs!” + +“My dear,” came the voice of the parson from where he sat listening to +every word she uttered, “my dear, naething but the han’ o’ the Son o’ +Man’ll come nigh ye oot o’ the dark, saft-strokin yer hert, and closin +up the terrible gash intil’t. I’ the name o’ God, the saviour o’ men, I +tell ye, dautie, the day ’ill come whan ye’ll smile i’ the vera face o’ +the Lord himsel, at the thoucht o’ what he has broucht ye throuw! Lord +Christ, haud a guid grup o’ thy puir bairn and hers, and gie her back +her ain. Thy wull be deen!—and that thy wull’s a’ for redemption!—Gang +on wi’ yer tale, my lassie.” + +“’Deed, sir, I can say nae mair—and seem to hae nae mair to say.—I’m +some—some sick like!” + +She fell back on the sofa, white as death. + +The parson was a big man; he took her up in his arms, and carried her to +a room they had always ready on the chance of a visit from “one of the +least of these.” + +At the top of the stair stood their little daughter, a child of five +or six, wanting to go down to her mother, and wondering why she was not +permitted. + +“Who is it, moder?” she whispered, as Mrs. Robertson passed her, +following her husband and Isy. “Is she very dead?” + +“No, darling,” answered her mother; “it is an angel that has lost her +way, and is tired—so tired!—You must be very quiet, and not disturb +her. Her head is going to ache very much.” + +The child turned and went down the stair, step by step, softly, saying— + +“I will tell my rabbit not to make any noise—and to be as white as he +can.” + +Once more they succeeded in bringing back to the light of consciousness +her beclouded spirit. She woke in a soft white bed, with two faces of +compassion bending over her, closed her eyes again with a smile of sweet +content, and was soon wrapt in a wholesome slumber. + +In the meantime, the caitiff minister had reached his manse, and found +a ghastly loneliness awaiting him—oh, how much deeper than that of the +woman he had forsaken! She had lost her repute and her baby; he had lost +his God! He had never seen his shape, and had not his word abiding in +him; and now the vision of him was closed in an unfathomable abyss of +darkness, far, far away from any point his consciousness could reach! +The signs of God were around him in the Book, around him in the world, +around him in his own existence—but the signs only! God did not +speak to him, did not manifest himself to him. God was not where James +Blatherwick had ever sought him; he was not in any place where was the +least likelihood of his ever looking for or finding him! + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +It must be remembered that Blatherwick knew nothing of the existence +of his child: such knowledge might have modified the half-conscious +satisfaction with which, on his way home, he now and then saw a +providence in the fact that he had been preserved from marrying a +woman who had now proved herself capable of disgracing him in the very +streets. But during his slow journey of forty miles, most of which he +made on foot, hounded on from within to bodily motion, he had again, as +in the night, to pass through many an alternation of thought and feeling +and purpose. To and fro in him, up and down, this way and that, went +the changing currents of self-judgment, of self-consolement, and of +fresh-gathering dread. Never for one persistent minute was his mind +clear, his purpose determined, his line set straight for honesty. He +must live up—not to the law of righteousness, but to the show of what +a minister ought to be! he must appear unto men! In a word, he must +keep up the deception he had begun in childhood, and had, until of late +years, practised unknowingly! Now he knew it, and went on, not knowing +how to get rid of it; or rather, shrinking in utter cowardice from the +confession which alone could have set him free. Now he sought only how +to conceal his deception and falseness. He had no pleasure in them, +but was consciously miserable in knowing himself not what he seemed—in +being compelled, as he fancied himself in excuse, to look like one that +had not sinned. In his heart he grumbled that God should have forsaken +him so far as to allow him to disgrace himself before his conscience. +He did not yet see that his foulness was ingrained; that the Ethiopian +could change his skin, or the leopard his spots, as soon as he; that he +had never yet looked purity in the face; that the fall which disgraced +him in his own eyes was but the necessary outcome of his character—that +it was no accident but an unavoidable result; that his true nature had +but disclosed itself, and appeared—as everything hid must be known, +everything covered must be revealed. Even _to begin_ the purification +without which his moral and spiritual being must perish eternally, +he must dare to look on himself as he was: he _would_ not recognize +himself, and thought he lay and would lie hid from all. Dante describes +certain of the redeemed as lying each concealed in his or her own cocoon +of emitted light: James lay hidden like a certain insect in its own +_gowk-spittle_. It is strange, but so it is, that many a man will never +yield to see himself until he become aware of the eyes of other men +fixed upon him; they seeing him, and he knowing that they see him, then +first, even to himself, will he be driven to confess what he has long +all but known. Blatherwick’s hour was on its way, slow-coming, but no +longer to be shunned. His soul was ripening to self-declaration. The +ugly self must blossom, must show itself the flower, the perfection of +that evil thing he counted himself! What a hold has not God upon us in +this inevitable ripening of the unseen into the visible and present! The +flower is there, and must appear! + +In the meantime he suffered, and went on in silence, walking like a +servant of the Ancient of Days, and knowing himself a whited sepulchre. +Within him he felt the dead body that could not rest until it was laid +bare to the sun; but all the time he comforted himself that he had +not fallen a second time, and that the _once_ would not be remembered +against him: did not the fact that it was forgotten, most likely was +never known, indicate the forgiveness of God? And so, unrepentant, he +remained unforgiven, and continued a hypocrite and the slave of sin. + +But the hideous thing was not altogether concealed; something showed +under the covering whiteness! His mother saw that something shapeless +haunted him, and often asked herself what it could be, but always +shrank even from conjecturing. His father felt that he had gone from +him utterly, and that his son’s feeding of the flock had done nothing to +bring him and his parents nearer to each other! What could be hidden, he +thought, beneath the mask of that unsmiling face? + +But there was a humble observer who saw deeper than the parents—John +MacLear, the soutar. + +One day, after about a fortnight, the minister walked into the workshop +of the soutar, and found him there as usual. His hands were working away +diligently, but his thoughts had for some time been brooding over the +blessed fact, that God is not the God of the perfect only, but of the +growing as well; not the God of the righteous only, but of such as +hunger and thirst after righteousness. + +“God blaw on the smoking flax, and tie up the bruised reed!” he was +saying to himself aloud, when in walked the minister. + +Now, as in some other mystical natures, a certain something had been +developed in the soutar not unlike a spirit of prophecy—an insight +which, seemingly without exercise of the will, sometimes laid bare to +him in a measure the thoughts and intents of hearts in which he was more +than usually interested; or perhaps it was rather a faculty, working +unconsciously, of putting signs together, and drawing from them +instantaneous conclusion of the fact at which they pointed. After their +greeting, he suddenly looked up at his visitor with a certain fixed +attention: the mere glance had shown him that he looked ill, and he now +saw that something in the man’s heart was eating at it like a canker. +Therewith at once arose in his brain the question: could he be the +father of the little one crowing in the next room? But he shut it into +the darkest closet of his mind, shrinking from the secret of another +soul, as from the veil of the Holy of Holies! The next moment, however, +came the thought: what if the man stood in need of the offices of a +friend? It was one thing to pry into a man’s secret; another, to help +him escape from it! As out of this thought the soutar sat looking at him +for a moment, the minister felt the hot blood rush to his cheeks. + +“Ye dinna luik that weel, minister,” said the soutar: “is there onything +the maitter wi’ ye, sir?” + +“Nothing worth mentioning,” answered the parson. “I have sometimes a +touch of headache in the early morning, especially when I have sat later +than usual over my books the night before; but it always goes off during +the day.” + +“Ow weel, sir, that’s no, as ye say, a vera sairious thing! I couldna +help fancyin ye had something on yer min’ by ord’nar!” + +“Naething, naething,” answered James with a feeble laugh. “—But,” he +went on—and something seemed to send the words to his lips without +giving him time to think—“it is curious you should say that, for I was +just thinking what was the real intent of the apostle in his injunction +to confess our faults one to another.” + +The moment he uttered the words he felt as if he had proclaimed his +secret on the housetop; and he would have begun the sentence afresh, +with some notion of correcting it; but again he knew the hot blood shoot +to his face.—“I _must_ go on with something!” he felt rather than said +to himself, “or those sharp eyes will see through and through me!” + +“It came into my mind,” he went on, “that I should like to know what +_you_ thought about the passage: it cannot surely give the least ground +for auricular confession! I understand perfectly how a man may want +to consult a friend in any difficulty—and that friend naturally the +minister; but—” + +This was by no means a thing he had meant to say, but he seemed carried +on to say he knew not what. It was as if, without his will, the will +of God was driving the man to the brink of a pure confession—to the +cleansing of his stuffed bosom “of that perilous stuff which weighs upon +the heart.” + +“Do you think, for instance,” he continued, thus driven, “that a man is +bound to tell _everything_—even to the friend he loves best?” + +“I think,” answered the soutar after a moment’s thought, “that we must +answer the _what_, before we enter upon the _how much_. And I think, +first of all we must ask—to _whom_ are we bound to confess?—and there +surely the answer is, to him to whom we have done the wrong. If we have +been grumbling in our hearts, it is to God we must confess: who else +has to do with the matter? To _Him_ we maun flee the moment oor eyes +are opent to what we’ve been aboot! But, gien we hae wranged ane o’ oor +fallow-craturs, wha are we to gang til wi’ oor confession but that same +fallow-cratur? It seems to me we maun gang to that man first—even afore +we gang to God himsel. Not one moment must we indulge procrastination on +the plea o’ prayin! From our vera knees we maun rise in haste, and say +to brother or sister, ‘I’ve done ye this or that wrang: forgie me.’ God +can wait for your prayer better nor you, or him ye’ve wranged, can +wait for your confession! Efter that, ye maun at ance fa’ to your best +endeevour to mak up for the wrang. ‘Confess your sins,’ I think +it means, ‘each o’ ye to the ither again whom ye hae dene the +offence.’—Divna ye think that’s the cowmonsense o’ the maitter?” + +“Indeed, I think you must be right!” replied the minister, who sat +revolving only how best, alas, to cover his retreat! “I will go home at +once and think it all over. Indeed, I am even now all but convinced that +what you say must be what the Apostle intended!” + +With a great sigh, of which he was not aware, Blatherwick rose and +walked from the kitchen, hoping he looked—not guilty, but sunk in +thought. In truth he was unable to think. Oppressed and heavy-laden with +the sense of a duty too unpleasant for performance, he went home to his +cheerless manse, where his housekeeper was the only person he had +to speak to, a woman incapable of comforting anybody. There he went +straight to his study, but, kneeling, found he could not pray the +simplest prayer; not a word would come, and he could not pray without +words! He was dead, and in hell—so far perished that he felt nothing. +He rose, and sought the open air; it brought him no restoration. He had +not heeded his friend’s advice, had not entertained the thought of the +one thing possible to him—had not moved, even in spirit, toward Isy! +The only comfort he could now find for his guilty soul was the thought +that he could do nothing, for he did not know where Isy was to be found. +When he remembered the next moment that his friend Robertson must be +able to find her, he soothed his conscience with the reflection that +there was no coach till the next morning, and in the meantime he could +write: a letter would reach him almost as soon as he could himself! + +But what then would Robertson think? He might give his wife the letter +to read! She might even read it of herself, for they concealed nothing +from each other! So he only walked the faster, tired himself, and earned +an appetite as the result of his day’s work! He ate a good dinner, +although with little enjoyment, and fell fast asleep in his chair. No +letter was written to Robertson that day. No letter of such sort was +ever written. The spirit was not willing, and the flesh was weakness +itself. + +In the evening he took up a learned commentary on the Book of Job; but +he never even approached the discovery of what Job wanted, received, and +was satisfied withal. He never saw that what he himself needed, but did +not desire, was the same thing—even a sight of God! He never discovered +that, when God came to Job, Job forgot all he had intended to say to +him—did not ask him a single question—knew that all was well. The +student of Scripture remained blind to the fact that the very presence +of the Living One, of the Father of men, proved sufficient in itself to +answer every question, to still every doubt! But then James’s heart was +not pure like Job’s, and therefore he could never have seen God; he did +not even desire to see him, and so could see nothing as it was. He read +with the blindness of the devil in his heart. + +In Marlowe’s _Faust_, the student asks Mephistopheles— + + How comes it then that thou art out of hell? + +And the demon answers him— + + Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it; + +and again— + + Where we are is hell; + And where hell is there must we ever be: + ... when all the world dissolves, + And every creature shall be purified, + All places shall be hell that are not heaven; + +and yet again— + + I tell thee I am damned, and now in hell; + +and it was thus James fared; and thus he went to bed. + +And while he lay there sleepless, or walked in his death to and fro in +the room, his father and mother, some three miles away, were talking +about him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +For some time they had lain silent, thinking about him by no means +happily. They were thinking how little had been their satisfaction in +their minister-son; and had gone back in their minds to a certain time, +long before, when conferring together about him, a boy at school. + +Even then the heart of the mother had resented his coldness, his seeming +unconsciousness of his parents as having any share or interest in his +life or prospects. Scotch parents are seldom demonstrative to each other +or to their children; but not the less in them, possibly the hotter +because of their outward coldness, burns the causal fire, the central, +the deepest—that eternal fire, without which the world would turn to a +frozen clod, the love of the parent for the child. That must burn while +_the_ Father lives! that must burn until the universe _is_ the Father +and his children, and none beside. That fire, however long held down and +crushed together by the weight of unkindled fuel, must go on to gather +heat, and, gathering, it must glow, and at last break forth in the +scorching, yea devouring flames of a righteous indignation: the Father +must and _will_ be supreme, that his children perish not! But as yet +_The Father_ endured and was silent; and the child-parents also must +endure and be still! In the meantime their son remained hidden from them +as by an impervious moral hedge; he never came out from behind it, never +stood clear before them, and they were unable to break through to him: +within his citadel of indifference there was no angelic traitor to draw +back the bolts of its iron gates, and let them in. They had gone on +hoping, and hoping in vain, for some holy, lovely change in him; but +at last had to confess it a relief when he left the house, and went to +Edinburgh. + +But the occasion to which I refer was long before that. + +The two children were in bed and asleep, and the parents were lying +then, as they lay now, sleepless. + +“Hoo’s Jeemie been gettin on the day?” said his father. + +“Well enough, I suppose,” answered his mother, who did not then speak +Scotch quite so broad as her husband’s, although a good deal broader +than her mother, the wife of a country doctor, would have permitted when +she was a child; “he’s always busy at his books. He’s a good boy, and a +diligent; there’s no gainsayin that! But as to hoo he’s gettin on, I +can beir no testimony. He never lets a word go from him as to what he’s +doin, one way or anither. ‘What _can_ he be thinkin aboot?’ I say whiles +to mysel—sometimes ower and ower again. When I gang intil the parlour, +where he always sits till he has done his lessons, he never lifts his +heid to show that he hears me, or cares wha’s there or wha isna. And as +soon as he’s learnt them, he taks a buik and gangs up til his room, or +oot aboot the hoose, or intil the cornyard or the barn, and never comes +nigh me!—I sometimes won’er gien he would ever miss me deid!” she +ended, with a great sigh. + +“Hoot awa, wuman! dinna tak on like that,” returned her husband. “The +laddie’s like the lave o’ laddies! They’re a’ jist like pup-doggies till +their een comes oppen, and they ken them ’at broucht them here. He’s +bun’ to mak a guid man in time, and he canna dee that ohn learnt to be +a guid son to her ’at bore him!—Ye canna say ’at ever he contert ye! Ye +hae tellt me that a hunner times!” + +“I have that! But I would hae had no occasion to dwall upo’ the fac’, +gien he had ever gi’en me, noo or than, jist a wee bit sign o’ ony +affection!” + +“Ay, doobtless! but signs are nae preefs! The affection, as ye ca’ ’t, +may be there, and the signs o’ ’t wantin!—But I ken weel hoo the hert +o’ ye ’s workin, my ain auld dautie!” he added, anxious to comfort her +who was dearer to him than son or daughter. + +“I dinna think it wad be weel,” he resumed after a pause, “for me to say +onything til ’im aboot his behaviour til ’s mither: I dinna believe he +wud ken what I was aimin at! I dinna believe he has a notion o’ onything +amiss in himsel, and I fear he wad only think I was hard upon him, and +no’ fair. Ye see, gien a thing disna come o’ ’tsel, no cryin upo’ ’t ’ll +gar ’t lift its heid—sae lang, at least, as the man kens naething aboot +it!” + +“I dinna doobt ye’re right, Peter,” answered his wife; “I ken weel that +flytin ’ill never gar love spread oot his wings—excep’ it be to flee +awa’! Naething but shuin can come o’ flytin!” + +“It micht be even waur nor shuin!” rejoined Peter. “—But we better gang +til oor sleeps, lass!—We hae ane anither, come what may!” + +“That’s true, Peter; but aye the mair I hae you, the mair I want my +Jeemie!” cried the poor mother. + +The father said no more. But, after a while, he rose, and stole softly +to his son’s room. His wife stole after him, and found him on his knees +by the bedside, his face buried in the blankets, where his boy lay +asleep with calm, dreamless countenance. + +She took his hand, and led him back to bed. + +“To think,” she moaned as they went, “’at yon’s the same bairnie I +glowert at till my sowl ran oot at my een! I min’ weel hoo I leuch and +grat, baith at ance, to think I was the mother o’ a man-child! and I +thought I kenned weel what was i’ the hert o’ Mary, whan she claspit the +blessed ane til her boasom!” + +“May that same bairnie, born for oor remeid, bring oor bairn til his +richt min’ afore he’s ower auld to repent!” responded the father in a +broken voice. + +“What for,” moaned Marion, “was the hert o’ a mither put intil me? What +for was I made a wuman, whause life is for the beirin o’ bairns to the +great Father o’ a’ gien this same was to be my reward?—Na, na, Lord,” +she went on, checking herself, “I claim naething but thy wull; and weel +I ken ye wouldna hae me think siclike thy wull!” + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +It would be too much to say that the hearts of his parents took no +pleasure in the advancement of their son, such as it was. I suspect the +mother was glad to be proud where she could find no happiness—proud +with the love that lay incorruptible in her being. But the love that is +all on one side, though it may be stronger than death, can hardly be so +strong as life! A poor, maimed, one-winged thing, such love cannot soar +into any region of conscious bliss. Even when it soars into the region +where God himself dwells, it is but to partake there of the divine +sorrow which his heartless children cause him. My reader may well +believe that father nor mother dwelt much upon what their neighbours +called James’s success—or cared in the least to talk about it: that +they would have felt to be mere hypocrisy, while hearty and genuine +relations were so far from perfect between them. Never to human being, +save the one to the other, and that now but very seldom, did they allude +to the bitterness which their own hearts knew; for to speak of it would +have seemed almost equivalent to disowning their son. And alas the +daughter was gone to whom the mother had at one time been able to bemoan +herself, knowing she understood and shared in their misery! For Isobel +would gladly have laid down her life to kindle in James’s heart such a +love to their parents as her own. + +We may now understand a little, into what sort of man the lad James +Blatherwick had grown. When he left Stonecross for the University, it +was with scarce a backward look; nothing was in his heart but eagerness +for the coming conflict. Having gained there one of its highest +bursaries, he never spent a thought, as he donned his red gown, on the +son of the poor widow who had competed with him, and who, failing, had +to leave ambition behind him and take a place in a shop—where, however, +he soon became able to keep, and did keep, his mother in what was to her +nothing less than happy luxury; while the successful James—well, so far +my reader already knows about him. + +As often as James returned home for the vacations, things, as between +him and his parents, showed themselves unaltered; and by his third +return, the heart of his sister had ceased to beat any faster at the +thought of his arrival: she knew that he would but shake hands limply, +let hers drop, and the same moment be set down to read. Before the time +for taking his degree arrived, Isobel was gone to the great Father. +James never missed her, and neither wished nor was asked to go home to +her funeral. To his mother he was never anything more or less than quite +civil; she never asked him to do anything for her. He came and went as +he pleased, cared for nothing done on the farm or about the house, and +seemed, in his own thoughts and studies, to have more than enough to +occupy him. He had grown a powerful as well as handsome youth, and +had dropped almost every sign of his country breeding. He hardly ever +deigned a word in his mother-dialect, but spoke good English with +a Scotch accent. Neither had he developed any of the abominable +affectations by which not a few such as he have imagined to repudiate +their origin. + +His father had not then first to discover that his son was far too fine +a gentleman to show any interest in agriculture, or put out his hand +to the least share in that oldest and most dignified of callings. His +mother continued to look forward, although with fading interest, to +the time when he should be—the messenger of a gospel which he nowise +understood; but his father did not at all share her anticipation; and +she came to know ere long that to hear him preach would but renew and +intensify a misery to which she had become a little accustomed in their +ordinary intercourse. The father felt that his boy had either left him a +long way off, or had never at any time come near him. He seemed to stand +afar upon some mountain-top of conscious or imagined superiority. + +James, as one having no choice, lived at _home_, so called by custom +and use, but lived as one come of another breed than his parents, having +with theirs but few appreciable points of contact. Most conventional +of youths, he yet wrote verses in secret, and in his treasure-closet +worshipped Byron. What he wrote he seldom showed, and then only to +one or two of his fellow-students. Possibly he wrote only to prove to +himself that he could do that also, for he never doubted his faculty +in any direction. When he went to Edinburgh—to learn theology, +forsooth!—he was already an accomplished mathematician, and a yet +better classic, with some predilections for science, and a very small +knowledge of the same: his books showed for the theology, and for the +science, an occasional attempt to set his father right on some point of +chemistry. His first aspiration was to show himself a gentleman in the +eyes of the bubblehead calling itself Society—of which in fact he knew +nothing; and the next, to have his eloquence, at present existent only +in an ambitious imagination, recognized by the public. Such were the two +devils, or rather the two forms of the one devil Vanity, that possessed +him. He looked down on his parents, and the whole circumstance of +their ordered existence, as unworthy of him, because old-fashioned and +bucolic, occupied only with God’s earth and God’s animals, and having +nothing to do with the shows of life. And yet to the simply honourable, +to such of gentle breeding as despised mere show, the ways of life in +their house would have seemed altogether admirable: the homely, yet not +unfastidious modes and conditions of the unassuming homestead, would +have appeared to them not a little attractive. But James took no +interest in any of them, and, if possible, yet less in the ways of the +tradesmen and craftsmen of the neighbouring village. He never felt the +common humanity that made him one with them, did not in his thoughts +associate himself at all with them. Had he turned his feeling into +thoughts and words, he would have said, “I cannot help being the son of +a farmer, but at least my mother’s father was a doctor; and had I been +consulted, my father should have been at least an officer in one of his +majesty’s services, not a treader of dung or artificial manure!” The +root of his folly lay in the groundless self-esteem of the fellow; +fostered, I think, by a certain literature which fed the notion, if +indeed it did not plainly inculcate the _duty_ of rising in the world. +To such as he, the praise of men may well seem the patent of their +nobility; but the man whom we call _The Saviour_, and who knew the +secret of Life, warned his followers that they must not seek that sort +of distinction if they would be the children of the Father who claimed +them. + +I have said enough, perhaps too much, of this most uninteresting of men! +How he came to be born such, is not for my speculation: had he remained +such, his story would not have been for my telling. How he became +something better, it remains my task to try to set forth. + +I now complete the talk that followed the return of the simple couple to +bed. “I was jist thinkin, Peter,” said Marion, after they had again +lain silent for a while, “o’ the last time we spak thegither aboot the +laddie—it maun be nigh sax year sin syne, I’m thinkin!” + +“’Deed I canna say! ye may be richt, Mirran,” replied her spouse. “It’s +no sic a cheery subjec’ ’at we sud hae muckle to say to ane anither +anent it! He’s a man noo, and weel luikit upo’; but it maks unco little +differ to his parents! He’s jist as dour as ever, and as far as man +could weel be frae them he cam o’!—never a word to the ane or the ither +o’ ’s! Gien we war twa dowgs, he couldna hae less to say til’s, and +micht weel hae mair! I s’ warran’ Frostie says mair in ae half-hoor to +his tyke, nor Jeemie has said to you or me sin’ first he gaed to the +college!” + +“Bairns is whiles a queer kin’ o’ a blessin!” remarked the mother. “But, +eh, Peter! it’s what may lie ahint the silence that frichts me!” + +“Lass, ye’re frichtin _me_ noo! What _div_ ye mean?” + +“Ow naething!” returned Marion, bursting into tears. “But a’ at ance +it was borne in upo me, that there maun be something to accoont for the +thing. At the same time I daurna speir at God himsel what that thing +can be. For there’s something waur noo, and has been for some time, +than ever was there afore! He has sic a luik, as gien he saw nor heard +onything but ae thing, the whilk ae thing keeps on inside him, and winna +wheesht. It’s an awfu’ thing to say o’ a mither’s ain laddie; and to hae +said it only to my ain man, and the father o’ the laddie, maks my hert +like to brak!—it’s as gien I had been fause to my ain flesh and blude +but to think it o’ ’im!—Eh, Peter, what _can_ it be?” + +“Ow jist maybe naething ava’! Maybe he’s in love, and the lass winna +hear til ’im!” + +“Na, Peter; love gars a man luik up, no doon at his ain feet! It gars +him fling his heid back, and set his een richt afore him—no turn them +in upo his ain inside! It maks a man straucht i’ the back, strong i’ the +airm, and bauld i’ the hert.—Didna it you, Peter?” + +“Maybe it did; I dinna min’ vera weel.—But I see love can hardly be the +thing that’s amiss wi’ the lad. Still, even his parents maun tak tent o’ +jeedgin—specially ane o’ the Lord’s ministers—maybe ane o’ the Lord’s +ain elec’!” + +“It’s awfu’ to think—I daurna say ’t—I daurna maist think the words +o’ ’t, Peter, but it _wull_ cry oot i’ my vera hert!—Steik the door, +Peter—and ticht, that no a stray stirk may hear me!—Was a minister o’ +the gospel ever a heepocreete, Peter?—like ane o’ the auld scribes +and Pharisees, Peter?—Wadna it be ower terrible, Peter, to be +permittit?—Gien our ain only son was—” + +But here she broke down; she could not finish the frightful sentence. +The farmer again left his bed, and dropt upon a chair by the side of it. +The next moment he sank on his knees, and hiding his face in his hands, +groaned, as from a thicket of torture— + +“God in haiven, hae mercy upon the haill lot o’ ’s.” + +Then, apparently unconscious of what he did, he went wandering from the +room, down to the kitchen, and out to the barn on his bare feet, closing +the door of the house behind him. In the barn he threw himself, face +downward, on a heap of loose straw, and there lay motionless. His wife +wept alone in her bed, and hardly missed him: it required of her no +reflection to understand whither he had gone, or what he was doing. He +was crying, like King Lear from the bitterness of an outraged father’s +heart, to the Father of fathers: + +“God, ye’re a father yersel,” he groaned; “and sae ye ken hoo it’s rivin +at my hert!—Na, Lord, ye dinna ken; for ye never had a doobt aboot +_your_ son!—Na, I’m no blamin Jeemie, Lord; I’m no cryin oot upo _him_; +for ye ken weel hoo little I ken aboot him: he never opened the buik o’ +his hert to _me_! Oh God, grant that he hae naething to hide; but gien +he has, Lord, pluck it oot o’ ’im, and _him_ oot o’ the glaur! latna him +stick there. I kenna hoo to shape my petition, for I’m a’ i’ the dark; +but deliver him some gait, Lord, I pray thee, for his mither’s sake!—ye +ken what she is!—_I_ dinna coont for onything, but ye ken _her_!—Lord, +deliver the hert o’ her frae the awfu’est o’ a’ her fears.—Lord, a +hypocreet! a Judas-man!” + +More of what he said, I cannot tell; somehow this much has reached my +ears. He remained there upon the straw while hour after hour passed, +pleading with the great Father for his son; his soul now lost in dull +fatigue, now uttering itself in groans for lack of words, until at +length the dawn looked in on the night-weary earth, and into the two +sorrow-laden hearts, bringing with it a comfort they did not seek to +understand. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +But it brought no solace to the mind of the weak, hard-hearted, and +guilty son. He had succeeded once more in temporarily soothing his +conscience with some narcotic of false comfort, and now slept the sleep +of the houseless, whose covering was narrower than he could wrap himself +in. Ah, those nights! Alas for the sleepless human soul out in the +eternal cold! But so heartless was James, that, if his mother had come +to him in the morning with her tear-dimmed eyes, he would never have +asked himself what could ail her; would never even have seen that she +was unhappy; least of all would have suspected himself the cause of her +red eyes and aching head, or that the best thing in him was that mental +uneasiness of which he was constantly aware. Thank God, there was no way +round the purifying fire! he could not escape it; he _must_ pass through +it! + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Little knows the world what a power among men is the man who simply and +really believes in him who is Lord of the world to save men from +their sins! He may be neither wise nor prudent; he may be narrow and +dim-sighted even in the things he loves best; they may promise him much, +and yield him but a poor fragment of the joy that might be and ought to +be his; he may present them to others clothed in no attractive hues, or +in any word of power; and yet, if he has but that love to his neighbour +which is rooted in, and springs from love to his God, he is always a +redeeming, reconciling influence among his fellows. The Robertsons were +genial of heart, loving and tender toward man or woman in need of them; +their door was always on the latch for such to enter. If the parson +insisted on the wrath of God against sin, he did not fail to give +assurance of His tenderness toward such as had fallen. Together the +godly pair at length persuaded Isobel of the eager forgiveness of the +Son of Man. They assured her that he could not drive from him the very +worst of sinners, but loved—nothing less than tenderly _loved_ any +one who, having sinned, now turned her face to the Father. She +would doubtless, they said, have to see her trespass in the eyes of +unforgiving women, but the Lord would lift her high, and welcome her to +the home of the glad-hearted. + +But poor Isy, who regarded her fault as both against God and the man who +had misled her, and was sick at the thought of being such as she judged +herself, insisted that nothing God himself could do, could ever restore +her, for nothing could ever make it that she had not fallen: such a +contradiction, such an impossibility alone could make her clean! God +might be ready to forgive her, but He could not love her! Jesus +might have made satisfaction for her sin, but how could that make any +difference in or to her? She was troubled that Jesus should have so +suffered, but that could not give her back her purity, or the peace of +mind she once possessed! That was gone for ever! The life before her +took the appearance of an unchanging gloom, a desert region whence the +gladness had withered, and whence came no purifying wind to blow from +her the odours of the grave by which she seemed haunted! Never to all +eternity could she be innocent again! Life had no interest for her! She +was, and must remain just what she was; for, alas, she could not cease +to be! + +Such thoughts had at one period ravaged her life, but they had for some +time been growing duller and deader: now once more revived by goodness +and sympathy, they had resumed their gnawing and scorching, and she +had grown yet more hateful to herself. Even the two who befriended and +comforted her, could never, she thought, cease to regard her as what +they knew she was! But, strange to say, with this revival of her +suffering, came also a requickening of her long dormant imagination, +favoured and cherished, doubtless, by the peace and love that surrounded +her. First her dreams, then her broodings began to be haunted with sweet +embodiments. As if the agonized question of the guilty Claudius were +answered to her, to assure her that there _was_ “rain enough in the +sweet heavens to wash her white as snow,” she sometimes would wake from +a dream where she stood in blessed nakedness with a deluge of +cool, comforting rain pouring upon her from the sweetness of those +heavens—and fall asleep again to dream of a soft strong west wind +chasing from her the offensive emanations of the tomb, that seemed to +have long persecuted her nostrils as did the blood of Duncan those of +the wretched Lady Macbeth. And every night to her sinful bosom came back +the soft innocent hands of the child she had lost—when ever and again +her dream would change, and she would be Hagar, casting her child away, +and fleeing from the sight of his death. More than once she dreamed that +an angel came to her, and went out to look for her boy—only to return +and lay him in her arms grievously mangled by some horrid beast. + +When the first few days of her sojourn with the good Samaritans were +over, and she had gathered strength enough to feel that she ought no +longer to be burdensome to them, but look for work, they positively +refused to let her leave them before her spirit also had regained some +vital tone, and she was able to “live a little”; and to that end they +endeavoured to revive in her the hope of finding her lost child: setting +inquiry on foot in every direction, they promised to let her know the +moment when her presence should begin to cause them inconvenience. + +“Let you go, child?” her hostess had exclaimed: “God forbid! Go you +shall not until you go for your own sake: you cannot go for ours!” + +“But I’m such a burden to you—and so useless!” + +“Was the Lord a burden to Mary and Lazarus, think ye, my poor bairn?” +rejoined Mrs. Robertson. + +“Don’t, ma’am, please!” sobbed Isy. + +“Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it to me!” +insisted her hostess. + +“That doesna apply, ma’am,” objected Isy. “I’m nane o’ his!” + +“Who is then? Who was it he came to save? Are you not one of his lost +sheep? Are you not weary and heavy-laden? Will you never let him feel at +home with you? Are _you_ to say who he is to love and who he isn’t? Are +_you_ to tell him who are fit to be counted his, and who are not good +enough?” + +Isy was silent for a long time. The foundations of her coming peace were +being dug deeper, and laid wider. + +She still found it impossible, from the disordered state of her mind at +the time, to give any notion of whereabout she had been when she laid +her child down, and leaving him, could not again find him. And Maggie, +who loved him passionately and believed him wilfully abandoned, +cherished no desire to discover one who could claim him, but was +unworthy to have him. For a long time, therefore, neither she nor +her father ever talked, or encouraged talk about him; whence certain +questing busybodies began to snuff and give tongue. It was all very +well, they said, for the cobbler and his Maggie to pose as rescuers and +benefactors: but whose was the child? His growth nevertheless went on +all the same, and however such hints might seem to concern him, happily +they never reached him. Maggie flattered herself, indeed, that never in +this world would they reach him, but would die away in the void, or like +a fallen wave against the heedless shore! And yet, all the time, in the +not so distant city, a loving woman was weeping and pining for lack +of him, whose conduct, in the eyes of the Robertsons, was not merely +blameless, but sweetly and manifestly true, constantly yielding fuel to +the love that encompassed her. But, although mentally and spiritually +she was growing rapidly, she seemed to have lost all hope. For, deeper +in her soul, and nearer the root of her misery than even the loss of her +child, lay the character and conduct of the man to whom her love seemed +inextinguishable. His apostasy from her, his neglect of her, and her +constantly gnawing sense of pollution, burned at the bands of her life; +and her friends soon began to fear that she was on the verge of a slow +downward slide, upon which there is seldom any turning. + +The parson and his wife had long been on friendliest terms with the +farmer of Stonecross and his wife; and, brooding on the condition of +their guest, it was natural that the thought of Mrs. Blatherwick should +occur to them as one who might be able to render them the help they +needed for her. Difficulties were in the way, it was true, chiefly that +of conveying a true conception of the nature and character of the woman +in whom they desired her interest; but if Mrs. Blatherwick were once to +see her, there would be no fear of the result: received at the farm, she +was certain in no way to compromise them! They were confident she would +never belie the character they were prepared to give her. Neither was +there any one at the farm for whom it was possible to dread intercourse +with her, seeing that, since the death of their only daughter, they had +not had a servant in the house. It was concluded therefore between them +that Mr. Robertson should visit their friends at Stonecross, and tell +them all they knew about Isy. + +It was a lovely morning in the decline of summer, the corn nearly full +grown, but still green, without sign of the coming gold of perfection, +when the minister mounted the top of the coach, to wait, silent and +a little anxious, for the appearance of the coachman from the office, +thrusting the waybill into the pocket of his huge greatcoat, to gather +his reins, and climb heavily to his perch. A journey of four hours, +through a not very interesting country, but along a splendid road, +would carry him to the village where the soutar lived, and where James +Blatherwick was parson! There a walk of about three miles awaited him—a +long and somewhat weary way to the town-minister—accustomed indeed to +tramping the hard pavements, but not to long walks unbroken by calls. +Climbing at last the hill on which the farmhouse stood, he caught sight +of Peter Blatherwick in a neighbouring field of barley stubble, with the +reins of a pair of powerful Clydesdales in his hands, wrestling with +the earth as it strove to wrench from his hold the stilts of the plough +whose share and coulter he was guiding through it. Peter’s delight was +in the open air, and hard work in it. He was as far from the vulgar idea +that a man rose in the scale of honour when he ceased to labour with his +hands, as he was from the fancy that a man rose in the kingdom of heaven +when he was made a bishop. + +As to his higher nature, the farmer believed in God—that is, he tried +to do what God required of him, and thus was on the straight road to +know him. He talked little about religion, and was no partisan. When he +heard people advocating or opposing the claims of this or that party +in the church, he would turn away with a smile such as men yield to +the talk of children. He had no time, he would say, to spend on such +disputes: he had enough to do in trying to practise what was beyond +dispute. + +He was a reading man, who not merely drank at every open source he came +across, but thought over what he read, and was, therefore, a man of true +intelligence, who was regarded by his neighbours with more than ordinary +respect. He had been the first in the district to lay hold of the +discoveries in chemistry applicable to agriculture, and had made use of +them, with notable results, upon his own farm; setting thus an example +which his neighbours were so ready to follow, that the region, nowise +remarkable for its soil, soon became remarkable for its crops. The +note-worthiest thing in him, however, was his _humanity_, shown first +and chiefly in the width and strength of his family affections. He had +a strong drawing, not only to his immediate relations, but to all of his +blood; who were not few, for he came of an ancient family, long settled +in the neighbourhood. In his worldly affairs he was well-to-do, having +added not a little to the little his father had left him; but he was no +lover of money, being open-handed even to his wife, upon whom first your +money-grub is sure to exercise his parsimony. There was, however, at +Stonecross, little call to spend and less temptation from without, +the farm itself being equal to the supply of almost every ordinary +necessity. + +In disposition Peter Blatherwick was a good-humoured, even merry man, +with a playful answer almost always ready for a greeting neighbour. + +The minister did not however go on to join the farmer, but went to the +house, which stood close at hand, with its low gable toward him. Late +summer still lorded it in the land; only a few fleecy clouds shared the +blue of the sky with the ripening sun, and on the hot ridges the air +pulsed and trembled, like vaporized layers of mother-of-pearl. + +At the end of the idle lever, no sleepy old horse was now making his +monotonous rounds; his late radiance, born of age and sunshine, was +quenched in the dark of the noonday stall. But the peacock still +strutted among the ricks, as conscious of his glorious plumage, as +regardless of the ugliness of his feet as ever; now and then checking +the rhythmic movement of his neck, undulating green and blue, to scratch +the ground with those feet, and dart his beak, with apparently spiteful +greed, at some tiny crystal of quartz or pickle of grain they exposed; +or, from the towering steeple of his up lifted throat, to utter his +self-satisfaction in a hideous cry. + +In the gable before him, Mr. Robertson passed a low window, through +which he had a glimpse of the pretty, old-fashioned parlour within, as +he went round to the front, to knock at the nearer of two green-painted +doors. + +Mrs. Blatherwick herself came to open it, and finding who it was +that knocked—of all men the most welcome to her in her present +mood—received him with the hearty simplicity of an evident welcome. + +For was he not a minister? and was not he who caused all her trouble, a +minister also? She was not, indeed, going to lay open her heart and let +him see into its sorrow; for to confess her son a cause of the least +anxiety to her, would be faithless and treacherous; but the unexpected +appearance of Mr. Robertson brought her, nevertheless, as it were the +dawn of a winter morning after a long night of pain. + +She led him into the low-ceiled parlour, the green gloom of the big +hydrangea that filled the front window, and the ancient scent of the +withered rose-leaves in the gorgeous china basin on the gold-bordered +table-cover. There the minister, after a few kind commonplaces, sat for +a moment, silently pondering how to enter upon his communication. But he +did not ponder long, however; for his usual way was to rush headlong +at whatever seemed to harbour a lion, and come at once to the +death-grapple. + +Marion Blatherwick was a good-looking woman, with a quiet strong +expression, and sweet gray eyes. The daughter of a country surgeon, she +had been left an orphan without means; but was so generally respected, +that all said Mr. Blatherwick had never done better than when he married +her. Their living son seemed almost to have died in his infancy; their +dead daughter, gone beyond range of eye and ear, seemed never to have +left them: there was no separation, only distance between them. + +“I have taken the liberty, Mrs. Blatherwick, of coming to ask your help +in a great perplexity,” began Mr. Robertson, with an embarrassment she +had never seen in him before, and which bewildered her not a little. + +“Weel, sir, it’s an honour done me—a great honour, for which I hae to +thank ye, I’m sure!” she answered. + +“Bide ye, mem, till ye hear what it is,” rejoined the minister. “We, +that is, my wife and mysel, hae a puir lass at hame i’ the hoose. We hae +ta’en a great interest in her for some weeks past; but noo we’re ’maist +at oor wits’ en’ what to do wi’ her neist. She’s sair oot o’ hert, and +oot o’ health, and out o’ houp; and in fac’ she stan’s in sair, ay, +desperate need o’ a cheenge.” + +“Weel, that ouchtna to mak muckle o’ a diffeeclety atween auld friens +like oorsels, Maister Robertson!—Ye wad hae us tak her in for a whilie, +till she luiks up a bit, puir thing?—Hoo auld may she be?” + +“She can hardly be mair nor twenty, or aboot that—sic like as your +ain bonnie lassie would hae been by this time, gien she had ripent +here i’stead o’ gaein awa to the gran’ finishin schuil o’ the just made +perfec. Weel min’ I her bonny face! And, ’deed, this ane’s no’ that +unlike yer ain Isy! She something favours her.” + +“Eh, sir, fess her to me! My hert’s waitin for her! Her mither maunna +lowse her! She couldna stan’ that!” + +“She has nae mither, puir thing!—But ye maun dee naething in a hurry; I +maun tell ye aboot her first!” + +“I’m content ’at she’s a frien o’ yours, sir. I ken weel ye wad never +hae me tak intil my hoose ane that was na fit—and a’ the lads aboot the +place frae ae mornin til anither!” + +“Indeed she _is_ a frien o’ mine, mem; and I hae never a dreid o’ +onything happenin ye wadna like. She’s in ower sair trouble to cause ony +anxiety. The fac’ is, she’s had a terrible misfortun!” + +The good woman started, drew herself up a little, and said hurriedly, + +“There’s no a wean, is there?” + +“’Deed is there, mem!—but pairt o’ the meesery is, the bairn’s +disappeart; and she’s brackin her heart aboot ’im. She’s maist oot o’ +her min’, mem! No that she’s onything but perfecly reasonable, and gies +never a grain o’ trouble! I canna doobt she’d be a great help til ye, +and that ilka minute ye saw fit to lat her bide. But she’s jist huntit +wi’ the idea that she pat the bairnie doon, and left him, and kens na +whaur.—Verily, mem, she’s ane o’ the lambs o’ the Lord’s ain flock!” + +“That’s no the w’y the lambs o’ _his_ flock are i’ the w’y o’ behavin +themsels!—I fear me, sir, ye’re lattin yer heart rin awa wi’ yer +jeedgment!” + +“I hae aye coontit Mary Magdalen ane o’ the Lord’s ain yowies, that he +left the lave i’ the wilderness to luik for: this is sic anither! Gien +ye help Him to come upon her, ye’ll cairry her hame ’atween ye rej’icin! +And ye min’ hoo he stude ’atween ane far waur nor her, and the ill +men that would fain hae shamet her, and sent them oot like sae mony +tykes—thae gran’ Pharisees—wi their tails tuckit in ’atween their +legs!—Sair affrontit they war, doobtless!—But I maun be gaein, mem, +for we’re no vera like to agree! My Maister’s no o’ ae min’ wi’ you, +mem, aboot sic affairs—and sae I maun gang, and lea’ ye to yer ain +opingon! But I would jist remin’ ye, mem, that she’s at this present i’ +_my_ hoose, wi my wife; and my wee bit lassie hings aboot her as gien +she was an angel come doon to see the bonny place this warl luks frae +up there.—Eh, puir lammie, the stanes oucht to be feower upo thae +hill-sides!” + +“What for that, Maister Robertson?” + +“’Cause there’s so mony o’ them whaur human herts oucht to be.—Come +awa, doggie!” he added, rising. + +“Dear me, sir! haena ye hae a grain o’ patience to waur (_spend_) upon +a puir menseless body?” cried Marion, wringing her hands in dismay. “To +think _I_ sud be nice whaur my Lord was sae free!” + +“Ay,” returned the minister, “and he was jist as clean as ever, wi’ mony +ane siclike as her inside the heart o’ him!—_Gang awa, and dinna dee +the like again_, was a’ he said to that ane!—and ye may weel be sure +she never did! And noo she and Mary are followin, wi’ yer ain Isy, i’ +the vera futsteps o’ the great shepherd, throuw the gowany leys o’ the +New Jerus’lem—whaur it may be they ca’ her Isy yet, as they ca’ this +ane I hae to gang hame til.” + +“Ca’ they her _that_, sir?—Eh, gar her come, gar her come! I wud fain +cry upo _Isy_ ance mair!—Sit ye doon, sir, shame upo’ me!—and tak a +bite efter yer lang walk!—Will ye no bide the nicht wi’ ’s, and gang +back by the mornin’s co’ch?” + +“I wull that, mem—and thank ye kindly! I’m a bit fatiguit wi’ the hill +ro’d, and the walk a wee langer than I’m used til.—Ye maun hae peety +upo my kittle temper, mem, and no drive me to ower muckle shame o’ +myself!” he concluded, wiping his forehead. + +“And to think,” cried his hostess, “that my hard hert sud hae drawn sic +a word frae ane o’ the Lord’s servans that serve him day and nicht! I +beg yer pardon, and that richt heumbly, sir! I daurna say I’ll never do +the like again, but I’m no sae likly to transgress a second time as the +first.—Lord, keep the doors o’ my lips, that ill-faured words comena +thouchtless oot, and shame me and them that hear me!—I maun gang and +see aboot yer denner, sir! I s’ no be lang.” + +“Yer gracious words, mem, are mair nor meat and drink to me. I could, +like Elijah, go i’ the stren’th o’ them—maybe something less than forty +days, but it wad be by the same sort o’ stren’th as that angels’-food +gied the prophet!” + +Marion hurried none the less for such a word; and soon the minister had +eaten his supper, and was seated in the cool of a sweet summer-evening, +in the garden before the house, among roses and lilies and poppy-heads +and long pink-striped grasses, enjoying a pipe with the farmer, who had +anticipated the hour for unyoking, and hurried home to have a talk with +Mr. Robertson. The minister opened wide his heart, and told them all he +knew and thought of Isy. And so prejudiced were they in her favour +by what he said of her, and the arguments he brought to show that the +judgment of the world was in her case tyrannous and false, that what +anxiety might yet remain as to the new relation into which they +were about to enter, was soon absorbed in hopeful expectation of her +appearance. + +“But,” he concluded, “you will have to be wise as serpents, lest aiblins +(_possibly_) ye kep (_intercept_) a lost sheep on her w’y back to the +shepherd, and gar her lie theroot (_out of doors_), exposed to the +prowlin wouf. Afore God, I wud rether share wi’ her in _that_ day, nor +wi’ them that keppit her!” + +But when he reached home, the minister was startled, indeed dismayed by +the pallor that overwhelmed Isy’s countenance when she heard, following +his assurance of the welcome that awaited her, the name and abode of her +new friends. + +“They’ll be wantin to ken a’thing!” she sobbed. + +“Tell you them,” returned the minister, “everything they have a right +to know; they are good people, and will not ask more. Beyond that, they +will respect your silence.” + +“There’s but ae thing, as ye ken, sir, that I canna, and winna tell. To +haud my tongue aboot that is the ae particle o’ honesty left possible to +me! It’s enough I should have been the cause of the poor man’s sin; and +I’m not going to bring upon him any of the consequences of it as well. +God keep the doors of my lips!” + +“We will not go into the question whether you or he was the more to +blame,” returned the parson; “but I heartily approve of your resolve, +and admire your firmness in holding to it. The time _may_ come when you +_ought_ to tell; but until then, I shall not even allow myself to wonder +who the faithless man may be.” + +Isy burst into tears. + +“Don’t call him that, sir! Don’t drive me to doubt him. Don’t let the +thought cross my mind that he could have helped doing nothing! Besides, +I deserve nothing! And for my bonny bairn, he maun by this time be back +hame to Him that sent him!” + +Thus assured that her secret would be respected by those to whom she +was going, she ceased to show further reluctance to accept the shelter +offered her. And, in truth, underneath the dread of encountering James +Blatherwick’s parents, lay hidden in her mind the fearful joy of a +chance of some day catching, herself unseen, a glimpse of the man whom +she still loved with the forgiving tenderness of a true, therefore +strong heart. With a trembling, fluttering bosom she took her place +on the coach beside Mr. Robertson, to go with him to the refuge he had +found for her. + +Once more in the open world, with which she had had so much intercourse +that was other than joyous, that same world began at once to work the +will of its Maker upon her poor lacerated soul; and afar in its hidden +deeps the process of healing was already begun. Agony would many a time +return unbidden, would yet often rise like a crested wave, with menace +of overwhelming despair, but the Real, the True, long hidden from her +by the lying judgments of men and women, was now at length beginning to +reveal itself to her tear-blinded vision; Hope was lifting a feeble head +above the tangled weeds of the subsiding deluge; and ere long the girl +would see and understand how little cares the Father, whose judgment is +the truth of things, what at any time his child may have been or done, +the moment that child gives herself up to be made what He would have +her! Looking down into the hearts of men, He sees differences there of +which the self-important world takes no heed; many that count themselves +of the first, He sees the last—and what He sees, alone _is_: a +gutter-child, a thief, a girl who never in this world had even a notion +of purity, may lie smiling in the arms of the Eternal, while the head +of a lordly house that still flourishes like a green bay-tree, may be +wandering about with the dogs beyond the walls of the city. + +Out in the open world, I say, the power of the present God began at once +to work upon Isobel, for there, although dimly, she yet looked into +His open face, sketched vaguely in the mighty something we call +Nature—chiefly on the great vault we call Heaven, the _Upheaved_. +Shapely but undefined; perfect in form, yet limitless in depth; blue and +persistent, yet ever evading capture by human heart in human eye; this +sphere of fashioned boundlessness, of definite shapelessness, called up +in her heart the formless children of upheavedness—grandeur, namely, +and awe; hope, namely, and desire: all rushed together toward the dawn +of the unspeakable One, who, dwelling in that heaven, is above all +heavens; mighty and unchangeable, yet childlike; inexorable, yet tender +as never was mother; devoted as never yet was child save one. Isy, +indeed, understood little of all this; yet she wept, she knew not why; +and it was not for sorrow. + +But when, the coach-journey over, she turned her back upon the house +where her child lay, and entered the desolate hill-country, a strange +feeling began to invade her consciousness. It seemed at first but an old +mood, worn shadowy; then it seemed the return of an old dream; then a +painful, confused, half-forgotten memory; but at length it cleared and +settled into a conviction that she had been in the same region before, +and had had, although a passing, yet a painful acquaintance with it; and +at the last she concluded that she must be near the very spot where she +had left and lost her baby. All that had, up to that moment, befallen +her, seemed fused in a troubled conglomerate of hunger and cold and +weariness, of help and hurt, of deliverance and returning pain: they all +mingled inextricably with the scene around her, and there condensed into +the memory of that one event—of which this must assuredly be the actual +place! She looked upon widespread wastes of heather and peat, great +stones here and there, half-buried in it, half-sticking out of it: +surely she was waiting there for something to come to pass! surely +behind this veil of the Seen, a child must be standing with outstretched +arms, hungering after his mother! In herself that very moment must +Memory be trembling into vision! At Length her heart’s desire must be +drawing near to her expectant soul! + +But suddenly, alas! her certainty of recollection, her assurance of +prophetic anticipation, faded from her, and of the recollection itself +remained nothing but a ruin! And all the time it took to dawn into +brilliance and fade out into darkness, had measured but a few weary +steps by the side of her companion, lost in the meditation of a glad +sermon for the next Sunday about the lost sheep carried home with +jubilance, and forgetting how unfit was the poor sheep beside him for +such a fatiguing tramp up hill and down, along what was nothing better +than the stony bed of a winter-torrent. + +All at once Isy darted aside from the rough track, scrambled up the +steep bank, and ran like one demented into a great clump of heather, +which she began at once to search through and through. The minister +stopped bewildered, and stood to watch her, almost fearing for a moment +that she had again lost her wits. She got on the top of a stone in +the middle of the clump, turned several times round, gazed in every +direction over the moor, then descended with a hopeless look, and came +slowly back to him, saying— + +“I beg your pardon, sir; I thought I had a glimpse of my infant through +the heather! This must be the very spot where I left him!” + +The next moment she faltered feebly— + +“Hae we far to gang yet, sir?” and before he could make her any answer, +staggered to the bank on the roadside, fell upon it, and lay still. + +The minister immediately felt that he had been cruel in expecting her +to walk so far; he made haste to lay her comfortably on the short grass, +and waited anxiously, doing what he could to bring her to herself. He +could see no water near, but at least she had plenty of air! + +In a little while she began to recover, sat up, and would have risen to +resume her journey. But the minister, filled with compunction, took her +up in his arms. They were near the crown of the ascent, and he could +carry her as far as that! She expostulated, but was unable to resist. +Light as she was, however, he found it no easy task to bear her up the +last of the steep rise, and was glad to set her down at the top—where +a fresh breeze was waiting to revive them both. She thanked him like +a child whose father had come to her help; and they seated themselves +together on the highest point of the moor, with a large, desolate land +on every side of them. + +“Oh, sir, but ye _are_ good to me!” she murmured. “That brae just minded +me o’ the Hill of Difficulty in the Pilgrim’s Progress!” + +“Oh, you know that story?” said the minister. + +“My old grannie used to make me read it to her when she lay dying. I +thought it long and tiresome then, but since you took me to your house, +sir, I have remembered many things in it; I knew then that I was come to +the house of the Interpreter. You’ve made me understand, sir!” + +“I am glad of that, Isy! You see I know some things that make me very +glad, and so I want them to make you glad too. And the thing that makes +me gladdest of all, is just that God is what he is. To know that such +a One is God over us and in us, makes of very being a most precious +delight. His children, those of them that know him, are all glad just +because he _is_, and they are his children. Do you think a strong man +like me would read sermons and say prayers and talk to people, doing +nothing but such shamefully easy work, if he did not believe what he +said?” + +“I’m sure, sir, you have had hard enough work with me! I am a bad one +to teach! I thought I knew all that you have had such trouble to make +me see! I was in a bog of ignorance and misery, but now I am getting +my head up out of it, and seeing about me!—Please let me ask you one +thing, sir: how is it that, when the thought of God comes to me, I draw +back, afraid of him? If he be the kind of person you say he is, why +can’t I go close up to him?” + +“I confess the same foolishness, my child, _at times_,” answered the +minister. “It can only be because we do not yet see God as he is—and +that must be because we do not yet really understand Jesus—do not see +the glory of God in his face. God is just like Jesus—exactly like him!” + +And the parson fell a wondering how it could be that so many, gentle and +guileless as this woman-child, recoiled from the thought of the perfect +One. Why were they not always and irresistibly drawn toward the very +idea of God? Why, at least, should they not run to see and make sure +whether God was indeed such a one or not? whether he was really Love +itself—or only loved them after a fashion? It set him thinking afresh +about many things; and he soon began to discover that he had in fact +been teaching a good many things without _knowing_ them; for how could +he _know_ things that were not true, and therefore _could not_ be known? +He had indeed been _saying_ that God was Love, but he had yet been +teaching many things about him that were not lovable! + +They sat thinking and talking, with silences between; and while they +thought and talked, the day-star was all the time rising unnoted in +their hearts. At length, finding herself much stronger, Isy rose, and +they resumed their journey. + +The door stood open to receive them; but ere they reached it, a +bright-looking little woman, with delicate lines of ingrained red in a +sorrowful face, appeared in it, looking out with questioning eyes—like +a mother-bird just loosening her feet from the threshold of her nest to +fly and meet them. Through the film that blinded those expectant +eyes, Marion saw what manner of woman she was that drew nigh, and her +motherhood went out to her. For, in the love-witchery of Isy’s yearning +look, humbly seeking acceptance, and in her hesitating approach +half-checked by gentle apology, Marion imagined she saw her own Isy +coming back from the gates of Death, and sprang to meet her. The +mediating love of the minister, obliterating itself, had made him linger +a step or two behind, waiting what would follow: when he saw the two +folded each in the other’s arms, and the fountain of love thus break +forth at once from their encountering hearts, his soul leaped for joy of +the new-created love—new, but not the less surely eternal; for God +is Love, and Love is that which is, and was, and shall be for +evermore—boundless, unconditioned, self-existent, creative! “Truly,” +he said in himself, “God is Love, and God is all and in all! He is no +abstraction; he is the one eternal Individual God! In him Love evermore +breaks forth anew into fresh personality—in every new consciousness, in +every new child of the one creating Father. In every burning heart, in +everything that hopes and fears and is, Love is the creative presence, +the centre, the source of life, yea Life itself; yea, God himself!” + +The elder woman drew herself a little back, held the poor white-faced +thing at arms’-length, and looked her through the face into the heart. + +“My bonny lamb!” she cried, and pressed her again to her bosom. “Come +hame, and be a guid bairn, and ill man sall never touch ye, or gar ye +greit ony mair! There’s _my_ man waitin for ye, to tak ye, and haud ye +safe!” + +Isy looked up, and over the shoulder of her hostess saw the strong +paternal face of the farmer, full of silent welcome. For the strange +emotion that filled him he did not seek to account: he had nothing to do +with that; his will was lord over it! + +“Come ben the hoose, lassie,” he said, and led the way to the parlour, +where the red sunset was shining through the low gable window, filling +the place with the glamour of departing glory. “Sit ye doon upo the sofa +there; ye maun be unco tired! Surely ye haena come a’ the lang ro’d frae +Tiltowie upo yer ain twa wee feet?” + +“’Deed has she,” answered the minister, who had followed them into the +room; “the mair shame to me ’at loot her dee ’t!” + +Marion lingered outside, wiping away the tears that would keep flowing. +For the one question, “What can be amiss wi’ Jamie?” had returned upon +her, haunting and harrying her heart; and with it had come the idea, +though vague and formless, that their good-will to the wandering outcast +might perhaps do something to make up for whatever ill thing Jamie might +have done. At last, instead of entering the parlour after them, she +turned away to the kitchen, and made haste to get ready their supper. + +Isy sank back in the wide sofa, lost in relief; and the minister, when +he saw her look of conscious refuge and repose, said to himself— + +“She is feeling as we shall all feel when first we know nothing near us +but the Love itself that was before all worlds!—when there is no doubt +more, and no questioning more!” + +But the heart of the farmer was full of the old uncontent, the old +longing after the heart of his boy, that had never learned to cry +“_Father!_” + +But soon they sat down to their meal. While they ate, hardly any one +spoke, and no one missed the speech or was aware of the silence, until +the bereaved Isobel thought of her child, and burst into tears. Then the +mother who sorrowed with such a different, and so much bitterer sorrow, +divining her thought and whence it came, rose, and from behind her +said— + +“Noo ye maun jist come awa wi’ me, and I s’ pit ye til yer bed, and lea’ +ye there!—Na, na; say gude nicht to naebody!—Ye’ll see the minister +again i’ the mornin!” + +With that she took Isy away, half-carrying her close-pressed, and +half-leading her; for Marion, although no bigger than Isy, was much +stronger, and could easily have carried her. + +That night both mothers slept well, and both dreamed of their mothers +and of their children. But in the morning nothing remained of their two +dreams except two hopes in the one Father. + +When Isy entered the little parlour, she found she had slept so long +that breakfast was over, the minister smoking his pipe in the garden, +and the farmer busy in his yard. But Marion heard her, and brought her +breakfast, beaming with ministration; then thinking she would eat it +better if left to herself, went back to her work. In about five minutes, +however, Isy joined her, and began at once to lend a helping hand. + +“Hoot, hoot, my dear!” cried her hostess, “ye haena taen time eneuch +to make a proaper brakfast o’ ’t! Gang awa back, and put mair intil ye. +Gien ye dinna learn to ate, we s’ never get ony guid o’ ye!” + +“I just can’t eat for gladness,” returned Isy. “Ye’re that good to me, +that I dare hardly think aboot it; it’ll gar me greit!—Lat me help ye, +mem, and I’ll grow hungry by dennertime!” + +Mrs. Blatherwick understood, and said no more. She showed her what +she might set about; and Isy, happy as a child, came and went at +her commands, rejoicing. Probably, had she started in life with less +devotion, she might have fared better; but the end was not yet, and the +end must be known before we dare judge: result explains history. It is +enough for the present to say that, with the comparative repose of mind +she now enjoyed, with the good food she had, and the wholesome exercise, +for Mrs. Blatherwick took care she should not work too hard, with the +steady kindness shown her, and the consequent growth of her faith and +hope, Isy’s light-heartedness first, and then her good looks began to +return; so that soon the dainty little creature was both prettier and +lovelier than before. At the same time her face and figure, her ways +and motions, went on mingling themselves so inextricably with Marion’s +impressions of her vanished Isy, that at length she felt as if she +never could be able to part with her. Nor was it long before she assured +herself that she was equal to anything that had to be done in the house; +and that the experience of a day or two would make her capable of +the work of the dairy as well. Thus Isy and her mistress, for so Isy +insisted on regarding and calling her, speedily settled into their new +relation. + +It did sometimes cross the girl’s mind, and that with a sting of doubt, +whether it was fair to hide from her new friends the full facts of her +sorrowful history; but to quiet her conscience she had only to reflect +that for the sake of the son they loved, she must keep jealous guard +over her silence. Further than James’s protection, she had no design, +cherished no scheme. The idea of compelling, or even influencing him to +do her justice, never once crossed her horizon. On the contrary, she was +possessed by the notion that she had done him a great wrong, and shrank +in horror from the danger of rendering it irretrievable. She had never +thought the thing out as between her and him, never even said to herself +that he too had been to blame. Her exaggerated notion of the share she +had in the fault, had lodged and got fixed in her mind, partly from +her acquaintance with the popular judgment concerning such as she, and +partly from her humble readiness to take any blame to herself. Even had +she been capable of comparing the relative consequences, the injury she +had done his prospects as a minister, would have seemed to her revering +soul a far greater wrong than any suffering or loss he had brought upon +her. For what was she beside him? What was the ruin of her life to the +frustration of such prospects as his? The sole alleviation of her +misery was that she seemed hitherto to have escaped involving him in the +results of her lack of self-restraint, which results, she was certain, +remained concealed from him, as from every one in any way concerned +with him in them. In truth, never was man less worthy of it, or more +devotedly shielded! And never was hidden wrong to the woman turned more +eagerly and persistently into loving service to the man’s parents! Many +and many a time did the heart of James’s mother, as she watched Isy’s +deft and dainty motions, regret, even with bitterness, that such a +capable and love-inspiring girl should have rendered herself unworthy +of her son—for, notwithstanding what she regarded as the disparity of +their positions, she would gladly have welcomed Isy as a daughter, had +she but been spotless, and fit to be loved by him. + +In the evenings, when the work of the day was done, Isy used to ramble +about the moor, in the lingering rays of the last of the sunset, and the +now quickly shortening twilight. In those hours unhasting, gentle, and +so spiritual in their tone that they seem to come straight from the +eternal spaces where is no recalling and no forgetting, where time and +space are motionless, and the spirit is at rest, Isy first began to read +with conscious understanding. For now first she fell into the company of +books—old-fashioned ones no doubt, but perhaps even therefore the more +fit for her, who was an old-fashioned, gentle, ignorant, thoughtful +child. Among the rest in the farmhouse, she came upon the two volumes +of a book called The Preceptor, which contained various treatises laying +down “the first principles of Polite Learning:” these drew her eager +attention; and with one or other of the not very handy volumes in her +hand, she would steal out of sight of the farm, and lapt in the solitude +of the moor, would sit and read until at last the light could reveal +not a word more. Even the Geometry she found in them attracted her not a +little; the Rhetoric and Poetry drew her yet more; but most of all, the +Natural History, with its engravings of beasts and birds, poor as they +were, delighted her; and from these antiquated repertories she gathered +much, and chiefly that most valuable knowledge, some acquaintance with +her own ignorance. There also, in a garret over the kitchen, she found +an English translation of Klopstock’s Messiah, a poem which, in the +middle of the last and in the present century, caused a great excitement +in Germany, and did not a little, I believe, for the development of +religious feeling in that country, where the slow-subsiding ripple of +its commotion is possibly not altogether unfelt even at the present +day. She read the volume through as she strolled in those twilights, not +without risking many a fall over bush and stone ere practice taught her +to see at once both the way for her feet over the moor, and that for her +eyes over the printed page. The book both pleased and suited her, the +parts that interested her most being those about the repentant angel, +Abaddon; who, if I remember aright, haunted the steps of the Saviour, +and hovered about the cross while he was crucified. The great question +with her for a long time was, whether the Saviour must not have forgiven +him; but by slow degrees it became at last clear to her, that he who +came but to seek and to save the lost, could not have closed the door +against one that sought return to his fealty. It was not until she +knew the soutar, however, that at length she understood the tireless +redeeming of the Father, who had sent men blind and stupid and +ill-conditioned, into a world where they had to learn almost everything. + +There were some few books of a more theological sort, which happily she +neither could understand nor was able to imagine she understood, and +which therefore she instinctively refused, as affording nourishment +neither for thought nor feeling. There was, besides, Dr. Johnson’s +_Rasselas_, which mildly interested her; and a book called _Dialogues of +Devils_, which she read with avidity. And thus, if indeed her ignorance +did not become rapidly less, at least her knowledge of its existence +became slowly greater. + +And all the time the conviction grew upon her, that she had been in +that region before, and that in truth she could not be far from the spot +where she laid her child down, and lost him. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +In the meantime the said child, a splendid boy, was the delight of the +humble dwelling to which Maggie had borne him in triumph. But the mind +of the soutar was not a little exercised as to how far their right in +the boy approached the paternal: were they justified in regarding him +as their love-property, before having made exhaustive inquiry as to who +could claim, and might re-appropriate him? For nothing could liberate +the finder of such a thing from the duty of restoring it upon demand, +seeing there could be no assurance that the child had been deliberately +and finally abandoned! Maggie, indeed, regarded the baby as absolutely +hers by right of rescue; but her father asked himself whether by +appropriating him she might not be depriving his mother of the one +remaining link between her and humanity, and so abandoning her helpless +to the Enemy. Surely to take and withhold from any woman her child, +must be to do what was possible toward dividing her from the unseen and +eternal! And he saw that, for the sake of his own child also, and the +truth in her, both she and he must make every possible endeavour to +restore the child to his mother. + +So the next time that Maggie brought the crowing infant to the kitchen, +her father, who sat as usual under the small window, to gather upon his +work all the light to be had, said, with one quick glance at the child— + +“Eh, the bonny, glaid cratur! Wha can say ’at sic as he, ’at haena the +twa in ane to see til them, getna frae Himsel a mair partic’lar and +carefu’ regaird, gien that war poassible, than ither bairns! I would +fain believe that same!” + +“Eh, father, but ye aye think bonny!” exclaimed Maggie. “Some hae been +dingin ’t in upo me ’at sic as he maist aye turn oot onything but weel, +whan they step oot intil the warl. Eh, but we maun tak care o’ ’im, +father! Whaur _would_ I be wi’oot you at my back!” + +“And God at the back o’ baith, bairn!” rejoined the soutar. “It’s +thinkable that the Almichty may hae special diffeeculty wi sic as he, +but nane can jeedge o’ ony thing or body till they see the hin’er en’ o’ +’t a’. But I’m thinkin it maun aye be harder for ane that hasna his ain +mither to luik til. Ony ither body, be she as guid as she may, maun be +but a makshift!—For ae thing he winna get the same naitral disciplene +’at ilka mither cat gies its kitlins!” + +“Maybe! maybe!—I ken I couldna ever lay a finger upo’ the bonny cratur +mysel!” said Maggie. + +“There ’tis!” returned her father. “And I dinna think,” he went on, “we +could expec muckle frae the wisdom o’ the mither o’ ’m, gien she had +him. I doobt she micht turn oot to be but a makshift hersel! There’s +mony aboot ’im ’at’ll be sair eneuch upon ’im, but nane the wiser for +that! Mony ane’ll luik upon ’im as a bairn in whause existence God has +had nae share—or jist as muckle share as gies him a grup o’ ’im to gie +’im his licks! There’s a heap o’ mystery aboot a’thing, Maggie, and that +frae the vera beginnin to the vera en’! It may be ’at yon bairnie’s i’ +the waur danger jist frae haein you and me, Maggie! Eh, but I wuss his +ain mither war gien back til him! And wha can tell but she’s needin him +waur nor he’s needin her—though there maun aye be something he canna +get—’cause ye’re no his ain mither, Maggie, and I’m no even his ain +gutcher!” + +The adoptive mother burst into a howl. + +“Father, father, ye’ll brak the hert o’ me!” she almost yelled, and laid +the child on the top of her father’s hands in the very act of drawing +his waxed ends. + +Thus changing him perforce from cobbler to nurse, she bolted from the +kitchen, and up the little stair; and throwing herself on her knees by +the bedside, sought, instinctively and unconsciously, the presence of +him who sees in secret. But for a time she had nothing to say even +to _him_, and could only moan on in the darkness beneath her closed +eyelids. + +Suddenly she came to herself, remembering that she too had abandoned her +child: she must go back to him! + +But as she ran, she heard loud noises of infantile jubilation, and +re-entering the kitchen, was amazed to see the soutar’s hands moving as +persistently if not quite so rapidly as before: the child hung at the +back of the soutar’s head, in the bight of the long jack-towel from +behind the door, holding on by the gray hair of his occiput. There +he tugged and crowed, while his care-taker bent over his labour, +circumspect in every movement, nor once forgetting the precious thing +on his back, who was evidently delighted with his new style of being +nursed, and only now and then made a wry face at some movement of the +human machine too abrupt for his comfort. Evidently he took it all as +intended solely for his pleasure. + +Maggie burst out laughing through the tears that yet filled her eyes, +and the child, who could hear but not see her, began to cry a little, +so rousing the mother in her to a sense that he was being treated too +unceremoniously; when she bounded to liberate him, undid the towel, and +seated herself with him in her lap. The grandfather, not sorry to be +released, gave his shoulders a little writhing shake, laughed an amused +laugh, and set off boring and stitching and drawing at redoubled speed. + +“Weel, Maggie?” he said, with loving interrogation, but without looking +up. + +“I saw ye was richt, father, and it set me greitin sae sair that I +forgot the bairn, and you, father, as weel. Gang on, please, and say +what ye think fit: it’s a’ true!” + +“There’s little left for me to say, lassie, noo ye hae begun to say’t to +yersel. But, believe me, though ye can never be the bairn’s ain mither, +_she_ can never be til ’im the same ye hae been a’ready, whatever mair +or better may follow. The pairt ye hae chosen is guid eneuch never to be +taen frae ye—i’ this warl or the neist!” + +“Thank ye, father, for that! I’ll dee for him what I can, ohn forgotten +that he’s no mine but anither wuman’s. I maunna tak frae her what’s her +ain!” + +The soutar, especially while at his work, was always trying “to get,” +as he said, “into his Lord’s company,”—now endeavouring, perhaps, to +understand some saying of his, or now, it might be, to discover his +reason for saying it just then and there. Often, also, he would be +pondering why he allowed this or that to take place in the world, for it +was his house, where he was always present and always at work. Humble as +diligent disciple, he never doubted, when once a thing had taken place, +that it was by his will it came to pass, but he saw that evil itself, +originating with man or his deceiver, was often made to subserve the +final will of the All-in-All. And he knew in his own self that much must +first be set right there, before the will of the Father could be done in +earth as it was in heaven. Therefore in any new development of feeling +in his child, he could recognize the pressure of a guiding hand in the +formation of her history; and was able to understand St. John where he +says, “Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear +what we shall be, but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall +be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” For first, foremost, and +deepest of all, he positively and absolutely believed in the man whose +history he found in the Gospel: that is, he believed not only that +such a man once was, and that every word he then spoke was true, but he +believed that that man was still in the world, and that every word +he then spoke, had always been, still was, and always would be true. +Therefore he also believed—which was more both to the Master and to +John MacLear, his disciple—that the chief end of his conscious life +must be to live in His presence, and keep his affections ever, afresh +and constantly, turning toward him in hope and aspiration. Hence every +day he felt afresh that he too was living in the house of God, among the +things of the father of Jesus. + +The life-influence of the soutar had already for some time, and in some +measure, been felt at Tiltowie. In a certain far-off way, men seemed to +surmise what he was about, although they were, one and all, unable to +estimate the nature or value of his pursuit. What their idea of him was, +may in a measure be gathered from the answer of the village-fool to the +passer-by who said to him: “Weel, and what’s yer soutar aboot the noo?” +“Ow, as usual,” answered the _natural_, “turnin up ilka muckle stane to +luik for his maister aneth it!” For in truth he believed that the Lord +of men was very often walking to and fro in the earthly kingdom of his +Father, watching what was there going on, and doing his best to bring it +to its true condition; that he was ever and always in the deepest sense +present in the same, where he could, if he pleased, at any moment or in +any spot, appear to whom he would. Never did John MacLear lift his eyes +heavenward without a vague feeling that he might that very moment, catch +a sight of the glory of his coming Lord; if ever he fixed his eyes on +the far horizon, it was never without receiving a shadowy suggestion +that, like a sail towering over the edge of the world, the first great +flag of the Lord’s hitherward march might that moment be rising between +earth and heaven;—for certainly He would come unawares, and then who +could tell what moment he might not set his foot on the edge of the +visible, and come out of the dark in which He had hitherto clothed +himself as with a garment—to appear in the ancient glory of his +transfiguration! Thus he was ever ready to fall a watching—and thus, +also, never did he play the false prophet, with cries of “Lo here!” and +“Lo there!” And even when deepest lost in watching, the lowest whisper +of humanity seemed always loud enough to recall him to his “work +alive”—lest he should be found asleep at His coming. His was the same +live readiness that had opened the ear of Maggie to the cry of the +little one on the hill-side. As his daily work was ministration to the +weary feet of his Master’s men, so was his soul ever awake to their +sorrows and spiritual necessities. + +“There’s a haill warl’ o’ bonny wark aboot me!” he would say. “I hae but +to lay my han’ to what’s neist me, and it’s sure to be something that +wants deein! I’m clean ashamt sometimes, whan I wauk up i’ the mornin, +to fin’ mysel deein naething!” + +Every evening while the summer lasted, he would go out alone for a walk, +generally toward a certain wood nigh the town; for there lay, although +it was of no great extent, and its trees were small, a probability +of escaping for a few moments from the eyes of men, and the chance of +certain of another breed showing themselves. + +“No that,” he once said to Maggie, “I ever cared vera muckle aboot the +angels: it’s the man, the perfec man, wha was there wi’ the Father afore +ever an angel was h’ard tell o’, that sen’s me upo my knees! Whan I see +a man that but minds me o’ _Him_, my hert rises wi’ a loup, as gien it +wad ’maist lea’ my body ahint it.—Love’s the law o’ the universe, and +it jist works amazin!” + +One day a man, seeing him approach in the near distance, and knowing he +had not perceived his presence, lay down behind a great stone to watch +“the mad soutar,” in the hope of hearing him say something insane. As +John came nearer, the man saw his lips moving, and heard sounds issue +from them; but as he passed, nothing was audible but the same words +repeated several times, and with the same expression of surprise and joy +as if at something for the first time discovered:—“Eh, Lord! Eh, Lord, +I see! I un’erstan’!—Lord, I’m yer ain—to the vera deith!—a’ yer +ain!—Thy father bless thee, Lord!—I ken ye care for noucht else!—Eh, +but my hert’s glaid!—that glaid, I ’maist canna speyk!” + +That man ever after spoke of the soutar with a respect that resembled +awe. + +After that talk with her father about the child and his mother, a +certain silent change appeared in Maggie. People saw in her face an +expression which they took to resemble that of one whose child was ill, +and was expected to die. But what Maggie felt was only resignation to +the will of her Lord: the child was not hers but the Lord’s, lent to her +for a season! She must walk softly, doing everything for him as under +the eye of the Master, who might at any moment call to her, “Bring the +child: I want him now!” And she soon became as cheerful as before, but +never after quite lost the still, solemn look as of one in the eternal +spaces, who saw beyond this world’s horizon. She talked less with her +father than hitherto, but at the same time seemed to live closer to him. +Occasionally she would ask him to help her to understand something he +had said; but even then he would not always try to make it plain; he +might answer— + +“I see, lassie, ye’re no just ready for ’t! It’s true, though; and the +day maun come whan ye’ll see the thing itsel, and ken what it is; and +that’s the only w’y to win at the trowth o’ ’t! In fac’, to see a thing, +and ken the thing, and be sure it’s true, is a’ ane and the same thing!” +Such a word from her father was always enough to still and content the +girl. + +Her delight in the child, instead of growing less, went on increasing +because of the _awe_, rather than _dread_ of having at last to give him +up. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +Meanwhile the minister remained moody, apparently sunk in contemplation, +but in fact mostly brooding, and meditating neither form nor truth. +Sometimes he felt indeed as if he were losing altogether his power of +thinking—especially when, in the middle of the week, he sat down to +find something to say on the Sunday. He had greatly lost interest in the +questions that had occupied him while he was yet a student, and imagined +himself in preparation for what he called the ministry—never thinking +how one was to minister who had not yet learned to obey, and had never +sought anything but his own glorification! It was little wonder he +should lose interest in a profession, where all was but profession! What +pleasure could that man find in holy labour who, not indeed offered his +stipend to purchase the Holy Ghost, but offered all he knew of the Holy +Ghost to purchase popularity? No wonder he should find himself at length +in lack of talk to pay for his one thing needful! He had always been +more or less dependent on commentaries for the joint he provided—and +even for the cooking of it: was it any wonder that his guests should +show less and less appetite for his dinners? + + _The hungry sheep looked up and were not fed!_ + +To have food to give them, he must think! To think, he must have peace! +to have peace, he must forget himself! to forget himself, he must +repent, and walk in the truth! to walk in the truth, he must love God +and his neighbour!—Even to have interest in the dry bone of criticism, +which was all he could find in his larder, he must broil it—and so burn +away in the slow fire of his intellect, now dull and damp enough from +lack of noble purpose, every scrap of meat left upon it! His last +relation to his work, his fondly cherished intellect, was departing from +him, to leave him lord of a dustheap! In the unsavoury mound he grubbed +and nosed and scraped dog-like, but could not uncover a single fragment +that smelt of provender. The morning of Saturday came, and he recognized +with a burst of agonizing sweat, that he dared not even imagine his +appearance before his congregation: he had not one written word to read +to them; and extempore utterance was, from conscious vacancy, impossible +to him; he could not even call up one meaningless phrase to articulate! +He flung his concordance sprawling upon the floor, snatched up his hat +and clerical cane, and, scarce knowing what he did, presently found +himself standing at the soutar’s door, where he had already knocked, +without a notion of what he was come to seek. The old parson, generally +in a mood to quarrel with the soutar, had always walked straight into +his workshop, and greeted him crouched over his work; but the new parson +always waited on the doorstep for Maggie to admit him. + +She had opened the door wide ere he knew why he had come, or could think +of anything to say. And now he was in greater uneasiness than usual at +the thought of the cobbler’s deep-set black eyes about to be fixed upon +him, as if to probe his very thoughts. + +“Do you think your father would have time,” he asked humbly, “to measure +me for a pair of light boots?” + +Mr. Blatherwick was very particular about his foot-gear, and had +hitherto always fitted himself at Deemouth; but he had at length +learned that nothing he could there buy approached in quality, either +of material or workmanship, what the soutar supplied to his poorest +customer: he would mend anything worth mending, but would never _make_ +anything inferior. + +“Ye’ll get what ye want at such and such place,” he would answer, “and +I doobtna it’ll be as guid as can be made at the siller; but for my ain +pairt, ye maun excuse me!” + +“’Deed, sir, he’ll be baith glad and prood to mak ye as guid a pair o’ +beets as he can compass,” answered Maggie. “Jist step in here, sir, and +lat him ken what ye want. My bairn’s greitin, and I maun gang til ’im; +it’s seldom he cries oot!” + +The minister walked in at the open door of the kitchen, and met the eyes +of the soutar expectant. + +“Ye’re welcome, sir!” said MacLear, and returned his eyes to what he had +for a moment interrupted. + +“I want you to make me a nice pair of boots, if you please,” said the +parson, as cheerily as he could. “I am rather particular about the fit, +I fear!” + +“And what for no, sir?” answered the soutar. “I’ll do what I can +onygait, I promise ye—but wi’ mair readiness nor confidence as to the +fit; for I canna profess assurance o’ fittin’ the first time, no haein +the necessar instinc’ frae the mak’ o’ the man to the shape o’ the fut, +sir.” + +“Of course I should like to have them both neat and comfortable,” said +the parson. + +“In coorse ye wad, sir, and sae would I! For I confess I wad fain hae my +customers tak note o’ my success in followin the paittern set afore me +i’ the first oreeginal fut!” + +“But you will allow, I suppose, that a foot is seldom as perfect now +as when the divine idea of the member was first embodied by its maker?” +rejoined the minister. + +“Ow, ay; there’s been mony an interferin circumstance; but whan His +kingdom’s come, things ’ll tak a turn for the redemption o’ the feet +as weel as the lave o’ the body—as the apostle Paul says i’ the +twenty-third verse o’ the aucht chapter o’ his epistle to the +Romans;—only I’m weel aveesed, sir, ’at there’s no sic a thing as +_adoption_ mintit at i’ the original Greek. That can hae no pairt i’ +what fowk ca’s the plan o’ salvation—as gien the consumin fire o’ the +Love eternal was to be ca’d a _plan_! Hech, minister, it scunners me! +But for the fut, it’s aye perfec’ eneuch to be _my_ pattern, for it’s +the only ane I hae to follow! It’s Himsel sets the shape o’ the shune +this or that man maun weir!” + +“That’s very true—and the same applies to everything a man cannot help. +A man has both the make of his mind and of his circumstances to do the +best he can with, and sometimes they don’t seem to fit each other—so +well as, I hope, your boots will fit my feet.” + +“Ye’re richt there, sir—only that no man’s bun’ to follow his +inclinations or his circumstances, ony mair than he’s bun’ to alter his +fut to the shape o’ a ready-made beet!—But hoo wull ye hae them made, +sir?—I mean what sort o’ butes wad ye hae me mak?” + +“Oh, I leave that to you, Mr. MacLear!—a sort of half Wellington, I +suppose—a neat pair of short boots.” + +“I understand, sir.” + +“And now tell me,” said the minister, moved by a sudden impulse, coming +he knew not whence, “what you think of this new fad, if it be nothing +worse, of the English clergy—I mean about the duty of confessing to the +priest.—I see they have actually prevailed upon that wretched creature +we’ve all been reading about in the papers lately, to confess the murder +of her little brother! Do you think they had any right to do that? +Remember the jury had acquitted her.” + +“And has she railly confessed? I _am_ glaid o’ that! I only wuss they +could get a haud o’ Madeline Smith as weel, and persuaud _her_ to +confess! Eh, the state o’ that puir crater’s conscience! It ’maist gars +me greit to think o’ ’t! Gien she wad but confess, houp wad spring to +life in her sin-oppressed soul! Eh, but it maun be a gran’ lichtenin to +that puir thing! I’m richt glaid to hear o’ ’t.” + +“I didn’t know, Mr. MacLear, that you favoured the power and influence +of the priesthood to such an extent! We Presbyterian clergy are not in +the way of doing the business of detectives, taking upon us to act as +the agents of human justice! There is no one, guilty or not, but is safe +with us!” + +“As with any confessor, Papist or Protestant,” rejoined the soutar. “If +I understand your news, sir, it means that they persuaded the poor soul +to confess her guilt, and so put herself safe in the hands of God!” + +“And is not that to come between God and the sinner?” + +“Doubtless, sir—in order to bring them together; to persuade the sinner +to the first step toward reconciliation with God, and peace in his own +mind.” + +“That he could take without the intervention of the priest!” + +“Yes, but not without his own consenting will! And in this case, she +would not, and did not confess without being persuaded to it!” + +“They had no right to threaten her!” + +“Did they threaten her? If they did, they were wrong.—And yet I don’t +know! In any case they did for her the very best thing that could be +done! For they did get her, you tell me, to confess—and so cast from +her the horror of carrying about in her secret heart the knowledge of an +unforgiven crime! Christians of all denominations hold, I presume, that, +to be forgiven, a sin must be confessed!” + +“Yes, to God—that is enough! No mere man has a right to know the sins +of his neighbour!” + +“Not even the man against whom the sin was committed?” + +“Suppose the sin has never come abroad, but remains hidden in the heart, +is a man bound to confess it? Is he, for instance, bound to tell his +neighbour that he used to hate him, and in his heart wish him evil?” + +“The time micht come whan to confess even that would ease a man’s hert! +but in sic a case, the man’s first duty, it seems to me, would be to +watch for an opportunity o’ doin that neebour a kin’ness. That would +be the deid blow to his hatred! But where a man has done an act o’ +injustice, a wrang to his neebour, he has no ch’ice, it seems to me, but +confess it: that neebour is the one from whom first he has to ask and +receive forgiveness; and that neebour alone can lift the burden o’ ’t +aff o’ him! Besides, the confession may be but fair, to haud the blame +frae bein laid at the door o’ some innocent man!—And the author o’ nae +offence can affoord to forget,” ended the soutar, “hoo the Lord said, +‘There’s naething happit-up, but maun come to the licht’!” + +It seems to me that nothing could have led the minister so near the +presentation of his own false position, except the will of God working +in him to set him free. He continued, driven by an impulse he neither +understood nor suspected— + +“Suppose the thing not known, however, or likely to be known, and +that the man’s confession, instead of serving any good end, would only +destroy his reputation and usefulness, bring bitter grief upon those who +loved him, and nothing but shame to the one he had wronged—what would +you say then?—You will please to remember, Mr. MacLear, that I am +putting an entirely imaginary case, for the sake of argument only!” + +“Eh, but I doobt—I doobt yer imaiginary case!” murmured the soutar to +himself, hardly daring even to think his thought clearly, lest somehow +it might reveal itself. + +“In that case,” he replied, “it seems to me the offender wad hae to cast +aboot him for ane fit to be trustit, and to him reveal the haill affair, +that he may get his help to see and do what’s richt: it maks an unco +differ to luik at a thing throuw anither man’s een, i’ the supposed +licht o’ anither man’s conscience! The wrang dune may hae caused mair +evil, that is, mair injustice, nor the man himsel kens! And what’s the +reputation ye speak o’, or what’s the eesefu’ness o’ sic a man? Can it +be worth onything? Isna his hoose a lee? isna it biggit upo the san’? +What kin’ o’ a usefulness can that be that has hypocrisy for its +fundation? Awa wi’ ’t! Lat him cry oot to a’ the warl’, ‘I’m a +heepocrit! I’m a worm, and no man!’ Lat him cry oot to his makker, ‘I’m +a beast afore thee! Mak a man o’ me’!” + +As the soutar spoke, overcome by sympathy with the sinner, whom he could +not help feeling in bodily presence before him, the minister, who had +risen when he began to talk about the English clergy and confession, +stood hearing with a face pale as death. + +“For God’s sake, minister,” continued the soutar, “gien ye hae ony sic +thing upo yer min’, hurry and oot wi’ ’t! I dinna say _to me_, but to +somebody—to onybody! Mak a clean breist o’ ’t, afore the Adversary has +ye again by the thrapple!” + +But here started awake in the minister the pride of superiority in +station and learning: a shoemaker, from whom he had just ordered a pair +of boots, to take such a liberty, who ought naturally to have regarded +him as necessarily spotless! He drew himself up to his lanky height, and +made reply— + +“I am not aware, Mr. MacLear, that I have given you any pretext for +addressing me in such terms! I told you, indeed, that I was putting +a case, a very possible one, it is true, but not the less a merely +imaginary one! You have shown me how unsafe it is to enter into an +argument on any supposed case with one of limited education! It is my +own fault, however; and I beg your pardon for having thoughtlessly led +you into such a pitfall!—Good morning!” + +As the door closed behind the parson, he began to felicitate himself +on having so happily turned aside the course of a conversation whose +dangerous drift he seemed now first to recognize; but he little thought +how much he had already conveyed to the wide-eyed observation of one +well schooled in the symptoms of human unrest. + +“I must set a better watch over my thoughts lest they betray me!” he +reflected; thus resolving to conceal himself yet more carefully from the +one man in the place who would have cut for him the snare of the fowler. + +“I was ower hasty wi’ ’im!” concluded the soutar on his part. “But I +think the truth has some grup o’ ’im. His conscience is waukin up, I +fancy, and growlin a bit; and whaur that tyke has ance taen haud, he’s +no ready to lowsen or lat gang! We maun jist lie quaiet a bit, and see! +His hoor ’ill come!” + +The minister being one who turned pale when angry, walked home with a +face of such corpse-like whiteness, that a woman who met him said to +herself, “What can ail the minister, bonny laad! He’s luikin as scared +as a corp! I doobt that fule body the soutar’s been angerin him wi’ his +havers!” + +The first thing he did when he reached the manse, was to turn, +nevertheless, to the chapter and verse in the epistle to the Romans, +which the soutar had indicated, and which, through all his irritation, +had, strangely enough, remained unsmudged in his memory; but the passage +suggested nothing, alas! out of which he could fabricate a sermon. Could +it have proved otherwise with a heart that was quite content to have God +no nearer him than a merely adoptive father? He found at the same time +that his late interview with the soutar had rendered the machinery of +his thought-factory no fitter than before for weaving a tangled wisp of +loose ends, which was all he could command, into the homogeneous web of +a sermon; and at last was driven to his old stock of carefully preserved +preordination sermons; where he was unfortunate enough to make choice +of the one least of all fitted to awake comprehension or interest in his +audience. + +His selection made, and the rest of the day thus cleared for inaction, +he sat down and wrote a letter. Ever since his fall he had been +successfully practising the art of throwing a morsel straight into +one or other of the throats of the triple-headed Cerberus, his +conscience—which was more clever in catching such sops, than they were +in choking the said howler; and one of them, the letter mentioned, was +the sole wretched result of his talk with the soutar. Addressed to a +late divinity-classmate, he asked in it incidentally whether his +old friend had ever heard anything of the little girl—he could just +remember her name and the pretty face of her—Isy, general slavey to +her aunt’s lodgers in the Canongate, of whom he was one: he had often +wondered, he said, what had become of her, for he had been almost in +love with her for a whole half-year! I cannot but take the inquiry as +the merest pretence, with the sole object of deceiving himself into the +notion of having at least made one attempt to discover Isy. His friend +forgot to answer the question, and James Blatherwick never alluded to +his having put it to him. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +Never dawned Sunday upon soul more wretched. He had not indeed to climb +into his watchman’s tower without the pretence of a proclamation, but on +that very morning his father had put the mare between the shafts of the +gig to drive his wife to Tiltowie and their son’s church, instead of the +nearer and more accessible one in the next parish, whither they oftener +went. Arrived there, it was not wonderful they should find themselves +so dissatisfied with the spiritual food set before them, as to wish +heartily they had remained at home, or driven to the nearer church. +The moment the service was over, Mr. Blatherwick felt much inclined to +return at once, without waiting an interview with his son; for he had no +remark to make on the sermon that would be pleasant either for his son +or his wife to hear; but Marion combated the impulse with entreaties +that grew almost angry, and Peter was compelled to yield, although +sullenly. They waited in the churchyard for the minister’s appearance. + +“Weel, Jeemie,” said his father, shaking hands with him limply, “yon +was some steeve parritch ye gied us this mornin!—and the meal itsel was +baith auld and soor!” + +The mother gave her son a pitiful smile, as if in deprecation of her +husband’s severity, but said not a word; and James, haunted by the taste +of failure the sermon had left in his own mouth, and possibly troubled +by sub-conscious motions of self-recognition, could hardly look his +father in the face, and felt as if he had been rebuked by him before all +the congregation. + +“Father,” he replied in a tone of some injury, “you do not know how +difficult it is to preach a fresh sermon every Sunday!” + +“Ca’ ye yon fresh, Jeemie? To me it was like the fuistit husks o’ the +half-faimisht swine! Man, I wuss sic provender would drive yersel whaur +there’s better and to spare! Yon was lumps o’ brose in a pig-wash o’ +stourum! The tane was eneuch to choke, and the tither to droon ye!” + +James made a wry face, and the sight of his annoyance broke the ice +gathering over the well-spring in his mother’s heart; tears rose in her +eyes, and for one brief moment she saw the minister again her bairn. +But he gave her no filial response; ambition, and greed of the praise of +men, had blocked in him the movements of the divine, and corrupted his +wholesomest feelings, so that now he welcomed freely as a conviction the +suggestion that his parents had never cherished any sympathy with him +or his preaching; which reacted in a sudden flow of resentment, and a +thickening of the ice on his heart. Some fundamental shock must dislodge +that rooted, overmastering ice, if ever his wintered heart was to feel +the power of a reviving Spring! + +The threesum family stood in helpless silence for a few moments; then +the father said to the mother— + +“I doobt we maun be settin oot for hame, Mirran!” + +“Will you not come into the manse, and have something before you go?” +said James, not without anxiety lest his housekeeper should be taken at +unawares, and their acceptance should annoy her: he lived in constant +dread of offending his housekeeper! + +“Na, I thank ye,” returned his father: “it wad taste o’ stew!” (_blown +dust_). + +It was a rude remark; but Peter was not in a kind mood; and when love +itself is unkind, it is apt to be burning and bitter and merciless. + +Marion burst into tears. James turned away, and walked home with a gait +of wounded dignity. Peter went in haste toward the churchyard gate, to +interrupt with the bit his mare’s feed of oats. Marion saw his hands +tremble pitifully as he put the headstall over the creature’s ears, and +reproached herself that she had given him such a cold-hearted son. She +climbed in a helpless way into the gig, and sat waiting for her husband. + +“I’m that dry ’at I could drink cauld watter!” he said, as he took his +place beside her. + +They drove from the place of tombs, but they carried death with them, +and left the sunlight behind them. + +Neither spoke a word all the way. Not until she was dismounting at their +own door, did the mother venture her sole remark, “Eh, sirs!” It meant +a world of unexpressed and inexpressible misery. She went straight up to +the little garret where she kept her Sunday bonnet, and where she said +her prayers when in especial misery. Thence she descended after a +while to her bedroom, there washed her face, and sadly prepared for +a hungerless encounter with the dinner Isy had been getting ready for +them—hoping to hear something about the sermon, perhaps even some +little word about the minister himself. But Isy too must share in the +disappointment of that vainly shining Sunday morning! Not a word passed +between her master and mistress. Their son was called the pastor of the +flock, but he was rather the porter of the sheepfold than the shepherd +of the sheep. He was very careful that the church should be properly +swept and sometimes even garnished; but about the temple of the Holy +Ghost, the hearts of his sheep, he knew nothing, and cared as little. +The gloom of his parents, their sense of failure and loss, grew and +deepened all the dull hot afternoon, until it seemed almost to pass +their endurance. At last, however, it abated, as does every pain, for +life is at its root: thereto ordained, it slew itself by exhaustion. +“But,” thought the mother, “there’s Monday coming, and what am I to +do then?” With the new day would return the old trouble, the gnawing, +sickening pain that she was childless: her daughter was gone, and no +son was left her! Yet the new day when it came, brought with it its new +possibility of living one day more! + +But the minister was far more to be pitied than those whose misery he +was. All night long he slept with a sense of ill-usage sublying his +consciousness, and dominating his dreams; but with the sun came a doubt +whether he had not acted in unseemly fashion, when he turned and left +his father and mother in the churchyard. Of course they had not treated +him well; but what would his congregation, some of whom might have been +lingering in the churchyard, have thought, to see him leave them as he +did? His only thought, however, was to take precautions against their +natural judgment of his behaviour. + +After his breakfast, he set out, his custom of a Monday morning, for +what he called a quiet stroll; but his thoughts kept returning, ever +with fresh resentment, to the soutar’s insinuation—for such he counted +it—on the Saturday. Suddenly, uninvited, and displacing the phantasm of +her father, arose before him the face of Maggie; and with it the sudden +question, What then was the real history of the baby on whom she spent +such an irrational amount of devotion. The soutar’s tale of her finding +him was too apocryphal! Might not Maggie have made a slip? Or why should +the pretensions of the soutar be absolutely trusted? Surely he had, some +time or other, heard a rumour! A certain satisfaction arose with the +suggestion that this man, so ready to believe evil of his neighbour, had +not kept his own reputation, or that of his house, perhaps, undefiled. +He tried to rebuke himself the next moment, it is true, for having +harboured a moment’s satisfaction in the wrong-doing of another: it was +unbefitting the pastor of a Christian flock! But the thought came and +came again, and he took no continuous trouble to cast it out. When he +went home, he put a question or two to his housekeeper about the little +one, but she only smiled paukily, and gave him no answer. + +After his two-o’clock dinner, he thought it would be Christian-like to +forgive his parents: he would therefore call at Stonecross—which would +tend to wipe out any undesirable offence on the minds of his parents, +and also to prevent any gossip that might injure him in his sacred +profession! He had not been to see them for a long time; his visits to +them gave him no satisfaction; but he never dreamed of attributing that +to his own want of cordiality. He judged it well, however, to avoid any +appearance of evil, and therefore thought it might be his duty to pay +them in future a hurried call about once a month. For the past, he +excused himself because of the distance, and his not being a good +walker! Even now that he had made up his mind he was in no haste to set +out, but had a long snooze in his armchair first: it was evening when he +climbed the hill and came in sight of the low gable behind which he was +born. + +Isy was in the garden gathering up the linen she had spread to dry on +the bushes, when his head came in sight at the top of the brae. She knew +him at once, and stooping behind the gooseberries, fled to the back of +the house, and so away to the moor. James saw the white flutter of a +sheet, but nothing of the hands that took it. He had heard that his +mother had a nice young woman to help her in the house, but cherished so +little interest in home-affairs that the news waked in him no curiosity. + +Ever since she came to Stonecross, Isy had been on the outlook lest +James should unexpectedly surprise her, and so be himself surprised into +an involuntary disclosure of his relation to her; and not even by +the long deferring of her hope to see him yet again, had she come to +pretermit her vigilance. She did not intend to avoid him altogether, +only to take heed not to startle him into any recognition of her in the +presence of his mother. But when she saw him approaching the house, her +courage failed her, and she fled to avoid the danger of betraying +both herself and him. She was in truth ashamed of meeting him, in her +imagination feeling guiltily exposed to his just reproaches. All the +time he remained that evening with his mother, she kept watching the +house, not once showing herself until he was gone, when she reappeared +as if just returned from the moor, where Mrs. Blatherwick imagined +her still indulging the hope of finding her baby, concerning whom her +mistress more than doubted the very existence, taking the supposed fancy +for nothing but a half-crazy survival from the time of her insanity +before the Robertsons found her. + +The minister made a comforting peace with his mother, telling her a +part of the truth, namely, that he had been much out of sorts during the +week, and quite unable to write a new sermon; and that so he had been +driven at the very last to take an old one, and that so hurriedly that +he had failed to recall correctly the subject and nature of it; that +he had actually begun to read it before finding that it was altogether +unsuitable—at which very moment, fatally for his equanimity, he +discovered his parents in the congregation, and was so dismayed that he +could not recover his self-possession, whence had ensued his apparent +lack of cordiality! It was a lame, yet somewhat plausible excuse, and +served to silence for the moment, although it was necessarily so far +from satisfying his mother’s heart. His father was out of doors, and him +James did not see. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +As time went on, the terror of discovery grew rather than abated in the +mind of the minister. He could not tell whence or why it should be so, +for no news of Isy reached him, and he felt, in his quieter moments, +almost certain that she could not have passed so completely out of his +horizon, if she were still in the world. When most persuaded of this, +he felt ablest to live and forget the past, of which he was unable to +recall any portion with satisfaction. The darkness and silence left over +it by his unrepented offence, gave it, in his retrospect, a threatening +aspect—out of which at any moment might burst the hidden enemy, the +thing that might be known, and must not be known! He derived, however, +a feeble and right cowardly comfort from the reflection that he had done +nothing to hide the miserable fact, and could not now. He even persuaded +himself that if he could he _would_ not do anything now to keep it +secret; he would leave all to that Providence which seemed hitherto +to have wrought on his behalf: he would but keep a silence which no +gentleman must break!—And why should that come abroad which Providence +itself concealed? Who had any claim to know a mere passing fault, which +the partner in it must least of all desire exposed, seeing it would fall +heavier upon her than upon him? Where was any call for that confession, +about which the soutar had maundered so foolishly? If, on the other +hand, his secret should threaten to creep out, he would not, he +flattered himself, move a finger to keep it hidden! he would that moment +disappear in some trackless solitude, rejoicing that he had nothing +left to wish undisclosed! As to the charge of hypocrisy that was sure to +follow, he was innocent: he had never said anything he did not believe! +he had made no professions beyond such as were involved in his position! +he had never once posed as a man of Christian experience—like the +soutar for instance! Simply and only he had been overtaken in a fault, +which he had never repeated, never would repeat, and which he was +willing to atone for in any way he could! + +On the following Saturday, the soutar was hard at work all day long +on the new boots the minister had ordered of him, which indeed he had +almost forgotten in anxiety about the man for whom he had to make them. +For MacLear was now thoroughly convinced that the young man had “some +sick offence within his mind,” and was the more anxious to finish his +boots and carry them home the same night, that he knew his words had +increased the sickness of that offence, which sickness might be the +first symptom of returning health. For nothing attracted the soutar more +than an opportunity of doing anything to lift from a human soul, were +it but a single fold of the darkness that compassed it, and so let the +light nearer to the troubled heart. As to what it might be that was +harassing the minister’s soul, he sternly repressed in himself all +curiosity. The thought of Maggie’s precious little foundling did indeed +once more occur to him, but he tried all he could to shut it out. He did +also desire that the minister should confess, but he had no wish that +he should unbosom himself to him: from such a possibility, indeed, he +shrank; while he did hope to persuade him to seek counsel of some one +capable of giving him true advice. He also hoped that, his displeasure +gradually passing, he would resume his friendly intercourse with +himself; for somehow there was that in the gloomy parson which +powerfully attracted the cheery and hopeful soutar, who hoped his +troubled abstraction might yet prove to be heart-hunger after a +spiritual good which he had not begun to find: he might not yet have +understood, he thought, the good news about God—that he was just +what Jesus seemed to those that saw the glory of God in his face. The +minister could not, the soutar thought, have learned much of the truth +concerning God; for it seemed to wake in him no gladness, no power of +life, no strength to _be_. For _him_ Christ had not risen, but lay wrapt +in his winding sheet! So far as James’s feeling was concerned, the larks +and the angels must all be mistaken in singing as they did! + +At an hour that caused the soutar anxiety as to whether the housekeeper +might not have retired for the night, he rang the bell of the +manse-door; which in truth did bring the minister himself from his +study, to confront MacLear on the other side of the threshold, with the +new boots in his hand. + +But the minister had come to see that his behaviour in his last visit to +the soutar must have laid him open to suspicion from him; and he was now +bent on removing what he counted the unfortunate impression his words +might have made. Wishing therefore to appear to cherish no offence over +his parishioner’s last words to him ere they parted, and so obliterate +any suggestion of needed confession lurking behind his own words with +which he had left him, he now addressed him with an _abandon_ which, +gloomy in spirit as he habitually was, he could yet assume in a moment +when the masking instinct was aroused in him— + +“Oh, Mr. MacLear,” he said jocularly, “I am glad you have just managed +to escape breaking the Sabbath! You have had a close shave! It wants ten +minutes, hardly more, to the awful midnight hour!” + +“I doobt, sir, it would hae broken the Sawbath waur, to fail o’ my word +for the sake o’ a steik or twa that maittered naething to God or man!” +returned the soutar. + +“Ah, well, we won’t argue about it! but if we were inclined to be +strict, the Sabbath began some”—here he looked at his watch—“some +five hours and three-quarters ago; that is, at six of the clock, on the +evening of Saturday!” + +“Hoot, minister, ye ken ye’re wrang there! for, Jew-wise, it began at +sax o’ the Friday nicht! But ye hae made it plain frae the poopit that +ye hae nae supperstition aboot the first day o’ the week, the whilk +alane has aucht to dee wi’ hiz Christians!—We’re no a’ Jews, though +there’s a heap o’ them upo’ this side the Tweed! I, for my pairt, +confess nae obligation but to drap workin, and sit doon wi’ clean han’s, +or as clean as I can weel mak them, to the speeritooal table o’ my Lord, +whaur I aye try as weel to weir a clean and a cheerfu’ face—that +is, sae far as the sermon will permit—and there’s aye a pyke o’ mate +somewhaur intil ’t! For isna it the bonny day whan the Lord wad hae us +sit doon and ait wi himsel, wha made the h’avens and the yirth, and the +waters under the yirth that haud it up! And wilna he, upo this day, at +the last gran’ merridge-feast, poor oot the bonny reid wine, and say, +‘Sit ye doon, bairns, and tak o’ my best’!” + +“Ay, ay, Mr. MacLear; that’s a fine way to think of the Sabbath!” +rejoined the minister, “and the very way I am in the habit of thinking +of it myself!—I’m greatly obliged to you for bringing home my boots; +but indeed I could have managed very well without them!” + +“Ay, sir, maybe; I dinna doobt ye hae pairs and pairs o’ beets; but ye +see _I_ couldna dee _wi’oot_ them, for I had _promised_.” + +The word struck the minister to the heart. “He means something!” he said +to himself. “—But I never promised the girl anything! I _could_ not +have done it! I never thought of such a thing! I never said anything to +bind me!” + +He never saw that, whether he had promised or not, his deed had bound +him more absolutely than any words. + +All this time he was letting the soutar stand on the doorstep, with the +new boots in his hand. + +“Come in,” he said at last, “and put them there in the window. It’s +about time we were all going to bed, I think—especially myself, +to-morrow being sermon-day!” + +The soutar betook himself to his home and to bed, sorry that he had said +nothing, yet having said more than he knew. + +The next evening he listened to the best sermon he had yet heard from +that pulpit—a summary of the facts bearing on the resurrection of our +Lord;—with which sermon, however, a large part of the congregation was +anything but pleased; for the minister had admitted the impossibility of +reconciling, in every particular, the differing accounts of the doings +and seeings of those who bore witness to it. + +“—As gien,” said the soutar, “the Lord wasna to shaw himsel till a’ +that had seen he was up war agreed as to their recollection o’ what fouk +had reportit!” + +He went home edified and uplifted by his fresh contemplation of the +story of his Master’s victory: thank God! he thought; his pains were +over at last! and through death he was lord for ever over death and +evil, over pain and loss and fear, who was already through his father +lord of creation and life, and of all things visible and invisible! He +was Lord also of all thinking and feeling and judgment, able to give +repentance and restoration, and to set right all that selfwill had set +wrong! So greatly did the heart of his humble disciple rejoice in him, +that he scandalized the reposing sabbath-street, by breaking out, as he +went home, into a somewhat unmelodious song, “They are all gone down to +hell with the weapons of their war!” to a tune nobody knew but himself, +and which he could never have sung again. “O Faithful and True,” he +broke out once more as he reached his own house; but checked +himself abruptly, saying, “Tut, tut, the fowk’ll think I hae been +drinkin’!—Eh,” he continued to himself as he went in, “gien I micht but +ance hear the name that no man kens but Himsel!” + +The next day he was very tired, and could get through but little +work; so, on the Tuesday he felt it would be right to take a holiday. +Therefore he put a large piece of oatcake in his pocket, and telling +Maggie he was going to the hills, “to do nae thing and a’thing, baith at +ance, a’ day,” disappeared with a backward look and lingering smile. + +He went brimful of expectation, and was not disappointed in those he met +by the way. + +After walking some distance in quiescent peace, and having since +noontide met no one—to use his own fashion of speech—by which he meant +that no special thought had arisen uncalled-for in his mind, always +regarding such a thought as a word direct from the First Thought, he +turned his steps toward Stonecross. He had known Peter Blatherwick for +many years, and honoured him as one in whom there was no guile; and now +the desire to see him came upon him: he wanted to share with him the +pleasure and benefit he had gathered from Sunday’s sermon, and show the +better quality of the food their pastor had that day laid before his +sheep. He knocked at the door, thinking to see the mistress, and hear +from her where her husband was likely to be found; but to his surprise, +the farmer came himself to the door, where he stood in silence, with a +look that seemed to say, “I know you; but what can you be wanting with +me?” His face was troubled, and looked not only sorrowful, but scared +as well. Usually ruddy with health, and calm with content, it was now +blotted with pallid shades, and seemed, as he held the door-handle +without a word of welcome, that of one aware of something unseen behind +him. + +“What ails ye, Mr. Bletherwick?” asked the soutar, in a voice that +faltered with sympathetic anxiety. “Surely—I houp there’s naething come +ower the mistress!” + +“Na, I thank ye; she’s vera weel. But a dreid thing has befa’en her and +me. It’s little mair nor an hoor sin syne ’at oor Isy—ye maun hae h’ard +tell o’ Isy, ’at we baith had sic a fawvour for—a’ at ance she jist +drappit doon deid as gien shotten wi’ a gun! In fac I thoucht for a +meenut, though I h’ard nae shot, that sic had been the case. The ae +moment she steed newsin wi’ her mistress i’ the kitchie, and the neist +she was in a heap upo’ the fleer o’ ’t!—But come in, come in.” + +“Eh, the bonnie lassie!” cried the shoemaker, without moving to enter; +“I min’ upo’ her weel, though I believe I never saw her but ance!—a +fine, delicat pictur o’ a lassie, that luikit up at ye as gien she made +ye kin’ly welcome to onything she could gie or get for ye!” + +“Aweel, as I’m tellin ye,” said the farmer, “she’s awa’; and we’ll see +her no more till the earth gies up her deid! The wife’s in there wi’ +what’s left o’ her, greitin as gien she wad greit her een oot. Eh, but +she lo’ed her weel:—Doon she drappit, and no even a moment to say her +prayers!” + +“That maitters na muckle—no a hair, in fac!” returned the soutar. “It +was the Father o’ her, nane ither, that took her. He wantit her hame; +and he’s no ane to dee onything ill, or at the wrang moment! Gien a +meenut mair had been ony guid til her, thinkna ye she wud hae had that +meenut!” + +“Willna ye come in and see her? Some fowk canna bide to luik upo the +deid, but ye’re no ane o’ sic!” + +“Na; it’s trowth I daurna be nane o’ sic. I s’ richt wullinly gang wi’ +ye to luik upo the face o’ ane ’at’s won throuw!” + +“Come awa’ than; and maybe the Lord ’ill gie ye a word o’ comfort for +the mistress, for she taks on terrible aboot her. It braks my hert to +see her!” + +“The hert o’ baith king and cobbler’s i’ the ae han’ o’ the Lord,” +answered the soutar solemnly; “and gien my hert indite onything, my +tongue ’ill be ready to speyk the same.” + +He followed the farmer—who trode softly, as if he feared disturbing the +sleeper—upon whom even the sudden silences of the world would break no +more. + +Mr. Blatherwick led the way to the parlour, and through it to a closet +behind, used as the guest-chamber. There, on a little white bed with +dimity curtains, lay the form of Isobel. The eyes of the soutar, in whom +had lingered yet a hope, at once revealed that he saw she was indeed +gone to return no more. Her lovely little face, although its beautiful +eyes were closed, was even lovelier than before; but her arms and hands +lay straight by her sides; their work was gone from them; no voice would +call her any more! she might sleep on, and take her rest! + +“I had but to lay them straucht,” sobbed her mistress; “her een she had +closed hersel as she drappit! Eh, but she _was_ a bonny lassie—and a +guid!—hardly less nor ain bairn to me!” + +“And to me as weel!” supplemented Peter, with a choked sob. + +“And no ance had I paid her a penny wage!” cried Marion, with sudden +remorseful reminiscence. + +“She’ll never think o’ wages noo!” said her husband. “We’ll sen’ them to +the hospital, and that’ll ease yer min’, Mirran!” + +“Eh, she was a dacent, mensefu, richt lo’able cratur!” cried Marion. +“She never _said_ naething to jeedge by, but I hae a glimmer o’ houp ’at +she _may_ ha’ been ane o’ the Lord’s ain.” + +“Is that a’ ye can say, mem?” interposed the soutar. “Surely ye wadna +daur imaigine her drappit oot o’ _his_ han’s!” + +“Na,” returned Marion; “but I wad richt fain ken her fair intil them! +Wha is there to assure ’s o’ her faith i’ the atonement?” + +“Deed, I kenna, and I carena, mem! I houp she had faith i’ naething, +thing nor thoucht, but the Lord himsel! Alive or deid, we’re in his +han’s wha dee’d for us, revealin his Father til ’s,” said the soutar; +“—and gien she didna ken Him afore, she wull noo! The holy All-in-All +be wi’ her i’ the dark, or whatever comes!—O God, haud up her heid, and +latna the watters gang ower her!” + +So-called Theology rose, dull, rampant, and indignant; but the solemn +face of the dead interdicted dispute, and Love was ready to hope, if not +quite to believe. Nevertheless to those guileless souls, the words of +the soutar sounded like blasphemy: was not her fate settled, and for +ever? Had not death in a moment turned her into an immortal angel, or +an equally immortal devil? Only how, at such a moment, with the peaceful +face before them, were they to argue the possibility that she, the +loving, the gentle, whose fault they knew but by her own voluntary +confession, was now as utterly indifferent to the heart of the living +God, as if He had never created her—nay even had become hateful to +him! No one spoke; and the soutar, after gazing on the dead for a +while, prayer overflowing his heart, but never reaching his lips, turned +slowly, and departed without a word. + +As he reached his own door, he met the minister, and told him of the +sorrow that had befallen his parents, adding that it was plain they were +in sore need of his sympathy. James, although marvelling at their being +so much troubled by the death of merely a servant, was roused by the +tale to the duty of his profession; and although his heart had never +yet drawn him either to the house of mourning or the house of mirth, +he judged it becoming to pay another visit to Stonecross, thinking it, +however, rather hard that he should have to go again so soon. It pleased +the soutar to see him face about at once, however, and start for the +farm with a quicker stride than, since his return to Tiltowie as its +minister, he had seen him put forth. + +James had not the slightest foreboding of whom he was about to see in +the arms of Death. But even had he had some feeling of what was +awaiting him, I dare not even conjecture the mood in which he would +have approached the house—whether one of compunction, or of relief. +But utterly unconscious of the discovery toward which he was rushing, +he hurried on, with a faint pleasure at the thought of having to +expostulate with his mother upon the waste of such an unnecessary +expenditure of feeling. Toward his father, he was aware of a more +active feeling of disapproval, if not indeed one of repugnance. James +Blatherwick was of such whose sluggish natures require, for the melting +of their stubbornness, and their remoulding into forms of strength +and beauty, such a concentration of the love of God that it becomes a +consuming fire. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +The night had fallen when he reached the farm. The place was silent; its +doors were all shut; and when he opened the nearest, seldom used but for +the reception of strangers, not a soul was to be seen; no one came to +meet him, for no one had even thought of him, and certainly no one, +except it were the dead, desired his coming. He went into the parlour, +and there, from the dim chamber beyond, whose door stood open, appeared +his mother. Her heart big with grief, she clasped him in her arms, and +laid her cheek against his bosom: higher she could not reach, and +nearer than his breast-bone she could not get to him. No endearment +was customary between them: James had never encouraged or missed any; +neither did he know how to receive such when offered. + +“I am distressed, mother,” he began, “to see you so upset; and I cannot +help thinking such a display of feeling unnecessary. If I may say so, it +seems to me unreasonable. You cannot, in such a brief period as this new +maid of yours has spent with you, have developed such an affection for +her, as this—” he hesitated for a word, “—as this _bouleversement_ +would seem to indicate! The young woman can hardly be a relative, or +I should surely have heard of her existence! The suddenness of the +occurrence, of which I heard only from my shoemaker, MacLear, must have +wrought disastrously upon your nerves! Come, come, dear mother! you must +indeed compose yourself! It is quite unworthy of you, to yield to such a +paroxysm of unnatural and uncalled-for grief! Surely it is the part of a +Christian like you, to meet with calmness, especially in the case of one +you have known so little, that inevitable change which neither man +nor woman can avoid longer than a few years at most! Of course, the +appalling instantaneousness of it in the present case, goes far to +explain and excuse your emotion, but now at least, after so many hours +have elapsed, it is surely time for reason to resume her sway! Was +it not Schiller who said, ‘Death cannot be an evil, for it is +universal’?—At all events, it is not an unmitigated evil!” he +added—with a sigh, as if for his part he was prepared to welcome it. + +During this prolonged and foolish speech, the gentle woman, whose +mother-heart had loved the poor girl that bore her daughter’s name, had +been restraining her sobs behind her handkerchief; but now, as she heard +her son’s cold commonplaces, it was, perhaps, a little wholesome anger +that roused her, and made her able to speak. + +“Ye didna ken her, laddie,” she cried, “or ye wad never mint at layin +yer tongue upon her that gait!—’Deed na, ye wadna!—But I doobt gien +ever ye could hae come to ken her as she was—sic a bonny, herty sowl +as ance dwalt in yon white-faced, patient thing, lyin i’ the chaumer +there—wi’ the stang oot o’ her hert at last, and left the sharper i’ +mine! But me and yer father—eh, weel we lo’ed her! for to hiz she was +like oor ain Isy,—ay, mair a dochter nor a servan—wi’a braw lovin +kin’ness in her, no to be luikit for frae ony son, and sic as we never +had frae ony afore but oor ain Isy.—Jist gang ye intil the closet +there, gien ye wull, and ye’ll see what’ll maybe saften yer hert a bit, +and lat ye unerstan’ what mak o’ a thing’s come to the twa auld fowk ye +never cared muckle aboot!” + +James felt bitterly aggrieved by this personal remark of his mother. How +unfair she was! What had _he_ ever done to offend her? Had he not always +behaved himself properly—except indeed in that matter of which neither +she, nor living soul else, knew anything, or would ever know! What +right had she then to say such things to him! Had he not fulfilled +the expectations with which his father sent him to college? had he not +gained a position whose reflected splendour crowned them the parents of +James Blatherwick? She showed him none of the consideration or respect +he had so justly earned but never demanded! He rose suddenly, and +with never a thought save to leave his mother so as to manifest his +displeasure with her, stalked heedlessly into the presence of the more +heedless dead. + +The night had indeed fallen, but, the little window of the room looking +westward, and a bar of golden light yet lying like a resurrection +stone over the spot where the sun was buried, a pale sad gleam, softly +vanishing, hovered, hardly rested, upon the lovely, still, unlooking +face, that lay white on the scarcely whiter pillow. Coming out of the +darker room, the sharp, low light blinded him a little, so that he saw +without any certainty of perception; yet he seemed to have something +before him not altogether unfamiliar, giving him a suggestion as of +something he had known once, perhaps ought now to recognize, but had +forgotten: the reality of it seemed to be obscured by the strange +autumnal light entering almost horizontally. Concluding himself oddly +affected by the sight of a room he had regarded with some awe in his +childhood, and had not set foot in it for a long time, he drew a +little nearer to the bed, to look closer at the face of this paragon +of servants, whose loss was causing his mother a sorrow so unreasonably +poignant. + +The sense of her resemblance to some one grew upon him; but not yet had +he begun to recognize the death-changed countenance; he became assured +only that he _had_ seen that still face before, and that, would she but +open those eyes, he should know at once who she was. + +Then the true suspicion flashed upon him: good God! _could it be_ the +dead Isy? Of course not! It was the merest illusion! a nonsensical +fancy, caused by the irregular mingling of the light and darkness! In +the daytime he could not have been so befooled by his imagination! He +had always known the clearness, both physical and mental, with which +he saw everything! Nevertheless, the folly had power to fix him staring +where he stood, with his face leant close to the face of the dead. It +was only like, it could not be the same! and yet he could not turn and +go from it! Why did he not, by the mere will in whose strength he took +pride, force his way out of the room? He stirred not a foot; he stared +and stood. And as he stared, the dead face seemed to come nearer him +through the darkness, growing more and more like the only girl he had +ever, though even then only in fancy, loved. If it was not she, how +could the dead look so like the living he had once known? At length +what doubt was left, changed suddenly to assurance that it must be she. +And—dare I say it?—it brought him a sense of relief! He breathed a +sigh of such false, rascally peace as he had not known since his sin, +and with that sigh he left the room. Passing his mother, who still wept +in the now deeper dusk of the parlour, with the observation that there +was no moon, and it would be quite dark before he reached the manse, he +bade her good-night, and went out. + +When Peter, who unable to sit longer inactive had gone to the stable, +re-entered, foiled in the attempt to occupy himself, and sat down by his +wife, she began to talk about the funeral preparations, and the persons +to be invited. But such sorrow overtook him afresh, that even his wife, +herself inconsolable over her loss, was surprised at the depth of his +grief for one who was no relative. It seemed to him indelicate, almost +heartless of her to talk so soon of burying the dear one but just gone +from their sight: it was unnecessary dispatch, and suggested a lack of +reverence! + +“What for sic a hurry?” he expostulated. “Isna there time eneuch to put +oot o’ yer sicht what ye ance lo’ed sae weel? Lat me be the nicht; the +morn ’ill be here sene eneuch! Lat my sowl rest a moment wi’ deith, and +haud awa wi yer funeral. ‘Sufficient til the day,’ ye ken!” + +“Eh dear, but I’m no like you, Peter! Whan the sowl’s gane, I tak no +content i’ the presence o’ the puir worthless body, luikin what it never +mair can be! Na, I wad be rid o’ ’t, I confess!—But be it as ye wull, +my ain man! It’s a sair hert ye hae as weel as me i’ yer body this +nicht; and we maun beir ane anither’s burdens! The dauty may lie as we +hae laid her, the nicht throuw, and naething said: there’s little to be +dene for her; she’s a bonny clean corp as ever was, and may weel lie a +week afore we put her awa’!—There’s no need for ony to watch her; tyke +nor baudrins ’ill never come near her.—I hae aye won’ert what for fowk +wad sit up wi the deid: yet I min’ me weel they aye did i’ the auld +time.” + +In this she showed, however, and in this alone, that the girl she +lamented was not her own daughter; for when the other Isy died, her body +was never for a moment left with the eternal spaces, as if she might +wake, and be terrified to find herself alone. Then, as if God had +forgotten them, they went to bed without saying their usual prayers +together: I fancy the visit of her son had been to Marion like the chill +of a wandering iceberg. + +In the morning the farmer, up first as usual, went into the +death-chamber and sat down by the side of the bed, reproaching himself +that he had forgotten “worship” the night before. + +And as he sat looking at the white face, he became aware of what might +be a little tinge of colour—the faintest possible—upon the lips. +He knew it must be a fancy, or at best an accident without +significance—for he had heard of such a thing! Still, even if his eyes +were deceiving him, he must shrink from hiding away such death out of +sight! The merest counterfeit of life was too sacred for burial! Just +such might the little daughter of Jairus have looked when the Lord took +her by the hand ere she arose! + +Thus feeling, and thus seeming to see on the lips of the girl a doubtful +tinge of the light of life, it was no wonder that Peter could not +entertain the thought of her immediate burial. They must at least wait +some sign, some unmistakable proof even, of change begun! + +Instead, therefore, of going into the yard to set in motion the needful +preparations for the harvest at hand, he sat on with the dead: he could +not leave her until his wife should come to take his place and keep +her company! He brought a bible from the next room, sat down again, and +waited beside her. In doubtful, timid, tremulous hope, not worthy of the +name of hope—a mere sense of a scarcely possible possibility, he waited +what he would not consent to believe he waited for. He would not deceive +himself; he would give his wife no hint, but wait to see how she saw! +He would put to her no leading question even, but watch for any start or +touch of surprise she might betray! + +By and by Marion appeared, gazed a moment on the dead, looked pitifully +in her husband’s face, and went out again. + +“She sees naething!” said Peter to himself. “I s’ awa’ to my +wark!—Still I winna hae her laid aside afore I’m a wheen surer o’ what +she is—leevin sowl or deid clod!” + +With a sad sense of vanished self-delusion, he rose and went out. As he +passed through the kitchen, his wife followed him to the door. “Ye’ll +see and sen’ a message to the vricht (_carpenter_) the day?” she +whispered. + +“I’m no likly to forget!” he answered; “but there’s nae hurry, seein +there’s no life concernt!” + +“Na, nane; the mair’s the pity!” she answered; and Peter knew, with a +glad relief, that his wife was coming to herself from the terrible blow. + +She sent the cowboy to the Cormacks’ cottage, to tell Eppie to come to +her. + +The old woman came, heard what details there were to the sad story, +shook her head mournfully, and found nothing to say; but together they +set about preparing the body for burial. That done, the mind of +Mrs. Blatherwick was at ease, and she sat expecting the visit of the +carpenter. But the carpenter did not come. + +On the Thursday morning the soutar came to inquire after his friends at +Stanecross, and the gudewife gave him a message to Willie Wabster, the +_vricht_, to see about the coffin. + +But the soutar, catching sight of the farmer in the yard, went and had +a talk with him; and the result was that he took no message to the +carpenter; and when Peter went in to his dinner, he still said there was +no hurry: why should she be so anxious to heap earth over the dead? +For still he saw, or fancied he saw, the same possible colour on Isy’s +cheek—like the faintest sunset-red, or that in the heart of the palest +blush-rose, which is either glow or pallor as you choose to think it. So +the first week of Isy’s death passed, and still she lay in state, ready +for the grave, but unburied. + +Not a few of the neighbours came to see her, and were admitted where she +lay; and some of them warned Marion that, when the change came, it would +come suddenly; but still Peter would not hear of her being buried “with +that colour on her cheek!” And Marion had come to see, or to imagine +with her husband that she saw the colour. So, each in turn, they kept +watching her: who could tell but the Lord might be going to work a +miracle for them, and was not in the meantime only trying them, to see +how long their patience and hope would endure! + +The report spread through the neighbourhood, and reached Tiltowie, where +it speedily pervaded street and lane:—“The lass at Stanecross, she’s +lyin deid, and luikin as alive as ever she was!” From street and lane +the people went crowding to see the strange sight, and would have +overrun the house, but had a reception by no means cordial: the farmer +set men at every door, and would admit no one. Angry and ashamed, they +all turned and went—except a few of the more inquisitive, who continued +lurking about in the hope of hearing something to carry home and enlarge +upon. + +As to the minister, he insisted upon disbelieving the whole thing, and +yet was made not a little uncomfortable by the rumour. Such a foe to +superstition that in his mind he silently questioned the truth of all +records of miracles, to whomsoever attributed, he was yet haunted by a +fear which he dared not formulate. Of course, whatever might take place, +it could be no miracle, but the mere natural effect of natural causes! +none the less, however, did he dread what might happen: he feared Isy +herself, and what she might disclose! For a time he did not dare again +go near the place. The girl might be in a trance! she might revive +suddenly, and call out his name! She might even reveal all! She had +always been a strange girl! What if, indeed, she were even being now +kept alive to tell the truth, and disgrace him before all the world! +Horrible as was the thought, might it not be well, in view of the +possibility of her revival, that he should be present to hear anything +she might say, and take precaution against it? He resolved, therefore, +to go to Stonecross, and make inquiry after her, heartily hoping to find +her undoubtedly and irrecoverably dead. + +In the meantime, Peter had been growing more and more expectant, and had +nearly forgotten all about the coffin, when a fresh rumour came to +the ears of William Webster, the coffin-maker, that the young woman at +Stonecross was indeed and unmistakably gone; whereupon he, having lost +patience over the uncertainty that had been crippling his operations, +questioned no more what he had so long expected, set himself at once +to his supposed task, and finished what he had already begun and indeed +half ended. The same night that the minister was on his way to the +farm, he passed Webster and his man carrying the coffin home through +the darkness: he descried what it was, and his heart gave a throb of +satisfaction. The men reaching Stonecross in the pitch-blackness of a +gathering storm, they stupidly set up their burden on end by the first +door, and went on to the other, where they made a vain effort to convey +to the deaf Eppie a knowledge of what they had done. She making them no +intelligible reply, there they left the coffin leaning up against the +wall; and, eager to get home ere the storm broke upon them, set off at +what speed was possible to them on the rough and dark road to Tiltowie, +now in their turn meeting and passing the minister on his way. + +By the time James arrived at Stonecross, it was too dark for him to see +the ghastly sentinel standing at the nearer door. He walked into the +parlour; and there met his father coming from the little chamber where +his wife was seated. + +“Isna this a most amazin thing, and houpfu’ as it’s amazing?” cried his +father. “What _can_ there be to come oot o’ ’t? Eh, but the w’ys o’ +the Almichty are truly no to be mizzered by mortal line! The lass maun +surely be intendit for marvellous things, to be dealt wi’ efter sic an +extra-ordnar fashion! Nicht efter nicht has the tane or the tither o’ +hiz twa been sittin here aside her, lattin the hairst tak its chance, +and i’ the daytime lea’in ’maist a’ to the men, me sleepin and they at +their wark; and here the bonny cratur lyin, as quaiet as gien she had +never seen tribble, for thirteen days, and no change past upon her, no +more than on the three holy bairns i’ the fiery furnace! I’m jist in a +trimle to think what’s to come oot o’ ’t a’! God only kens! we can but +sit still and wait his appearance! What think ye, Jeemie?—Whan the Lord +was deid upo’ the cross, they waitit but twa nichts, and there he was up +afore them! here we hae waitit, close on a haill fortnicht—and naething +even to pruv that she’s deid! still less ony sign that ever she’ll speyk +word til’s again!—What think ye o’ ’t, man?” + +“Gien ever she returns to life, I greatly doobt she’ll ever bring +back her senses wi’ her!” said the mother, joining them from the inner +chamber. + +“Hoot, ye min’ the tale o’ the lady—Lady Fanshawe, I believe they ca’d +her? She cam til hersel a’ richt i’ the en’!” said Peter. + +“I don’t remember the story,” said James. “Such old world tales are +little to be heeded.” + +“I min’ naething aboot it but jist that muckle,” said his father. “And I +can think o’ naething but that bonny lassie lyin there afore me naither +deid nor alive! I jist won’er, Jeames, that ye’re no as concernt, and as +fillt wi’ doobt and even dreid anent it as I am mysel!” + +“We’re all in the hands of the God who created life and death,” returned +James, in a pious tone. + +The father held his peace. + +“And He’ll bring licht oot o’ the vera dark o’ the grave!” said the +mother. + +Her faith, or at least her hope, once set agoing, went farther than her +husband’s, and she had a greater power of waiting than he. James had +sorely tried both her patience and her hope, and not even now had she +given him up. + +“Ye’ll bide and share oor watch this ae nicht, Jeames?” said Peter. +“It’s an elrische kin o’ a thing to wauk up i’ the mirk mids, wi’ a deid +corp aside ye!—No ’at even yet I gie her up for deid! but I canna help +feelin some eerie like—no to say fleyt! Bide, man, and see the nicht +oot wi’ ’s, and gie yer mither and me some hert o’ grace.” + +James had little inclination to add another to the party, and began to +murmur something about his housekeeper. But his mother cut him short +with the indignant remark— + +“Hoot, what’s _she_?—Naething to you or ony o’ ’s! Lat her sit up for +ye, gien she likes! Lat her sit, I say, and never waste thoucht upo’ the +queyn!” + +James had not a word to answer. Greatly as he shrank from the ordeal, he +must encounter it without show of reluctance! He dared not even propose +to sit in the kitchen and smoke. With better courage than will, he +consented to share their vigil. “And then,” he reflected, “if she should +come to herself, there would be the advantage he had foreseen and even +half desired!” + +His mother went to prepare supper for them. His father rose, and saying +he would have a look at the night, went toward the door; for even +his strange situation could not entirely smother the anxiety of the +husbandman. But James glided past him to the door, determined not to be +left alone with that thing in the chamber. + +But in the meantime the wind had been rising, and the coffin had been +tilting and resettling on its narrower end. At last, James opening the +door, the gruesome thing fell forward just as he crossed the threshold, +knocked him down, and settled on the top of him. His father, close +behind him, tumbled over the obstruction, divined, in the light of a +lamp in the passage, what the prostrate thing was, and scrambling to his +feet with the only oath he had, I fully believe, ever uttered, cried: +“Damn that fule, Willie Wabster! Had he naething better to dee nor +sen’ to the hoose coffins naebody wantit—and syne set them doon like +rotten-traps (_rat-traps_) to whomel puir Jeemie!” He lifted the thing +from off the minister, who rose not much hurt, but both amazed and +offended at the mishap, and went to his mother in the kitchen. + +“Dinna say muckle to yer mither, Jeames laad,” said his father as +he went; “that is, dinna explain preceesely hoo the ill-faured thing +happent. _I’ll_ hae amen’s (_amends, vengeance_) upon him!” So saying, +he took the offensive vehicle, awkward burden as it was, in his two +arms, and carrying it to the back of the cornyard, shoved it over the +low wall into the dry ditch at its foot, where he heaped dirty straw +from the stable over it. + +“It’ll be lang,” he vowed to himsel, “or Willie Wabster hear the last +o’ this!—and langer yet or he see the glint o’ the siller he thoucht +he was yirnin by ’t!—It’s come and cairry ’t hame himsel he sall, the +muckle idiot! He may turn ’t intil a breid-kist, or what he likes, the +gomf!” + +“Fain wud I screw the reid heid o’ ’im intil that same kist, and +haud him there, short o’ smorin!” he muttered as he went back to the +house.—“Faith, I could ’maist beery him ootricht!” he concluded, with a +grim smile. + +Ere he re-entered the house, however, he walked a little way up the +hill, to cast over the vault above him a farmer’s look of inquiry as to +the coming night, and then went in, shaking his head at what the clouds +boded. + +Marion had brought their simple supper into the parlour, and was sitting +there with James, waiting for him. When they had ended their meal, +and Eppie had removed the remnants, the husband and wife went into the +adjoining chamber and sat down by the bedside, where James presently +joined them with a book in his hand. Eppie, having _rested_ the fire in +the kitchen, came into the parlour, and sat on the edge of a chair just +inside the door. + +Peter had said nothing about the night, and indeed, in his wrath with +the carpenter, had hardly noted how imminent was the storm; but the air +had grown very sultry, and the night was black as pitch, for a solid +mass of cloud had blotted out the stars: it was plain that, long before +morning, a terrible storm must break. But midnight came and went, and +all was very still. + +Suddenly the storm was upon them, with a forked, vibrating flash of +angry light that seemed to sting their eyeballs, and was replaced by a +darkness that seemed to crush them like a ponderous weight. Then all at +once the weight itself seemed torn and shattered into sound—into heaps +of bursting, roaring, tumultuous billows. Another flash, yet another and +another followed, each with its crashing uproar of celestial avalanches. +At the first flash Peter had risen and gone to the larger window of +the parlour, to discover, if possible, in what direction the storm was +travelling. Marion, feeling as if suddenly unroofed, followed him, and +James was left alone with the dead. He sat, not daring to move; but when +the third flash came, it flickered and played so long about the dead +face, that it seemed for minutes vividly visible, and his gaze was +fixed on it, fascinated. The same moment, without a single preparatory +movement, Isy was on her feet, erect on the bed. + +A great cry reached the ears of the father and mother. They hurried into +the chamber: James lay motionless and senseless on the floor: a man’s +nerve is not necessarily proportioned to the hardness of his heart! The +verity of the thing had overwhelmed him. + +Isobel had fallen, and lay gasping and sighing on the bed. She knew +nothing of what had happened to her; she did not yet know herself—did +not know that her faithless lover lay on the floor by her bedside. + +When the mother entered, she saw nothing—only heard Isy’s breathing. +But when her husband came with a candle, and she saw her son on the +floor, she forgot Isy; all her care was for James. She dropped on her +knees beside him, raised his head, held it to her bosom, and lamented +over him as if he were dead. She even felt annoyed with the poor girl’s +moaning, as she struggled to get back to life. Why should she whose +history was such, be the cause of mishap to her reverend and honoured +son? Was she worth one of his little fingers! Let her moan and groan and +sigh away there—what did it matter! she could well enough wait a bit! +She would see to her presently, when her precious son was better! + +Very different was the effect upon Peter when he saw Isy coming to +herself. It was a miracle indeed! It could be nothing less! White as was +her face, there was in it an unmistakable look of reviving life! When +she opened her eyes and saw her master bending over her, she greeted +him with a faint smile, closed her eyes again, and lay still. James also +soon began to show signs of recovery, and his father turned to him. + +With the old sullen look of his boyhood, he glanced up at his mother, +still overwhelming him with caresses and tears. + +“Let me up,” he said querulously, and began to wipe his face. “I feel so +strange! What can have made me turn so sick all at once?” + +“Isy’s come to life again!” said his mother, with modified show of +pleasure. + +“Oh!” he returned. + +“Ye’re surely no sorry for that!” rejoined his mother, with a reaction +of disappointment at his lack of sympathy, and rose as she said it. + +“I’m pleased to hear it—why not?” he answered. “But she gave me a +terrible start! You see, I never expected it, as you did!” + +“Weel, ye _are_ hertless, Jeemie!” exclaimed his father. “Hae ye nae +spark o’ fellow-feelin wi’ yer ain mither, whan the lass comes to +life ’at she’s been fourteen days murnin for deid? But losh! she’s aff +again!—deid or in a dwaum, I kenna!—Is’t possible she’s gaein to slip +frae oor hand yet?” + +James turned his head aside, and murmured something inaudibly. + +But Isy had only fainted. After some eager ministrations on the part of +Peter, she came to herself once more, and lay panting, her forehead wet +as with the dew of death. + +The farmer ran out to a loft in the yard, and calling the herd-boy, a +clever lad, told him to rise and ride for the doctor as fast as the mare +could lay feet to the road. + +“Tell him,” he said, “that Isy has come to life, and he maun munt and +ride like the vera mischeef, or she’ll be deid again afore he wins til +her. Gien ye canna get the tae doctor, awa wi’ ye to the tither, and +dinna ley him till ye see him i’ the saiddle and startit. Syne ye can +ease the mere, and come hame at yer leisur; he’ll be here lang afore +ye!—Tell him I’ll pey him ony fee he likes, be’t what it may, and never +compleen!—Awa’ wi’ ye like the vera deevil!” + +“I didna think ye kenned hoo _he_ rade,” answered the boy pawkily, as +he shot to the stable. “Weel,” he added, “ye maunna gley asklent at the +mere whan she comes hame some saipy-like!” + +When he returned on the mare’s back, the farmer was waiting for him with +the whisky-bottle in his hand. + +“Na, na!” he said, seeing the lad eye the bottle, “it’s no for you! ye +want a’ the sma’ wit ye ever hed: it’s no _you_ ’at has to gallop; ye +hae but to stick on!—Hae, Susy!” + +He poured half a tumblerful into a soup-plate, and held it out to the +mare, who, never snuffing at it, licked it up greedily, and immediately +started of herself at a good pace. + +Peter carried the bottle to the chamber, and got Isy to swallow a +little, after which she began to recover again. Nor did Marion forget to +administer a share to James, who was not a little in want of it. + +When, within an hour, the doctor arrived full of amazed incredulity, he +found Isy in a troubled sleep, and James gone to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +The next day, Isy, although very weak, was greatly better. She was, +however, too ill to get up; and Marion seemed now in her element, with +two invalids, both dear to her, to look after. She hardly knew for which +to be more grateful—her son, given helpless into her hands, unable to +repel the love she lavished upon him; or the girl whom God had taken +from the very throat of the swallowing grave. But her heart, at first +bubbling over with gladness, soon grew calmer, when she came to perceive +how very ill James was. And before long she began to fear she must +part with her child, whose lack of love hitherto made the threatened +separation the more frightful to her. She turned even from the thought +of Isy’s restoration, as if that were itself an added wrong. From the +occasional involuntary association of the two in her thought, she would +turn away with a sort of meek loathing. To hold her James for one moment +in the same thought with any girl less spotless than he, was to disgrace +herself! + +James was indeed not only very ill, but growing slowly worse; for he +lay struggling at last in the Backbite of Conscience, who had him in her +unrelaxing jaws, and was worrying him well. Whence the holy dog came +we know, but how he got a hold of him to begin his saving torment, who +shall understand but the maker of men and of their secret, inexorable +friend! Every beginning is infinitesimal, and wrapt in the mystery of +creation. + +Its results only, not its modes of operation or their stages, I may +venture attempting to convey. It was the wind blowing where it listed, +doing everything and explaining nothing. That wind from the timeless and +spaceless and formless region of God’s feeling and God’s thought, blew +open the eyes of this man’s mind so that he saw, and became aware that +he saw. It blew away the long-gathered vapours of his self-satisfaction +and conceit; it blew wide the windows of his soul, that the sweet odour +of his father’s and mother’s thoughts concerning him might enter; and +when it entered, he knew it for what it was; it blew back to him his own +judgments of them and their doings, and he saw those judgments side by +side with his new insights into their real thoughts and feelings; it +blew away the desert sands of his own moral dulness, indifference, and +selfishness, that had so long hidden beneath them the watersprings of +his own heart, existent by and for love and its gladness; it cleared +all his conscious being, made him understand that he had never hitherto +loved his mother or his father, or any neighbour; that he had never +loved God one genuine atom, never loved the Lord Christ, his Master, +or cared in the least that he had died for him; had never at any moment +loved Isy—least of all when to himself he pleaded in his own excuse +that he had loved her. That blowing wind, which he could not see, +neither knew whence it came, and yet less whither it was going, began to +blow together his soul and those of his parents; the love in his father +and in his mother drew him; the memories of his childhood drew him; for +the heart of God himself was drawing him, as it had been from the first, +only now first he began to feel its drawing; and as he yielded to that +drawing and went nearer, God drew ever more and more strongly; until at +last—I know not, I say, how God did it, or whereby he made the soul of +James Blatherwick different from what it had been—but at last it grew +capable of loving, and did love: first, he yielded to love because he +could not help it; then he willed to love because he could love; then, +become conscious of the power, he loved the more, and so went on to +love more and more. And thus did James become what he had to become—or +perish. + +But for this liberty, he had to pass through wild regions of torment +and horror; he had to become all but mad, and know it; his body, and his +soul as well, had to be parched with fever, thirst, and fear; he had to +sleep and dream lovely dreams of coolness and peace and courage; then +wake and know that all his life he had been dead, and now first was +alive; that love, new-born, was driving out the gibbering phantoms; that +now indeed it was good to be, and know others alive about him; that now +life was possible, because life was to love, and love was to live. What +love was, or how it was, he could not tell; he knew only that it was the +will and the joy of the Father and the Son. + +Long ere he arrived at this, however, the falsehood and utter meanness +of his behaviour to Isy had become plain to him, bringing with it such +an overpowering self-contempt and self-loathing, that he was tempted +even to self-destruction to escape the knowledge that he was himself the +very man who had been such, and had done such things. “To know my deed, +’twere best not know myself!” he might have said with Macbeth. But he +must live on, for how otherwise could he make any atonement? And with +the thought of reparation, and possible forgiveness and reconcilement, +his old love for Isy rushed in like a flood, grown infinitely nobler, +and was uplifted at last into a genuine self-abandoning devotion. But +until this final change arrived, his occasional paroxysms of remorse +touched almost on madness, and for some time it seemed doubtful whether +his mind must not retain a permanent tinge of insanity. He conceived +a huge disgust of his office and all its requirements; and sometimes +bitterly blamed his parents for not interfering with his choice of a +profession that was certain to be his ruin. + +One day, having had no delirium for some hours, he suddenly called out +as they stood by his bed— + +“Oh, mother! oh, father! _why_ did you tempt me to such hypocrisy? _Why_ +did you not bring me up to walk at the plough-tail? _Then_ I should +never have had to encounter the damnable snares of the pulpit! It was +that which ruined me—the notion that I must take the minister for my +pattern, and live up to my idea of _him_, before even I had begun to +cherish anything real in me! It was the road royal to hypocrisy! Without +that rootless, worthless, devilish fancy, I might have been no worse +than other people! Now I am lost! Now I shall never get back to bare +honesty, not to say innocence! They are both gone for ever!” + +The poor mother could only imagine it his humility that made him accuse +himself of hypocrisy, and that because he had not fulfilled to the +uttermost the smallest duty of his great office. + +“Jamie, dear,” she cried, laying her cheek to his, “ye maun cast yer +care upo’ Him that careth for ye! He kens ye hae dene yer best—or if +no yer vera best—for wha daur say that?—ye hae at least dene what ye +could!” + +“Na, na!” he answered, resuming the speech of his boyhood—a far better +sign of him than his mother understood, “I ken ower muckle, and that +muckle ower weel, to lay sic a flattering unction to my sowl! It’s jist +as black as the fell mirk! ‘Ah, limed soul, that, struggling to be free, +art more engaged!’” + +“Hoots, ye’re dreamin, laddie! Ye never was engaged to onybody—at least +that ever I h’ard tell o’! But, ony gait, fash na ye aboot that! Gien it +be onything o’ sic a natur that’s troublin ye, yer father and me we s’ +get ye clear o’ ’t!” + +“Ay, there ye’re at it again! It was _you_ ’at laid the bird-lime! Ye +aye tuik pairt, mither, wi’ the muckle deil that wad na rist till he had +my sowl in his deepest pit!” + +“The Lord kens his ain: he’ll see that they come throuw unscaumit!” + +“The Lord disna mak ony hypocreet o’ purpose doobtless; but gien a +man sin efter he has ance come to the knowledge o’ the trowth, there +remaineth for him—ye ken the lave o’ ’t as weel as I dee mysel, mother! +My only houp lies in a doobt—a doobt, that is, whether I _had_ ever +come til a knowledge o’ the trowth—or hae yet!—Maybe no!” + +“Laddie, ye’re no i’ yer richt min’. It’s fearsome to hearken til ye!” + +“It’ll be waur to hear me roarin wi’ the rich man i’ the lowes o’ hell!” + +“Peter! Peter!” cried Marion, driven almost to distraction, “here’s yer +ain son, puir fallow, blasphemin like ane o’ the condemned! He jist gars +me creep!” + +Receiving no answer, for her husband was nowhere near at the moment, she +called aloud in her desperation— + +“Isy! Isy! come and see gien ye can dee onything to quaiet this ill +bairn.” + +Isy heard, and sprang from her bed. + +“Comin, mistress!” she answered; “comin this moment.” + +They had not met since her resurrection, as Peter always called it. + +“Isy! Isy!” cried James, the moment he heard her approaching, “come and +haud the deil aff o’ me!” + +He had risen to his elbow, and was looking eagerly toward the door. + +She entered. James threw wide his arms, and with glowing eyes clasped +her to his bosom. She made no resistance: his mother would lay it all to +the fever! He broke into wild words of love, repentance, and devotion. + +“Never heed him a hair, mem; he’s clean aff o’ his heid!” she said in +a low voice, making no attempt to free herself from his embrace, but +treating him like a delirious child. “There maun be something aboot me, +mem, that quaiets him a bit! It’s the brain, ye ken, mem! it’s the het +brain! We maunna contre him! he maun hae his ain w’y for a wee!” + +But such was James’s behaviour to Isy that it was impossible for the +mother not to perceive that, incredible as it might seem, this must +be far from the first time they had met; and presently she fell to +examining her memory whether she herself might not have seen Isy +before ever she came to Stonecross; but she could find no answer to her +inquiry, press the question as she might. By and by, her husband came +in to have his dinner, and finding herself compelled, much against her +will, to leave the two together, she sent up Eppie to take Isy’s place, +with the message that she was to go down at once. Isy obeyed, and went +to the kitchen; but, perturbed and trembling, dropped on the first chair +she came to. The farmer, already seated at the table, looked up, and +anxiously regarding her, said— + +“Bairn, ye’re no fit to be aboot! Ye maun caw canny, or ye’ll be ower +the burn yet or ever ye’re safe upo’ this side o’ ’t! Preserve’s a’! ir +we to lowse ye twise in ae month?” + +“Jist answer me ae queston, Isy, and I’ll speir nae mair,” said Marion. + +“Na, na, never a queston!” interposed Peter;—“no ane afore even the +shaidow o’ deith has left the hoose!—Draw ye up to the table, my bonny +bairn: this isna a time for ceremony, and there’s sma’ room for that ony +day!” + +Finding, however, that she sat motionless, and looked far more +death-like than while in her trance, he got up, and insisted on her +swallowing a little whisky; when she revived, and glad to put herself +under his nearer protection, took the chair he had placed for her beside +him, and made a futile attempt at eating. “It’s sma’ won’er the puir +thing hasna muckle eppiteet,” remarked Mrs. Blatherwick, “considerin the +w’y yon ravin laddie up the stair has been cairryin on til her!” + +“What! Hoo’s that?” questioned her husband with a start. + +“But ye’re no to mak onything o’ that, Isy!” added her mistress. + +“Never a particle, mem!” returned Isy. “I ken weel it stan’s for +naething but the heat o’ the burnin brain! I’m richt glaid though, that +the sicht o’ me did seem to comfort him a wee!” + +“Weel, I’m no sae sure!” answered Marion. “But we’ll say nae mair anent +that the noo! The guidman says no; and his word’s law i’ this hoose.” + +Isy resumed her pretence of breakfast. Presently Eppie came down, and +going to her master, said— + +“Here’s An’ra, sir, come to speir efter the yoong minister and Isy: am I +to gar him come in?” + +“Ay, and gie him his brakfast,” shouted the farmer. + +The old woman set a chair for her son by the door, and proceeded to +attend to him. James was left alone. + +Silence again fell, and the appearance of eating was resumed, Peter +being the only one that made a reality of it. Marion was occupied with +many thinkings, specially a growing doubt and soreness about Isy. The +hussy had a secret! She had known something all the time, and had been +taking advantage of her unsuspiciousness! It would be a fine thing for +her, indeed, to get hold of the minister! but she would see him dead +first! It was too bad of the Robertsons, whom she had known so long and +trusted so much! They knew what they were doing when they passed their +trash upon her! She began to distrust ministers! What right had they to +pluck brands from the burning at the expense o’ dacent fowk! It was to +do evil that good might come! She would say that to their faces! Thus +she sat thinking and glooming. + +A cry of misery came from the room above. Isy started to her feet. But +Marion was up before her. + +“Sit doon this minute,” she commanded. + +Isy hesitated. + +“Sit doon this moment, I tell ye!” repeated Marion imperiously. “Ye hae +no business there! I’m gaein til ’im mysel!” And with the word she left +the room. + +Peter laid down his spoon, then half rose, staring bewildered, and +followed his wife from the room. + +“Oh my baby! my baby!” cried Isy, finding herself alone. “If only I had +you to take my part! It was God gave you to me, or how could I love you +so? And the mistress winna believe that even I had a bairnie! Noo she’ll +be sayin I killt my bonny wee man! And yet, even for _his_ sake, I never +ance wisht ye hadna been born! And noo, whan the father o’ ’im’s ill, +and cryin oot for me, they winna lat me near ’im!” + +The last words left her lips in a wailing shriek. + +Then first she saw that her master had re-entered. Wiping her eyes +hurriedly, she turned to him with a pitiful, apologetic smile. + +“Dinna be sair vext wi’ me, sir: I canna help bein glaid that I had him, +and to tyne him has gien me an unco sair hert!” + +She stopped, terrified: how much had he heard? she could not tell what +she might not have said! But the farmer had resumed his breakfast, and +went on eating as if she had not spoken. He had heard nearly all she +said, and now sat brooding on her words. + +Isy was silent, saying in her heart—“If only he loved me, I should be +content, and desire no more! I would never even want him to say it! I +would be so good to him, and so silent, that he could not help loving me +a little!” + +I wonder whether she would have been as hopeful had she known how his +mother had loved him, and how vainly she had looked for any love in +return! And when Isy vowed in her heart never to let James know that she +had borne him a son, she did not perceive that thus she would withhold +the most potent of influences for his repentance and restoration to God +and his parents. She did not see James again that night; and before she +fell asleep at last in the small hours of the morning, she had made up +her mind that, ere the same morning grew clear upon the moor, she would, +as the only thing left her to do for him, be far away from Stonecross. +She would go back to Deemouth, and again seek work at the paper-mills! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +She woke in the first of the gray dawn, while the house was in utter +stillness, and rising at once, rose and dressed herself with soundless +haste. It was hard indeed to go and leave James thus in danger, but she +had no choice! She held her breath and listened, but all was still. She +opened her door softly; not a sound reached her ear as she crept down +the stair. She had neither to unlock nor unbolt the door to leave the +house, for it was never made fast. A dread sense of the old wandering +desolation came back upon her as she stepped across the threshold, and +now she had no baby to comfort her! She was leaving a mouldy peace and +a withered love behind her, and had once more to encounter the rough +coarse world! She feared the moor she had to cross, and the old dreams +she must there encounter; and as she held on her way through them, she +felt, in her new loneliness, and the slow-breaking dawn, as if she were +lying again in her trance, partly conscious, but quite unable to move, +thinking she was dead, and waiting to be buried. Then suddenly she knew +where she was, and that God was not gone, but her own Maker was with +her, and would not forsake her. + +Of the roads that led from the farm she knew only that by which Mr. +Robertson had brought her, and that would guide her to the village +where they had left the coach: there she was sure to find some way of +returning to Deemouth! Feeble after her prolonged inaction, and the +crowd of emotions succeeding her recovery, she found the road very +weary, and long ere she reached Tiltowie, she felt all but worn out. +At the only house she had come to on the way, she stopped and asked for +some water. The woman, the only person she had seen, for it was still +early morning, and the road was a lonely one, perceived that she looked +ill, and gave her milk instead. In the strength of that milk she reached +the end of her first day’s journey; and for many days she had not to +take a second. + +Now Isy had once seen the soutar at the farm, and going about her work +had heard scraps of his conversation with the mistress, when she had +been greatly struck by certain things he said, and had often since +wished for the opportunity of a talk with him. That same morning then, +going along a narrow lane, and hearing a cobbler’s hammer, she glanced +through a window close to the path, and at once recognized the soutar. +He looked up as she obscured his light, and could scarce believe his +eyes when, so early in the day, he saw before him Mistress Blatherwick’s +maid, concerning whom there had been such a talk and such a marvelling +for weeks. She looked ill, and he was amazed to see her about so soon, +and so far from home. She smiled to him feebly, and passed from his +range with a respectful nod. He sprang to his feet, bolted out, and +overtook her at once. + +“I’m jist gaein to drop my wark, mem, and hae my brakfast: wull ye no +come in and share wi’ an auld man and a yoong lass? Ye hae come a gey +bit, and luik some fatiguit!” + +“Thank ye kindly, sir,” returned Isy. “I _am_ a bit tired!—But I won’er +ye kenned me!” + +“Weel, I canna jist say I ken ye by the name fowk ca’ ye; and still less +div I ken ye by the name the Lord ca’s ye; but nowther maitters muckle +to her that kens He has a name growin for her—or raither, a name she’s +growin til! Eh, what a day will that be whan ilk habitant o’ the holy +city ’ill tramp the streets o’ ’t weel kenned and weel kennin!” + +“Ay, sir! I ’maist un’erstan’ ye ootricht, for I h’ard ye ance sayin +something like that to the mistress, the nicht ye broucht hame the +maister’s shune to Stanecross. And, eh, I’m richt glaid to see ye +again!” + +They were already in the house, for she had followed him in almost +mechanically; and the soutar was setting for her the only chair there +was, when the cry of a child reached their ears. The girl started to +her feet. A rosy flush of delight overspread her countenance; she fell +a-trembling from head to foot, and it seemed uncertain whether she would +succeed in running to the cry, or must fall to the floor. + +“Ay,” exclaimed the soutar, with one of his sudden flashes of +unquestioning insight, “by the luik o’ ye, ye ken that for the cry +o’ yer ain bairn, my bonny lass! Ye’ll hae been missin him, sair, I +doobt!—There! sit ye doon, and I’ll hae him i’ yer airms afore ae +meenut!” + +She obeyed him and sat down, but kept her eyes fixed on the door, wildly +expectant. The soutar made haste, and ran to fetch the child. When he +returned with him in his arms, he found her sitting bolt upright, with +her hands already apart, held out to receive him, and her eyes alive as +he had never seen eyes before. + +“My Jamie! my ain bairn!” she cried, seizing him to her bosom with a +grasp that, trembling, yet seemed to cling to him desperately, and a +look almost of defiance, as if she dared the world to take him from her +again. “O my God!” she cried, in an agony of thankfulness, “I ken +ye noo! I ken ye noo! Never mair wull I doobt ye, my God!—Lost and +found!—Lost for a wee, and found again for ever!” + +Then she caught sight of Maggie, who had entered behind her father, and +stood staring at her motionless,—with a look of gladness indeed, but +not all of gladness. + +“I ken fine,” Isy broke out, with a trembling, yet eager, apologetic +voice, “ye’re grudgin me ilka luik at him! I ken’t by mysel! Ye’re +thinkin him mair yours nor mine! And weel ye may, for it’s you that’s +been motherin him ever since I lost my wits! It’s true I ran awa’ and +left him; but ever sin’ syne, I hae soucht him carefully wi’ tears! And +ye maunna beir me ony ill will—for there!” she added, holding him out +to Maggie! “I haena kissed him yet!—no ance!—But ye wull lat me kiss +him afore ye tak him awa’?—my ain bairnie, whause vera comin I had +prepared shame for!—Oh my God!—But he kens naething aboot it, and +winna ken for years to come! And nane but his ain mammie maun brak the +dreid trowth til him!—and by that time he’ll lo’e her weel eneuch to be +able to bide it! I thank God that I haena had to shue the birds and the +beasts aff o’ his bonny wee body! It micht hae been, but for you, my +bonnie lass!—and for you, sir!” she went on, turning to the soutar. + +Maggie caught the child from her offering arms, and held up his little +face for his mother to kiss; and so held him until, for the moment, +Isy’s mother-greed was satisfied. Then she sat down with him in her lap, +and Isy stood absorbed in regarding him. At last she said, with a deep +sigh— + +“Noo I maun awa’, and I dinna ken hoo I’m to gang! I hae found him and +maun leave him!—but I houp no for vera lang!—Maybe ye’ll keep him yet +a whilie—say for a week mair? He’s been sae lang disused til a wan’erin +life, that I doobt it mayna weel agree wi’ him; and I maun awa’ back to +Deemooth, gien I can get onybody to gie me a lift.” + +“Na, na; that’ll never dee,” returned Maggie, with a sob. “My father’ll +be glaid eneuch to keep him; only we hae nae richt ower him, and ye maun +hae him again whan ye wull.” + +“Ye see I hae nae place to tak him til!” pleaded Isy. + +“Gien ye dinna want him, gie him to me: I want him!” said Maggie +eagerly. + +“Want him!” returned Isy, bursting into tears; “I hae lived but upo the +bare houp o’ gettin him again! I hae grutten my een sair for the sicht +o’ ’im! Aften hae I waukent greetin ohn kenned for what!—and noo ye +tell me I dinna want him, ’cause I hae nae spot but my breist to lay his +heid upo! Eh, guid fowk, keep him till I get a place to tak him til, and +syne haudna him a meenute frae me!” + +All this time the soutar had been watching the two girls with a divine +look in his black eyes and rugged face; now at last he opened his mouth +and said: + +“Them ’at haps the bairn, are aye sib (_related_) to the mither!—Gang +ben the hoose wi’ Maggie, my dear; and lay ye doon on her bed, and +she’ll lay the bairnie aside ye, and fess yer brakfast there til ye. Ye +winna be easy to sair (_satisfy_), haein had sae little o’ ’im for +sae lang!—Lea’ them there thegither, Maggie, my doo,” he went on with +infinite tenderness, “and come and gie me a han’ as sune as ye hae +maskit the tay, and gotten a lof o’ white breid. I s’ hae my parritch a +bit later.” + +Maggie obeyed at once, and took Isy to the other end of the house, where +the soutar had long ago given up his bed to her and the baby. + +When they had all breakfasted, the soutar and Maggie in the kitchen, and +Isy and the bairnie in the ben en’, Maggie took her old place beside her +father, and for a long time they worked without word spoken. + +“I doobt, father,” said Maggie at length, “I haena been atten’in til ye +properly! I fear the bairnie ’s been garrin me forget ye!” + +“No a hair, dautie!” returned the soutar. “The needs o’ the little ane +stude aye far afore mine, and _had_ to be seen til first! And noo that +we hae the mither o’ ’im, we’ll get on faumous!—Isna she a fine cratur, +and richt mitherlike wi’ the bairn? That was a’ I was concernt aboot! +We’ll get her story frae her or lang, and syne we’ll ken a hantle better +hoo to help her on! And there can be nae fear but, atween you and +me, and the Michty at the back o’ ’s, we s’ get breid eneuch for the +quaternion o’ ’s!” + +He laughed at the odd word as it fell from his mouth and the Acts of +Apostles. Maggie laughed too, and wiped her eyes. + +Before long, Maggie recognized that she had never been so happy in her +life. Isy told them as much as she could without breaking her resolve +to keep secret a certain name; and wrote to Mr. Robertson, telling him +where she was, and that she had found her baby. He came with his wife to +see her, and so a friendship began between the soutar and him, which Mr. +Robertson always declared one of the most fortunate things that had ever +befallen him. + +“That soutar-body,” he would say, “kens mair aboot God and his kingdom, +the hert o’ ’t and the w’ys o’ ’t, than ony man I ever h’ard tell +o’—and _that_ heumble!—jist like the son o’ God himsel!” + +Before many days passed, however, a great anxiety laid hold of the +little household: wee Jamie was taken so ill that the doctor had to be +summoned. For eight days he had much fever, and his appealing looks +were pitiful to see. When first he ceased to run about, and wanted to be +nursed, no one could please him but the soutar himself, and he, at once +discarding his work, gave himself up to the child’s service. Before +long, however, he required defter handling, and then no one would do but +Maggie, to whom he had been more accustomed; nor could Isy get any share +in the labour of love except when he was asleep: as soon as he woke, she +had to encounter the pain of hearing him cry out for Maggie, and seeing +him stretch forth his hands, even from his mother’s lap, to one whom he +knew better than her. But Maggie was very careful over the poor mother, +and would always, the minute he was securely asleep, lay him softly upon +her lap. And Maggie soon got so high above her jealousy, that one of the +happiest moments in her life was when first the child consented to leave +her arms for those of his mother. And when he was once more able to run +about, Isy took her part with Maggie in putting hand and needle to the +lining of the more delicate of the soutar’s shoes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +There was great concern, and not a little alarm at Stonecross because of +the disappearance of Isy. But James continued so ill, that his parents +were unable to take much thought about anybody else. At last, however, +the fever left him, and he began to recover, but lay still and silent, +seeming to take no interest in anything, and remembered nothing he +had said, or even that he had seen Isy. At the same time his wakened +conscience was still at work in him, and had more to do with his +enfeebled condition than the prolonged fever. At length his parents were +convinced that he had something on his mind that interfered with his +recovery, and his mother was confident that it had to do with “that +deceitful creature, Isy.” To learn that she was safe, might have given +Marion some satisfaction, had she not known her refuge so near the +manse; and having once heard where she was, she had never asked another +question about her. Her husband, however, having overheard certain +of the words that fell from Isy when she thought herself alone, was +intently though quietly waiting for what must follow. + +“I’m misdoobtin sair, Peter,” began Marion one morning, after a long +talk with the cottar’s wife, who had been telling her of Isy’s having +taken up her abode with the soutar, “I’m sair misdoobtin whether that +hizzie hadna mair to dee nor we hae been jaloosin, wi Jamie’s attack, +than the mere scare he got. It seems to me he’s lang been broodin ower +something we ken noucht aboot.” + +“That would be nae ferlie, woman! Whan was it ever we kent onything +gaein on i’ that mysterious laddie! Na, but his had need be a guid +conscience, for did ever onybody ken eneuch aboot it or him to say +richt or wrang til ’im! But gien ye hae a thoucht he’s ever wranged that +lassie, I s’ hae the trowth o’ ’t, gien it cost him a greitin! He’ll +never come to health o’ body or min’ till he’s confest, and God has +forgien him. He maun confess! He maun confess!” + +“Hoot, Peter, dinna be sae suspicious o’ yer ain. It’s no like ye to +be sae maisterfu’ and owerbeirin. I wad na lat ae ill thoucht o’ puir +Jeemie inside this auld heid o’ mine! It’s the lassie, I’ll tak my aith, +it’s that Isy’s at the bothom o’ ’t!” + +“Ye’re some ready wi’ yer aith, Mirran, to what ye ken naething aboot! I +say again, gien he’s dene ony wrang to that bonnie cratur—and it wudna +tak ower muckle proof to convince me o’ the same, he s’ tak his stan’, +minister or no minister, upo the stele o’ repentance!” + +“Daur ye to speyk that gait aboot yer ain son—ay, and mine the mair +gien _ye_ disown him, Peter Bletherwick!—and the Lord’s ain ordeent +minister forbye!” cried Marion, driven almost to her wits’ end, but more +by the persistent haunting of her own suspicion, which she could not +repress, than the terror of her husband’s threat. “Besides, dinna ye +see,” she added cunningly, “that that would be to affront the lass as +weel?—_He_ wadna be the first to fa’ intil the snare o’ a designin +wuman, and wad it be for his ain father to expose him to public contemp? +_Your_ pairt sud be to cover up his sin—gien it were a multitude, and +no ae solitary bit faut!” + +“Daur _ye_ speyk o’ a thing like that as a bit faut?—Ca’ ye leein and +hypocrisy a bit faut? I alloo the sin itsel mayna be jist damnable, +but to what bouk mayna it come wi ither and waur sins upo the back o’ +’t?—Wi leein, and haudin aff o’ himsel, a man may grow a cratur no fit +to be taen up wi the taings! Eh me, but my pride i’ the laddie! It ’ill +be sma’ pride for me gien this fearsome thing turn oot to be true!” + +“And wha daur say it’s true?” rejoined Marion almost fiercely. + +“Nane but himsel; and gien it be sae, and he disna confess, the rod +laid upon him ’ill be the rod o’ iron, ’at smashes a man like a muckle +crock.—I maun tak Jamie throuw han’ (_to task_)!” + +“Noo jist tak ye care, Peter, ’at ye dinna quench the smokin flax.” + +“I’m mair likly to get the bruised reed intil my nakit loof (_palm_)!” +returned Peter. “But I s’ say naething till he’s a wee better, for we +maunna drive him to despair!—Eh gien he would only repent! What is +there I wadna dee to clear him—that is, to ken him innocent o’ ony +wrang til her! I wad dee wi thanksgivin!” + +“Weel, I kenna that we’re jist called upon sae far as that!” said +Marion. “A lass is aye able to tak care o’ hersel!” + +“I wud! I wud!—God hae mercy upo’ the twa o’ them!” + +In the afternoon James was a good deal better. When his father went in +to see him, his first words were— + +“I doobt, father, I’m no likly to preach ony mair: I’ve come to see ’at +I never was fit for the wark, neither had I ever ony ca’ til’t.” + +“It may be sae, Jeemie,” answered his father; “but we’ll haud awa frae +conclusions till ye’re better, and able to jeedge wi’oot the bias o’ ony +thrawin distemper.” + +“Oh father,” James went on, and to his delight Peter saw, for the first +time since he was the merest child, tears running down his cheeks, now +thin and wan; “Oh father, I hae been a terrible hypocreet! But my een’s +come open at last! I see mysel as I am!” + +“Weel, there’s God hard by, to tak ye by the han’ like Enoch! Tell me,” +Peter went on, “hae ye onything upo yer min’, laddie, ’at ye wud like +to confess and be eased o’? There’s nae papistry in confessin to yer ain +auld father!” + +James lay still for a few moments; then he said, almost inaudibly— + +“I think I could tell my mother better nor you, father.” + +“It’ll be a’ ane whilk o’ ’s ye tell. The forgiein and the forgettin +’ill be ae deed—by the twa o’ ’s at ance! I s’ gang and cry doon +the stair til yer mother to come up and hear ye.” For Peter knew by +experience that good motions must be taken advantage of in their first +ripeness. “We maunna try the speerit wi ony delays!” he added, as he +went to the head of the stair, where he called aloud to his wife. Then +returning to the bedside, he resumed his seat, saying, “I’ll jist bide a +minute till she comes.” + +He was loath to let in any risk between his going and her coming, for he +knew how quickly minds may change; but the moment she appeared, he left +the room, gently closing the door behind him. + +Then the trembling, convicted soul plucked up what courage his so long +stubborn and yet cringing heart was capable of, and began. + +“Mother, there was a lass I cam to ken in Edinburgh, whan I was a +divinity student there, and—” + +“Ay, ay, I ken a’ aboot it!” interrupted his mother, eager to spare him; +“—an ill-faured, designin limmer, ’at micht ha kent better nor come +ower the son o’ a respectable wuman that gait!—Sic like, I doobtna, wad +deceive the vera elec’!” + +“Na, na, mother, she was nane o’ that sort! She was baith bonny and +guid, and pleasant to the hert as to the sicht: she wad hae saved me +gien I had been true til her! She was ane o’ the Lord’s makin, as he has +made but feow!” + +“Whatfor didna she haud frae ye till ye had merried her than? Dinna tell +me she didna lay hersel oot to mak a prey o’ ye!” + +“Mother, i’ that sayin ye hae sclandert yersel!—I’ll no say a word +mair!” + +“I’m sure neither yer father nor mysel wud hae stede i’ yer gait!” said +Marion, retreating from the false position she had taken. + +She did not know herself, or how bitter would have been her opposition; +for she had set her mind on a distinguished match for her Jamie! + +“God knows how I wish I had keepit a haud o’ mysel! Syne I micht hae +steppit oot o’ the dirt o’ my hypocrisy, i’stead o’ gaein ower the heid +intil’t! I was aye a hypocrite, but she would maybe hae fun’ me oot, and +garred me luik at mysel!” + +He did not know the probability that, if he had not fallen, he would +have but sunk the deeper in the worst bog of all, self-satisfaction, and +none the less have played her false, and left her to break her heart. + +If any reader of this tale should argue it better then to do wrong and +repent, than to resist the devil, I warn him, that in such case he will +not repent until the sorrows of death and the pains of hell itself lay +hold upon him. An overtaking fault may be beaten with few stripes, but +a wilful wrong shall be beaten with many stripes. The door of the latter +must share, not with Judas, for he did repent, although too late, but +with such as have taken from themselves the power of repentance. + +“Was there no mark left o’ her disgrace?” asked his mother. “Wasna there +a bairn to mak it manifest?” + +“Nane I ever heard tell o’.” + +“In that case she’s no muckle the waur, and ye needna gang lamentin: +_she_ ’ll no be the ane to tell! and _ye_ maunna, for her sake! Sae +tak ye comfort ower what’s gane and dune wi’, and canna come back, and +maunna happen again.—Eh, but it’s a’ God’s mercy there was nae bairn!” + +Thus had the mother herself become an evil councillor, crying Peace! +peace! when there was no peace, and tempting her son to go on and +become a devil! But one thing yet rose up for the truth in his miserable +heart—his reviving and growing love for Isy. It had seemed smothered in +selfishness, but was alive and operative: God knows how—perhaps through +feverish, incoherent, forgotten dreams. + +He had expected his mother to aid his repentance, and uphold his walk +in the way of righteousness, even should the way be that of social +disgrace. He knew well that reparation must go hand in hand with +repentance where the All-wise was judge, and selfish Society dared not +urge one despicable pretence for painting hidden shame in the hues of +honour. James had been the cowering slave of a false reputation; but +his illness and the assaults of his conscience had roused him, set +repentance before him, brought confession within sight, and purity +within reach of prayer. + +“I maun gang til her,” he cried, “the meenute I’m able to be up!—Whaur +is she, mother?” + +“Upo nae accoont see her, Jamie! It wad be but to fa’ again intil her +snare!” answered his mother, with decision in her look and tone. “We’re +to abstain frae a’ appearance o’ evil—as ye ken better nor I can tell +ye.” + +“But Isy’s no an appearance o’ evil, mother!” + +“Ye say weel there, I confess! Na, she’s no an appearance; she’s the +vera thing! Haud frae her, as ye wad frae the ill ane himsel.” + +“Did she never lat on what there had been atween ’s?” + +“Na, never. She kenned weel what would come o’ that!” + +“What, mother?” + +“The ootside o’ the door.” + +“Think ye she ever tauld onybody?” + +“Mony ane, I doobtna.” + +“Weel, I dinna believe ’t. I hae nae fear but she’s been dumb as deith!” + +“Hoo ken ye that?—What for said she never ae word aboot ye til yer ain +mither?” + +“’Cause she was set on haudin her tongue. Was she to bring an owre true +tale o’ me to the vera hoose I was born in? As lang as I haud til my +tongue, she’ll never wag hers!—Eh, but she’s a true ane! _She’s_ ane to +lippen til!” + +“Weel, I alloo, she’s deen as a wuman sud—the faut bein a’ her ain!” + +“The faut bein’ a’ mine, mother, she wouldna tell what would disgrace +me!” + +“She micht hae kenned her secret would be safe wi’ me!” + +“_I_ micht hae said the same, but for the w’y ye spak o’ her this vera +meenut!—Whaur is she, mother? Whaur’s Isy?” + +“’Deed, she’s made a munelicht flittin o’ ’t!” + +“I telled ye she would never tell upo me!—Hed she ony siller?” + +“Hoo can _I_ tell?” + +“Did ye pey her ony wages?” + +“She gae me no time!—But she’s no likly to tell noo; for, hearin her +tale, wha wad tak her in?” + +“Eh, mother, but ye _are_ hard-hertit!” + +“I ken a harder, Jamie!” + +“That’s me!—and ye’re richt, mother! But, eh, gien ye wad hae me loe +ye frae this meenut to the end o’ my days, be but a wee fair to Isy: _I_ +hae been a damnt scoon’rel til her!” + +“Jamie; Jamie! ye’re provokin the Lord to anger—sweirin like that in +his vera face—and you a minister!” + +“I provokit him a heap waur whan I left Isy to dree her shame! Divna ye +min’ hoo the apostle Peter cursed, whan he said to Simon, ‘Gang to hell +wi’ yer siller!’” + +“She’s telt the soutar, onygait!” + +“What! has _he_ gotten a haud o’ her?” + +“Ay, has he!—And dinna ye think it’ll be a’ ower the toon lang or +this!” + +“And hoo will ye meet it, mother?” + +“We maun tell yer father, and get him to quaiet the soutar!—For _her_, +we maun jist stap her mou wi’ a bunch o’ bank-notts!” + +“That wad jist mak it ’maist impossible for even her to forgie you or me +aither ony langer!” + +“And wha’s she to speyk o’ forgivin!” + +The door opened, and Peter entered. He strode up to his wife, and stood +over her like an angel of vengeance. His very lips were white with +wrath. + +“Efter thirty years o’ merried life, noo first to ken the wife o’ my +boasom for a messenger o’ Sawtan!” he panted. “Gang oot o’ my sicht, +wuman!” + +She fell on her knees, and held up her two hands to him. + +“Think o’ Jamie, Peter!” she pleaded. “I wad tyne my sowl for Jamie!” + +“Ay, and tyne his as weel!” he returned. “Tyne what’s yer ain to tyne, +wuman—and that’s no your sowl, nor yet Jamie’s! He’s no yours to save, +but ye’re deein a’ ye can to destroy him—and aiblins ye’ll succeed! for +ye wad sen’ him straucht awa to hell for the sake o’ a guid name—a lee! +a hypocrisy!—Oot upo ye for a Christian mither, Mirran!—Jamie, I’m awa +to the toon, upo my twa feet, for the mere’s cripple: the vera deil’s +i’ the hoose and the stable and a’, it would seem!—I’m awa to fess Isy +hame! And, Jamie, ye’ll jist tell her afore me and yer mother, that as +sene ’s ye’re able to crawl to the kirk wi’ her, ye’ll merry her afore +the warl’, and tak her hame to the manse wi’ ye!” + +“Hoot, Peter! Wad ye disgrace him afore a’ the beggars o’ Tiltowie?” + +“Ay, and afore God, that kens a’thing ohn onybody tellt him! Han’s and +hert I s’ be clear o’ this abomination!” + +“Merry a wuman ’at was ta’en wi’ a wat finger!—a maiden that never said +_na_!—Merry a lass that’s nae maiden, nor ever will be!—Hoots!” + +“And wha’s to blame for that?” + +“Hersel.” + +“Jeemie! Jist Jeemie!—I’m fair scunnert at ye, Mirran!—Oot o’ my +sicht, I tell ye!—Lord, I kenna hoo I’m to win ower ’t!—No to a’ +eternity, I doobt!” + +He turned from her with a tearing groan, and went feeling for the open +door, like one struck blind. + +“Oh, father, father!” cried James, “forgie my mither afore ye gang, +or my hert ’ill brak. It’s the awfu’est thing o’ ony to see you twa +striven!” + +“She’s no sorry, no ae bit sorry!” said Peter. + +“I am, I am, Peter!” cried Marion, breaking down at once, and utterly. +“Dee what ye wull, and I’ll dee the same—only lat it be dene quaietly, +’ithoot din or proclamation! What for sud a’body ken a’thing! Wha has +the richt to see intil ither fowk’s herts and lives? The warl’ could ill +gang on gien that war the gait o’ ’t!” + +“Father,” said James, “I thank God that noo ye ken a’! Eh, sic a weicht +as it taks aff o’ me! I’ll be hale and weel noo in ae day!—I think I’ll +gang wi’ ye to Isy, mysel!—But I’m a wee bit sorry ye cam in jist that +minute! I wuss ye had harkit a wee langer! For I wasna giein-in to my +mother; I was but thinkin hoo to say oot what was in me, ohn vext her +waur nor couldna be helpit. Believe me, father, gien ye can; though I +doobt sair ye winna be able!” + +“I believe ye, my bairn; and I thank God I hae that muckle pooer o’ +belief left in me! I confess I was in ower great a hurry, and I’m sure +ye war takin the richt gait wi’ yer puir mither.—Ye see she loed ye sae +weel that she could think o’ nae thing or body but yersel! That’s the +w’y o’ mithers, Jamie, gien ye only kenned it! She was nigh sinnin an +awfu sin for your sake, man!” + +Here he turned again to his wife. “That’s what comes o’ lovin the praise +o’ men, Mirran! Easy it passes intil the fear o’ men, and disregaird o’ +the Holy!—I s’ awa doon to the soutar, and tell him the cheenge that’s +come ower us a’: he’ll no be a hair surprised!” + +“I’m ready, father—or will be in ae minute!” said James, making as if +to spring out of bed. + +“Na, na; ye’re no fit!” interposed his father. “I would hae to be takin +ye upo my back afore we wis at the fut o’ the brae!—Bide ye at hame, +and keep yer mither company.” + +“Ay, bide, Jamie; and I winna come near ye,” sobbed his mother. + +“Onything to please ye, mother!—but I’m fitter nor my father thinks,” +said James as he settled down again in bed. + +So Peter went, leaving mother and son silent together. + +At last the mother spoke. + +“It’s the shame o’ ’t, Jamie!” she said. + +“The shame was i’ the thing itsel, mother, and in hidin frae that +shame!” he answered. “Noo, I hae but the dregs to drink, and them I maun +glog ower wi’ patience, for I hae weel deserved to drink them!—But, eh, +my bonnie Isy, she maun hae suffert sair!—I daur hardly think what she +maun hae come throuw!” + +“Her mither couldna hae broucht her up richt! The first o’ the faut lay +i’ the upbringin!” + +“There’s anither whause upbringin wasna to blame: _my_ upbringin was a’ +it oucht to hae been—and see hoo ill _I_ turnt oot!” + +“It wasna what it oucht! I see ’t a’ plain the noo! I was aye ower feart +o’ garrin ye hate me!—Oh, Isy, Isy, I hae dene ye wrang! I ken ye cud +never hae laid yersel oot to snare him—it wasna in ye to dee ’t!” + +“Thank ye, mother! It was, railly and truly, a’ my wyte! And noo my life +sall gang to mak up til her!” + +“And I maun see to the manse!” rejoined his mother. “—And first in +order o’ a’, that Jinse o’ yours ’ill hae to gang!” + +“As ye like, mother. But for the manse, I maun clear oot o’ that! I’ll +speak nae mair frae that poopit! I hae hypocreesit in ’t ower lang! The +vera thoucht o’ ’t scunners me!” + +“Speyk na like that o’ the poopit, Jamie, whaur sae mony holy men hae +stede up and spoken the word o’ God! It frichts me to hear ye! Ye’ll +be a burnin and a shinin licht i’ that poopit for mony a lang day efter +we’re deid and hame!” + +“The mair holy men that hae there witnessed, the less daur ony livin lee +stan’ there braggin and blazin i’ the face o’ God and man! It’s shame o’ +mysel that gars me hate the place, mother! Ance and no more wull I stan’ +there, making o’ ’t my stele o’ repentance; and syne doon the steps and +awa, like Adam frae the gairden!” + +“And what’s to come o’ Eve? Are ye gaein, like him, to say, ‘The wuman +thoo giedest til me—it was a’ her wyte’?” + +“Ye ken weel I’m takin a’ the wyte upo mysel!” + +“But hoo can ye tak it a’, or even ony fair share o’ ’t, gien up there +ye stan’ and confess? Ye maun hae some care o’ the lass—that is, gien +efter and a’ ye’re gaein to mak o’ her yer wife, as ye profess.—And +what are ye gaein to turn yer han’ til neist, seein ye hae a’ready laid +it til the pleuch and turnt back?” + +“To the pleuch again, mother—the rael pleuch this time! Frae the kirk +door I’ll come hame like the prodigal to my father’s hoose, and say til +him, ‘Set me to the pleuch, father. See gien I canna be something _like_ +a son to ye, efter a’’!” + +So wrought in him that mighty power, mysterious in its origin as +marvellous in its result, which had been at work in him all the time he +lay whelmed under feverish phantasms. + +His repentance was true; he had been dead, and was alive again! God and +the man had met at last! As to _how_ God turned the man’s heart, Thou +God, knowest. To understand that, we should have to go down below the +foundations themselves, underneath creation, and there see God send out +from himself man, the spirit, distinguished yet never divided from God, +the spirit, for ever dependent upon and growing in Him, never completed +and never ended, his origin, his very life being infinite; never outside +of God, because _in_ him only he lives and moves and grows, and _has_ +his being. Brothers, let us not linger to ask! let us obey, and, +obeying, ask what we will! thus only shall we become all we are capable +of being; thus only shall we learn all we are capable of knowing! The +pure in heart shall see God; and to see him is to know all things. + +Something like this was the meditation of the soutar, as he saw the +farmer stride away into the dusk of the gathering twilight, going home +with glad heart to his wife and son. + +Peter had told the soutar that his son was sorely troubled because of +a sin of his youth and its long concealment: now he was bent on all the +reparation he could make. “Mr. Robertson,” said Peter, “broucht the lass +to oor hoose, never mentionin Jamie, for he didna ken they war onything +til ane anither; and for her, she never said ae word aboot him to Mirran +or me.” + +The soutar went to the door, and called Isy. She came, and stood humbly +before her old master. + +“Weel, Isy,” said the farmer kindly, “ye gied ’s a clever slip yon +morning and a gey fricht forbye! What possessed ye, lass, to dee sic a +thing?” + +She stood distressed, and made no answer. + +“Hoot, lassie, tell me!” insisted Peter; “I haena been an ill maister +til ye, have I?” + +“Sir, ye hae been like the maister o’ a’ til me! But I canna—that is, I +maunna—or raither, I’m determined no to explain the thing til onybody.” + +“Thoucht ye my wife was feart the minister micht fa’ in love wi ye?” + +“Weel, sir, there micht hae been something like that intil ’t! But I +wantit sair to win at my bairn again; for i’ that trance I lay in sae +lang, I saw or h’ard something I took for an intimation that he was +alive, and no that far awa.—And—wad ye believe’t, sir?—i’ this vera +hoose I fand him, and here I hae him, and I’m jist as happy the noo as I +was meeserable afore! Is ’t ill o’ me at I _canna_ be sorry ony mair?” + +“Na, na,” interposed the soutar: “whan the Lord wad lift the burden, it +wad be baith senseless and thankless to grup at it! In His name lat it +gang, lass!” + +“And noo,” said Mr. Blatherwick, again taking up his probe, “ye hae but +ae thing left to confess—and that’s wha’s the father o’ ’im!” + +“Na, I canna dee that, sir; it’s enough that I have disgracet _myself_! +You wouldn’t have me disgrace another as well! What good would that be?” + +“It wad help ye beir the disgrace.” + +“Na, no a hair, sir; _he_ cudna stan’ the disgrace half sae weel ’s me! +I reckon the man the waiker vessel, sir; the woman has her bairn to fend +for, and that taks her aff o’ the shame!” + +“Ye dinna tell me he gies ye noucht to mainteen the cratur upo?” + +“I tell ye naething, sir. He never even kenned there _was_ a bairn!” + +“Hoot, toot! ye canna be sae semple! It’s no poassible ye never loot him +ken!” + +“’Deed no; I was ower sair ashamit! Ye see it was a’ my wyte!—and it +was naebody’s business! My auntie said gien I wouldna tell, I micht put +the door atween ’s; and I took her at her word; for I kenned weel _she_ +couldna keep a secret, and I wasna gaein to hae _his_ name mixed up wi’ +a lass like mysel! And, sir, ye maunna try to gar me tell, for I hae no +richt, and surely ye canna hae the hert to gar me!—But that ye _sanna_, +ony gait!” + +“I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there’s jist ae thing I’m determined +upo—and that is that the rascal sall merry ye!” + +Isy’s face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her +pleasure at such a word from _his_ mouth. But the flush faded, and +presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and +getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted +across her face as she answered— + +“Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til +ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han’!” + +“That’s what he’ll hae to dee though—jist merry ye aff han’! I s’ _gar_ +him.” + +“I winna hae him garred! It’s me that has the richt ower him, and +no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o’ +me—thinkin I would tak a man ’at was garred! Na, na; there s’ be nae +garrin!—And ye canna gar _him_ merry me gien _I_ winna hae him! The +day’s by for that!—A garred man! My certy!—Na, I thank ye!” + +“Weel, my bonny leddy,” said Peter, “gien I had a prence to my +son,—providit he was worth yer takin—I wad say to ye, ‘Hae, my +leddy!’” + +“And I would say to you, sir, ‘No—gien he bena willin,’” answered Isy, +and ran from the room. + +“Weel, what think ye o’ the lass by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?” said +the soutar, with a flash in his eye. + +“I think jist what I thoucht afore,” answered Peter: “she’s ane amo’ a +million!” + +“I’m no that sure aboot the proportion!” returned MacLear. “I doobt ye +micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!—A million’s a heap +o’ women!” + +“All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea’ father and +mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he’s +no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s’ never +speyk word til ’im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o’ auld +Methuselah!” + +“Tak tent what ye say, or mint at sayin, to persuaud him:—Isy ’ill +be upo ye!” said the soutar laughing. “—But hearken to me, Mr. +Bletherwick, and sayna a word to the minister aboot the bairnie.” + +“Na, na; it’ll be best to lat him fin’ that oot for himsel.—And noo I +maun be gaein, for I hae my wallet fu’!” + +He strode to the door, holding his head high, and with never a word +more, went out. The soutar closed the door and returned to his work, +saying aloud as he went, “Lord, lat me ever and aye see thy face, and +noucht mair will I desire—excep that the haill warl, O Lord, may behold +it likewise. The prayers o’ the soutar are endit!” + +Peter Blatherwick went home joyous at heart. His son was his son, and +no villain!—only a poor creature, as is every man until he turns to +the Lord, and leaves behind him every ambition, and all care about the +judgment of men. He rejoiced that the girl he and Marion had befriended +would be a strength to his son: she whom his wife would have rejected +had proved herself indeed right noble! And he praised the father of men, +that the very backslidings of those he loved had brought about their +repentance and uplifting. + +“Here I am!” he cried as he entered the house. “I hae seen the lassie +ance mair, and she’s better and bonnier nor ever!” + +“Ow ay; ye’re jist like a’ the men I ever cam across!” rejoined Marion +smiling; “—easy taen wi’ the skin-side!” + +“Doobtless: the Makker has taen a heap o’ pains wi the skin!—Ony gait, +yon lassie’s ane amang ten thoosan! Jeemie sud be on his k-nees til her +this vera moment—no sitting there glowerin as gien his twa een war twa +bullets—fired aff, but never won oot o’ their barrels!” + +“Hoot! wad ye hae him gang on his k-nees til ony but the Ane!” + +“Aye wad I—til ony ane that’s nearer His likness nor himsel—and that +ane’s oor Isy!—I wadna won’er, Jeemie, gien ye war fit for a drive the +morn! In that case, I s’ caw ye doon to the toon, and lat ye say yer ain +say til her.” + +James did not sleep much that night, and nevertheless was greatly better +the next day—indeed almost well. + +Before noon they were at the soutar’s door. The soutar opened it +himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, +where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him. + +“Isy,” he faltered, “can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene’s +ever we can be cried?—I’m as ashamed o’ mysel as even ye would hae me!” + +“Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o’ as _I_ hae, sir: it was a’ my +wyte!” + +“And syne no to haud my face til’t!—Isy, I hae been a scoonrel til ye! +I’m that disgustit at mysel ’at I canna luik ye i’ the face!” + +“Ye didna ken whaur I was! I ran awa that naebody micht ken.” + +“What rizzon was there for onybody to ken? I’m sure ye never tellt!” + +Isy went to the door and called Maggie. James stared after her, +bewildered. + +“There was this rizzon,” she said, re-entering with the child, and +laying him in James’s arms. + +He gasped with astonishment, almost consternation. + +“Is this mine?” he stammered. + +“Yours and mine, sir,” she replied. “Wasna God a heap better til me nor +I deserved?—Sic a bonnie bairn! No a mark, no a spot upon him frae heid +to fut to tell that he had no business to be here!—Gie the bonnie wee +man a kiss, Mr. Blatherwick. Haud him close to ye, sir, and he’ll tak +the pain oot o’ yer heart: aften has he taen ’t oot o’ mine—only it +aye cam again!—He’s yer ain son, sir! He cam to me bringin the Lord’s +forgiveness, lang or ever I had the hert to speir for ’t. Eh, but we +maun dee oor best to mak up til God’s bairn for the wrang we did him +afore he was born! But he’ll be like his great Father, and forgie us +baith!” + +As soon as Maggie had given the child to his mother, she went to her +father, and sat down beside him, crying softly. He turned on his leather +stool, and looked at her. + +“Canna ye rejice wi’ them that rejice, noo that ye hae nane to greit +wi’, Maggie, my doo?” he said. “Ye haena lost ane, and ye hae gaint twa! +Haudna the glaidness back that’s sae fain to come to the licht i’ yer +grudgin hert, Maggie! God himsel ’s glaid, and the Shepherd’s glaid, and +the angels are a’ makin sic a flut-flutter wi’ their muckle wings ’at I +can ’maist see nor hear for them!” + +Maggie rose, and stood a moment wiping her eyes. The same instant the +door opened, and James entered with the little one in his arms. He laid +him with a smile in Maggie’s. + +“Thank you, sir!” said the girl humbly, and clasped the child to her +bosom; nor, after that, was ever a cloud of jealousy to be seen on her +face. I will not say she never longed or even wept after the little one, +whom she still regarded as her very own, even when he was long gone +away with his father and mother; indeed she mourned for him then like +a mother from whom death has taken away her first-born and only son; +neither did she see much difference between the two forms of loss; for +Maggie felt in her heart that life nor death could destroy the relation +that already existed between them: she could not be her father’s +daughter and not understand that! Therefore, like a bereaved mother, she +only gave herself the more to her father. + +I will not dwell on the delight of James and Isobel, thus restored to +each other, the one from a sea of sadness, the other from a gulf of +perdition. The one had deserved many stripes, the other but a few: +needful measure had been measured to each; and repentance had brought +them together. + +Before James left the house, the soutar took him aside, and said— + +“Daur I offer ye a word o’ advice, sir?” + +“’Deed that ye may!” answered the young man with humility: “and I dinna +see hoo it can be possible for me to haud frae deein as ye tell me; for +you and my father and Isy atween ye, hae jist saved my vera sowl!” + +“Weel, what I wad beg o’ ye is, that ye tak no further step o’ ony +consequence, afore ye see Maister Robertson, and mak him acquant wi the +haill affair.” + +“I’m vera willin,” answered James; “and I doobtna Isy ’ill be content.” + +“Ye may be vera certain, sir, that she’ll be naething but pleased: she +has a gran’ opingon, and weel she may, o’ Maister Robertson. Ye see, +sir, I want ye to put yersels i’ the han’s o’ a man that kens ye baith, +and the half o’ yer story a’ready—ane, that is, wha’ll jeedge ye truly +and mercifully, and no condemn ye affhan’. Syne tak his advice what ye +oucht to dee neist.” + +“I will—and thank you, Mr. MacLear! Ae thing only I houp—that naither +you, sir, nor he will ever seek to pursuaud me to gang on preachin. Ae +thing I’m set upon, and that is, to deliver my sowl frae hypocrisy, and +walk softly a’ the rest o’ my days! Happy man wad I hae been, had they +set me frae the first to caw the pleuch, and cut the corn, and gether +the stooks intil the barn—i’stead o’ creepin intil a leaky boat to fish +for men wi’ a foul and tangled net! I’m affrontit and jist scunnert +at mysel!—Eh, the presumption o’ the thing! But I hae been weel and +richteously punished! The Father drew his han’ oot o’ mine, and loot me +try to gang my lane; sae doon I cam, for I was fit for naething but to +fa’: naething less could hae broucht me to mysel—and it took a lang +time! I houp Mr. Robertson will see the thing as I dee mysel!—Wull I +write and speir him oot to Stanecross to advise wi my father aboot Isy? +That would bring him! There never was man readier to help!—But it’s +surely my pairt to gang to _him_, and mak my confession, and boo til his +judgment!—Only I maun tell Isy first!” + +Isy was not only willing, but eager that Mr. and Mrs. Robertson should +know everything. + +“But be sure,” she added, “that you let them know you come of yourself, +and I never asked you.” + +Peter said he could not let him go alone, but must himself go with him, +for he was but weakly yet—and they must not put it off a single day, +lest anything should transpire and be misrepresented. + +The news which father and son carried them, filled the Robertsons with +more than pleasure; and if their reception of him made James feel +the repentant prodigal he was, it was by its heartiness, and their +jubilation over Isy. + +The next Sunday, Mr. Robertson preached in James’s pulpit, and published +the banns of marriage between James Blatherwick and Isobel Rose. The +two following Sundays he repeated his visit to Tiltowie for the same +purpose; and on the Monday married them at Stonecross. Then was also the +little one baptized, by the name of Peter, in his father’s arms—amid +much gladness, not unmingled with shame. The soutar and his Maggie were +the only friends present besides the Robertsons. + +Before the gathering broke up, the farmer put the big Bible in the hands +of the soutar, with the request that he would lead their prayers; and +this was very nearly what he said:—“O God, to whom we belang, hert and +soul, body and blude and banes, hoo great art thou, and hoo close to us, +to haud the richt ower us o’ sic a gran’ and fair, sic a just and true +ownership! We bless thee hertily, rejicin in what thoo hast made us, +and still mair in what thoo art thysel! Tak to thy hert, and haud them +there, these thy twa repentant sinners, and thy ain little ane and +theirs, wha’s innocent as thoo hast made him. Gie them sic grace to +bring him up, that he be nane the waur for the wrang they did him afore +he was born; and lat the knowledge o’ his parents’ faut haud him safe +frae onything siclike! and may they baith be the better for their fa’, +and live a heap the mair to the glory o’ their Father by cause o’ that +slip! And gien ever the minister should again preach thy word, may it be +wi’ the better comprehension, and the mair fervour; and to that en’ +gie him to un’erstan’ the hicht and deepth and breid and len’th o’ thy +forgivin love. Thy name be gloryfeed! Amen!” + +“Na, na, I’ll never preach again!” whispered James to the soutar, as +they rose from their knees. + +“I winna be a’thegither sure o’ that!” returned the soutar. “Doobtless +ye’ll dee as the Spirit shaws ye!” + +James made no answer, and neither spoke again that night. + +The next morning, James sent to the clerk of the synod his resignation +of his parish and office. + +No sooner had Marion, repentant under her husband’s terrible rebuke, +set herself to resist her rampant pride, than the indwelling goodness +swelled up in her like a reviving spring, and she began to be herself +again, her old and lovely self. Little Peter, with his beauty and +his winsome ways, melted and scattered the last lingering rack of her +fog-like ambition for her son. Twenty times in a morning would she drop +her work to catch up and caress her grandchild, overwhelming him with +endearments; while over the return of his mother, her second Isy, now +her daughter indeed, she soon became jubilant. + +From the first publication of the banns, she had begun cleaning and +setting to rights the parlour, meaning to make it over entirely to +Isy and James; but the moment Isy discovered her intent, she protested +obstinately: it should not, could not, must not be! The very morning +after the wedding she was down in the kitchen, and had put the water on +the fire for the porridge before her husband was awake. Before her new +mother was down, or her father-in-law come in from his last preparations +for the harvest, it was already boiling, and the table laid for +breakfast. + +“I ken weel,” she said to her mother, “that I hae no richt to contre ye; +but ye was glaid o’ my help whan first I cam to be yer servan-lass; and +what for shouldna things be jist the same noo? I ken a’ the w’ys o’ the +place, and that they’ll lea’ me plenty o’ time for the bairnie: ye maun +jist lat me step again intil my ain auld place! and gien onybody comes, +it winna tak me a minute to mak mysel tidy as becomes the minister’s +wife!—Only he says that’s to be a’ ower noo, and there’ll be no need!” + +With that she broke into a little song, and went on with her work, +singing. + +At breakfast, James made request to his father that he might turn a +certain unused loft into a room for Isy and himself and little Peter. +His father making no objection, he set about the scheme at once, but was +interrupted by the speedy advent of an exceptionally plentiful harvest. + +The very day the cutting of the oats began, James appeared on the field +with the other scythe-men, prepared to do his best. When his father +came, however, he interfered, and compelled him to take the thing +easier, because, unfit by habit and recent illness, it would be even +dangerous for him to emulate the others. But what delighted his father +even more than his good-will, was the way he talked with the men and +women in the field: every show of superiority had vanished from his +bearing and speech, and he was simply himself, behaving like the others, +only with greater courtesy. + +When the hour for the noonday meal arrived, Isy appeared with her +mother-in-law and old Eppie, carrying their food for the labourers, +and leading little Peter in her hand. For a while the whole company was +enlivened by the child’s merriment; after which he was laid with his +bottle in the shadow of an overarching stook, and went to sleep, his +mother watching him, while she took her first lesson in gathering and +binding the sheaves. When he woke, his grandfather sent the whole family +home for the rest of the day. + +“Hoots, Isy, my dauty,” he said, when she would fain have continued her +work, “wad ye mak a slave-driver o’ me, and bring disgrace upo the name +o’ father?” + +Then at once she obeyed, and went with her husband, both of them tired +indeed, but happier than ever in their lives before. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +The next morning James was in the field with the rest long before the +sun was up. Day by day he grew stronger in mind and in body, until at +length he was not only quite equal to the harvest-work, but capable of +anything required of a farm servant. + +His deliverance from the slavery of Sunday prayers and sermons, and his +consequent sense of freedom and its delight, greatly favoured his growth +in health and strength. Before the winter came, however, he had begun +to find his heart turning toward the pulpit with a waking desire after +utterance. For, almost as soon as his day’s work ceased to exhaust him, +he had begun to take up the study of the sayings and doings of the +Lord of men, full of eagerness to verify the relation in which he stood +toward him, and, through him, toward that eternal atmosphere in which he +lived and moved and had his being, God himself. + +One day, with a sudden questioning hunger, he rose in haste from his +knees, and turned almost trembling to his Greek Testament, to find +whether the words of the Master, “If any man will do the will of the +Father,” meant “If any man _is willing_ to do the will of the Father;” +and finding that just what they did mean, he was thenceforward so far at +rest as to go on asking and hoping; nor was it then long before he began +to feel he had something worth telling, and must tell it to any that +would hear. And heartily he betook himself to pray for that spirit of +truth which the Lord had promised to them that asked it of their Father +in heaven. + +He talked with his wife about what he had found; he talked with his +father about it; he went to the soutar, and talked with him about it. + +Now the soutar had for many years made a certain use of his Sundays, +by which he now saw he might be of service to James: he went four miles +into the country to a farm on the other side of Stonecross, to hold +there a Sunday-school. It was the last farm for a long way in that +direction: beyond it lay an unproductive region, consisting mostly of +peat-mosses, and lone barren hills—where the waters above the firmament +were but imperfectly divided from the waters below the firmament. +For there roots of the hills coming rather close together, the waters +gathered and made marshy places, with here and there a patch of ground +on which crops could be raised. There were, however, many more houses, +such as they were, than could have been expected from the appearance +of the district. In one spot, indeed, not far from the farm I have +mentioned, there was a small, thin hamlet. A long way from church or +parish-school, and without any, nearer than several miles, to minister +to the spiritual wants of the people, it was a rather rough and ignorant +place, with a good many superstitions—none of them in their nature +specially mischievous, except indeed as they blurred the idea of divine +care and government—just the country for bogill-baes and brownie-baes, +boodies and water-kelpies to linger and disport themselves, long after +they had elsewhere disappeared! + +When, therefore, the late minister came seeking his counsel, the soutar +proposed, without giving any special reason for it, that he should +accompany him the next Sunday afternoon, to his school at Bogiescratt; +and James consenting, the soutar undertook to call for him at Stonecross +on his way. + +“Mr. MacLear,” said James, as they walked along the rough parish road +together, “I have but just arrived at a point I ought to have reached +before even entertaining a thought of opening my mouth upon anything +belonging to religion. Perhaps I knew some little things _about_ +religion; certainly I knew nothing _of_ religion; least of all had I +made any discovery for myself _in_ religion; and before that, how can a +man understand or know anything whatever concerning it? Even now I may +be presuming, but now at last, if I may dare to say so, I do seem to +have begun to recognize something of the relation between a man and the +God who made him; and with the sense of that, as I ventured to hint +when I saw you last Friday, there has risen in my mind a desire to +communicate to my fellow-men something of what I have seen and learned. +One thing I dare to hope—that, at the first temptation to show-off, I +shall be made aware of my danger, and have the grace given me to pull +up. And one thing I have resolved upon—that, if ever I preach again, I +will never again write a sermon. I know I shall make many blunders, and +do the thing very badly; but failure itself will help to save me from +conceit—will keep me, I hope, from thinking of myself at all, enabling +me to leave myself in God’s hands, willing to fail if he please. Don’t +you think, Mr. MacLear, we may even now look to God for what we ought to +say, as confidently as if, like the early Christians, we stood accused +before the magistrates?” + +“I div that, Maister Jeames!” answered the soutar. “Hide yersel in God, +sir, and oot o’ that secret place, secret and safe, speyk—and fear +naething. And never ye mint at speykin _doon_ to your congregation. Luik +them straucht i’ the een, and say what at the moment ye think and feel; +and dinna hesitate to gie them the best ye hae.” + +“Thank you, thank you, sir! I think I understand,” replied James.—“If +ever I speak again, I should like to begin in your school!” + +“Ye sall—this vera nicht, gien ye like,” rejoined the soutar. “I think +ye hae something e’en noo upo yer min’ ’at ye would like to say to +them—but we’ll see hoo ye feel aboot it efter I hae said a word to them +first!” + +“When you have said what you want to say, Mr. MacLear, give me a look; +and if I _have_ anything to say, I will respond to your sign. Then you +can introduce me, saying what you will. Only dinna spare me; use me +after your judgment.” + +The soutar held out his hand to his disciple, and they finished their +journey in silence. + +When they reached the farmhouse, the small gathering was nearly +complete. It was mostly of farm labourers; but a few of the congregation +worked in a quarry, where serpentine lay under the peat. In this +serpentine occurred veins of soapstone, occasionally of such a thickness +as to be itself the object of the quarrier: it was used in the making of +porcelain; and small quantities were in request for other purposes. + +When the soutar began, James was a little shocked at first to hear him +use his mother-tongue as in his ordinary conversation; but any sense of +its unsuitableness vanished presently, and James soon began to feel +that the vernacular gave his friend additional power of expression, and +therewith of persuasion. + +“My frien’s, I was jist thinkin, as I cam ower the hill,” he began, +“hoo we war a’ made wi’ differin pooers—some o’ ’s able to dee ae thing +best, and some anither; and that led me to remark, that it was the same +wi’ the warl we live in—some pairts o’ ’t fit for growin aits, and some +bere, and some wheat, or pitatas; and hoo ilk varyin rig had to be +turnt til its ain best eese. We a’ ken what a lot o’ eeses the bonny +green-and-reid-mottlet marble can be put til; but it wadna do weel for +biggin hooses, specially gien there war mony streaks o’ saipstane intil +’t. Still it’s no ’at the saipstane itsel’s o’ nae eese, for ye ken +there’s a heap o’ eeses it can be put til. For ae thing, the tailor taks +a bit o’ ’t to mark whaur he’s to sen’ the shears alang the claith, when +he’s cuttin oot a pair o’ breeks; and again they mix’t up wi the clay +they tak for the finer kin’s o’ crockery. But upo’ the ither han’ +there’s ae thing it’s eesed for by some, ’at canna be considert a richt +eese to mak o’ ’t: there’s ae wull tribe in America they tell me o’, ’at +ait a hantle o’ ’t—and that’s a thing I can_not_ un’erstan’; for it diz +them, they say, no guid at a’, ’cep, maybe, it be jist to fill-in the +toom places i’ their stammacks, puir reid craturs, and haud their ribs +ohn stucken thegither—and maybe that’s jist what they ait it for! Eh, +but they maun be sair hungert afore they tak til the vera dirt! But +they’re only savage fowk, I’m thinkin, ’at hae hardly begun to be men +ava! + +“Noo ye see what I’m drivin’ at? It’s this—that things hae aye to be +put to their richt eeses! But there are guid eeses and better eeses, +and things canna _aye_ be putten to their _best_ eeses; only, whaur they +can, it’s a shame to put them to ony ither but their best! Noo, +what’s the best eese o’ a man?—what’s a man made for? The carritchis +(_catechism_) says, _To glorifee God_. And hoo is he to dee that? Jist +by deein the wull o’ God. For the ae perfec’ man said he was born intil +the warl for that ae special purpose, to dee the wull o’ him that sent +him. A man’s for a heap o’ eeses, but that ae eese covers them a’. Whan +he’s deein’ the wull o’ God, he’s deein jist a’thing. + +“Still there are vahrious wy’s in which a man can be deein the wull o’ +his Father in h’aven, and the great thing for ilk ane is to fin’ oot the +best w’y _he_ can set aboot deein that wull. + +“Noo here’s a man sittin aside me that I maun help set to the best eese +he’s fit for—and that is, tellin ither fowk what he kens aboot the God +that made him and them, and stirrin o’ them up to dee what He would hae +them dee. The fac is, that the man was ance a minister o’ the Kirk o’ +Scotlan’; but whan he was a yoong man, he fell intil a great faut:—a +yoong man’s faut—I’m no gaein to excuse ’t—dinna think it!—Only I +chairge ye, be ceevil til him i’ yer vera thouchts, rememberin hoo mony +things ye hae dene yersels ’at ye hae to be ashamit o’, though some +o’ them may never hae come to the licht; for, be sure o’ this, he has +repentit richt sair. Like the prodigal, he grew that ashamit o’ what he +had dene, that he gied up his kirk, and gaed hame to the day’s darg +upon his father’s ferm. And that’s what he’s at the noo, thof he be a +scholar, and that a ripe ane! And by his repentance he’s learnt a heap +that he didna ken afore, and that he couldna hae learnt ony ither +w’y than by turnin wi’ shame frae the path o’ the transgressor. I hae +broucht him wi’ me this day, sirs, to tell ye something—he hasna said +to me what—that the Lord in his mercy has tellt him. I’ll say nae mair: +Mr. Bletherwick, wull ye please tell’s what the Lord has putten it intil +yer min’ to say?” + +The soutar sat down; and James got up, white and trembling. For a moment +or two he was unable to speak, but overcoming his emotion, and falling +at once into the old Scots tongue, he said— + +“My frien’s, I hae little richt to stan’ up afore ye and say onything; +for, as some o’ ye ken, if no afore, at least noo, frae what my frien’ +the soutar has jist been tellin ye, I was ance a minister o’ the kirk, +but upon a time I behavet mysel that ill, that, whan I cam to my senses, +I saw it my duty to withdraw, and mak room for anither to tak up my +disgracet bishopric, as was said o’ Judas the traitor. But noo I seem +to hae gotten some mair licht, and to ken some things I didna ken afore; +sae, turnin my back upo’ my past sin, and believin God has forgien me, +and is willin I sud set my han’ to his pleuch ance mair, I hae thoucht +to mak a new beginnin here in a quaiet heumble fashion, tellin ye +something o’ what I hae begoud, i’ the mercy o’ God, to un’erstan’ a +wee for mysel. Sae noo, gien ye’ll turn, them o’ ye that has broucht +yer buiks wi’ ye, to the saeventh chapter o’ John’s gospel, and the +saeventeenth verse, ye’ll read wi me what the Lord says there to the +fowk o Jerus’lem: _Gien ony man be wullin to dee His wull, he’ll ken +whether what I tell him comes frae God, or whether I say ’t only oot +o’ my ain heid_. Luik at it for yersels, for that’s what it says i’ the +Greek, the whilk is plainer than the English to them that un’erstan’ +the auld Greek tongue: Gien onybody _be wullin_ to dee the wull o’ God, +he’ll ken whether my teachin comes frae God, or I say ’t o’ mysel.” + +From that he went on to tell them that, if they kept trusting in God, +and doing what Jesus told them, any mistake they made would but help +them the better to understand what God and his son would have them do. +The Lord gave them no promise, he said, of knowing what this or that man +ought to do; but only of knowing what the man himself ought to do. And +he illustrated this by the rebuke the Lord gave Peter when, leaving +inquiry into the will of God that he might do it, he made inquiry into +the decree of God concerning his friend that he might know it; seeking +wherewithal, not to prophesy, but to foretell. Then he showed them the +difference between the meaning of the Greek word, and that of the modern +English word _prophesy_. + +The little congregation seemed to hang upon his words, and as they were +going away, thanked him heartily for thus talking to them. + +That same night as James and the soutar were going home together, they +were overtaken by an early snowstorm, and losing their way, were in the +danger, not a small one, of having to pass the night on the moor. But +happily, the farmer’s wife, in whose house was their customary assembly, +had, as they were taking their leave, made the soutar a present of some +onion bulbs, of a sort for which her garden was famous: exhausted in +conflict with the freezing blast, they had lain down, apparently to die +before the morning, when the soutar bethought himself of the onions; +and obeying their nearer necessity, they ate instead of keeping them to +plant; with the result that they were so refreshed, and so heartened for +battle with the wind and snow, that at last, in the small hours of the +morning, they reached home, weary and nigh frozen. + +All through the winter, James accompanied the soutar to his +Sunday-school, sometimes on his father’s old gig-horse, but oftener +on foot. His father would occasionally go also; and then the men of +Stonecross began to go, with the cottar and his wife; so that the little +company of them gradually increased to about thirty men and women, and +about half as many children. In general, the soutar gave a short +opening address; but he always made “the minister” speak; and thus James +Blatherwick, while encountering many hidden experiences, went through +his apprenticeship to extempore preaching; and, hardly knowing how, grew +capable at length of following out a train of thought in his own mind +even while he spoke, and that all the surer from the fact that, as it +rose, it found immediate utterance; and at the same time it was rendered +the more living and potent by the sight of the eager faces of his humble +friends fixed upon him, as they drank in, sometimes even anticipated, +the things he was saying. He seemed to himself at times almost to see +their thoughts taking reality and form to accompany him whither he +led them; while the stream of his thought, as it disappeared from his +consciousness and memory, seemed to settle in the minds of those who +heard him, like seed cast on open soil—some of it, at least, to grow +up in resolves, and bring forth fruit. And all the road as the friends +returned, now in moonlight, now in darkness and rain, sometimes in wind +and snow, they had such things to think of and talk about, that the +way never seemed long. Thus dwindled by degrees Blatherwick’s +self-reflection and self-seeking, and, growing divinely conscious, +he grew at the same time divinely self-oblivious. Once, upon such a +home-coming, as his wife was helping him off with his wet boots, he +looked up in her face and said— + +“To think, Isy, that here am I, a dull, selfish creature, so long +desiring only for myself knowledge and influence, now at last grown able +to feel in my heart all the way home, that I took every step, one after +the other, only by the strength of God in me, caring for me as my own +making father!—Ken ye what I’m trying to say, Isy, my dear?” + +“I canna be a’thegither certain I un’erstan’,” answered his wife; “but +I’ll keep thinkin aboot it, and maybe I’ll come til’t!” + +“I can desire no more,” answered James, “for until the Lord lat ye see +a thing, hoo can you or I or onybody see the thing that _he_ maun see +first! And what is there for us to desire, but to see things as God sees +them, and would hae us see them? I used to think the soutar a puir fule +body whan he was sayin the vera things I’m tryin to say noo! I saw nae +mair what he was efter than that puir collie there at my feet—maybe no +half sae muckle, for wha can tell what he mayna be thinkin, wi’ that far +awa luik o’ his!” + +“Div ye think, Jeames, that ever we’ll be able to see inside thae +doggies, and ken what they’re thinkin?” + +“I wouldna won’er what we mayna come til; for ye ken Paul says, ‘A’ +things are yours, and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s!’ Wha can +tell but the vera herts o’ the doggies may ae day lie bare and open to +_oor_ herts, as to the hert o’ Him wi’ whom they and we hae to do! Eh, +but the thouchts o’ a doggie maun be a won’erfu’ sicht! And syne to +think o’ the thouchts o’ Christ aboot that doggie! We’ll ken them, I +daurna weel doobt, some day! I’m surer aboot that nor aboot kennin the +thouchts o’ the doggie himsel!” + +Another Sunday night, having come home through a terrible storm of +thunder and lightning, he said to Isy— + +“I hae been feelin, a’ the w’y hame, as gien, afore lang, I micht hae +to gie a wider testimony. The apostles and the first Christians, ye see, +had to beir testimony to the fac’ that the man that was hangt and dee’d +upo the cross, the same was up again oot o’ the grave, and gangin aboot +the warl; noo I canna beir testimony to that, for I wasna at that time +awaur o’ onything; but I micht weel be called upon to beir testimony to +the fac’ that, whaur ance he lay deid and beeried, there he’s come alive +at last—that is, i’ the sepulchre o’ my hert! For I hae seen him noo, +and ken him noo—the houp o’ glory in my hert and my life! Whatever he +said ance, that I believe for ever.” + +The talks James Blatherwick and the soutar had together, were now, +according to Mr. Robertson, even wonderful. But it was chiefly the +soutar that spoke, while James sat and listened in silence. On one +occasion, however, James had spoken out freely, and indeed eloquently; +and Mr. Robertson, whom the soutar accompanied to his inn that night, +had said to him ere they parted— + +“Do you see any good and cogent reason, Mr. MacLear, why this man should +not resume his pastoral office?” + +“One thing at least I am sure of,” answered the soutar, “—that he is +far fitter for it than ever he was in his life before.” + +Mr. Robertson repeated this to James the next day, adding— + +“And I am certain every one who knows you will vote the restoration of +your license!” + +“I must speak to Isy about it,” answered James with simplicity. + +“That is quite right, of course,” rejoined Mr. Robertson: “you know I +tell my wife everything that I am at liberty to tell.” + +“Will not some public recognition of my reinstatement be necessary?” +suggested James. + +“I will have a talk about it with some of the leaders of the synod, and +let you know what they say,” answered Mr. Robertson. + +“Of course I am ready,” returned Blatherwick, “to make any public +confession judged necessary or desirable; but that would involve my +wife; and although I know perfectly that she will be ready for anything +required of her, it remains not the less my part to do my best to shield +her!” + +“Of one thing I think you may be sure—that, with our present moderator, +your case will be handled with more than delicacy—with tenderness!” + +“I must not doubt it; but for myself I would deprecate indulgence. I +must have a talk with my wife about it! She is sure to know what will be +best!” + +“My advice is to leave it all in the hands of the moderator. We have no +right to choose, appoint, or apportion our own penalties!” + +James went home and laid the whole matter before his wife. + +Instead of looking frightened, or even anxious, Isy laid little Peter +softly in his crib, threw her arms round James’s neck, and cried— + +“Thank God, my husband, that you have come to this! Don’t think to leave +me out, I beg of you. I am more than ready to accept my shame. I have +always said _I_ was to blame, and not you! It was me that should have +known better!” + +“You trusted me, and I proved quite unworthy of your confidence!—But +had ever man a wife to be so proud of as I of you!” + +Mr. Robertson brought the matter carefully before the synod; but neither +James nor Isy ever heard anything more of it—except the announcement +of the cordial renewal of James’s license. This was soon followed by the +offer of a church in the poorest and most populous parish north of the +Tweed. + +“See the loving power at the heart of things, Isy!” said James to his +wife: “out of evil He has brought good, the best good, and nothing +but good!—a good ripened through my sin and selfishness and ambition, +bringing upon you as well as me disgrace and suffering! The evil in me +had to come out and show itself, before it could be cleared away! Some +people nothing but an earthquake will rouse from their dead sleep: I was +one of such. God in His mercy brought on the earthquake: it woke me and +saved me from death. Ignorant creatures go about asking why God permits +evil: _we_ know why! It may be He could with a word cause evil to +cease—but would that be to create good? The word might make us good +like oxen or harmless sheep, but would that be a goodness worthy of him +who was made in the image of God? If a man ceased to be _capable_ of +evil, he must cease to be a man! What would the goodness be that could +not help being good—that had no choice in the matter, but must be such +because it was so made? God chooses to be good, else he would not be +God: man must choose to be good, else he cannot be the son of God! +Herein we see the grand love of the Father of men—that he gives them +a share, and that share as necessary as his own, in the making of +themselves! Thus, and thus only, that is, by willing the good, can they +become ‘partakers of the divine nature!’ Satan said, ‘Ye shall be as +gods, knowing good and evil!’ God says, ‘Ye shall be as gods, knowing +good and evil, and choosing the good.’ For the sake of this, that we may +come to choose the good, all the discipline of the world exists. God is +teaching us to know good and evil in some real degree _as they are_, and +not as _they seem to the incomplete_; so shall we learn to choose the +good and refuse the evil. He would make his children see the two things, +good and evil, in some measure as they are, and then say whether they +will be good children or not. If they fail, and choose the evil, he will +take yet harder measures with them. If at last it should prove possible +for a created being to see good and evil as they are, and choose the +evil, then, and only then, there would, I presume, be nothing left for +God but to set his foot upon him and crush him, as we crush a noxious +insect. But God is deeper in us than our own life; yea, God’s life is +the very centre and creative cause of that life which we call _ours_; +therefore is the Life in us stronger than the Death, in as much as the +creating Good is stronger than the created Evil.” + + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE *** + +***** This file should be named 9154-0.txt or 9154-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/5/9154/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Salted With Fire</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: George MacDonald</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9154]<br /> +[Most recently updated: August 7, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Jonathan Ingram, Debra Storr and Distributed Proofreaders +and Richard Tonsing</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE ***</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1 class="nobreak" id="SALTED_WITH_FIRE">SALTED WITH FIRE</h1> +</div> + + +<p class="center p2">By George MacDonald</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</h2> +</div> + + +<p>“Whaur are ye aff til this bonny mornin’, Maggie, my doo?” said the +soutar, looking up from his work, and addressing his daughter as she +stood in the doorway with her shoes in her hand.</p> + +<p>“Jist ower to Stanecross, wi’ yer leave, father, to speir the +mistress for a goupin or twa o’ chaff: yer bed aneth ye’s grown unco +hungry-like.”</p> + +<p>“Hoot, the bed’s weel eneuch, lassie!”</p> + +<p>“Na, it’s onything but weel eneuch! It’s my pairt to luik efter my ain +father, and see there be nae k-nots aither in his bed or his parritch.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re jist yer mither owre again, my lass!—Weel, I winna miss ye that +sair, for the minister ’ill be in this mornin’.”</p> + +<p>“Hoo ken ye that, father?”</p> + +<p>“We didna gree vera weel last nicht.”</p> + +<p>“I canna bide the minister—argle-barglin body!”</p> + +<p>“Toots, bairn! I dinna like to hear ye speyk sae scornfulike o’ the gude +man that has the care o’ oor sowls!”</p> + +<p>“It wad be mair to the purpose ye had the care o’ his!”</p> + +<p>“Sae I hae: hasna ilkabody the care o’ ilk ither’s?”</p> + +<p>“Ay; but he preshumes upo’ ’t—and ye dinna; there’s the differ!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, but ye see, lassie, the man has nae insicht—nane to speak o’, +that is; and it’s pleased God to mak him a wee stoopid, and some thrawn +(<i>twisted</i>). He has nae notion even o’ the wark I put intil thae wee bit +sheenie (<i>little shoes</i>) o’ his—that I’m this moment labourin ower!”</p> + +<p>“It’s sair wastit upo’ him ’at canna see the thoucht intil’t!”</p> + +<p>“Is God’s wark wastit upo’ you and me excep’ we see intil’t, and +un’erstan’t, Maggie?”</p> + +<p>The girl was silent. Her father resumed.</p> + +<p>“There’s three concernt i’ the matter o’ the wark I may be at: first, +my ain duty to the wark—that’s me; syne him I’m working for—that’s +the minister; and syne him ’at sets me to the wark—ye ken wha that is: +whilk o’ the three wad ye hae me lea’ oot o’ the consideration?”</p> + +<p>For another moment the girl continued silent; then she said—</p> + +<p>“Ye maun be i’ the richt, father! I believe ’t, though I canna jist +<i>see</i> ’t. A body canna like a’body, and the minister’s jist the ae man I +canna bide.”</p> + +<p>“Ay could ye, gi’en ye lo’ed the <i>ane</i> as he oucht to be lo’ed, and as +ye maun learn to lo’e him.”</p> + +<p>“Weel I’m no come to that wi’ the minister yet!”</p> + +<p>“It’s a trowth—but a sair pity, my dautie (<i>daughter—darling</i>).”</p> + +<p>“He provokes me the w’y that he speaks to ye, father—him ’at’s no fit +to tie the thong o’ your shee!”</p> + +<p>“The Maister would lat him tie his, and say <i>thank ye</i>!”</p> + +<p>“It aye seems to me he has sic a scrimpit way o’ believin’! It’s no like +believin’ at a’! He winna trust him for naething that he hasna his ain +word, or some ither body’s for! Ca’ ye that lippenin’ til him?”</p> + +<p>It was now the father’s turn to be silent for a moment. Then he said,—</p> + +<p>“Lea’ the judgin’ o’ him to his ain maister, lassie. I ha’e seen him +whiles sair concernt for ither fowk.”</p> + +<p>“’At they wouldna haud wi’ <i>him</i>, and war condemnt in consequence—wasna +that it?”</p> + +<p>“I canna answer ye that, bairn.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I ken he doesna like you—no ae wee bit. He’s aye girdin at ye to +ither fowk!”</p> + +<p>“May be: the mair’s the need I sud lo’e him.”</p> + +<p>“But hoo <i>can</i> ye, father?”</p> + +<p>“There’s naething, o’ late, I ha’e to be sae gratefu’ for to <i>Him</i> as +that I can. But I confess I had lang to try sair!”</p> + +<p>“The mair I was to try, the mair I jist couldna.”</p> + +<p>“But ye could try; and He could help ye!”</p> + +<p>“I dinna ken; I only ken that sae ye say, and I maun believe ye. Nane +the mair can I see hoo it’s ever to be broucht aboot.”</p> + +<p>“No more can I, though I ken it can be. But just think, my ain Maggie, +hoo would onybody ken that ever ane o’ ’s was his disciple, gien we war +aye argle-barglin aboot the holiest things—at least what the minister +coonts the holiest, though may be I think I ken better? It’s whan twa +o’ ’s strive that what’s ca’d a schism begins, and I jist winna, please +God—and it does please him! He never said, Ye maun a’ think the same +gait, but he did say, Ye maun a’ loe ane anither, and no strive!”</p> + +<p>“Ye dinna aye gang to his kirk, father!”</p> + +<p>“Na, for I’m jist feared sometimes lest I should stop loein him. It +matters little about gaein to the kirk ilka Sunday, but it matters a +heap aboot aye loein ane anither; and whiles he says things aboot the +mind o’ God, sic that it’s a’ I can dee to sit still.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, father, I dinna believe that I can lo’e him ony the day; sae, wi’ +yer leave, I s’ be awa to Stanecross afore he comes.”</p> + +<p>“Gang yer wa’s, lassie, and the Lord gang wi’ ye, as ance he did wi’ +them that gaed to Emmaus.”</p> + +<p>With her shoes in her hand, the girl was leaving the house when her +father called after her—</p> + +<p>“Hoo’s folk to ken that I provide for my ain, whan my bairn gangs +unshod? Tak aff yer shune gin ye like when ye’re oot o’ the toon.”</p> + +<p>“Are ye sure there’s nae hypocrisy aboot sic a fause show, father?” +asked Maggie, laughing. “I maun hide them better!”</p> + +<p>As she spoke she put the shoes in the empty bag she carried for the +chaff. “There’s a hidin’ o’ what I hae—no a pretendin’ to hae what I +haena!—I s’ be hame in guid time for yer tay, father.—I can gang a heap +better withoot them!” she added, as she threw the bag over her shoulder. +“I’ll put them on whan I come to the heather,” she concluded.</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay; gang yer wa’s, and lea’ me to the wark ye haena the grace to +adverteeze by weirin’ o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>Maggie looked in at the window as she passed it on her way, to get a +last sight of her father. The sun was shining into the little bare room, +and her shadow fell upon him as she passed him; but his form lingered +clear in the close chamber of her mind after she had left him far. And +it was not her shadow she had seen, but the shadow, rather, of a great +peace that rested concentred upon him as he bowed over his last, his +mind fixed indeed upon his work, but far more occupied with the affairs +of quite another region. Mind and soul were each so absorbed in its +accustomed labour that never did either interfere with that of the +other. His shoemaking lost nothing when he was deepest sunk in some +one or other of the words of his Lord, which he sought eagerly to +understand—nay, I imagine his shoemaking gained thereby. In his leisure +hours, not a great, he was yet an intense reader; but it was nothing in +any book that now occupied him; it was the live good news, the man Jesus +Christ himself. In thought, in love, in imagination, that man dwelt in +him, was alive in him, and made him alive. This moment He was with him, +had come to visit him—yet was never far from him—was present always +with an individuality that never quenched but was continually developing +his own. For the soutar absolutely believed in the Lord of Life, was +always trying to do the things he said, and to keep his words abiding in +him. Therefore was he what the parson called a mystic, and was the +most practical man in the neighbourhood; therefore did he make the best +shoes, because the Word of the Lord abode in him.</p> + +<p>The door opened, and the minister came into the kitchen. The soutar +always worked in the kitchen, to be near his daughter, whose presence +never interrupted either his work or his thought, or even his +prayers—which often seemed as involuntary as a vital automatic impulse.</p> + +<p>“It’s a grand day!” said the minister. “It aye seems to me that just on +such a day will the Lord come, nobody expecting him, and the folk all +following their various callings—as when the flood came and astonished +them.”</p> + +<p>The man was but reflecting, without knowing it, what the soutar had +been saying the last time they encountered; neither did he think, at the +moment, that the Lord himself had said something like it first.</p> + +<p>“And I was thinkin, this vera meenute,” returned the soutar, “sic a +bonny day as it was for the Lord to gang aboot amang his ain fowk. I +was thinkin maybe he was come upon Maggie, and was walkin wi’ her up the +hill to Stanecross—nearer til her, maybe, nor she could hear or see or +think!”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re a deal taen up wi’ vain imaiginins, MacLear!” rejoined the +minister, tartly. “What scriptur hae ye for sic a wanderin’ invention, +o’ no practical value?”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, sir, what scriptur hed I for takin my brakwast this mornin, or +ony mornin? Yet I never luik for a judgment to fa’ upon me for that! +I’m thinkin we dee mair things in faith than we ken—but no eneuch! no +eneuch! I was thankfu’ for’t, though, I min’ that, and maybe that’ll +stan’ for faith. But gien I gang on this gait, we’ll be beginnin as +we left aff last nicht, and maybe fa’ to strife! And we hae to loe ane +anither, not accordin to what the ane thinks, or what the ither thinks, +but accordin as each kens the Maister loes the ither, for he loes the +twa o’ us thegither.”</p> + +<p>“But hoo ken ye that he’s pleased wi’ ye?”</p> + +<p>“I said naething aboot that: I said he loes you and me!”</p> + +<p>“For that, he maun be pleast wi’ ye!”</p> + +<p>“I dinna think nane aboot that; I jist tak my life i’ my han’, and awa’ +wi’ ’t til <i>Him</i>;—and he’s never turned his face frae me yet.—Eh, sir! +think what it would be gien ever he did!”</p> + +<p>“But we maunna think o’ him ither than he would hae us think.”</p> + +<p>“That’s hoo I’m aye hingin aboot his door, luikin for him.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I kenna what to mak o’ ye! I maun jist lea’ ye to him!”</p> + +<p>“Ye couldna dee a kinder thing! I desire naething better frae man or +minister than be left to Him.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, weel, see til yersel.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll see to <i>him</i>, and try to loe my neebour—that’s you, Mr. Pethrie. +I’ll hae yer shune ready by Setterday, sir. I trust they’ll be worthy +o’ the feet that God made, and that hae to be shod by me. I trust and +believe they’ll nowise distress ye, sir, or interfere wi’ yer comfort +in preachin. I’ll fess them hame mysel, gien the Lord wull, and that +without fail.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na; dinna dee that; lat Maggie come wi’ them. Ye wad only be puttin +me oot o’ humour for the Lord’s wark wi’ yer havers!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I’ll sen’ Maggie—only ye wad obleege me by no seein her, for ye +micht put <i>her</i> oot o’ humour, sir, and she michtna gie yer sermon fair +play the morn!”</p> + +<p>The minister closed the door with some sharpness.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</h2> +</div> + + +<p>In the meantime, Maggie was walking shoeless and bonnetless up the hill +to the farm she sought. It was a hot morning in June, tempered by a wind +from the north-west. The land was green with the slow-rising tide of +the young corn, among which the cool wind made little waves, showing the +brown earth between them on the somewhat arid face of the hill. A few +fleecy clouds shared the high blue realm with the keen sun. As she rose +to the top of the road, the gable of the house came suddenly in sight, +and near it a sleepy old gray horse, treading his ceaseless round at the +end of a long lever, too listless to feel the weariness of a labour +that to him must have seemed unprogressive, and, to anything young, +heart-breaking. Nor did it appear to give him any consolation to be +aware of the commotion he was causing on the other side of the wall, +where a threshing machine of an antiquated sort responded with multiform +movement to the monotony of his round-and-round. Near by, a peacock, as +conscious of his glorious plumage as indifferent to the ugliness of his +feet, kept time with undulating neck to the motion of those same feet, +as he strode with stagey gait across the cornyard, now and then stooping +to pick up a stray grain spitefully, and occasionally erecting his superb +neck to give utterance to a hideous cry of satisfaction at his own beauty— +a cry as unlike the beauty as ever was discord to harmony. His glory, his +legs and his voice, perplexed Maggie with an unanalyzed sense of +contradiction and unfitness.</p> + +<p>Radiant with age and light, the old horse stood still just as the sun +touched the meridian; the hour of repose and food was come, and he knew +it; and at the same moment the girl, passing one of the green-painted +doors of the farm-house, stopped at the other, the kitchen one. It stood +open, and in answer to her modest knock, a ruddy maid appeared, with +a question in her eyes, and a smile on her lips at sight of the +shoemaker’s Maggie, whom she knew well. Maggie asked if she might see +the mistress.</p> + +<p>“Here’s soutar’s Maggie wanting ye, mem!” said the maid, and Mistress +Blatherwick, who was close at hand, came; to which Maggie humbly but +confidently making her request, had it as kindly granted, and followed +her to the barn to fill her pock with the light plumy covering of the +husk of the oats, the mistress of Stonecross helping her the while +and talking to her as she did so—for the soutar and his daughter were +favourites with her and her husband, and they had not seen either of +them for some while.</p> + +<p>“Ye used to ken oor Maister Jeames i’ the auld lang-syne, Maggie!” for +the two had played together as children in the same school, although +growth and difference in station had gradually put an end to +their intimacy, so that it became the mother to refer to him with +circumspection, seeing that, in her eyes at least, Maister Jeames was +now far on the way to becoming a great man, being a divinity student; +for in the Scotch church, although it sets small store on apostolic +descent, every Minister, until he has shown himself eccentic or +incapable of interesting a congregation, is regarded with quite as +much respect as in England is accorded to the claimant of a +phantom-priesthood; and therefore, prospectively, Jeames was to his +mother a man of no little note. Maggie remembered how, when a boy, he +had liked to talk with her father; and how her father would listen to +him with a curious look on his rugged face, while the boy set forth +the commonplaces of a lifeless theology with an occasional freshness +of logical presentation that at least interested himself. But she +remembered also that she had never heard the soutar on his side make +any attempt to lay open to the boy his stores of what one or two in the +place, one or two only, counted wisdom and knowledge.</p> + +<p>“He’s a gey clever laddie,” he had said once to Maggie, “and gien he +gets his een open i’ the coorse o’ the life he’s hardly yet ta’en haud +o’, he’ll doobtless see something; but he disna ken yet that there’s +onything rael to be seen, ootside or inside o’ him!” When he heard that +he was going to study divinity, he shook his head, and was silent.</p> + +<p>“I’m jist hame frae peyin him a short veesit,” Mrs. Blatherwick went on. +“I cam hame but twa nichts ago. He’s lodged wi’ a dacent widow in Arthur +Street, in a flat up a lang stane stair that gangs roun and roun till ye +come there, and syne gangs past the door and up again. She taks in han’ +to luik efter his claes, and sees to the washin o’ them, and does her +best to haud him tidy; but Jeamie was aye that partic’lar aboot his +appearance! And that’s a guid thing, special in a minister, wha has to +set an example! I was sair pleased wi’ the auld body.”</p> + +<p>There was one in the Edinburgh lodging, however, of whom Mrs. +Blatherwick had but a glimpse, and of whom, therefore, she had made no +mention to her husband any more than now to Maggie MacLear; indeed, she +had taken so little notice of her that she could hardly be said to +have seen her at all—a girl of about sixteen, who did far more for the +comfort of her aunt’s two lodgers than she who reaped all the advantage. +If Mrs. Blatherwick had let her eyes rest upon her but for a moment, she +would probably have looked again; and might have discovered that she was +both a good-looking and graceful little creature, with blue eyes, and +hair as nearly black as that kind of hair, both fine and plentiful, ever +is. She might then have discovered as well a certain look of earnestness +and service that would at first have attracted her for its own sake, and +then repelled her for James’s; for she would assuredly have read in it +what she would have counted dangerous for him; but seeing her poorly +dressed, and looking untidy, which at the moment she could not help, the +mother took her for an ordinary maid-of-all-work, and never for a moment +doubted that her son must see her just as she did. He was her only son; +her heart was full of ambition for him; and she brooded on the honour +he was destined to bring her and his father. The latter, however, caring +less for his good looks, had neither the same satisfaction in him nor an +equal expectation from him. Neither of his parents, indeed, had as yet +reaped much pleasure from his existence, however much one of them might +hope for in the time to come. There were two things indeed against such +satisfaction or pleasure—that James had never been open-hearted toward +them, never communicative as to his feelings, or even his doings; +and—which was worse—that he had long made them feel in him a certain +unexpressed claim to superiority. Nor would it have lessened their +uneasiness at this to have noted that the existence of such an implicit +claim was more or less evident in relation to every one with whom +he came in contact, manifested mainly by a stiff, incommunicative +reluctance, taking the form now of a pretended absorption in his books, +now of contempt for any sort of manual labour, even to the saddling of +the pony he was about to ride; and now and always by an affectation of +proper English, which, while successful as to grammar and accentuation, +did not escape the ludicrous in a certain stiltedness of tone and +inflection, from which intrusion of the would-be gentleman, his father, +a simple, old-fashioned man, shrank with more of dislike than he was +willing to be conscious of.</p> + +<p>Quite content that, having a better education than himself, his son +should both be and show himself superior, he could not help feeling that +these his ways of asserting himself were signs of mere foolishness, and +especially as conjoined with his wish to be a minister—in regard to +which Peter but feebly sympathized with the general ambition of Scots +parents. Full of simple paternal affection, whose utterance was quenched +by the behaviour of his son, he was continuously aware of something that +took the shape of an impassable gulf between James and his father and +mother. Profoundly religious, and readily appreciative of what was new +in the perception of truth, he was, above all, of a great and simple +righteousness—full, that is, of a loving sense of fairplay—a +very different thing indeed from that which most of those who count +themselves religious mean when they talk of the righteousness of God! +Little, however, was James able to see of this, or of certain other +great qualities in his father. I would not have my reader think that he +was consciously disrespectful to either of his parents, or knew that his +behaviour was unloving. He honoured their character, indeed, but shrank +from the simplicity of their manners; he thought of them with no +lively affection, though not without some kindly feeling and much +confidence—at the same time regarding himself with still greater +confidence. He had never been an idler, or disobedient; and had made +such efforts after theological righteousness as served to bolster +rather than buttress his conviction that he was a righteous youth, +and nourished his ignorance of the fact that he was far from being the +person of moral strength and value that he imagined himself. The person +he saw in the mirror of his self-consciousness was a very fine and +altogether trustworthy personage; the reality so twisted in its +reflection was but a decent lad, as lads go, with high but untrue +notions of personal honour, and an altogether unwarranted conviction +that such as he admiringly imagined himself, such he actually was: he +had never discovered his true and unworthy self! There were many things +in his life and ways upon which had he but fixed eyes of question, he +would at once have perceived that they were both judged and condemned; +but so far, nevertheless, his father and mother might have good hope of +his future.</p> + +<p>It is folly to suppose that such as follow most the fashions of this +world are more enslaved by them than multitudes who follow them only +afar off. These reverence the judgments of society in things of far +greater importance than the colour or cut of a gown; often without +knowing it, they judge life, and truth itself, by the falsest of all +measures, namely, the judgment of others falser than themselves; they do +not ask what is true or right, but what folk think and say about this +or that. James, for instance, altogether missed being a gentleman by his +habit of asking himself how, in such or such circumstances, a gentleman +would behave. As the man of honour he would fain know himself, he would +never tell a lie or break a promise; but he had not come to perceive +that there are other things as binding as the promise which alone +he regarded as obligatory. He did not, for instance, mind raising +expectations which he had not the least intention of fulfilling.</p> + +<p>Being a Scotch lad, it is not to be wondered at that he should turn +to Theology as a means of livelihood; neither is it surprising that +he should do so without any conscious love to God, seeing it is not in +Scotland alone that untrue men take refuge in the Church, and turn the +highest of professions into the meanest, laziest, poorest, and most +unworthy, by following it without any genuine call to the same. In +any profession, the man must be a poor common creature who follows +it without some real interest in it; but he who without a spark of +enthusiasm for it turns to the Church, is either a “blind mouth,” as +Milton calls him—scornfullest of epithets, or an “old wife” ambitious +of telling her fables well; and James’s ambition was of the same +contemptible sort—that, namely, of distinguishing himself in the +pulpit. This, if he had the natural gift of eloquence, he might well do +by its misuse to his own glory; or if he had it not, he might acquire a +spurious facility resembling it, and so be every way a mere windbag.</p> + +<p>Mr. Petrie, whom it cost the soutar so much care and effort to love, and +who, although intellectually small, was yet a good man, and by no means +a coward where he judged people’s souls in danger, thought to save +the world by preaching a God, eminently respectable to those who could +believe in such a God, but to those who could not, a God far from lovely +because far from righteous. His life, nevertheless, showed him in many +ways a believer in Him who revealed a very different God indeed from the +God he set forth. His faith, therefore, did not prevent him from looking +upon the soutar, who believed only in the God he saw in Jesus Christ, +as one in a state of rebellion against him whom Jesus claimed as his +father.</p> + +<p>Young Blatherwick had already begun to turn his back upon several of the +special tenets of Calvinism, without, however, being either a better or +a worse man because of the change in his opinions. He had cast aside, +for instance, the doctrine of an everlasting hell for the unbeliever; +but in doing so he became aware that he was thus leaving fallow a great +field for the cultivation of eloquence; and not having yet discovered +any other equally productive of the precious crop, without which so +little was to be gained for the end he desired—namely, the praise of +men, he therefore kept on, “for the meantime,” sowing and preparing to +reap that same field. Mr. Petrie, on the other hand, held the doctrine +as absolutely fundamental to Christianity, and preached it with power; +while the soutar, who had discarded it from his childhood, positively +refused, jealous of strife, to enter into any argument upon it with the +disputatious little man.</p> + +<p>As yet, then, James was reading Scotch metaphysics, and reconciling +himself to the concealment of his freer opinions, upon which concealment +depended the success of his probation, and his license. But the close of +his studies in divinity was now near at hand.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Upon a certain stormy day in the great northern city, preparing for +what he regarded as his career, James sat in the same large, shabbily +furnished room where his mother had once visited him—half-way up the +hideously long spiral stair of an ancient house, whose entrance was in a +narrow close. The great clock of a church in the neighbouring street had +just begun to strike five of a wintry afternoon, dark with snow, falling +and yet to fall: how often in after years was he not to hear the ghostly +call of that clock, and see that falling snow!—when a gentle tap came +to his door, and the girl I have already mentioned came in with a tray +and the materials for his most welcomed meal, coffee with bread and +butter. She set it down in a silence which was plainly that of deepest +respect, gave him one glance of devotion, and was turning to leave the +room, when he looked up from the paper he was writing, and said—</p> + +<p>“Don’t be in such a hurry, Isy. Haven’t you time to pour out my coffee +for me?”</p> + +<p>Isy was a small, dark, neat little thing, with finely formed features, +and a look of child-like simplicity, not altogether removed from +childishness. She answered him first with her very blue eyes full of +love and trust, then said—</p> + +<p>“Plenty o’ time, sir. What other have I to do than see that you be at +your ease?”</p> + +<p>He shoved aside his work, and looking up with some concentration in his +regard, pushed his chair back a little from the table, and rejoined—</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter with you this last day or two, Isy? You’re not +altogether like yourself!”</p> + +<p>She hesitated a moment, then answered—</p> + +<p>“It can be naething, I suppose, sir, but just that I’m growin older and +beginnin to think aboot things.”</p> + +<p>She stood near him. He put his arm round her little waist, and would +have drawn her down upon his knees, but she resisted.</p> + +<p>“I don’t see what difference that can make in you all at once, Isy! +We’ve known each other so long that there can be no misunderstanding of +any sort between us. You have always behaved like the good and modest +girl you are; and I’m sure you have been most attentive to me all the +time I have been in your aunt’s house.”</p> + +<p>He spoke in a tone of superior approval.</p> + +<p>“It was my bare duty, and ye hae aye been kinder to me than I could hae +had ony richt to expec’. But it’s nearhan’ ower noo!” she concluded with +a sigh that indicated approaching tears, as she yielded a little to the +increased pressure of his arm.</p> + +<p>“What makes you say that?” he returned, giving her a warm kiss, plainly +neither unwelcome nor the first.</p> + +<p>“Dinna ye think it would be better to drop that kin’ o’ thing the noo, +sir?” she said, and would have stood erect, but he held her fast.</p> + +<p>“Why now, more than any time—I don’t know for how long? Where does a +difference come in? What puts the notion in your pretty little head?”</p> + +<p>“It maun come some day, and the langer the harder it’ll be!”</p> + +<p>“But tell me what has set you thinking about it all at once?”</p> + +<p>She burst into tears. He tried to soothe and comfort her, but in +struggling not to cry she only sobbed the worse. At last, however, she +succeeded in faltering out an explanation.</p> + +<p>“Auntie’s been tellin me that I maun luik to my hert, so as no to tyne’t +to ye a’thegither! But it’s awa a’ready,” she went on, with a fresh +outburst, “and it’s no manner o’ use cryin til’t to come back to me. I +micht as weel cry upo’ the win’ as it blaws by me! I canna understan’ +’t! I ken weel ye’ll soon be a great man, and a’ the toon crushin to +hear ye; and I ken jist as weel that I’ll hae to sit still in my seat +and luik up to ye whaur ye stan’, no daurin to say a word—no daurin +even to think a thoucht lest somebody sittin aside me should hear’t ohn +me spoken. For what would it be but clean impidence o’ me to think ’at +there was a time when I was sittin whaur I’m sittin the noo—and thinkin +’t i’ the vera kirk! I would be nearhan’ deein for shame!”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t you ever think, Isy, that maybe I might marry you some day?” +said James jokingly, confident in the gulf between them.</p> + +<p>“Na, no ance. I kenned better nor that! I never even wusst it, for that +would be nae freen’s wuss: ye would never get ony farther gien ye did! +I’m nane fit for a minister’s wife—nor worthy o’ bein ane! I micht +do no that ill, and pass middlin weel, in a sma’ clachan wi’ a wee bit +kirkie—but amang gran’ fowk, in a muckle toon—for that’s whaur ye’re +sure to be! Eh me, me! A’ the last week or twa I hae seen ye driftin +awa frae me, oot and oot to the great sea, whaur never a thoucht o’ Isy +would come nigh ye again;—and what for should there? Ye camna into the +warl’ to think aboot me or the likes o’ me, but to be a great preacher, +and lea’ me ahin ye, like a sheaf o’ corn ye had jist cuttit and left +unbun’!”</p> + +<p>Here came another burst of bitter weeping, followed by words whose very +articulation was a succession of sobs.</p> + +<p>“Eh, me, me! I doobt I hae clean disgraced mysel!” she cried at last, +and ended, wiping her eyes—in vain, for the tears would keep flowing.</p> + +<p>As to young Blatherwick, I venture to assert that nothing vulgar or +low, still less of evil intent, was passing through his mind during this +confession; and yet what but evil was his unpitying, selfish exultation +in the fact that this simple-hearted and very pretty girl should love +him unsought, and had told him so unasked? A true-hearted man would +at once have perceived and shrunk from what he was bringing upon her: +James’s vanity only made him think it very natural, and more than +excusable in her; and while his ambition made him imagine himself so +much her superior as to exclude the least thought of marrying her, it +did not prevent him from yielding to the delight her confession caused +him, or from persuading her that there was no harm in loving one to whom +she must always be dear, whatever his future might bring with it. Isy +left the room not a little consoled, and with a new hope in possession +of her innocent imagination; leaving James exultant over his conquest, +and indulging a more definite pleasure than hitherto in the person and +devotion of the girl. As to any consciousness in him of danger to either +of them, it was no more than, on the shore, the uneasy stir of a storm +far out at sea. Had the least thought of wronging her invaded his mind, +he would have turned from it with abhorrence; yet was he endangering all +her peace without giving it one reasonable thought. He was acting with a +selfishness too much ingrained to manifest its own unlovely shape; while +in his mind lay all the time a half-conscious care to avoid making the +girl any promise.</p> + +<p>As to her fitness for a minister’s wife, he had never asked himself a +question concerning it; but in truth she might very soon have grown far +fitter for the position than he was for that of a minister. In character +she was much beyond him; and in breeding and consciousness far more of +a lady than he of a gentleman—fine gentleman as he would fain know +himself. Her manners were immeasurably better than his, because they +were simple and aimed at nothing. Instinctively she avoided whatever, +had she done it, she would at once have recognized as uncomely. She did +not know that simplicity was the purest breeding, yet from mere truth of +nature practised it unknowing. If her words were older-fashioned, that +is, more provincial than his, at least her tone was less so, and her +utterance was prettier than if, like him, she had aped an Anglicized +mode of speech. James would, I am sure, have admired her more if she +had been dressed on Sundays in something more showy than a simple cotton +gown; and I fear that her poverty had its influence in the freedoms he +allowed himself with her.</p> + +<p>Her aunt was a weak as well as unsuspicious woman, who had known better +days, and pitied herself because they were past and gone. She gave +herself no anxiety as to her niece’s prudence, but continued well +assured of it even while her very goodness was conspiring against her +safety. It would have required a man, not merely of greater goodness +than James, but of greater insight into the realities of life as well, +to perceive the worth and superiority of the girl who waited upon him +with a devotion far more angelic than servile; for whatever might +have seemed to savour of the latter, had love, hopeless of personal +advantage, at the root of it.</p> + +<p>Thus things went on for a while, with a continuous strengthening of the +pleasant yet not altogether easy bonds in which Isobel walked, and +a constant increase of the attraction that drew the student to the +self-yielding girl; until the appearance of another lodger in the house +was the means of opening Blatherwick’s eyes to the state of his own +feelings, by occasioning the birth and recognition of a not unnatural +jealousy, which “gave him pause.” On Isy’s side there was not the least +occasion for this jealousy, and he knew it; but not the less he saw +that, if he did not mean to go further, here he must stop—the immediate +result of which was that he began to change a little in his behaviour +toward her, when at any time she had to enter his room in ministration +to his wants.</p> + +<p>Of this change the poor girl was at once aware, but she attributed it +to a temporary absorption in his studies. Soon, however, she could not +doubt that not merely was his voice or his countenance changed toward +her, but that his heart had grown cold, and that he was no longer +“friends with her.” For there was another and viler element than mere +jealousy concerned in his alteration: he had become aware of a more +real danger into which he was rapidly drifting—that of irrecoverably +blasting the very dawn of his prospects by an imprudent marriage. “To +saddle himself with a wife,” as he vulgarly expressed it, before he had +gained his license—before even he had had the poorest opportunity of +distinguishing himself in that wherein lay his every hope and +ambition of proving his excellence, was a thing not for a moment to +be contemplated! And now, when Isobel asked him in sorrowful mood some +indifferent question, the uneasy knowledge that he was about to increase +her sadness made him answer her roughly—a form not unnatural to +incipient compunction: white as a ghost she stood a moment silently +staring at him, then sank on the floor senseless.</p> + +<p>Seized with an overmastering repentance that brought back with a rush +all his tenderness, James sprang to her, lifted her in his arms, laid +her on the sofa, and lavished caresses upon her, until at length she +recovered sufficiently to know where she lay—in the false paradise of +his arms, with him kneeling over her in a passion of regret, the first +passion he had ever felt or manifested toward her, pouring into her ear +words of incoherent dismay—which, taking shape as she revived, soon +became promises and vows. Thereupon the knowledge that he had committed +himself, and the conviction that he was henceforth bound to one course +in regard to her, wherein he seemed to himself incapable of falsehood, +unhappily freed him from the self-restraint then most imperative upon +him, and his trust in his own honour became the last loop of the snare +about to entangle his and her very life. At the moment when a genuine +love would have hastened to surround the woman with bulwarks of safety, +he ceased to regard himself as his sister’s keeper. Even thus did Cain +cease to be his brother’s keeper, and so slew him.</p> + +<p>But the vengeance on his unpremeditated treachery, for treachery, +although unpremeditated, it was none the less, came close upon its +heels. The moment that Isy left the room, weeping and pallid, conscious +that a miserable shame but waited the entrance of a reflection even now +importunate, he threw himself on the floor, writhing as in the claws of +a hundred demons. The next day but one he was to preach his first sermon +before his class, in the presence of his professor of divinity! His +immediate impulse was to rush from the house, and home hot-foot to his +mother; and it would have been well for him to have done so indeed, +confessed all, and turned his back on the church and his paltry ambition +together! But he had never been open with his mother, and he feared his +father, not knowing the tender righteousness of that father’s heart, +or the springs of love which would at once have burst open to meet the +sorrowful tale of his wretched son; and instead of fleeing at once +to his one city of refuge, he fell but to pacing the room in hopeless +bewilderment; and before long he was searching every corner of his +reviving consciousness, not indeed as yet for any justification, but +for what palliation of his “fault” might there be found; for it was the +first necessity of this self-lover to think well, or at least endurably, +of himself. Nor was it long before a multitude of sneaking arguments, +imps of Satan, began to assemble at the agonized cry of his +self-dissatisfaction—for it was nothing more.</p> + +<p>For, in that agony of his, there was no detestation of himself because +of his humiliation of the trusting Isobel; he did not loathe his abuse +of her confidence, or his having wrapt her in the foul fire-damp of his +miserable weakness: the hour of a true and good repentance was for him +not yet come; shame only as yet possessed him, because of the failure +of his own fancied strength. If it should ever come to be known, what +contempt would not clothe him, instead of the garments of praise of +which he had dreamed all these years! The pulpit, that goal of his +ambition, that field of his imagined triumphs—the very thought of +it now for a time made him feel sick. Still, there at least lay yet a +possibility of recovery—not indeed by repentance, of which he did not +seek to lay hold, but in the chance that no one might hear a word of +what had happened! Sure he felt, that Isy would never reveal it, and +least of all to her aunt! His promise to marry Isy he would of course +keep! Neither would that be any great hardship, if only it had no +consequences. As an immediate thing, however, it was not to be thought +of! there could be at the moment no necessity for such an extreme +measure! He would wait and see! he would be guided by events! As to +the sin of the thing—how many had not fallen like him, and no one the +wiser! Never would he so offend again! and in the meantime he would let +it go, and try to forget it—in the hope that providence now, and at +length time, would bury it from all men’s sight! He would go on the same +as if the untoward thing had not so cruelly happened, had cast no such +cloud over the fair future before him! Nor were his selfish regrets +unmingled with annoyance that Isy should have yielded so easily: why had +she not aided him to resist the weakness that had wrought his undoing? +She was as much to blame as he; and for her unworthiness was he to be +left to suffer? Within an hour he had returned to the sermon under his +hand, and was revising it for the twentieth time, to perfect it before +finally committing it to memory; for so should the lie of his life +be crowned with success, and seem the thing it was not—an outcome of +extemporaneous feeling! During what remained of the two days following +he spared no labour, and at last delivered it with considerable unction, +and the feeling that he had achieved his end.</p> + +<p>Neither of those days did Isy make her appearance in his room, her aunt +excusing her apparent neglect with the information that she was in bed +with a bad headache, while herself she supplied her place.</p> + +<p>The next day Isy went about her work as usual, but never once looked up. +James imagined reproach in her silence, and did not venture to address +her, having, indeed, no wish to speak to her, for what was there to be +said? A cloud was between them; a great gulf seemed to divide them! He +wondered at himself, no longer conscious of her attraction, or of his +former delight in her proximity. His resolve to marry her was not yet +wavering; he fully intended to keep his promise; but he must wait the +proper time, the right opportunity for revealing to his parents the fact +of his engagement! After a few days, however, during which there had +been no return to their former familiarity, it was with a fearful kind +of relief that he learned she was gone to pay a visit to a relation in +the country. He did not care that she had gone without taking leave of +him, only wondered if she could have said anything to incriminate him.</p> + +<p>The session came to an end while she was still absent; he took a formal +leave of her aunt, and went home to Stonecross.</p> + +<p>His father at once felt a wider division between them than before, and +his mother was now compelled, much against her will, to acknowledge to +herself its existence. At the same time he carried himself with less +arrogance, and seemed humbled rather than uplifted by his success.</p> + +<p>During the year that followed, he made several visits to Edinburgh, and +before long received the presentation to a living in the gift of his +father’s landlord, a certain duke who had always been friendly to the +well-to-do and unassuming tenant of one of his largest farms in the +north. But during none of these visits did he inquire or hear anything +about Isy; neither now, when, without blame he might have taken steps +toward the fulfilment of the promise which he had never ceased to regard +as binding, could he persuade himself that the right time had come for +revealing it to his parents: he knew it would be a great blow to his +mother to learn that he had so handicapped his future, and he feared the +silent face of his father at the announcement of it.</p> + +<p>It is hardly necessary to say that he had made no attempt to establish +any correspondence with the poor girl. Indeed by this time he found +himself not unwilling to forget her, and cherished a hope that she had, +if not forgotten, at least dismissed from her mind all that had taken +place between them. Now and then in the night he would wake to a few +tender thoughts of her, but before the morning they would vanish, +and during the day he would drown any chance reminiscence of her in a +careful polishing and repolishing of his sentences, aping the style +of Chalmers or of Robert Hall, and occasionally inserting some +fine-sounding quotation; for apparent richness of composition was his +principal aim, not truth of meaning, or lucidity of utterance.</p> + +<p>I can hardly be presumptuous in adding that, although growing in a +certain popularity with men, he was not thus growing in favour with +God. And as he continued to hear nothing about Isy, the hope at length, +bringing with it a keen shoot of pleasure, awoke in him that he was +never to hear of her more. For the praise of men, and the love of that +praise, having now restored him to his own good graces, he regarded +himself with more interest and approbation than ever; and his continued +omission of inquiry after Isy, heedless of the predicament in which +he might have placed her, was a far worse sin against her, because +deliberate, than his primary wrong to her, and it now recoiled upon him +in increased hardness of heart and self-satisfaction.</p> + +<p>Thus in love with himself, and thereby shut out from the salvation of +love to another, he was specially in danger of falling in love with the +admiration of any woman; and thence now occurred a little episode in his +history not insignificant in its results.</p> + +<p>He had not been more than a month or two in his parish when he was +attracted by a certain young woman in his congregation of some inborn +refinement and distinction of position, to whom he speedily became +anxious to recommend himself: he must have her approval, and, if +possible, her admiration! Therefore in his preaching, if the word +used for the lofty, simple utterance of divine messengers, may without +offence be misapplied to his paltry memorizations, his main thought was +always whether the said lady was justly appreciating the eloquence and +wisdom with which he meant to impress her—while in fact he remained +incapable of understanding how deep her natural insight penetrated both +him and his pretensions. Her probing attention, however, he so entirely +misunderstood that it gave him no small encouragement; and thus becoming +only the more eager after her good opinion, he came at length to imagine +himself heartily in love with her—a thing impossible to him with +any woman—and at last, emboldened by the fancied importance of his +position, and his own fancied distinction in it, he ventured an offer +of his feeble hand and feebler heart;—but only to have them, to his +surprise, definitely and absolutely refused. He turned from the lady’s +door a good deal disappointed, but severely mortified; and, judging it +impossible for any woman to keep silence concerning such a refusal, and +unable to endure the thought of the gossip to ensue, he began at once +to look about him for a refuge, and frankly told his patron the whole +story. It happened to suit his grace’s plans, and he came speedily to +his assistance with the offer of his native parish—whence the soutar’s +argumentative antagonist had just been removed to a place, probably not +a very distinguished one, in the kingdom of heaven; and it seemed to all +but a natural piety when James Blatherwick exchanged his parish for that +where he was born, and where his father and mother continued to occupy +the old farm.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>The soutar was still meditating on things spiritual, still reading the +gospel of St. John, still making and mending shoes, and still watching +the development of his daughter, who had begun to unfold what not a few +of the neighbours, with most of whom she was in favour, counted beauty. +The farm labourers in the vicinity were nearly all more or less her +admirers, and many a pair of shoes was carried to her father for the +sake of a possible smile from Maggie; but because of a certain awe that +seemed to pervade her presence, no one had as yet dared a word to her +beyond that of greeting or farewell: each that looked upon her became at +once aware of a certain inferiority. Her beauty seemed to suggest behind +it a beauty it was unable to reveal.</p> + +<p>She was rather short in stature, but altogether well proportioned, with +a face wonderfully calm and clear, and quiet but keen dark eyes. Her +complexion owed its white-rose tinge to a strong, gentle life, and its +few freckles to the pale sun of Scotland, for she courted every breeze +bonnetless on the hills, when she accompanied her father in his walks, +or carried home the work he had finished. He rejoiced especially that +she should delight in feeling the wind about her, for he held it to +indicate sympathy with that spirit whose symbol it was, and which he +loved to think of as folding her about, closer and more lovingly than +his own cherishing soul.</p> + +<p>Of her own impulse, and almost from the moment of her mother’s death, +she had given herself to his service, first in doing all the little +duties of the house, and then, as her strength and faculty grew, in +helping him more and more in his trade. As soon as she had cleared away +the few things necessary for a breakfast of porridge and milk, Maggie +would hasten to join her father where he stooped over his last, for he +was a little shortsighted.</p> + +<p>When he lifted his head you might see that, notwithstanding the +ruggedness of his face, he was a good-looking man, with strong, +well-proportioned features, in which, even on Sundays, when he scrubbed +his face unmercifully, there would still remain lines suggestive of +ingrained rosin and heelball. On week days he was not so careful to +remove every sign of the labour by which he earned his bread; but when +his work was over till the morning, and he was free to sit down to a +book, he would never even touch one without first carefully washing his +hands and face. In the workshop, Maggie’s place was a leather-seated +stool like her father’s, a yard or so away from his, to leave room for +his elbows in drawing out the lingels (<i>rosined threads</i>): there she +would at once resume the work she had left unfinished the night before; +for it was a curious trait in the father, early inherited by the +daughter, that he would never rise from a finished job, however near +might be the hour for dropping work, without having begun another to go +on with in the morning. It was wonderful how much cleaner Maggie managed +to keep her hands; but then to her fell naturally the lighter work for +women and children. She declared herself ambitious, however, of one day +making with her own hands a perfect pair of top-boots.</p> + +<p>The advantages she gained from this constant intercourse with her father +were incalculable. Without the least loss to her freedom of thought, +nay, on the contrary, to the far more rapid development of her truest +liberty, the soutar seemed to avoid no subject as unsuitable for the +girl’s consideration, but to insist only on its being regarded from the +highest attainable point of view. Matters of indifferent import they +seldom, if ever, discussed at all; and nothing she knew her father cared +about did Maggie ever allude to with indifference. Full of an honest +hilarity ever ready to break out when occasion occurred, she was at the +same time incapable of a light word upon a sacred subject. Such jokes +as, more than elsewhere, one is in danger of hearing among the clergy of +every church, very seldom came out in her father’s company; and she +very early became aware of the kind of joke he would take or refuse. +The light use, especially, of any word of the Lord would sink him in a +profound silence. If it were an ordinary man who thus offended, he might +rebuke him by asking if he remembered who said those words; once, when +it was a man specially regarded who gave the offence, I heard him say +something to this effect, “The maister doesna forget whaur and whan he +spak thae words: I houp ye do forget!” Indeed the most powerful force +in the education of Maggie was the evident attitude of her father toward +that Son of Man who was even now bringing the children of God to the +knowledge of that Father of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is +named. Mingling with her delights in the inanimate powers of Nature, in +the sun and the wind, in the rain and the growth, in the running waters +and the darkness sown with stars, was such a sense of His presence that +she felt like him, He might at any moment appear to her father, or, +should it so please Him, even to herself.</p> + +<p>Two or three miles away, in the heart of the hills, on the outskirts of +the farm of Stonecross, lived an old cottar and his wife, who paid a few +shillings of rent to Mr. Blatherwick for the acre or two their ancestors +had redeemed from the heather and bog, and gave, with their one son +who remained at home, occasional service on the farm. They were much +respected by the farmer and his wife, as well as the small circle to +which they were known in the neighbouring village—better known, and +more respected still in that kingdom called of heaven; for they were +such as he to whom the promise was given, that he should yet see the +angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man. They had long +and heartily loved and honoured the soutar, whom they had known before +the death of his wife, and for his sake and hers, both had always +befriended the motherless Maggie. They could not greatly pity her, +seeing she had such a father, yet old Eppie had her occasional moments +of anxiety as to how the bairn would grow up without a mother’s care. +No sooner, however, did the little one begin to show character, than +Eppie’s doubt began to abate; and long before the time to which my +narrative has now come, the child and the child-like old woman were fast +friends. Maggie was often invited to spend a day at Bogsheuch—oftener +indeed than she felt at liberty to leave her father and their common +work, though not oftener than she would have liked to go.</p> + +<p>One morning, early in summer, when first the hillsides had begun to look +attractive, a small agricultural cart, such as is now but seldom seen, +with little paint except on its two red wheels, and drawn by a thin, +long-haired little horse, stopped at the door of the soutar’s house, +clay-floored and straw-thatched, in a back-lane of the village. It was +a cart the cottar used in the cultivation of his little holding, and his +son who drove it, now nearly middle-aged, was likely to succeed to the +hut and acres of Bogsheuch. Man and equipage, both well known to the +soutar, had come with an invitation, more pressing than usual, that +Maggie would pay them a visit of a few days.</p> + +<p>Father and daughter, consulting together in the presence of Andrew +Cormack, arrived at the conclusion that, work being rather slacker than +usual, and nobody in need of any promised job which the soutar could not +finish by himself in good time, Maggie was quite at liberty to go. She +sprang up joyfully—not without a little pang at the thought of leaving +her father alone, although she knew him quite equal to anything +that could be required in the house before her return—and set about +preparing their dinner, while Andrew went to execute a few commissions +that the mistress at Stonecross and his mother at Bogsheuch had given +him. By the time he returned, Maggie was in her Sunday gown, with her +week-day wrapper and winsey petticoat in a bundle—for she reckoned on +being of some use to Eppie during her visit.</p> + +<p>When they had eaten their humble dinner, Andrew brought the cart to the +door, and Maggie scrambled into it.</p> + +<p>“Tak a piece wi’ ye,” said her father, following her to the cart: “ye +hadna muckle to yer denner, and ye may be hungry again or ye hae the +lang road ahint ye!”</p> + +<p>He put several pieces of oatcake in her hand, which she received with a +loving smile; and they set out at a walking pace, which Andrew made no +attempt to quicken.</p> + +<p>It was far from a comfortable carriage, neither was her wisp of straw in +the bottom of it altogether comfortable to sit upon; but the change from +her stool and the close attention her work required, to the open air +and the free rush of the thoughts that came crowding to her out of +the wilderness, put her at once in a blissful mood. Even the few dull +remarks that the slow-thinking Andrew made at intervals from his perch +on the front of the cart, seemed to come to her from the realm of +Faerie, the mysterious world that lay in the folds of the huddled hills. +Everything Maggie saw or heard that afternoon seemed to wear the glamour +of God’s imagination, which is at once the birth and the very truth of +everything. Selfishness alone can rub away that divine gilding, without +which gold itself is poor indeed.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the little horse stood still. Andrew, waking up from a snooze, +jumped to the ground, and began, still half asleep, to search into the +cause of the arrest; for Jess, although she could not make haste, never +of her own accord stood still while able to keep on walking. Maggie, +on her part, had for some time noted that they were making very slow +progress.</p> + +<p>“She’s deid cripple!” said Andrew at length, straightening his long back +from an examination of Jess’s fore feet, and coming to Maggie’s side of +the cart with a serious face. “I dinna believe the crater’s fit to gang +ae step furder! Yet I canna see what’s happent her.”</p> + +<p>Maggie was on the road before he had done speaking. Andrew tried once +to lead Jess, but immediately desisted. “It would be fell cruelty!” he +said. “We maun jist lowse her, and tak her gien we can to the How o’ the +Mains. They’ll gie her a nicht’s quarters there, puir thing! And we’ll +see gien they can tak you in as weel, Maggie. The maister, I mak nae +doobt, ’ill len’ me a horse to come for ye i’ the morning.”</p> + +<p>“I winna hear o’ ’t!” answered Maggie. “I can tramp the lave o’ the ro’d +as weel’s you, Andrew!"</p> + +<p>“But I hae a’ thae things to cairry, and that’ll no lea’ me a han’ to +help ye ower the burn!” objected Andrew.</p> + +<p>“What o’ that?” she returned. “I was sae fell tired o’ sittin that my +legs are jist like to rin awa wi’ me. Lat me jist dook mysel i’ the +bonny win’!” she added, turning herself round and round. “—Isna it jist +like awfu’ thin watter, An’rew?—Here, gie me a haud o’ that loaf. I s’ +cairry that, and my ain bit bundle as weel; syne, I fancy, ye can manage +the lave yersel!”</p> + +<p>Andrew never had much to say, and this time he had nothing. But her +readiness relieved him of some anxiety; for his mother would be very +uncomfortable if he went home without her!</p> + +<p>Maggie’s spirits rose to lark-pitch as the darkness came on and +deepened; and the wind became to her a live gloom, in which, with no +eye-bound to the space enclosing her, she could go on imagining after +the freedom of her own wild will. As the world and everything in it +gradually disappeared, it grew easy to imagine Jesus making the darkness +light about him, and stepping from it plain before her sight. That +could be no trouble to him, she argued, as, being everywhere, he must be +there. He could appear in any form, who had created every shape on the +face of the whole world! If she were but fit to see him, then surely he +would come to her! For thus often had her father spoken to her, talking +of the varied appearances of the Lord after his resurrection, and his +promise that he would be with his disciples always to the end of the +world. Even after he had gone back to his father, had he not appeared to +the apostle Paul? and might it not be that he had shown himself to many +another through the long ages? In any case he was everywhere, and always +about them, although now, perhaps from lack of faith in the earth, he +had not been seen for a long time. And she remembered her father once +saying that nobody could even <i>think</i> a thing if there was no possible +truth in it. The Lord went away that they might believe in him when out +of the sight of him, and so be in him, and he in them!</p> + +<p>“I dinna think,” said Maggie aloud to herself, as she trudged along +beside the delightfully silent Andrew, “that my father would be the +least astonished—only filled wi’ an awfu’ glaidness—if at ony moment, +walkin at his side, the Lord was to call him by his name, and appear +til him. He would but think he had just steppit oot upon him frae some +secret door, and would say,—‘I thoucht, Lord, I would see you some day! +I was aye greedy efter a sicht o’ ye, Lord, and here ye are!’”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</h2> +</div> + + +<p>The same moment to her ears came the cry of an infant. Her first thought +was, “Can that be Himsel, come ance again as he cam ance afore?”</p> + +<p>She stopped in the dusky starlight, and listened with her very soul.</p> + +<p>“Andrew!” she cried, for she heard the sound of his steps as he plodded +on in front of her, and could vaguely see him, “Andrew, what was yon?”</p> + +<p>“I h’ard naething,” answered Andrew, stopping at her cry and listening.</p> + +<p>There came a second cry, a feeble, sad wail, and both of them heard it.</p> + +<p>Maggie darted off in the direction whence it seemed to come; nor had she +far to run, for it was not one to reach any distance.</p> + +<p>They were at the moment climbing a dreary, desolate ridge, where the +road was a mere stony hollow, in winter a path for the rain rather +than the feet of men. On each side of it lay a wild moor, covered +with heather and low berry-bearing shrubs. Under a big bush Maggie saw +something glimmer, and, flying to it, found a child. It might be a year +old, but was so small and poorly nourished that its age was hard to +guess. With the instinct of a mother, she caught it up, and clasping it +close to her panting bosom, was delighted to find it cease wailing the +moment it felt her arm. Andrew, who had dropped the things he carried, +and started at once after her, met her half-way, so absorbed in her +treasure trove, and so blind to aught else, that he had to catch them +both in his arms to break the imminent shock; but she slipped from them, +and, to his amazement, went on down the hill, back the way they had +come: clearly she thought of nothing but carrying the infant home to her +father; and here even the slow perception of her companion understood +her.</p> + +<p>“Maggie, Maggie,” he cried, “ye’ll baith be deid afore ye win hame wi’ +’t! Come on to my mither. There never was wuman like her for bairns! +She’ll ken a hantle better nor ony father what to dee wi’ ’t!”</p> + +<p>Maggie at once recovered her senses, and knew he was right—but not +before she had received an instantaneous insight that never after left +her: now she understood the heart of the Son of Man, come to find and +carry back the stray children to their Father and His. When afterward +she told her father what she had then felt, he answered her with just +the four words and no more—</p> + +<p>“Lassie, ye hae ’t!”</p> + +<p>Happily the moon was now up, so that Andrew was soon able to find the +things they had both dropped in their haste, and Maggie had soon wrapped +the baby in the winsey petticoat she had been carrying. Andrew took up +his loaf and his other packages, and they set out again for Bogsheuch, +Maggie’s heart all but overwhelmed with its exultation. Had the precious +thing been twice the weight, so exuberant was her feeling of wealth in +it that she could have carried it twice the distance with ease, although +the road was so rough that she went in constant terror of stumbling. +Andrew gave now and then a queer chuckle at the ludicrousness of their +home-coming, and every second minute had to stop and pick up one or +other of his many parcels; but Maggie strode on in front, full of +possession, and with the feeling of having now at last entered upon her +heavenly inheritance; so that she was quite startled when suddenly they +came in sight of the turf cottage, and the little window in which a +small cresset-lamp was burning. Before they reached it the door opened, +and Eppie appeared with an overflow of question and anxious welcome.</p> + +<p>“What on earth—” she began.</p> + +<p>“Naething but a bonny wee bairnie, whause mither has tint it!” at once +interrupted and answered Maggie, flying up to her, and laying the child +in her arms.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Cormack stood and stared, now at Maggie, and now at the bundle that +lay in her own arms. Tenderly searching in the petticoat, she found at +last the little one’s face, and uncovered the sleeping child.</p> + +<p>“Eh the puir mither!” she said, and hurriedly covered again the tiny +countenance.</p> + +<p>“It’s mine!” cried Maggie. “I faund it honest!”</p> + +<p>“Its mither may ha’ lost it honest, Maggie!” said Eppie.</p> + +<p>“Weel, its mither can come for’t gien she want it! It’s mine till she +dis, ony gait!” rejoined the girl.</p> + +<p>“Nae doobt o’ that!” replied the old woman, scarcely questioning that +the infant had been left to perish by some worthless tramp. “Ye’ll maybe +hae’t langer nor ye’ll care to keep it!”</p> + +<p>“That’s no vera likly,” answered Maggie with a smile, as she stood in +the doorway, in the wakeful night of the northern summer: “it’s ane o’ +the Lord’s ain lammies ’at he cam to the hills to seek. He’s fund this +ane!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, weel, my bonnie doo, it sanna be for me to contradick ye!—But +wae’s upo’ me for a menseless auld wife! come in; come in: the mair +welcome ’at ye’re lang expeckit!—But bless me, An’rew, what hae ye dune +wi’ the cairt and the beastie?”</p> + +<p>In a few words, for brevity was easy to him, Andrew told the story of +their disaster.</p> + +<p>“It maun hae been the Lord’s mercy! The puir beastie bude to suffer for +the sake o’ the bairnie!”</p> + +<p>She got them their supper, which was keeping hot by the fire; and then +sent Maggie to her bed in the ben-end, where she laid the baby beside +her, after washing him and wrapping him in a soft well-worn shift of +her own. But Maggie scarcely slept for listening lest the baby’s breath +should stop; and Eppie sat in the kitchen with Andrew until the light, +slowly travelling round the north, deepened in the east, and at last +climbed the sky, leading up the sun himself; when Andrew rose, and set +his face toward Stonecross, in full but not very anxious expectation +of a stormy reception from his mistress before he should have time +to explain. When he reached home, however, he found the house not yet +astir; and had time to feed and groom his horses before any one was +about, so that, to his relief, no rendering of reasons was necessary.</p> + +<p>All the next day Maggie was ill at ease, in much dread of the appearance +of a mother. The baby seemed nothing the worse for his exposure, and +although thin and pale, appeared a healthy child, taking heartily the +food offered him. He was decently though poorly clad, and very clean. +The Cormacks making inquiry at every farmhouse and cottage within range +of the moor, the tale of his finding was speedily known throughout the +neighbourhood; but to the satisfaction of Maggie at least, who fretted +to carry home her treasure, without any result; so that by the time the +period of her visit arrived, she was feeling tolerably secure in her +possession, and returned with it in triumph to her father.</p> + +<p>The long-haired horse not yet proving equal to the journey, she had to +walk home; but Eppie herself accompanied her, bent on taking her share +in the burden of the child, which Maggie was with difficulty persuaded +to yield. Eppie indeed carried him up to the soutar’s door, but Maggie +insisted on herself laying him in her father’s arms. The soutar rose +from his stool, received him like Simeon taking the infant Jesus from +the arms of his mother, and held him high like a heave-offering to him +that had sent him forth from the hidden Holiest of Holies. One moment in +silence he held him, then restoring him to his daughter, sat down again, +and took up his last and shoe. Then suddenly becoming aware of a breach +in his manners, he rose again at once, saying—</p> + +<p>“I crave yer pardon, Mistress Cormack: I was clean forgettin ony breedin +I ever had!—Maggie, tak oor freen’ ben the hoose, and gar her rest her +a bit, while ye get something for her efter her lang walk. I’ll be ben +mysel’ in a meenute or twa to hae a crack wi’ her. I hae but a feow +stitches mair to put intil this same sole! The three o’ ’s maun tak some +sarious coonsel thegither anent the upbringin o’ this God-sent bairn! +I doobtna but he’s come wi’ a blessin to this hoose! Eh, but it was a +mercifu fittin o’ things that the puir bairn and Maggie sud that nicht +come thegither! Verily, He shall give his angels chairge over thee! They +maun hae been aboot the muir a’ that day, that nane but Maggie sud get +a haud o’ ’im—aiven as they maun hae been aboot the field and the flock +and the shepherds and the inn-stable a’ that gran’ nicht!”</p> + +<p>The same moment entered a neighbour who, having previously heard and +misinterpreted the story, had now caught sight of their arrival.</p> + +<p>“Eh, soutar, but ye <i>ir</i> a man by Providence sair oppressed!” she cried. +“Wha think ye’s been i’ the faut here?”</p> + +<p>The wrath of the soutar sprang up flaming.</p> + +<p>“Gang oot o’ my hoose, ye ill-thouchtit wuman!” he shouted. “Gang oot +o’ ’t this verra meenit—and comena intil ’t again ’cep it be to beg my +pardon and that o’ this gude wuman and my bonny lass here! The Lord God +bless her frae ill tongues!—Gang oot, I tell ye!”</p> + +<p>The outraged father stood towering, whom all the town knew for a man of +gentlest temper and great courtesy. The woman stood one moment dazed and +uncertain, then turned and fled. Maggie retired with Mistress Cormack; +and when the soutar joined them, he said never a word about the +discomfited gossip. Eppie having taken her tea, rose and bade them +good-night, nor crossed another threshold in the village.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>As soon as the baby was asleep, Maggie went back to the kitchen where +her father still sat at work.</p> + +<p>“Ye’re late the night, father!” she said.</p> + +<p>“I am that, lassie; but ye see I canna luik for muckle help frae you for +some time: ye’ll hae eneuch to dee wi’ that bairn o’ yours; and we hae +him to fen for noo as weel’s oorsels! No ’at I hae the least concern +aboot the bonny white raven, only we maun consider <i>him</i> like the lave!”</p> + +<p>“It’s little he’ll want for a whilie, father!” answered Maggie. “—But +noo,” she went on, in a tone of seriousness that was almost awe, “lat me +hear what ye’re thinkin:—what kin’ o’ a mither could she be that left +her bairn theroot i’ the wide, eerie nicht? and what for could she hae +dene ’t?”</p> + +<p>“She maun hae been some puir lassie that hadna learnt to think first +o’ His wull! She had believt the man whan he promised to merry her, no +kennin he was a leear, and no heedin the v’ice inside her that said <i>ye +maunna</i>; and sae she loot him dee what he likit wi’ her, and mak himsel +the father o’ a bairnie that wasna meant for him. Sic leeberties as he +took wi’ her, and she ouchtna to hae permittit, made a mither o’ her +afore ever she was merried. Sic fules hae an awfu’ time o’ ’t; for fowk +hardly ever forgies them, and aye luiks doon upo’ them. Doobtless the +rascal ran awa and left her to fen for hersel; naebody would help her; +and she had to beg the breid for hersel, and the drap milk for the +bairnie; sae that at last she lost hert and left it, jist as Hagar left +hers aneath the buss i’ the wilderness afore God shawed her the bonny +wall o’ watter.”</p> + +<p>“I kenna whilk o’ them was the warst—father or mither!” cried Maggie.</p> + +<p>“Nae mair do I!” said the soutar; “but I doobt the ane that lee’d to the +ither, maun hae to be coontit the warst!”</p> + +<p>“There canna be mony sic men!” said Maggie.</p> + +<p>“’Deed there’s a heap o’ them no a hair better!” rejoined her father; +“but wae’s me for the puir lassie that believes them!”</p> + +<p>“She kenned what was richt a’ the time, father!”</p> + +<p>“That’s true, my dauty; but to ken is no aye to un’erstan’; and even to +un’erstan’ is no aye to see richt intil’t! No wuman’s safe that hasna +the love o’ God, the great Love, in her hert a’ the time! What’s best in +her, whan the vera best’s awa, may turn to be her greatest danger. And +the higher ye rise ye come into the waur danger, till ance ye’re fairly +intil the ae safe place, the hert o’ the Father. There, and there only, +ye’re safe!—safe frae earth, frae hell, and frae yer ain hert! A’ the +temptations, even sic as ance made the haivenly hosts themsels fa’ frae +haiven to hell, canna touch ye there! But whan man or wuman repents and +heumbles himsel, there is He to lift them up, and that higher than ever +they stede afore!”</p> + +<p>“Syne they’re no to be despised that fa’!”</p> + +<p>“Nane despises them, lassie, but them that haena yet learnt the danger +they’re in o’ that same fa’ themsels. Mony ane, I’m thinking, is keepit +frae fa’in, jist because she’s no far eneuch on to get the guid o’ the +shame, but would jist sink farther and farther!”</p> + +<p>“But Eppie tells me that maist o’ them ’at trips gangs on fa’in, and +never wins up again.”</p> + +<p>“Ou, ay; that’s true as far as we, short-lived and short-sichtit +craturs, see o’ them! but this warl’s but the beginnin; and the glory +o’ Christ, wha’s the vera Love o’ the Father, spreads a heap further nor +that. It’s no for naething we’re tellt hoo the sinner-women cam til him +frae a’ sides! They needit him sair, and cam. Never ane o’ them was +ower black to be latten gang close up til him; and some o’ sic women +un’erstede things he said ’at mony a respectable wuman cudna get a glimp +o’! There’s aye rain eneuch, as Maister Shaksper says, i’ the sweet +haivens to wash the vera han’ o’ murder as white as snow. The creatin +hert is fu’ o’ sic rain. Loe <i>him</i>, lassie, and ye’ll never glaur the +bonny goon ye broucht white frae his hert!”</p> + +<p>The soutar’s face was solemn and white, and tears were running down the +furrows of his cheeks. Maggie too was weeping. At length she said—</p> + +<p>“Supposin the mither o’ my bairnie a wuman like that, can ye think it +fair that <i>her</i> disgrace should stick til <i>him?</i>”</p> + +<p>“It sticks til him only in sic minds as never saw the lovely greatness +o’ God.”</p> + +<p>“But sic bairns come na intil the warl as God wad hae them come!”</p> + +<p>“But your bairnie <i>is</i> come, and that he couldna withoot the creatin +wull o’ the Father! Doobtless sic bairnies hae to suffer frae the prood +jeedgment o’ their fellow-men and women, but they may get muckle guid +and little ill frae that—a guid naebody can reive them o’. It’s no +a mere veesitin o’ the sins o’ the fathers upo’ the bairns, but a +provision to haud the bairns aff o’ the like, and to shame the fathers +o’ them. Eh, but sic maun be sair affrontit wi’ themsels, that disgrace +at ance the wife that should hae been and the bairn that shouldna! Eh, +the puir bairnie that has sic a father! But he has anither as weel—a +richt gran’ father to rin til!—The ae thing,” the soutar went on, “that +you and me, Maggie, has to do, is never to lat the bairn ken the miss o’ +father or mother, and sae lead him to the ae Father, the only real and +true ane.—There he’s wailin, the bonny wee man!”</p> + +<p>Maggie ran to quiet her little one, but soon returned, and sitting down +again beside her father, asked him for a piece of work.</p> + +<p>All this time, through his own cowardly indifference, the would-be-grand +preacher, James Blatherwick, knew nothing of the fact that, somewhere in +the world, without father or mother, lived a silent witness against him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Isy had contrived to postpone her return to her aunt until James was +gone; for she dreaded being in the house with him lest anything should +lead to the discovery of the relation between them. Soon after his +departure, however, she had to encounter the appalling fact that the +dread moment was on its way when she would no longer be able to conceal +the change in her condition. Her first and last thought was then, how +to protect the good name of her lover, and avoid involving him in the +approaching ruin of her reputation. With this in view she vowed to God +and to her own soul absolute silence with regard to the past: James’s +name even should never pass her lips! Nor did she find the vow hard to +keep, even when her aunt took measures to draw her secret from her; but +the dread lest in her pains she should cry out for the comfort which +James alone could give her, almost drove her to poison, from which only +the thought of his coming child restrained her. Enabled at length only +by the pure inexorability of her hour, she passed through her sorrow and +found herself still alive, with her lips locked tight on her secret. +The poor girl who was weak enough to imperil her good name for love of +a worthless man, was by that love made strong to shield him from the +consequences of her weakness. Whether in this she did well for the +world, for the truth, or for her own soul, she never wasted a thought. +In vain did her aunt ply her with questions; she felt that to answer one +of them would be to wrong him, and lose her last righteous hold upon the +man who had at least once loved her a little. Without a gleam, without +even a shadow of hope for herself, she clung, through shame and blame, +to his scathlessness as the only joy left her. He had most likely, she +thought, all but forgotten her very existence, for he had never written +to her, or made any effort to discover what had become of her. She clung +to the conviction that he could never have heard of what had befallen +her.</p> + +<p>By and by she grew able to reflect that to remain where she was would be +the ruin of her aunt; for who would lodge in the same house with <i>her</i>? +She must go at once! and her longing to go, with the impossibility +of even thinking where she could go, brought her to the very verge of +despair, and it was only the thought of her child that still gave her +strength enough to live on. And to add immeasurably to her misery, she +was now suddenly possessed by the idea, which for a long time remained +immovably fixed, that, agonizing as had been her effort after silence, +she had failed in her resolve, and broken the promise she imagined +she had given to James; that she had been false to him, brought him to +shame, and for ever ruined his prospects; that she had betrayed him into +the power of her aunt, and through her to the authorities of the church! +That was why she had never heard a word from him, she thought, and she +was never to see him any more! The conviction, the seeming consciousness +of all this, so grew upon her that, one morning, when her infant was +not yet a month old, she crept from the house, and wandered out into the +world, with just one shilling in a purse forgotten in the pocket of +her dress. After that, for a time, her memory lost hold of her +consciousness, and what befel her remained a blank, refusing to be +recalled.</p> + +<p>When she began to come to herself she had no knowledge of where she had +been, or for how long her mind had been astray; all was irretrievable +confusion, crossed with cloud-like trails of blotted dreams, and vague +survivals of gratitude for bread and pieces of money. Everything she +became aware of surprised her, except the child in her arms. Her story +had been plain to every one she met, and she had received thousands of +kindnesses which her memory could not hold. At length, intentionally or +not, she found herself in a neighbourhood to which she had heard James +Blatherwick refer.</p> + +<p>Here again a dead blank stopped her backward gaze—till suddenly once +more she grew aware, and knew that she was aware, of being alone on a +wide moor in a dim night, with her hungry child, to whom she had given +the last drop of nourishment he could draw from her, wailing in her +arms. Then fell upon her a hideous despair, and unable to carry him a +step farther, she dropped him from her helpless hands into a bush, and +there left him, to find, as she thought, some milk for him. She could +sometimes even remember that she went staggering about, looking under +the great stones, and into the clumps of heather, in the hope of finding +something for him to drink. At last, I presume, she sank on the ground, +and lay for a time insensible; anyhow, when she came to herself, she +searched in vain for the child, or even the place where she had left +him.</p> + +<p>The same evening it was that Maggie came along with Andrew, and found +the baby as I have already told. All that night, and a great part of the +next day, Isy went searching about in vain, doubtless with intervals of +repose compelled by utter exhaustion. Imagining at length that she had +discovered the very spot where she left him, and not finding him, she +came to the conclusion that some wild beast had come upon the helpless +thing and carried him off. Then a gleam of water coming to her eye, she +rushed to the peat-hag whence it was reflected, and would there have +drowned herself. But she was intercepted and turned aside by a man who +threw down his flauchter-spade, and ran between her and the frightful +hole. He thought she was out of her mind, and tried to console her with +the assurance that no child left on that moor could be in other than +luck’s way. He gave her a few half-pence, and directed her to the next +town, with a threat of hanging if she made a second attempt of the +sort. A long time of wandering followed, with ceaseless inquiry, +and alternating disappointment and fresh expectation; but every day +something occurred that served just to keep the life in her, and at last +she reached the county-town, where she was taken to a place of shelter.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>James Blatherwick was proving himself not unacceptable to his native +parish, where he was thought a very rising man, inasmuch as his fluency +was far ahead of his perspicuity. He soon came to note the soutar as a +man far in advance of the rest of his parishioners; but he saw, at the +same time, that he was regarded by most as a wild fanatic if not as +a dangerous heretic; and himself imagined that he saw in him certain +indications of a mild lunacy.</p> + +<p>In Tiltowie he pursued the same course as elsewhere: anxious to let +nothing come between him and the success of his eloquence, he avoided +any appearance of differing in doctrine from his congregation; and until +he should be more firmly established, would show himself as much as +possible of the same mind with them, using the doctrinal phrases he had +been accustomed to in his youth, or others so like that they would be +taken to indicate unchanged opinions, while for his part he practised a +mental reservation in regard to them.</p> + +<p>He had noted with some degree of pleasure in the soutar, that he used +almost none of the set phrases of the good people of the village, who +devoutly followed the traditions of the elders; but he knew little as to +what the soutar did not believe, and still less of what he did believe +with all his heart and soul; for John MacLear could not even utter the +name of God without therein making a confession of faith immeasurably +beyond anything inhabiting the consciousness of the parson; and on his +part soon began to note in James a total absence of enthusiasm in regard +to such things of which his very calling implied at least an absolute +acceptance: he would allude to any or all of them as merest matters of +course! Never did his face light up when he spoke of the Son of God, +of his death, or of his resurrection; never did he make mention of the +kingdom of heaven as if it were anything more venerable than the kingdom +of Great Britain and Ireland.</p> + +<p>But the soul of the soutar would venture far into the twilight, +searching after the things of God, opening wider its eyes, as the +darkness widened around them. On one occasion the parson took upon him +to remonstrate with what seemed to him the audacity of his parishioner:</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think you are just going a little too far there, Mr. +MacLear?” he said.</p> + +<p>“Ye mean ower far intil the dark, Mr. Blatherwick?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that is what I mean. You speculate too boldly.”</p> + +<p>“But dinna ye think, sir, that that direction it’s plain the dark grows +a wee thinner, though I grant ye there’s nothing yet to ca’ licht? Licht +we may aye ken by its ain fair shinin, and by noucht else!”</p> + +<p>“But the human soul is just as apt to deceive itself as the human +eye! It is always ready to take a flash inside itself for something +objective!” said Blatherwick.</p> + +<p>“Nae doobt! nae doobt! but whan the true licht comes, ye aye ken the +differ! A man <i>may</i> tak the dark for licht, but he canna take the licht +for darkness!”</p> + +<p>“And there must always be something for the light to shine upon, else +the man sees nothing!” said the parson.</p> + +<p>“There’s thoucht, and possible insicht intil the man!” said the soutar +to himself.—“Maybe, like the Ephesians, ye haena yet fund oot gien +there be ony Holy Ghost, sir?” he said to him aloud.</p> + +<p>“No man dares deny that!” answered the minister.</p> + +<p>“Still a man mayna <i>ken’t</i>, though he daursna deny’t! Nane but them ’at +follows whaur he leads, can ken that he verily is.”</p> + +<p>“We must beware of private interpretation!” suggested James.</p> + +<p>“Gien a man hearsna a word spoken til his ain sel’, he has na the word +to lippen til! The Scriptur is to him but a sealed buik; he walks i’ the +dark. The licht is neither pairtit nor gethered. Gien a man has licht, +he has nane the less that there’s twa or three o’ them thegither +present.—Gien there be twa or three prayin thegither, ilk ane o’ the +three has jist what he’s able to receive, and he kens ’t in himsel as +licht; and the fourth may hae nane. Gien it comena to ilk ane o’ them, +it comesna to a’. Ilk ane maun hae the revelation intil his ain sel’, as +gien there wasna ane mair. And gien it be sae, hoo are we to win at ony +trouth no yet revealed, ’cep we gang oot intil the dark to meet it? Ye +maun caw canny, I admit, i’ the mirk; but ye maun caw gien ye wad win at +onything!”</p> + +<p>“But suppose you know enough to keep going, and do not care to venture +into the dark?”</p> + +<p>“Gien a man hauds on practeesin what he kens, the hunger ’ill wauk in +him efter something mair. I’m thinkin the angels had lang to desire +afore they could luik intil certain things they sair wantit; but ye may +be sure they warna left withoot as muckle licht as would lead honest +fowk safe on!”</p> + +<p>“But suppose they couldn’t tell whether what they seemed to see was true +light or not?”</p> + +<p>“Syne they would hae to fa’ back upo the wull o’ the great Licht: we ken +weel he wants us a’ to see as he himsel sees! Gien we seek that Licht, +we’ll get it; gien we carena for’t, we’re jist naething and naegait, and +are in sore need o’ some sharp discipleen.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I can’t follow you quite. The fact is, I have been so long +occupied with the Bible history, and the new discoveries that bear +testimony to it, that I have had but little time for metaphysics.”</p> + +<p>“And what’s the guid o’ history, or sic metapheesics as is the vera sowl +o’ history, but to help ye to see Christ? and what’s the guid o’ seein +Christ but sae to see God wi’ hert and un’erstan’in baith as to ken that +yer seein him? Ye min’ hoo the Lord said nane could ken the Father but +the man to whom the Son revealt him? Sir, it’s fell time ye had a glimp +o’ that! Ye ken naething till ye ken God—the only ane a man can truly +and railly ken!”</p> + +<p>“Well, you’re a long way ahead of me, and for the present I’m afraid +there’s nothing left but to say good-night to you!”</p> + +<p>And therewith the minister departed.</p> + +<p>“Lord,” said the soutar, as he sat guiding his awl through sole and welt +and upper of the shoe on his last, “there’s surely something at work i’ +the yoong man! Surely he canna be that far frae waukin up to see and ken +that he sees and kens naething! Lord, pu’ doon the dyke o’ learnin and +self-richteousness that he canna see ower the tap o’, and lat him see +thee upo’ the ither side o’ ’t. Lord, sen’ him the grace o’ oppen e’en +to see whaur and what he is, that he may cry oot wi’ the lave o’ ’s, +puir blin’ bodies, to them that winna see. ’Wauk, thoo that sleepest, +and come oot o’ thy grave, and see the licht o’ the Father i’ the face +o’ the Son.’”</p> + +<p>But the minister went away intent on classifying the soutar by finding +out with what sect of the middle-age mystics to place him. At the same +time something strange seemed to hover about the man, refusing to be +handled in that way. Something which he called his own religious sense +appeared to know something of what the soutar must mean, though he could +neither isolate nor define it.</p> + +<p>Faithlessly as he had behaved to Isy, Blatherwick was not consciously, +that is with purpose or intent, a deceitful man. He had, on the +contrary, always cherished a strong faith in his own honour. But faith +in a thing, in an idea, in a notion, is no proof, or even sign that the +thing actually exists: in the present case it had no root except in +the man’s thought of himself, in his presentation to himself of his own +reflected self. The man who thought so much of his honour was in truth a +moral unreality, a cowardly fellow, a sneak who, in the hope of escaping +consequences, carried himself as beyond reproof. How should such a one +ever have the power of spiritual vision developed in him? How should +such a one ever see God—ever exist in the same region in which the +soutar had long taken up his abode? Still there was this much reality +in him, and he had made this much progress that, holding fast by his +resolve henceforward no more to slide, he was aware also of a dim +suspicion of something he had not seen, but which he might become able +to see; and was half resolved to think and read, for the future, with +the intent to find out what this strange man seemed to know, or thought +he knew.</p> + +<p>Soon finding himself unable, however, try as hard as he might, to be +sure of anything, he became weary of the effort, and sank back into the +old, self-satisfied, blind sleep.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Out of this quiescence, however, a pang from the past one morning +suddenly waked him, and almost without consciousness of a volition, he +found himself at the soutar’s door. Maggie opened it with the baby in +her arms, with whom she had just been having a game. Her face was in a +glow, her hair tossed about, and her dark eyes flashing with excitement. +To Blatherwick, without any great natural interest in life, and in the +net of a haunting trouble which caused him no immediate apprehension, +the young girl, of so little account in the world, and so far below him +as he thought, affected him as beautiful; and, indeed, she was far more +beautiful than he was able to appreciate. It must be remembered too, +that it was not long since he had been refused by another; and at such +a time a man is readier to fall in love afresh. Trouble then, lack of +interest, and late repulse, had laid James’s heart, such as it was, open +to assault from a new quarter whence he foresaw no danger.</p> + +<p>“That’s a very fine baby you have!” he said. “Whose is he?”</p> + +<p>“Mine, sir,” answered Maggie, with some triumph, for she thought every +one must know the story of her treasure.</p> + +<p>“Oh, indeed; I did not know!” answered the parson, bewildered.</p> + +<p>“At least,” Maggie resumed a little hurriedly, “I have the best right to +him!” and there stopped.</p> + +<p>“She cannot possibly be his mother!” thought the minister, and resolved +to question his housekeeper about the child.</p> + +<p>“Is your father in the house?” he asked, and without waiting for an +answer, went in. “Such a big boy is too heavy for you to carry!” he +added, as he laid his hand on the latch of the kitchen door.</p> + +<p>“No ae bit!” rejoined Maggie, with a little contempt at his +disparagement of her strength. “And wha’s to cairry him but me?”</p> + +<p>Huddling the boy to her bosom, she went on talking to him in childish +guise, as she lifted the latch for the minister:—</p> + +<p>“Wad he hae my pet gang traivellin the warl’ upo thae twa bonny wee legs +o’ his ain, wantin the wings he left ahint him? Na, na! they maun grow a +heap stronger first. His ain mammie wad cairry him gien he war twice the +size! Noo, we s’ gang but the hoose and see daddy.”</p> + +<p>She bore him after the minister, and sat down with him on her own stool, +beside her father, who looked up, with his hands and knees in skilful +consort of labour.</p> + +<p>“Weel, minister, hoo are ye the day? Is the yerd ony lichter upo’ the +tap o’ ye?” he said, with a smile that was almost pauky.</p> + +<p>“I do not understand you, Mr. MacLear!” answered James with dignity.</p> + +<p>“Na, ye canna! Gien ye could, ye wouldna be sae comfortable as ye seem!”</p> + +<p>“I cannot think, Mr. MacLear, why you should be rude to me!”</p> + +<p>“Gien ye saw the hoose on fire aboot a man deid asleep, maybe ye micht +be in ower great a hurry to be polite til ’im!” remarked the soutar.</p> + +<p>“Dare you suggest, sir, that I have been drinking?” cried the parson.</p> + +<p>“Not for a single moment, sir; and I beg yer pardon for causin ye so to +mistak me: I do not believe, sir, ye war ever ance owertaen wi’ drink in +a’ yer life! I fear I’m jist ower ready to speyk in parables, for it’s +no a’body that can or wull un’erstan’ them! But the last time ye left me +upo’ this same stule, it was wi’ that cry o’ the Apostle o’ the Gentiles +i’ my lug—‘Wauk up, thoo that sleepest!’ For even the deid wauk whan +the trumpet blatters i’ their lug!”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me that there the Apostle makes allusion to the condition +of the Gentile nations, asleep in their sins! But it may apply, +doubtless, to the conversion of any unbelieving man from the error of +his ways.”</p> + +<p>“Weel,” said the soutar, turning half round, and looking the minister +full in the face, “are <i>ye</i> convertit, sir? Or are ye but turnin frae +side to side i’ yer coffin—seekin a sleepin assurance that ye’re +waukin?”</p> + +<p>“You are plain-spoken anyway!” said the minister, rising.</p> + +<p>“Maybe I am at last, sir! And maybe I hae been ower lang in comin +to that same plainness! Maybe I was ower feart for yer coontin me +ill-fashiont—what ye ca’ <i>rude</i>!”</p> + +<p>The parson was half-way to the door, for he was angry, which was not +surprising. But with the latch in his hand he turned, and, lo, there in +the middle of the floor, with the child in her arms, stood the beautiful +Maggie, as if in act to follow him: both were staring after him.</p> + +<p>“Dinna anger him, father,” said Maggie; “he disna ken better!”</p> + +<p>“Weel ken I, my dautie, that he disna ken better; but I canna help +thinkin he’s maybe no that far frae the waukin. God grant I be richt +aboot that! Eh, gien he wud but wauk up, what a man he would mak! He +kens a heap—only what’s that whaur a man has no licht?”</p> + +<p>“I certainly do not see things as you would have me believe you see +them; and you are hardly capable of persuading me that you do, I fear!” +said Blatherwick, with the angry flush again on his face, which had for +a moment been dispelled by pallor.</p> + +<p>But here the baby seeming to recognize the unsympathetic tone of the +conversation, pulled down his lovely little mouth, and sent from it a +dread and potent cry. Clasping him to her bosom, Maggie ran from the +room with him, jostling James in the doorway as he let her pass.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid I frightened the little man!” he said.</p> + +<p>“’Deed, sir, it may ha’ been you, or it may ha’ been me ’at frichtit +him,” rejoined the soutar. “It’s a thing I’m sair to blame in—that, +whan I’m in richt earnest, I’m aye ready to speyk as gien I was angert. +Sir, I humbly beg yer pardon.”</p> + +<p>“As humbly I beg yours,” returned the parson; “I was in the wrong.”</p> + +<p>The heart of the old man was drawn afresh to the youth. He laid aside +his shoe, and turning on his stool, took James’s hand in both of his, +and said solemnly and lovingly—</p> + +<p>“This moment I wad wullin’ly die, sir, that the licht o’ that uprisin o’ +which we spak micht brak throuw upon ye!”</p> + +<p>“I believe you, sir,” answered James; “but,” he went on, with an attempt +at humour, “it wouldn’t be so much for you to do after all, seeing you +would straightway find yourself in a much better place!”</p> + +<p>“Maybe whaur the penitent thief sat, some auchteen hunner year ago, +waitin to be called up higher!” rejoined the soutar with a watery smile.</p> + +<p>The parson opened the door, and went home—where his knees at once found +their way to the carpet.</p> + +<p>From that night Blatherwick began to go often to the soutar’s, and soon +went almost every other day, for at least a few minutes; and on such +occasions had generally a short interview with Maggie and the baby, in +both of whom, having heard from the soutar the story of the child, he +took a growing interest.</p> + +<p>“You seem to love him as if he were your own, Maggie!” he said one +morning to the girl.</p> + +<p>“And isna he my ain? Didna God himsel gie me the bairn intil my vera +airms—or a’ but?” she rejoined.</p> + +<p>“Suppose he were to die!” suggested the minister. “Such children often +do!”</p> + +<p>“I needna think aboot that,” she answered. “I would just hae to say, +as mony ane has had to say afore me: ‘The Lord gave,’—ye ken the rest, +sir!”</p> + +<p>But day by day Maggie grew more beautiful in the minister’s eyes, until +at last he was not only ready to say that he loved her, but for her sake +to disregard worldly and ambitious considerations.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</h2> +</div> + + +<p>On the morning of a certain Saturday, therefore, which day of the week +he always made a holiday, he resolved to let her know without further +delay that he loved her; and the rather that on the next day he was +engaged to preach for a brother clergyman at Deemouth, and felt that, +his fate with Maggie unknown, his mind would not be cool enough for him +to do well in the pulpit. But neither disappointment nor a fresh love +had yet served to set him free from his old vanity or arrogance: he +regarded his approaching declaration as about to confer great honour +as well as favour upon the damsel of low estate, about to be invited +to share in his growing distinction. In his late disappointment he had +asked a lady to descend a little from her social pedestal, in the belief +that he offered her a greater than proportionate counter-elevation; and +now in his suit to Maggie he was almost unable to conceive a possibility +of failure. When she would have shown him into the kitchen, he took +her by the arm, and leading her to the <i>ben-end</i>, at once began his +concocted speech. Scarcely had she gathered his meaning, however, when +he was checked by her startled look.</p> + +<p>“And what wad ye hae me dee wi’ my bairn?” she asked instantly, without +sign of perplexity, smiling on the little one as at some absurdity in +her arms rather than suggested to her mind.</p> + +<p>But the minister was sufficiently in love to disregard the unexpected +indication. His pride was indeed a little hurt, but he resisted any show +of offence, reflecting that her anxiety was not altogether an unnatural +one.</p> + +<p>“Oh, we shall easily find some experienced mother,” he answered, “who +will understand better than you even how to take care of him!”</p> + +<p>“Na, na!” she rejoined. “I hae baith a father and a wean to luik efter; +and that’s aboot as muckle as I’ll ever be up til!”</p> + +<p>So saying, she rose and carried the little one up to the room her father +now occupied, nor cast a single glance in the direction of her would-be +lover.</p> + +<p>Now at last he was astonished. Could it mean that she had not understood +him? It could not be that she did not appreciate his offer! Her devotion +to the child was indeed absurdly engrossing, but that would soon come +right! He could have no fear of such a rivalry, however unpleasant at +the moment! That little vagrant to come between him and the girl he +would make his wife!</p> + +<p>He glanced round him: the room looked very empty! He heard her +oft-interrupted step through the thin floor: she was lavishing caresses +on the senseless little animal! He caught up his hat, and with a flushed +face went straight to the soutar where he sat at work.</p> + +<p>“I have come to ask you, Mr. MacLear, if you will give me your daughter +to be my wife!” he said.</p> + +<p>“Ow, sae that’s it!” returned the soutar, without raising his eyes.</p> + +<p>“You have no objection, I hope?” continued the minister, finding him +silent.</p> + +<p>“What says she hersel? Ye comena to me first, I reckon!”</p> + +<p>“She said, or implied at least, that she could not leave the child. But +she cannot mean that!”</p> + +<p>“And what for no?—There’s nae need for me to objeck!”</p> + +<p>“But I shall soon persuade her to withdraw that objection!”</p> + +<p>“Then I should <i>hae</i> objections—mair nor ane—to put to the fore!”</p> + +<p>“You surprise me! Is not a woman to leave father and mother and cleave +to her husband?”</p> + +<p>“Ow ay—sae be the woman is his wife! Than lat nane sun’er them!—But +there’s anither sayin, sir, that I doobt may hae something to dee wi’ +Maggie’s answer!”</p> + +<p>“And what, pray, may that be?”</p> + +<p>“That man or woman must leave father and mother, wife and child, for the +sake o’ the Son o’ Man.”</p> + +<p>“You surely are not papist enough to think that means a minister is not +to marry?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all, sir; but I doobt that’s what it’ll come til atween you and +Maggie!”</p> + +<p>“You mean that she will not marry?”</p> + +<p>“I mean that she winna merry <i>you</i>, sir.”</p> + +<p>“But just think how much more she could do for Christ as the minister’s +wife!”</p> + +<p>“I’m ’maist convinced she wad coont merryin you as tantamount to refusin +to lea’ a’ for the Son o’ Man.”</p> + +<p>“Why should she think that?”</p> + +<p>“Because, sae far as I see, she canna think that <i>ye</i> hae left a’ for +<i>him</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that is what you have been teaching her! She does not say that of +herself! You have not left her free to choose!”</p> + +<p>“The queston never came up atween’s. She’s perfecly free to tak her ain +gait—and she kens she is!—Ye dinna seem to think it possible she +sud tak <i>his</i> wull raither nor yours!—that the love o’ Christ should +constrain her ayont the love offert her by Jeames Bletherwick!—We <i>hae</i> +conversed aboot ye, sir, but niver differt!”</p> + +<p>“But allowing us—you and me—to be of different opinions on some +points, must that be a reason why she and I should not love one +another?”</p> + +<p>“No reason whatever, sir—if ye can and do: <i>that</i> point would be +already settlet. But ye winna get Maggie to merry ye sae long as she +disna believe ye loe her Lord as well as she loes him hersel. It’s no +a common love that Maggie beirs to her Lord; and gien ye loed her wi’ a +luve worthy o’ her, ye would see that!”</p> + +<p>“Then you will promise me not to interfere?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll promise ye naething, sir, excep to do my duty by her—sae far as +I understan’ what that duty is. Gien I thoucht—which the God o’ my life +forbid!—that Maggie didna lo’e him as weel at least as I lo’e him, I +would gang upo’ my auld knees til her, to entreat her to loe him wi’ a’ +her heart and sowl and stren’th and min’;—and whan I had done that, she +micht merry wha she wad—hangman or minister: no a word would I say! +For trouble she maun hae, and trouble she wull get—I thank my God, who +giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not!”</p> + +<p>“Then I am free to do my best to win her?”</p> + +<p>“Ye are, sir; and mair—afore the morn’s mornin, I winna pass a word wi’ +her upo the subjeck.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, sir,” returned the minister, and took his leave.</p> + +<p>“A fine lad! a fine lad!” said the soutar aloud to himself, as +he resumed the work for a moment interrupted,—“but no clear—no +crystal-clear—no clear like the Son o’ Man!”</p> + +<p>He looked up, and saw his daughter in the doorway.</p> + +<p>“No a word, lassie!” he cried. “I’m no for ye this meenute.—No a word +to me aboot onything or onybody the day, but what’s absolute necessar!”</p> + +<p>“As ye wull! father,” rejoined Maggie.—“I’m gaein oot to seek auld +Eppy; she was intil the baker’s shop a meenute ago!—The bairnie’s +asleep.”</p> + +<p>“Vera weel! Gien I hear him, I s’ atten’ til ’im,” answered the soutar.</p> + +<p>“Thank ye, father,” returned Maggie, and left the house.</p> + +<p>But the minister, having to start that same afternoon for Deemouth, and +feeling it impossible, things remaining as they were, to preach at his +ease, had been watching the soutar’s door: he saw it open and Maggie +appear. For a moment he flattered himself she was coming to look for +him, in order to tell him how sorry she was for her late behaviour to +him. But her start when first she became aware of his presence, did not +fail, notwithstanding his conceit, to satisfy him that such was not her +intent. He made haste to explain his presence.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been waiting all this time on the chance of seeing you, Margaret!” +he said. “I am starting within an hour or so for Deemouth, but could not +bear to go without telling you that your father has no objection to my +saying to you what I please. He means to have a talk with you to-morrow +morning, and as I cannot possibly get back from Deemouth before Monday, +I must now express the hope that he will not succeed in persuading you +to doubt the reality of my love. I admire your father more than I can +tell you, but he seems to hold the affections God has given us of small +account compared with his judgment of the strength and reality of them.”</p> + +<p>“Did he no tell ye I was free to do or say what I liked?” rejoined +Maggie rather sharply.</p> + +<p>“Yes; he did say something to that effect.”</p> + +<p>“Then, for mysel, and i’ the name o’ my father, I tell ye, Maister +Bletherwick, I dinna care to see ye again.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean what you say, Margaret?” rejoined the minister, in a voice +that betrayed not a little genuine emotion.</p> + +<p>“I do mean it,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Not if I tell you that I am both ready and willing to take the child +and bring him up as my own?”</p> + +<p>“He wouldna <i>be</i> yer ain!”</p> + +<p>“Quite as much as yours!”</p> + +<p>“Hardly,” she returned, with a curious little laugh. “But, as I daur say +my father tellt ye, I canna believe ye lo’e God wi’ a’ yer hert.”</p> + +<p>“Dare you say that for yourself, Margaret?”</p> + +<p>“No; but I do want to love God wi’ my whole hert. Mr. Bletherwick, are +ye a rael Christian? Or are ye sure ye’re no a hypocreet? I wad like to +ken. But I dinna believe ye ken yersel!”</p> + +<p>“Well, perhaps I do not. But I see there is no occasion to say more!”</p> + +<p>“Na, nane,” answered Maggie.</p> + +<p>He lifted his hat, and turned away to the coach-office.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It would be difficult to represent the condition of mind in which +Blatherwick sat on the box-seat of the Defiance coach that evening, +behind four gray thorough-breds, carrying him at the rate of ten miles +an hour towards Deemouth. Hurt pride, indignation, and a certain mild +revenge in contemplating Maggie’s disappointment when at length she +should become aware of the distinction he had gained and she had lost, +were its main components. He never noted a feature of the rather tame +scenery that went hurrying past him, and yet the time did not seem to go +slowly, for he was astonished when the coach stopped, and he found his +journey at an end.</p> + +<p>He got down rather cramped and stiff, and, as it was still early, +started for a stroll about the streets to stretch his legs, and see what +was going on, glad that he had not to preach in the morning, and would +have all the afternoon to go over his sermon once more in that dreary +memory of his. The streets were brilliant with gas, for Saturday was +always a sort of market-night, and at that moment they were crowded with +girls going merrily home from the paper-mill at the close of the week’s +labour. To Blatherwick, who had very little sympathy with gladness of +any sort, the sight only called up by contrast the very different scene +on which his eyes would look down the next evening from the vantage +coigne of the pulpit, in a church filled with an eminently respectable +congregation—to which he would be setting forth the results of certain +late geographical discoveries and local identifications, not knowing +that already even later discoveries had rendered all he was about to say +more than doubtful.</p> + +<p>But while, sunk in a not very profound reverie, he was in the act of +turning the corner of a narrow wynd, he was all but knocked down by +a girl whom another in the crowd had pushed violently against him. +Recoiling from the impact, and unable to recover her equilibrium, she +fell helplessly prostrate on the granite pavement, and lay motionless. +Annoyed and half-angry, he was on the point of walking on, heedless +of the accident, when something in the pale face among the coarse and +shapeless shoes that had already gathered thick around it, arrested him +with a strong suggestion of some one he had once known. But the same +moment the crowd hid her from his view; and, shocked even to be reminded +of Isy in such an assemblage, he turned resolutely away, and cherishing +the thought of the many chances against its being she, walked steadily +on. When he looked round again ere crossing the street, the crowd had +vanished, the pavement was nearly empty, and a policeman who just then +came up, had seen nothing of the occurrence, remarking only that the +girls at the paper-mills were a rough lot.</p> + +<p>A moment more and his mind was busy with a passage in his sermon which +seemed about to escape his memory: it was still as impossible for him to +talk freely about the things a minister is supposed to love best, as +it had been when he began to preach. It was not, certainly, out of the +fulness of the heart that <i>his</i> mouth ever spoke!</p> + +<p>He sought the house of Mr. Robertson, the friend he had come to assist, +had supper with him and his wife, and retired early. In the morning he +went to his friend’s church, in the afternoon rehearsed his sermon to +himself, and when the evening came, climbed the pulpit-stair, and soon +appeared engrossed in its rites. But as he seemed to be pouring out his +soul in the long extempore prayer, he suddenly opened his eyes as +if unconsciously compelled, and that moment saw, in the front of the +gallery before him, a face he could not doubt to be that of Isy. Her +gaze was fixed upon him; he saw her shiver, and knew that she saw and +recognized him. He felt himself grow blind. His head swam, and he felt +as if some material force was bending down his body sideways from her. +Such, nevertheless, was his self-possession, that he reclosed his eyes, +and went on with his prayer—if that could in any sense be prayer where +he knew neither word he uttered, thing he thought, nor feeling that +moved him. With Claudius in <i>Hamlet</i> he might have said,</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Words without thoughts never to heaven go!</span><br /> +</p> +<p>But while yet speaking, and holding his eyes fast that he might not +see her again, his consciousness all at once returned—it seemed to him +through a mighty effort of the will, and upon that he immediately began +to pride himself. Instantly thereupon he was aware of his thoughts and +words, and knew himself able to control his actions and speech. All +the while, however, that he conducted the rest of the “service,” he was +constantly aware, although he did not again look at her, of the figure +of Isy before him, with its gaze fixed motionless upon him, and began at +last to wonder vaguely whether she might not be dead, and come back from +the grave to his mind a mysterious thought-spectre. But at the close of +the sermon, when the people stood up to sing, she rose with them; and +the half-dazed preacher sat down, exhausted with emotion, conflict, and +effort at self-command. When he rose once more for the benediction, +she was gone; and yet again he took refuge in the doubt whether she had +indeed been present at all.</p> + +<p>When Mrs. Robertson had retired, and James was sitting with his host +over their tumbler of toddy, a knock came to the door. Mr. Robertson +went to open it, and James’s heart sank within him. But in a moment his +host returned, saying it was a policeman to let him know that a woman +was lying drunk at the bottom of his doorsteps, and to inquire what he +wished done with her.</p> + +<p>“I told him,” said Mr. Robertson, “to take the poor creature to the +station, and in the morning I would see her. When she’s ill the next +day, you see,” he added, “I may have a sort of chance with her; but it +is seldom of any use.”</p> + +<p>A horrible suspicion that it was Isy herself had seized on Blatherwick; +and for a moment he was half inclined to follow the men to the station; +but his friend would be sure to go with him, and what might not come of +it! Seeing that she had kept silent so long, however, it seemed to him +more than probable that she had lost all care about him, and if let +alone would say nothing. Thus he reasoned, lost in his selfishness, and +shrinking from the thought of looking the disreputable creature in the +eyes. Yet the awful consciousness haunted him that, if she had fallen +into drunken habits and possibly worse, it was his fault, and the ruin +of the once lovely creature lay at his door, and his alone.</p> + +<p>He made haste to his room, and to bed, where for a long while he +lay unable even to think. Then all at once, with gathered force, the +frightful reality, the keen, bare truth broke upon him like a huge, cold +wave; he had a clear vision of his guilt, and the vision was +conscious of itself as <i>his</i> guilt; he saw it rounded in a gray fog of +life-chilling dismay. What was he but a troth-breaker, a liar—and that +in strong fact, not in feeble tongue? “What am I,” said Conscience, “but +a cruel, self-seeking, loveless horror—a contemptible sneak, who, in +dread of missing the praises of men, crept away unseen, and left the +woman to bear alone our common sin?” What was he but a whited sepulchre, +full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness?—a fellow posing in the +pulpit as an example to the faithful, but knowing all the time that +somewhere in the land lived a woman—once a loving, trusting woman—who +could with a word hold him up to the world a hypocrite and a dastard—</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">A fixed figure for the Time of scorn</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">To point his slow unmoving finger at!</span><br /> +</p> +<p>He sprang to the floor; the cold hand of an injured ghost seemed +clutching feebly at his throat. But, in or out of bed, what could he +do? Utterly helpless, he thought, but in truth not daring to look the +question as to what he could do in the face, he crept back ignominiously +into his bed; and, growing a little less uncomfortable, began to reason +with himself that things were not so bad as they had for that moment +seemed; that many another had failed in like fashion with him, but +his fault had been forgotten, and had never reappeared against him! No +culprit was ever required to bear witness against himself! He must learn +to discipline and repress his over-sensitiveness, otherwise it would one +day seize him at a disadvantage, and betray him into self-exposure!</p> + +<p>Thus he reasoned—and sank back once more among the all but dead; the +loud alarum of his rousing conscience ceased, and he fell asleep in the +resolve to get away from Deemouth the first thing in the morning, before +Mr. Robertson should be awake. How much better it had been for him to +hold fast his repentant mood, and awake to tell everything! but he was +very far from having even approached any such resolution. Indeed no +practical idea of his, however much brooded over at night, had ever +lived to bear fruit in the morning; not once had he ever embodied in +action an impulse toward atonement! He could welcome the thought of a +final release from sin and suffering at the dissolution of nature, +but he always did his best to forget that at that very moment he was +suffering because of wrong he had done for which he was taking no least +trouble to make amends. He had lived for himself, to the destruction of +one whom he had once loved, and to the denial of his Lord and Master!</p> + +<p>More than twice on his way home in the early morning, he all but turned +to go back to the police-station, but it was, as usual, only <i>all but</i>, +and he kept walking on.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Already, ere James’s flight was discovered, morning saw Mr. Robertson +on his way to do what he might for the redemption of one of whom he +knew little or nothing: the policemen returning from their night’s duty, +found him already at the door of the office. He was at once admitted, +for he was well known to most of them. He found the poor woman miserably +recovered from the effects of her dissipation, and looking so woebegone, +that the heart of the good man was immediately filled with profoundest +pity, recognizing before him a creature whose hope was wasted to the +verge of despair. She neither looked up nor spoke; but what he could see +of her face appeared only ashamed, neither sullen nor vengeful. When +he spoke to her, she lifted her head a little, but not her eyes to his +face, confessing apparently that she had nothing to say for herself; and +he saw her plainly at the point of taking refuge in the Dee. Tenderly, +as if to the little one he had left behind him in bed, he spoke in +her scarce listening ear child-soothing words of almost inarticulate +sympathy, which yet his tone carried where they were meant to go. She +lifted her lost eyes at length, saw his face, and burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“Na, na,” she cried, through tearing sobs, “ye canna help me, sir! +There’s naething ’at you or onybody can dee for me! But I’m near the +mou o’ the pit, and God be thankit, I’ll be ower the rim o’ ’t or I hae +grutten my last greit oot!—For God’s sake gie me a drink—a drink o’ +onything!”</p> + +<p>“I daurna gie ye onything to ca’ drink,” answered the minister, who +could scarcely speak for the swelling in his throat. “The thing to dee +ye guid is a cup o’ het tay! Ye canna hae had a moofu’ this mornin! I +hae a cab waitin me at the door, and ye’ll jist get in, my puir bairn, +and come awa hame wi’ me! My wife’ll be doon afore we win back, and +she’ll hae a cup o’ tay ready for ye in a moment! You and me ’ill hae +oor brakfast thegither.”</p> + +<p>“Ken ye what ye’re sayin, sir? I daurna luik an honest wuman i’ the +face. I’m sic as ye ken naething aboot.”</p> + +<p>“I ken a heap aboot fowk o’ a’ kin’s—mair a heap, I’m thinkin, nor ye +ken yersel!—I ken mair aboot yersel, tee, nor ye think; I hae seen ye +i’ my ain kirk mair nor ance or twice. The Sunday nicht afore last I was +preachin straucht intil yer bonny face, and saw ye greitin, and maist +grat mysel. Come awa hame wi’ me, my dear; my wife’s anither jist like +mysel, an’ll turn naething to ye but the smilin side o’ her face, I s’ +un’ertak! She’s a fine, herty, couthy, savin kin’ o’ wuman, my wife! +Come ye til her, and see!”</p> + +<p>Isy rose to her feet.</p> + +<p>“Eh, but I would like to luik ance mair intil the face o’ a bonny, clean +wuman!” she said. “I’ll gang, sir,” she went on, with sudden resolve +“—only, I pray ye, sir, mak speed, and tak me oot o’ the sicht o’fowk!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, come awa; we s’ hae ye oot o’ this in a moment,” answered Mr. +Robertson.—“Put the fine doon to me,” he whispered to the inspector as +they passed him on their way out.</p> + +<p>The man returned his nod, and took no further notice.</p> + +<p>“I thoucht that was what would come o’ ’t!” he murmured to himself, +looking after them with a smile. But indeed he knew little of what was +going to come of it!</p> + +<p>The good minister, whose heart was the teacher of his head, and who was +not ashamed either of himself or his companion, showed Isy into their +little breakfast-parlour, and running up the stair to his wife, told her +he had brought the woman home, and wanted her to come down at once. Mrs. +Robertson, who was dressing her one child, hurried her toilet, gave over +the little one to the care of her one servant, and made haste to welcome +the poor shivering night-bird, waiting with ruffled feathers below. When +she opened the door, the two women stood for a moment silently gazing +on each other—then the wife opened her arms wide, and the girl fled to +their shelter; but her strength failing her on the way, she fell to the +floor. Instantly the other was down by her side. The husband came to her +help; and between them they got her at once on the little couch.</p> + +<p>“Shall I get the brandy?” said Mrs. Robertson.</p> + +<p>“Try a cup of tea,” he answered.</p> + +<p>His wife made haste, and soon had the tea poured out and cooling. But +Isy still lay motionless. Her hostess raised the helpless head upon her +arm, put a spoonful of the tea to her lips, and found to her joy that +she tried to swallow it. The next minute she opened her eyes, and would +have risen; but the rescuing hand held her down.</p> + +<p>“I want to tell ye,” moaned Isy with feeble expostulation, “’at ye dinna +ken wha ye hae taen intil yer hoose! Lat me up to get my breath, or I’ll +no be able to tell ye.”</p> + +<p>“Drink your tea,” answered the other, “and then say what you like. +There’s no hurry. You’ll have time enough.”</p> + +<p>The poor girl opened her eyes wide, and gazed for a moment at Mrs. +Robertson. Then she took the cup and drank the tea. Her new friend went +on—</p> + +<p>“You must just be content to bide where you are a day or two. Ye’re no +to fash yersel aboot onything: I have clothes enough to give you all the +change you can want. Hold your tongue, please, and finish your tea.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, mem,” cried Isy, “fowk ’ill say ill o’ ye, gien they see the like +o’ me in yer hoose!”</p> + +<p>“Lat them say, and say ’t again! What’s fowk but muckle geese!”</p> + +<p>“But there’s the minister and his character!” she persisted.</p> + +<p>“Hoots! what cares the minister?” said his wife. “Speir at him there, +what he thinks o’ clash.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed,” answered her husband, “I never heedit it eneuch to tell! +There’s but ae word I heed, and that’s my Maister’s!”</p> + +<p>“Eh, but ye canna lift me oot o’ the pit!” groaned the poor girl.</p> + +<p>“God helpin, I can,” returned the minister. “—But ye’re no i’ the pit +yet by a lang road; and oot o’ that road I s’ hae ye, please God, afore +anither nicht has darkent!”</p> + +<p>“I dinna ken what’s to come o’ me!” again she groaned.</p> + +<p>“That we’ll sune see! Brakfast’s to come o’ ye first, and syne my wife +and me we’ll sit in jeedgment upo ye, and redd things up. Min’ ye’re to +say what ye like, and naither ill fowk nor unco guid sall come nigh ye.”</p> + +<p>A pitiful smile flitted across Isy’s face, and with it returned the +almost babyish look that used to form part of her charm. Like an +obedient child, she set herself to eat and drink what she could; and +when she had evidently done her best—</p> + +<p>“Now put up your feet again on the sofa, and tell us everything,” said +the minister.</p> + +<p>“No,” returned Isy; “I’m not at liberty to tell you <i>everything</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Then tell us what you please—so long as it’s true, and that I am sure +it will be,” he rejoined.</p> + +<p>“I will, sir,” she answered.</p> + +<p>For several moments she was silent, as if thinking how to begin; then, +after a gasp or two,—</p> + +<p>“I’m not a good woman,” she began. “Perhaps I am worse than you think +me.—Oh, my baby! my baby!” she cried, and burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“There’s nae that mony o’ ’s just what ither fowk think us,” said the +minister’s wife. “We’re in general baith better and waur nor that.—But +tell me ae thing: what took ye, last nicht, straucht frae the kirk to +the public? The twa haudna weel thegither!”</p> + +<p>“It was this, ma’am,” she replied, resuming the more refined speech to +which, since living at Deemouth, she had been less accustomed—“I had +a shock that night from suddenly seeing one in the church whom I had +thought never to see again; and when I got into the street, I turned so +sick that some kind body gave me whisky, and that was how, not having +been used to it for some time, that I disgraced myself. But indeed, I +have a much worse trouble and shame upon me than that—one you would +hardly believe, ma’am!”</p> + +<p>“I understand,” said Mrs. Robertson, modifying her speech also the +moment she perceived the change in that of her guest: “you saw him +in church—the man that got you into trouble! I thought that must be +it!—won’t you tell me all about it?”</p> + +<p>“I will not tell his name. <i>I</i> was the most in fault, for I knew +better; and I would rather die than do him any more harm!—Good morning, +ma’am!—I thank you kindly, sir! Believe me I am not ungrateful, +whatever else I may be that is bad.”</p> + +<p>She rose as she spoke, but Mrs. Robertson got to the door first, and +standing between her and it, confronted her with a smile.</p> + +<p>“Don’t think I blame you for holding your tongue, my dear. I don’t want +you to tell. I only thought it might be a relief to you. I believe, if +I were in the same case—or, at least, I hope so—that hot pincers +wouldn’t draw his name out of me. What right has any vulgar inquisitive +woman to know the thing gnawing at your heart like a live serpent? +I will never again ask you anything about him.—There! you have my +promise!—Now sit down again, and don’t be afraid. Tell me what you +please, and not a word more. The minister is sure to find something to +comfort you.”</p> + +<p>“What can anybody say or do to comfort such as me, ma’am? I am +lost—lost out of sight! Nothing can save me! The Saviour himself +wouldn’t open the door to a woman that left her suckling child out in +the dark night!—That’s what I did!” she cried, and ended with a wail as +from a heart whose wound eternal years could never close.</p> + +<p>In a while growing a little calmer—</p> + +<p>“I would not have you think, ma’am,” she resumed, “that I wanted to get +rid of the darling. But my wits went all of a sudden, and a terror, I +don’t know of what, came upon me. Could it have been the hunger, do you +think? I laid him down in the heather, and ran from him. How far I went, +I do not know. All at once I came to myself, and knew what I had done, +and ran to take him up. But whether I lost my way back, or what I did, +or how it was, I cannot tell, only I could not find him! Then for a +while I think I must have been clean out of my mind, and was always +seeing him torn by the foxes, and the corbies picking out his eyes. Even +now, at night, every now and then, it comes back, and I cannot get the +sight out of my head! For a while it drove me to drink, but I got rid of +that until just last night, when again I was overcome.—Oh, if I could +only keep from seeing the beasts and birds at his little body when I’m +falling asleep!”</p> + +<p>She gave a smothered scream, and hid her face in her hands. Mrs. +Robertson, weeping herself, sought to comfort her, but it seemed in +vain.</p> + +<p>“The worst of it is,” Isy resumed, “—for I must confess everything, +ma’am!—is that I cannot tell what I may have done in the drink. I may +even have told his name, though I remember nothing about it! It must +be months, I think, since I tasted a drop till last night; and now I’ve +done it again, and I’m not fit he should ever cast a look at me! My +heart’s just like to break when I think I may have been false to him, +as well as false to his child! If all the devils would but come and tear +me, I would say, thank ye, sirs!”</p> + +<p>“My dear,” came the voice of the parson from where he sat listening to +every word she uttered, “my dear, naething but the han’ o’ the Son o’ +Man’ll come nigh ye oot o’ the dark, saft-strokin yer hert, and closin +up the terrible gash intil’t. I’ the name o’ God, the saviour o’ men, I +tell ye, dautie, the day ’ill come whan ye’ll smile i’ the vera face o’ +the Lord himsel, at the thoucht o’ what he has broucht ye throuw! Lord +Christ, haud a guid grup o’ thy puir bairn and hers, and gie her back +her ain. Thy wull be deen!—and that thy wull’s a’ for redemption!—Gang +on wi’ yer tale, my lassie.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, sir, I can say nae mair—and seem to hae nae mair to say.—I’m +some—some sick like!”</p> + +<p>She fell back on the sofa, white as death.</p> + +<p>The parson was a big man; he took her up in his arms, and carried her to +a room they had always ready on the chance of a visit from “one of the +least of these.”</p> + +<p>At the top of the stair stood their little daughter, a child of five +or six, wanting to go down to her mother, and wondering why she was not +permitted.</p> + +<p>“Who is it, moder?” she whispered, as Mrs. Robertson passed her, +following her husband and Isy. “Is she very dead?”</p> + +<p>“No, darling,” answered her mother; “it is an angel that has lost her +way, and is tired—so tired!—You must be very quiet, and not disturb +her. Her head is going to ache very much.”</p> + +<p>The child turned and went down the stair, step by step, softly, saying—</p> + +<p>“I will tell my rabbit not to make any noise—and to be as white as he +can.”</p> + +<p>Once more they succeeded in bringing back to the light of consciousness +her beclouded spirit. She woke in a soft white bed, with two faces of +compassion bending over her, closed her eyes again with a smile of sweet +content, and was soon wrapt in a wholesome slumber.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, the caitiff minister had reached his manse, and found +a ghastly loneliness awaiting him—oh, how much deeper than that of the +woman he had forsaken! She had lost her repute and her baby; he had lost +his God! He had never seen his shape, and had not his word abiding in +him; and now the vision of him was closed in an unfathomable abyss of +darkness, far, far away from any point his consciousness could reach! +The signs of God were around him in the Book, around him in the world, +around him in his own existence—but the signs only! God did not +speak to him, did not manifest himself to him. God was not where James +Blatherwick had ever sought him; he was not in any place where was the +least likelihood of his ever looking for or finding him!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It must be remembered that Blatherwick knew nothing of the existence +of his child: such knowledge might have modified the half-conscious +satisfaction with which, on his way home, he now and then saw a +providence in the fact that he had been preserved from marrying a +woman who had now proved herself capable of disgracing him in the very +streets. But during his slow journey of forty miles, most of which he +made on foot, hounded on from within to bodily motion, he had again, as +in the night, to pass through many an alternation of thought and feeling +and purpose. To and fro in him, up and down, this way and that, went +the changing currents of self-judgment, of self-consolement, and of +fresh-gathering dread. Never for one persistent minute was his mind +clear, his purpose determined, his line set straight for honesty. He +must live up—not to the law of righteousness, but to the show of what +a minister ought to be! he must appear unto men! In a word, he must +keep up the deception he had begun in childhood, and had, until of late +years, practised unknowingly! Now he knew it, and went on, not knowing +how to get rid of it; or rather, shrinking in utter cowardice from the +confession which alone could have set him free. Now he sought only how +to conceal his deception and falseness. He had no pleasure in them, +but was consciously miserable in knowing himself not what he seemed—in +being compelled, as he fancied himself in excuse, to look like one that +had not sinned. In his heart he grumbled that God should have forsaken +him so far as to allow him to disgrace himself before his conscience. +He did not yet see that his foulness was ingrained; that the Ethiopian +could change his skin, or the leopard his spots, as soon as he; that he +had never yet looked purity in the face; that the fall which disgraced +him in his own eyes was but the necessary outcome of his character—that +it was no accident but an unavoidable result; that his true nature had +but disclosed itself, and appeared—as everything hid must be known, +everything covered must be revealed. Even <i>to begin</i> the purification +without which his moral and spiritual being must perish eternally, +he must dare to look on himself as he was: he <i>would</i> not recognize +himself, and thought he lay and would lie hid from all. Dante describes +certain of the redeemed as lying each concealed in his or her own cocoon +of emitted light: James lay hidden like a certain insect in its own +<i>gowk-spittle</i>. It is strange, but so it is, that many a man will never +yield to see himself until he become aware of the eyes of other men +fixed upon him; they seeing him, and he knowing that they see him, then +first, even to himself, will he be driven to confess what he has long +all but known. Blatherwick’s hour was on its way, slow-coming, but no +longer to be shunned. His soul was ripening to self-declaration. The +ugly self must blossom, must show itself the flower, the perfection of +that evil thing he counted himself! What a hold has not God upon us in +this inevitable ripening of the unseen into the visible and present! The +flower is there, and must appear!</p> + +<p>In the meantime he suffered, and went on in silence, walking like a +servant of the Ancient of Days, and knowing himself a whited sepulchre. +Within him he felt the dead body that could not rest until it was laid +bare to the sun; but all the time he comforted himself that he had +not fallen a second time, and that the <i>once</i> would not be remembered +against him: did not the fact that it was forgotten, most likely was +never known, indicate the forgiveness of God? And so, unrepentant, he +remained unforgiven, and continued a hypocrite and the slave of sin.</p> + +<p>But the hideous thing was not altogether concealed; something showed +under the covering whiteness! His mother saw that something shapeless +haunted him, and often asked herself what it could be, but always +shrank even from conjecturing. His father felt that he had gone from +him utterly, and that his son’s feeding of the flock had done nothing to +bring him and his parents nearer to each other! What could be hidden, he +thought, beneath the mask of that unsmiling face?</p> + +<p>But there was a humble observer who saw deeper than the parents—John +MacLear, the soutar.</p> + +<p>One day, after about a fortnight, the minister walked into the workshop +of the soutar, and found him there as usual. His hands were working away +diligently, but his thoughts had for some time been brooding over the +blessed fact, that God is not the God of the perfect only, but of the +growing as well; not the God of the righteous only, but of such as +hunger and thirst after righteousness.</p> + +<p>“God blaw on the smoking flax, and tie up the bruised reed!” he was +saying to himself aloud, when in walked the minister.</p> + +<p>Now, as in some other mystical natures, a certain something had been +developed in the soutar not unlike a spirit of prophecy—an insight +which, seemingly without exercise of the will, sometimes laid bare to +him in a measure the thoughts and intents of hearts in which he was more +than usually interested; or perhaps it was rather a faculty, working +unconsciously, of putting signs together, and drawing from them +instantaneous conclusion of the fact at which they pointed. After their +greeting, he suddenly looked up at his visitor with a certain fixed +attention: the mere glance had shown him that he looked ill, and he now +saw that something in the man’s heart was eating at it like a canker. +Therewith at once arose in his brain the question: could he be the +father of the little one crowing in the next room? But he shut it into +the darkest closet of his mind, shrinking from the secret of another +soul, as from the veil of the Holy of Holies! The next moment, however, +came the thought: what if the man stood in need of the offices of a +friend? It was one thing to pry into a man’s secret; another, to help +him escape from it! As out of this thought the soutar sat looking at him +for a moment, the minister felt the hot blood rush to his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Ye dinna luik that weel, minister,” said the soutar: “is there onything +the maitter wi’ ye, sir?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing worth mentioning,” answered the parson. “I have sometimes a +touch of headache in the early morning, especially when I have sat later +than usual over my books the night before; but it always goes off during +the day.”</p> + +<p>“Ow weel, sir, that’s no, as ye say, a vera sairious thing! I couldna +help fancyin ye had something on yer min’ by ord’nar!”</p> + +<p>“Naething, naething,” answered James with a feeble laugh. “—But,” he +went on—and something seemed to send the words to his lips without +giving him time to think—“it is curious you should say that, for I was +just thinking what was the real intent of the apostle in his injunction +to confess our faults one to another.”</p> + +<p>The moment he uttered the words he felt as if he had proclaimed his +secret on the housetop; and he would have begun the sentence afresh, +with some notion of correcting it; but again he knew the hot blood shoot +to his face.—“I <i>must</i> go on with something!” he felt rather than said +to himself, “or those sharp eyes will see through and through me!”</p> + +<p>“It came into my mind,” he went on, “that I should like to know what +<i>you</i> thought about the passage: it cannot surely give the least ground +for auricular confession! I understand perfectly how a man may want +to consult a friend in any difficulty—and that friend naturally the +minister; but—”</p> + +<p>This was by no means a thing he had meant to say, but he seemed carried +on to say he knew not what. It was as if, without his will, the will +of God was driving the man to the brink of a pure confession—to the +cleansing of his stuffed bosom “of that perilous stuff which weighs upon +the heart.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think, for instance,” he continued, thus driven, “that a man is +bound to tell <i>everything</i>—even to the friend he loves best?”</p> + +<p>“I think,” answered the soutar after a moment’s thought, “that we must +answer the <i>what</i>, before we enter upon the <i>how much</i>. And I think, +first of all we must ask—to <i>whom</i> are we bound to confess?—and there +surely the answer is, to him to whom we have done the wrong. If we have +been grumbling in our hearts, it is to God we must confess: who else +has to do with the matter? To <i>Him</i> we maun flee the moment oor eyes +are opent to what we’ve been aboot! But, gien we hae wranged ane o’ oor +fallow-craturs, wha are we to gang til wi’ oor confession but that same +fallow-cratur? It seems to me we maun gang to that man first—even afore +we gang to God himsel. Not one moment must we indulge procrastination on +the plea o’ prayin! From our vera knees we maun rise in haste, and say +to brother or sister, ‘I’ve done ye this or that wrang: forgie me.’ God +can wait for your prayer better nor you, or him ye’ve wranged, can +wait for your confession! Efter that, ye maun at ance fa’ to your best +endeevour to mak up for the wrang. ‘Confess your sins,’ I think +it means, ‘each o’ ye to the ither again whom ye hae dene the +offence.’—Divna ye think that’s the cowmonsense o’ the maitter?”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, I think you must be right!” replied the minister, who sat +revolving only how best, alas, to cover his retreat! “I will go home at +once and think it all over. Indeed, I am even now all but convinced that +what you say must be what the Apostle intended!”</p> + +<p>With a great sigh, of which he was not aware, Blatherwick rose and +walked from the kitchen, hoping he looked—not guilty, but sunk in +thought. In truth he was unable to think. Oppressed and heavy-laden with +the sense of a duty too unpleasant for performance, he went home to his +cheerless manse, where his housekeeper was the only person he had +to speak to, a woman incapable of comforting anybody. There he went +straight to his study, but, kneeling, found he could not pray the +simplest prayer; not a word would come, and he could not pray without +words! He was dead, and in hell—so far perished that he felt nothing. +He rose, and sought the open air; it brought him no restoration. He had +not heeded his friend’s advice, had not entertained the thought of the +one thing possible to him—had not moved, even in spirit, toward Isy! +The only comfort he could now find for his guilty soul was the thought +that he could do nothing, for he did not know where Isy was to be found. +When he remembered the next moment that his friend Robertson must be +able to find her, he soothed his conscience with the reflection that +there was no coach till the next morning, and in the meantime he could +write: a letter would reach him almost as soon as he could himself!</p> + +<p>But what then would Robertson think? He might give his wife the letter +to read! She might even read it of herself, for they concealed nothing +from each other! So he only walked the faster, tired himself, and earned +an appetite as the result of his day’s work! He ate a good dinner, +although with little enjoyment, and fell fast asleep in his chair. No +letter was written to Robertson that day. No letter of such sort was +ever written. The spirit was not willing, and the flesh was weakness +itself.</p> + +<p>In the evening he took up a learned commentary on the Book of Job; but +he never even approached the discovery of what Job wanted, received, and +was satisfied withal. He never saw that what he himself needed, but did +not desire, was the same thing—even a sight of God! He never discovered +that, when God came to Job, Job forgot all he had intended to say to +him—did not ask him a single question—knew that all was well. The +student of Scripture remained blind to the fact that the very presence +of the Living One, of the Father of men, proved sufficient in itself to +answer every question, to still every doubt! But then James’s heart was +not pure like Job’s, and therefore he could never have seen God; he did +not even desire to see him, and so could see nothing as it was. He read +with the blindness of the devil in his heart.</p> + +<p>In Marlowe’s <i>Faust</i>, the student asks Mephistopheles—</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">How comes it then that thou art out of hell?</span><br /> +</p> +<p class="p0">And the demon answers him—</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it;</span><br /> +</p> +<p class="p0">and again—</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Where we are is hell;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And where hell is there must we ever be:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">... when all the world dissolves,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And every creature shall be purified,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">All places shall be hell that are not heaven;</span><br /> +</p> +<p>and yet again—</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I tell thee I am damned, and now in hell;</span><br /> +</p> +<p class="p0">and it was thus James fared; and thus he went to bed.</p> + +<p>And while he lay there sleepless, or walked in his death to and fro in +the room, his father and mother, some three miles away, were talking +about him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>For some time they had lain silent, thinking about him by no means +happily. They were thinking how little had been their satisfaction in +their minister-son; and had gone back in their minds to a certain time, +long before, when conferring together about him, a boy at school.</p> + +<p>Even then the heart of the mother had resented his coldness, his seeming +unconsciousness of his parents as having any share or interest in his +life or prospects. Scotch parents are seldom demonstrative to each other +or to their children; but not the less in them, possibly the hotter +because of their outward coldness, burns the causal fire, the central, +the deepest—that eternal fire, without which the world would turn to a +frozen clod, the love of the parent for the child. That must burn while +<i>the</i> Father lives! that must burn until the universe <i>is</i> the Father +and his children, and none beside. That fire, however long held down and +crushed together by the weight of unkindled fuel, must go on to gather +heat, and, gathering, it must glow, and at last break forth in the +scorching, yea devouring flames of a righteous indignation: the Father +must and <i>will</i> be supreme, that his children perish not! But as yet +<i>The Father</i> endured and was silent; and the child-parents also must +endure and be still! In the meantime their son remained hidden from them +as by an impervious moral hedge; he never came out from behind it, never +stood clear before them, and they were unable to break through to him: +within his citadel of indifference there was no angelic traitor to draw +back the bolts of its iron gates, and let them in. They had gone on +hoping, and hoping in vain, for some holy, lovely change in him; but +at last had to confess it a relief when he left the house, and went to +Edinburgh.</p> + +<p>But the occasion to which I refer was long before that.</p> + +<p>The two children were in bed and asleep, and the parents were lying +then, as they lay now, sleepless.</p> + +<p>“Hoo’s Jeemie been gettin on the day?” said his father.</p> + +<p>“Well enough, I suppose,” answered his mother, who did not then speak +Scotch quite so broad as her husband’s, although a good deal broader +than her mother, the wife of a country doctor, would have permitted when +she was a child; “he’s always busy at his books. He’s a good boy, and a +diligent; there’s no gainsayin that! But as to hoo he’s gettin on, I +can beir no testimony. He never lets a word go from him as to what he’s +doin, one way or anither. ‘What <i>can</i> he be thinkin aboot?’ I say whiles +to mysel—sometimes ower and ower again. When I gang intil the parlour, +where he always sits till he has done his lessons, he never lifts his +heid to show that he hears me, or cares wha’s there or wha isna. And as +soon as he’s learnt them, he taks a buik and gangs up til his room, or +oot aboot the hoose, or intil the cornyard or the barn, and never comes +nigh me!—I sometimes won’er gien he would ever miss me deid!” she +ended, with a great sigh.</p> + +<p>“Hoot awa, wuman! dinna tak on like that,” returned her husband. “The +laddie’s like the lave o’ laddies! They’re a’ jist like pup-doggies till +their een comes oppen, and they ken them ’at broucht them here. He’s +bun’ to mak a guid man in time, and he canna dee that ohn learnt to be +a guid son to her ’at bore him!—Ye canna say ’at ever he contert ye! Ye +hae tellt me that a hunner times!”</p> + +<p>“I have that! But I would hae had no occasion to dwall upo’ the fac’, +gien he had ever gi’en me, noo or than, jist a wee bit sign o’ ony +affection!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, doobtless! but signs are nae preefs! The affection, as ye ca’ ’t, +may be there, and the signs o’ ’t wantin!—But I ken weel hoo the hert +o’ ye ’s workin, my ain auld dautie!” he added, anxious to comfort her +who was dearer to him than son or daughter.</p> + +<p>“I dinna think it wad be weel,” he resumed after a pause, “for me to say +onything til ’im aboot his behaviour til ’s mither: I dinna believe he +wud ken what I was aimin at! I dinna believe he has a notion o’ onything +amiss in himsel, and I fear he wad only think I was hard upon him, and +no’ fair. Ye see, gien a thing disna come o’ ’tsel, no cryin upo’ ’t ’ll +gar ’t lift its heid—sae lang, at least, as the man kens naething aboot +it!”</p> + +<p>“I dinna doobt ye’re right, Peter,” answered his wife; “I ken weel that +flytin ’ill never gar love spread oot his wings—excep’ it be to flee +awa’! Naething but shuin can come o’ flytin!”</p> + +<p>“It micht be even waur nor shuin!” rejoined Peter. “—But we better gang +til oor sleeps, lass!—We hae ane anither, come what may!”</p> + +<p>“That’s true, Peter; but aye the mair I hae you, the mair I want my +Jeemie!” cried the poor mother.</p> + +<p>The father said no more. But, after a while, he rose, and stole softly +to his son’s room. His wife stole after him, and found him on his knees +by the bedside, his face buried in the blankets, where his boy lay +asleep with calm, dreamless countenance.</p> + +<p>She took his hand, and led him back to bed.</p> + +<p>“To think,” she moaned as they went, “’at yon’s the same bairnie I +glowert at till my sowl ran oot at my een! I min’ weel hoo I leuch and +grat, baith at ance, to think I was the mother o’ a man-child! and I +thought I kenned weel what was i’ the hert o’ Mary, whan she claspit the +blessed ane til her boasom!”</p> + +<p>“May that same bairnie, born for oor remeid, bring oor bairn til his +richt min’ afore he’s ower auld to repent!” responded the father in a +broken voice.</p> + +<p>“What for,” moaned Marion, “was the hert o’ a mither put intil me? What +for was I made a wuman, whause life is for the beirin o’ bairns to the +great Father o’ a’ gien this same was to be my reward?—Na, na, Lord,” +she went on, checking herself, “I claim naething but thy wull; and weel +I ken ye wouldna hae me think siclike thy wull!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It would be too much to say that the hearts of his parents took no +pleasure in the advancement of their son, such as it was. I suspect the +mother was glad to be proud where she could find no happiness—proud +with the love that lay incorruptible in her being. But the love that is +all on one side, though it may be stronger than death, can hardly be so +strong as life! A poor, maimed, one-winged thing, such love cannot soar +into any region of conscious bliss. Even when it soars into the region +where God himself dwells, it is but to partake there of the divine +sorrow which his heartless children cause him. My reader may well +believe that father nor mother dwelt much upon what their neighbours +called James’s success—or cared in the least to talk about it: that +they would have felt to be mere hypocrisy, while hearty and genuine +relations were so far from perfect between them. Never to human being, +save the one to the other, and that now but very seldom, did they allude +to the bitterness which their own hearts knew; for to speak of it would +have seemed almost equivalent to disowning their son. And alas the +daughter was gone to whom the mother had at one time been able to bemoan +herself, knowing she understood and shared in their misery! For Isobel +would gladly have laid down her life to kindle in James’s heart such a +love to their parents as her own.</p> + +<p>We may now understand a little, into what sort of man the lad James +Blatherwick had grown. When he left Stonecross for the University, it +was with scarce a backward look; nothing was in his heart but eagerness +for the coming conflict. Having gained there one of its highest +bursaries, he never spent a thought, as he donned his red gown, on the +son of the poor widow who had competed with him, and who, failing, had +to leave ambition behind him and take a place in a shop—where, however, +he soon became able to keep, and did keep, his mother in what was to her +nothing less than happy luxury; while the successful James—well, so far +my reader already knows about him.</p> + +<p>As often as James returned home for the vacations, things, as between +him and his parents, showed themselves unaltered; and by his third +return, the heart of his sister had ceased to beat any faster at the +thought of his arrival: she knew that he would but shake hands limply, +let hers drop, and the same moment be set down to read. Before the time +for taking his degree arrived, Isobel was gone to the great Father. +James never missed her, and neither wished nor was asked to go home to +her funeral. To his mother he was never anything more or less than quite +civil; she never asked him to do anything for her. He came and went as +he pleased, cared for nothing done on the farm or about the house, and +seemed, in his own thoughts and studies, to have more than enough to +occupy him. He had grown a powerful as well as handsome youth, and +had dropped almost every sign of his country breeding. He hardly ever +deigned a word in his mother-dialect, but spoke good English with +a Scotch accent. Neither had he developed any of the abominable +affectations by which not a few such as he have imagined to repudiate +their origin.</p> + +<p>His father had not then first to discover that his son was far too fine +a gentleman to show any interest in agriculture, or put out his hand +to the least share in that oldest and most dignified of callings. His +mother continued to look forward, although with fading interest, to +the time when he should be—the messenger of a gospel which he nowise +understood; but his father did not at all share her anticipation; and +she came to know ere long that to hear him preach would but renew and +intensify a misery to which she had become a little accustomed in their +ordinary intercourse. The father felt that his boy had either left him a +long way off, or had never at any time come near him. He seemed to stand +afar upon some mountain-top of conscious or imagined superiority.</p> + +<p>James, as one having no choice, lived at <i>home</i>, so called by custom +and use, but lived as one come of another breed than his parents, having +with theirs but few appreciable points of contact. Most conventional +of youths, he yet wrote verses in secret, and in his treasure-closet +worshipped Byron. What he wrote he seldom showed, and then only to +one or two of his fellow-students. Possibly he wrote only to prove to +himself that he could do that also, for he never doubted his faculty +in any direction. When he went to Edinburgh—to learn theology, +forsooth!—he was already an accomplished mathematician, and a yet +better classic, with some predilections for science, and a very small +knowledge of the same: his books showed for the theology, and for the +science, an occasional attempt to set his father right on some point of +chemistry. His first aspiration was to show himself a gentleman in the +eyes of the bubblehead calling itself Society—of which in fact he knew +nothing; and the next, to have his eloquence, at present existent only +in an ambitious imagination, recognized by the public. Such were the two +devils, or rather the two forms of the one devil Vanity, that possessed +him. He looked down on his parents, and the whole circumstance of +their ordered existence, as unworthy of him, because old-fashioned and +bucolic, occupied only with God’s earth and God’s animals, and having +nothing to do with the shows of life. And yet to the simply honourable, +to such of gentle breeding as despised mere show, the ways of life in +their house would have seemed altogether admirable: the homely, yet not +unfastidious modes and conditions of the unassuming homestead, would +have appeared to them not a little attractive. But James took no +interest in any of them, and, if possible, yet less in the ways of the +tradesmen and craftsmen of the neighbouring village. He never felt the +common humanity that made him one with them, did not in his thoughts +associate himself at all with them. Had he turned his feeling into +thoughts and words, he would have said, “I cannot help being the son of +a farmer, but at least my mother’s father was a doctor; and had I been +consulted, my father should have been at least an officer in one of his +majesty’s services, not a treader of dung or artificial manure!” The +root of his folly lay in the groundless self-esteem of the fellow; +fostered, I think, by a certain literature which fed the notion, if +indeed it did not plainly inculcate the <i>duty</i> of rising in the world. +To such as he, the praise of men may well seem the patent of their +nobility; but the man whom we call <i>The Saviour</i>, and who knew the +secret of Life, warned his followers that they must not seek that sort +of distinction if they would be the children of the Father who claimed +them.</p> + +<p>I have said enough, perhaps too much, of this most uninteresting of men! +How he came to be born such, is not for my speculation: had he remained +such, his story would not have been for my telling. How he became +something better, it remains my task to try to set forth.</p> + +<p>I now complete the talk that followed the return of the simple couple to +bed. “I was jist thinkin, Peter,” said Marion, after they had again +lain silent for a while, “o’ the last time we spak thegither aboot the +laddie—it maun be nigh sax year sin syne, I’m thinkin!”</p> + +<p>“’Deed I canna say! ye may be richt, Mirran,” replied her spouse. “It’s +no sic a cheery subjec’ ’at we sud hae muckle to say to ane anither +anent it! He’s a man noo, and weel luikit upo’; but it maks unco little +differ to his parents! He’s jist as dour as ever, and as far as man +could weel be frae them he cam o’!—never a word to the ane or the ither +o’ ’s! Gien we war twa dowgs, he couldna hae less to say til’s, and +micht weel hae mair! I s’ warran’ Frostie says mair in ae half-hoor to +his tyke, nor Jeemie has said to you or me sin’ first he gaed to the +college!”</p> + +<p>“Bairns is whiles a queer kin’ o’ a blessin!” remarked the mother. “But, +eh, Peter! it’s what may lie ahint the silence that frichts me!”</p> + +<p>“Lass, ye’re frichtin <i>me</i> noo! What <i>div</i> ye mean?”</p> + +<p>“Ow naething!” returned Marion, bursting into tears. “But a’ at ance +it was borne in upo me, that there maun be something to accoont for the +thing. At the same time I daurna speir at God himsel what that thing +can be. For there’s something waur noo, and has been for some time, +than ever was there afore! He has sic a luik, as gien he saw nor heard +onything but ae thing, the whilk ae thing keeps on inside him, and winna +wheesht. It’s an awfu’ thing to say o’ a mither’s ain laddie; and to hae +said it only to my ain man, and the father o’ the laddie, maks my hert +like to brak!—it’s as gien I had been fause to my ain flesh and blude +but to think it o’ ’im!—Eh, Peter, what <i>can</i> it be?”</p> + +<p>“Ow jist maybe naething ava’! Maybe he’s in love, and the lass winna +hear til ’im!”</p> + +<p>“Na, Peter; love gars a man luik up, no doon at his ain feet! It gars +him fling his heid back, and set his een richt afore him—no turn them +in upo his ain inside! It maks a man straucht i’ the back, strong i’ the +airm, and bauld i’ the hert.—Didna it you, Peter?”</p> + +<p>“Maybe it did; I dinna min’ vera weel.—But I see love can hardly be the +thing that’s amiss wi’ the lad. Still, even his parents maun tak tent o’ +jeedgin—specially ane o’ the Lord’s ministers—maybe ane o’ the Lord’s +ain elec’!”</p> + +<p>“It’s awfu’ to think—I daurna say ’t—I daurna maist think the words +o’ ’t, Peter, but it <i>wull</i> cry oot i’ my vera hert!—Steik the door, +Peter—and ticht, that no a stray stirk may hear me!—Was a minister o’ +the gospel ever a heepocreete, Peter?—like ane o’ the auld scribes +and Pharisees, Peter?—Wadna it be ower terrible, Peter, to be +permittit?—Gien our ain only son was—”</p> + +<p>But here she broke down; she could not finish the frightful sentence. +The farmer again left his bed, and dropt upon a chair by the side of it. +The next moment he sank on his knees, and hiding his face in his hands, +groaned, as from a thicket of torture—</p> + +<p>“God in haiven, hae mercy upon the haill lot o’ ’s.”</p> + +<p>Then, apparently unconscious of what he did, he went wandering from the +room, down to the kitchen, and out to the barn on his bare feet, closing +the door of the house behind him. In the barn he threw himself, face +downward, on a heap of loose straw, and there lay motionless. His wife +wept alone in her bed, and hardly missed him: it required of her no +reflection to understand whither he had gone, or what he was doing. He +was crying, like King Lear from the bitterness of an outraged father’s +heart, to the Father of fathers:</p> + +<p>“God, ye’re a father yersel,” he groaned; “and sae ye ken hoo it’s rivin +at my hert!—Na, Lord, ye dinna ken; for ye never had a doobt aboot +<i>your</i> son!—Na, I’m no blamin Jeemie, Lord; I’m no cryin oot upo <i>him</i>; +for ye ken weel hoo little I ken aboot him: he never opened the buik o’ +his hert to <i>me</i>! Oh God, grant that he hae naething to hide; but gien +he has, Lord, pluck it oot o’ ’im, and <i>him</i> oot o’ the glaur! latna him +stick there. I kenna hoo to shape my petition, for I’m a’ i’ the dark; +but deliver him some gait, Lord, I pray thee, for his mither’s sake!—ye +ken what she is!—<i>I</i> dinna coont for onything, but ye ken <i>her</i>!—Lord, +deliver the hert o’ her frae the awfu’est o’ a’ her fears.—Lord, a +hypocreet! a Judas-man!”</p> + +<p>More of what he said, I cannot tell; somehow this much has reached my +ears. He remained there upon the straw while hour after hour passed, +pleading with the great Father for his son; his soul now lost in dull +fatigue, now uttering itself in groans for lack of words, until at +length the dawn looked in on the night-weary earth, and into the two +sorrow-laden hearts, bringing with it a comfort they did not seek to +understand.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>But it brought no solace to the mind of the weak, hard-hearted, and +guilty son. He had succeeded once more in temporarily soothing his +conscience with some narcotic of false comfort, and now slept the sleep +of the houseless, whose covering was narrower than he could wrap himself +in. Ah, those nights! Alas for the sleepless human soul out in the +eternal cold! But so heartless was James, that, if his mother had come +to him in the morning with her tear-dimmed eyes, he would never have +asked himself what could ail her; would never even have seen that she +was unhappy; least of all would have suspected himself the cause of her +red eyes and aching head, or that the best thing in him was that mental +uneasiness of which he was constantly aware. Thank God, there was no way +round the purifying fire! he could not escape it; he <i>must</i> pass through +it!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Little knows the world what a power among men is the man who simply and +really believes in him who is Lord of the world to save men from +their sins! He may be neither wise nor prudent; he may be narrow and +dim-sighted even in the things he loves best; they may promise him much, +and yield him but a poor fragment of the joy that might be and ought to +be his; he may present them to others clothed in no attractive hues, or +in any word of power; and yet, if he has but that love to his neighbour +which is rooted in, and springs from love to his God, he is always a +redeeming, reconciling influence among his fellows. The Robertsons were +genial of heart, loving and tender toward man or woman in need of them; +their door was always on the latch for such to enter. If the parson +insisted on the wrath of God against sin, he did not fail to give +assurance of His tenderness toward such as had fallen. Together the +godly pair at length persuaded Isobel of the eager forgiveness of the +Son of Man. They assured her that he could not drive from him the very +worst of sinners, but loved—nothing less than tenderly <i>loved</i> any +one who, having sinned, now turned her face to the Father. She +would doubtless, they said, have to see her trespass in the eyes of +unforgiving women, but the Lord would lift her high, and welcome her to +the home of the glad-hearted.</p> + +<p>But poor Isy, who regarded her fault as both against God and the man who +had misled her, and was sick at the thought of being such as she judged +herself, insisted that nothing God himself could do, could ever restore +her, for nothing could ever make it that she had not fallen: such a +contradiction, such an impossibility alone could make her clean! God +might be ready to forgive her, but He could not love her! Jesus +might have made satisfaction for her sin, but how could that make any +difference in or to her? She was troubled that Jesus should have so +suffered, but that could not give her back her purity, or the peace of +mind she once possessed! That was gone for ever! The life before her +took the appearance of an unchanging gloom, a desert region whence the +gladness had withered, and whence came no purifying wind to blow from +her the odours of the grave by which she seemed haunted! Never to all +eternity could she be innocent again! Life had no interest for her! She +was, and must remain just what she was; for, alas, she could not cease +to be!</p> + +<p>Such thoughts had at one period ravaged her life, but they had for some +time been growing duller and deader: now once more revived by goodness +and sympathy, they had resumed their gnawing and scorching, and she +had grown yet more hateful to herself. Even the two who befriended and +comforted her, could never, she thought, cease to regard her as what +they knew she was! But, strange to say, with this revival of her +suffering, came also a requickening of her long dormant imagination, +favoured and cherished, doubtless, by the peace and love that surrounded +her. First her dreams, then her broodings began to be haunted with sweet +embodiments. As if the agonized question of the guilty Claudius were +answered to her, to assure her that there <i>was</i> “rain enough in the +sweet heavens to wash her white as snow,” she sometimes would wake from +a dream where she stood in blessed nakedness with a deluge of +cool, comforting rain pouring upon her from the sweetness of those +heavens—and fall asleep again to dream of a soft strong west wind +chasing from her the offensive emanations of the tomb, that seemed to +have long persecuted her nostrils as did the blood of Duncan those of +the wretched Lady Macbeth. And every night to her sinful bosom came back +the soft innocent hands of the child she had lost—when ever and again +her dream would change, and she would be Hagar, casting her child away, +and fleeing from the sight of his death. More than once she dreamed that +an angel came to her, and went out to look for her boy—only to return +and lay him in her arms grievously mangled by some horrid beast.</p> + +<p>When the first few days of her sojourn with the good Samaritans were +over, and she had gathered strength enough to feel that she ought no +longer to be burdensome to them, but look for work, they positively +refused to let her leave them before her spirit also had regained some +vital tone, and she was able to “live a little”; and to that end they +endeavoured to revive in her the hope of finding her lost child: setting +inquiry on foot in every direction, they promised to let her know the +moment when her presence should begin to cause them inconvenience.</p> + +<p>“Let you go, child?” her hostess had exclaimed: “God forbid! Go you +shall not until you go for your own sake: you cannot go for ours!”</p> + +<p>“But I’m such a burden to you—and so useless!”</p> + +<p>“Was the Lord a burden to Mary and Lazarus, think ye, my poor bairn?” +rejoined Mrs. Robertson.</p> + +<p>“Don’t, ma’am, please!” sobbed Isy.</p> + +<p>“Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it to me!” +insisted her hostess.</p> + +<p>“That doesna apply, ma’am,” objected Isy. “I’m nane o’ his!”</p> + +<p>“Who is then? Who was it he came to save? Are you not one of his lost +sheep? Are you not weary and heavy-laden? Will you never let him feel at +home with you? Are <i>you</i> to say who he is to love and who he isn’t? Are +<i>you</i> to tell him who are fit to be counted his, and who are not good +enough?”</p> + +<p>Isy was silent for a long time. The foundations of her coming peace were +being dug deeper, and laid wider.</p> + +<p>She still found it impossible, from the disordered state of her mind at +the time, to give any notion of whereabout she had been when she laid +her child down, and leaving him, could not again find him. And Maggie, +who loved him passionately and believed him wilfully abandoned, +cherished no desire to discover one who could claim him, but was +unworthy to have him. For a long time, therefore, neither she nor +her father ever talked, or encouraged talk about him; whence certain +questing busybodies began to snuff and give tongue. It was all very +well, they said, for the cobbler and his Maggie to pose as rescuers and +benefactors: but whose was the child? His growth nevertheless went on +all the same, and however such hints might seem to concern him, happily +they never reached him. Maggie flattered herself, indeed, that never in +this world would they reach him, but would die away in the void, or like +a fallen wave against the heedless shore! And yet, all the time, in the +not so distant city, a loving woman was weeping and pining for lack +of him, whose conduct, in the eyes of the Robertsons, was not merely +blameless, but sweetly and manifestly true, constantly yielding fuel to +the love that encompassed her. But, although mentally and spiritually +she was growing rapidly, she seemed to have lost all hope. For, deeper +in her soul, and nearer the root of her misery than even the loss of her +child, lay the character and conduct of the man to whom her love seemed +inextinguishable. His apostasy from her, his neglect of her, and her +constantly gnawing sense of pollution, burned at the bands of her life; +and her friends soon began to fear that she was on the verge of a slow +downward slide, upon which there is seldom any turning.</p> + +<p>The parson and his wife had long been on friendliest terms with the +farmer of Stonecross and his wife; and, brooding on the condition of +their guest, it was natural that the thought of Mrs. Blatherwick should +occur to them as one who might be able to render them the help they +needed for her. Difficulties were in the way, it was true, chiefly that +of conveying a true conception of the nature and character of the woman +in whom they desired her interest; but if Mrs. Blatherwick were once to +see her, there would be no fear of the result: received at the farm, she +was certain in no way to compromise them! They were confident she would +never belie the character they were prepared to give her. Neither was +there any one at the farm for whom it was possible to dread intercourse +with her, seeing that, since the death of their only daughter, they had +not had a servant in the house. It was concluded therefore between them +that Mr. Robertson should visit their friends at Stonecross, and tell +them all they knew about Isy.</p> + +<p>It was a lovely morning in the decline of summer, the corn nearly full +grown, but still green, without sign of the coming gold of perfection, +when the minister mounted the top of the coach, to wait, silent and +a little anxious, for the appearance of the coachman from the office, +thrusting the waybill into the pocket of his huge greatcoat, to gather +his reins, and climb heavily to his perch. A journey of four hours, +through a not very interesting country, but along a splendid road, +would carry him to the village where the soutar lived, and where James +Blatherwick was parson! There a walk of about three miles awaited him—a +long and somewhat weary way to the town-minister—accustomed indeed to +tramping the hard pavements, but not to long walks unbroken by calls. +Climbing at last the hill on which the farmhouse stood, he caught sight +of Peter Blatherwick in a neighbouring field of barley stubble, with the +reins of a pair of powerful Clydesdales in his hands, wrestling with +the earth as it strove to wrench from his hold the stilts of the plough +whose share and coulter he was guiding through it. Peter’s delight was +in the open air, and hard work in it. He was as far from the vulgar idea +that a man rose in the scale of honour when he ceased to labour with his +hands, as he was from the fancy that a man rose in the kingdom of heaven +when he was made a bishop.</p> + +<p>As to his higher nature, the farmer believed in God—that is, he tried +to do what God required of him, and thus was on the straight road to +know him. He talked little about religion, and was no partisan. When he +heard people advocating or opposing the claims of this or that party +in the church, he would turn away with a smile such as men yield to +the talk of children. He had no time, he would say, to spend on such +disputes: he had enough to do in trying to practise what was beyond +dispute.</p> + +<p>He was a reading man, who not merely drank at every open source he came +across, but thought over what he read, and was, therefore, a man of true +intelligence, who was regarded by his neighbours with more than ordinary +respect. He had been the first in the district to lay hold of the +discoveries in chemistry applicable to agriculture, and had made use of +them, with notable results, upon his own farm; setting thus an example +which his neighbours were so ready to follow, that the region, nowise +remarkable for its soil, soon became remarkable for its crops. The +note-worthiest thing in him, however, was his <i>humanity</i>, shown first +and chiefly in the width and strength of his family affections. He had +a strong drawing, not only to his immediate relations, but to all of his +blood; who were not few, for he came of an ancient family, long settled +in the neighbourhood. In his worldly affairs he was well-to-do, having +added not a little to the little his father had left him; but he was no +lover of money, being open-handed even to his wife, upon whom first your +money-grub is sure to exercise his parsimony. There was, however, at +Stonecross, little call to spend and less temptation from without, +the farm itself being equal to the supply of almost every ordinary +necessity.</p> + +<p>In disposition Peter Blatherwick was a good-humoured, even merry man, +with a playful answer almost always ready for a greeting neighbour.</p> + +<p>The minister did not however go on to join the farmer, but went to the +house, which stood close at hand, with its low gable toward him. Late +summer still lorded it in the land; only a few fleecy clouds shared the +blue of the sky with the ripening sun, and on the hot ridges the air +pulsed and trembled, like vaporized layers of mother-of-pearl.</p> + +<p>At the end of the idle lever, no sleepy old horse was now making his +monotonous rounds; his late radiance, born of age and sunshine, was +quenched in the dark of the noonday stall. But the peacock still +strutted among the ricks, as conscious of his glorious plumage, as +regardless of the ugliness of his feet as ever; now and then checking +the rhythmic movement of his neck, undulating green and blue, to scratch +the ground with those feet, and dart his beak, with apparently spiteful +greed, at some tiny crystal of quartz or pickle of grain they exposed; +or, from the towering steeple of his up lifted throat, to utter his +self-satisfaction in a hideous cry.</p> + +<p>In the gable before him, Mr. Robertson passed a low window, through +which he had a glimpse of the pretty, old-fashioned parlour within, as +he went round to the front, to knock at the nearer of two green-painted +doors.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Blatherwick herself came to open it, and finding who it was +that knocked—of all men the most welcome to her in her present +mood—received him with the hearty simplicity of an evident welcome.</p> + +<p>For was he not a minister? and was not he who caused all her trouble, a +minister also? She was not, indeed, going to lay open her heart and let +him see into its sorrow; for to confess her son a cause of the least +anxiety to her, would be faithless and treacherous; but the unexpected +appearance of Mr. Robertson brought her, nevertheless, as it were the +dawn of a winter morning after a long night of pain.</p> + +<p>She led him into the low-ceiled parlour, the green gloom of the big +hydrangea that filled the front window, and the ancient scent of the +withered rose-leaves in the gorgeous china basin on the gold-bordered +table-cover. There the minister, after a few kind commonplaces, sat for +a moment, silently pondering how to enter upon his communication. But he +did not ponder long, however; for his usual way was to rush headlong +at whatever seemed to harbour a lion, and come at once to the +death-grapple.</p> + +<p>Marion Blatherwick was a good-looking woman, with a quiet strong +expression, and sweet gray eyes. The daughter of a country surgeon, she +had been left an orphan without means; but was so generally respected, +that all said Mr. Blatherwick had never done better than when he married +her. Their living son seemed almost to have died in his infancy; their +dead daughter, gone beyond range of eye and ear, seemed never to have +left them: there was no separation, only distance between them.</p> + +<p>“I have taken the liberty, Mrs. Blatherwick, of coming to ask your help +in a great perplexity,” began Mr. Robertson, with an embarrassment she +had never seen in him before, and which bewildered her not a little.</p> + +<p>“Weel, sir, it’s an honour done me—a great honour, for which I hae to +thank ye, I’m sure!” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Bide ye, mem, till ye hear what it is,” rejoined the minister. “We, +that is, my wife and mysel, hae a puir lass at hame i’ the hoose. We hae +ta’en a great interest in her for some weeks past; but noo we’re ’maist +at oor wits’ en’ what to do wi’ her neist. She’s sair oot o’ hert, and +oot o’ health, and out o’ houp; and in fac’ she stan’s in sair, ay, +desperate need o’ a cheenge.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, that ouchtna to mak muckle o’ a diffeeclety atween auld friens +like oorsels, Maister Robertson!—Ye wad hae us tak her in for a whilie, +till she luiks up a bit, puir thing?—Hoo auld may she be?”</p> + +<p>“She can hardly be mair nor twenty, or aboot that—sic like as your +ain bonnie lassie would hae been by this time, gien she had ripent +here i’stead o’ gaein awa to the gran’ finishin schuil o’ the just made +perfec. Weel min’ I her bonny face! And, ’deed, this ane’s no’ that +unlike yer ain Isy! She something favours her.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, sir, fess her to me! My hert’s waitin for her! Her mither maunna +lowse her! She couldna stan’ that!”</p> + +<p>“She has nae mither, puir thing!—But ye maun dee naething in a hurry; I +maun tell ye aboot her first!”</p> + +<p>“I’m content ’at she’s a frien o’ yours, sir. I ken weel ye wad never +hae me tak intil my hoose ane that was na fit—and a’ the lads aboot the +place frae ae mornin til anither!”</p> + +<p>“Indeed she <i>is</i> a frien o’ mine, mem; and I hae never a dreid o’ +onything happenin ye wadna like. She’s in ower sair trouble to cause ony +anxiety. The fac’ is, she’s had a terrible misfortun!”</p> + +<p>The good woman started, drew herself up a little, and said hurriedly,</p> + +<p>“There’s no a wean, is there?”</p> + +<p>“’Deed is there, mem!—but pairt o’ the meesery is, the bairn’s +disappeart; and she’s brackin her heart aboot ’im. She’s maist oot o’ +her min’, mem! No that she’s onything but perfecly reasonable, and gies +never a grain o’ trouble! I canna doobt she’d be a great help til ye, +and that ilka minute ye saw fit to lat her bide. But she’s jist huntit +wi’ the idea that she pat the bairnie doon, and left him, and kens na +whaur.—Verily, mem, she’s ane o’ the lambs o’ the Lord’s ain flock!”</p> + +<p>“That’s no the w’y the lambs o’ <i>his</i> flock are i’ the w’y o’ behavin +themsels!—I fear me, sir, ye’re lattin yer heart rin awa wi’ yer +jeedgment!”</p> + +<p>“I hae aye coontit Mary Magdalen ane o’ the Lord’s ain yowies, that he +left the lave i’ the wilderness to luik for: this is sic anither! Gien +ye help Him to come upon her, ye’ll cairry her hame ’atween ye rej’icin! +And ye min’ hoo he stude ’atween ane far waur nor her, and the ill +men that would fain hae shamet her, and sent them oot like sae mony +tykes—thae gran’ Pharisees—wi their tails tuckit in ’atween their +legs!—Sair affrontit they war, doobtless!—But I maun be gaein, mem, +for we’re no vera like to agree! My Maister’s no o’ ae min’ wi’ you, +mem, aboot sic affairs—and sae I maun gang, and lea’ ye to yer ain +opingon! But I would jist remin’ ye, mem, that she’s at this present i’ +<i>my</i> hoose, wi my wife; and my wee bit lassie hings aboot her as gien +she was an angel come doon to see the bonny place this warl luks frae +up there.—Eh, puir lammie, the stanes oucht to be feower upo thae +hill-sides!”</p> + +<p>“What for that, Maister Robertson?”</p> + +<p>“’Cause there’s so mony o’ them whaur human herts oucht to be.—Come +awa, doggie!” he added, rising.</p> + +<p>“Dear me, sir! haena ye hae a grain o’ patience to waur (<i>spend</i>) upon +a puir menseless body?” cried Marion, wringing her hands in dismay. “To +think <i>I</i> sud be nice whaur my Lord was sae free!”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” returned the minister, “and he was jist as clean as ever, wi’ mony +ane siclike as her inside the heart o’ him!—<i>Gang awa, and dinna dee +the like again</i>, was a’ he said to that ane!—and ye may weel be sure +she never did! And noo she and Mary are followin, wi’ yer ain Isy, i’ +the vera futsteps o’ the great shepherd, throuw the gowany leys o’ the +New Jerus’lem—whaur it may be they ca’ her Isy yet, as they ca’ this +ane I hae to gang hame til.”</p> + +<p>“Ca’ they her <i>that</i>, sir?—Eh, gar her come, gar her come! I wud fain +cry upo <i>Isy</i> ance mair!—Sit ye doon, sir, shame upo’ me!—and tak a +bite efter yer lang walk!—Will ye no bide the nicht wi’ ’s, and gang +back by the mornin’s co’ch?”</p> + +<p>“I wull that, mem—and thank ye kindly! I’m a bit fatiguit wi’ the hill +ro’d, and the walk a wee langer than I’m used til.—Ye maun hae peety +upo my kittle temper, mem, and no drive me to ower muckle shame o’ +myself!” he concluded, wiping his forehead.</p> + +<p>“And to think,” cried his hostess, “that my hard hert sud hae drawn sic +a word frae ane o’ the Lord’s servans that serve him day and nicht! I +beg yer pardon, and that richt heumbly, sir! I daurna say I’ll never do +the like again, but I’m no sae likly to transgress a second time as the +first.—Lord, keep the doors o’ my lips, that ill-faured words comena +thouchtless oot, and shame me and them that hear me!—I maun gang and +see aboot yer denner, sir! I s’ no be lang.”</p> + +<p>“Yer gracious words, mem, are mair nor meat and drink to me. I could, +like Elijah, go i’ the stren’th o’ them—maybe something less than forty +days, but it wad be by the same sort o’ stren’th as that angels’-food +gied the prophet!”</p> + +<p>Marion hurried none the less for such a word; and soon the minister had +eaten his supper, and was seated in the cool of a sweet summer-evening, +in the garden before the house, among roses and lilies and poppy-heads +and long pink-striped grasses, enjoying a pipe with the farmer, who had +anticipated the hour for unyoking, and hurried home to have a talk with +Mr. Robertson. The minister opened wide his heart, and told them all he +knew and thought of Isy. And so prejudiced were they in her favour +by what he said of her, and the arguments he brought to show that the +judgment of the world was in her case tyrannous and false, that what +anxiety might yet remain as to the new relation into which they +were about to enter, was soon absorbed in hopeful expectation of her +appearance.</p> + +<p>“But,” he concluded, “you will have to be wise as serpents, lest aiblins +(<i>possibly</i>) ye kep (<i>intercept</i>) a lost sheep on her w’y back to the +shepherd, and gar her lie theroot (<i>out of doors</i>), exposed to the +prowlin wouf. Afore God, I wud rether share wi’ her in <i>that</i> day, nor +wi’ them that keppit her!”</p> + +<p>But when he reached home, the minister was startled, indeed dismayed by +the pallor that overwhelmed Isy’s countenance when she heard, following +his assurance of the welcome that awaited her, the name and abode of her +new friends.</p> + +<p>“They’ll be wantin to ken a’thing!” she sobbed.</p> + +<p>“Tell you them,” returned the minister, “everything they have a right +to know; they are good people, and will not ask more. Beyond that, they +will respect your silence.”</p> + +<p>“There’s but ae thing, as ye ken, sir, that I canna, and winna tell. To +haud my tongue aboot that is the ae particle o’ honesty left possible to +me! It’s enough I should have been the cause of the poor man’s sin; and +I’m not going to bring upon him any of the consequences of it as well. +God keep the doors of my lips!”</p> + +<p>“We will not go into the question whether you or he was the more to +blame,” returned the parson; “but I heartily approve of your resolve, +and admire your firmness in holding to it. The time <i>may</i> come when you +<i>ought</i> to tell; but until then, I shall not even allow myself to wonder +who the faithless man may be.”</p> + +<p>Isy burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“Don’t call him that, sir! Don’t drive me to doubt him. Don’t let the +thought cross my mind that he could have helped doing nothing! Besides, +I deserve nothing! And for my bonny bairn, he maun by this time be back +hame to Him that sent him!”</p> + +<p>Thus assured that her secret would be respected by those to whom she +was going, she ceased to show further reluctance to accept the shelter +offered her. And, in truth, underneath the dread of encountering James +Blatherwick’s parents, lay hidden in her mind the fearful joy of a +chance of some day catching, herself unseen, a glimpse of the man whom +she still loved with the forgiving tenderness of a true, therefore +strong heart. With a trembling, fluttering bosom she took her place +on the coach beside Mr. Robertson, to go with him to the refuge he had +found for her.</p> + +<p>Once more in the open world, with which she had had so much intercourse +that was other than joyous, that same world began at once to work the +will of its Maker upon her poor lacerated soul; and afar in its hidden +deeps the process of healing was already begun. Agony would many a time +return unbidden, would yet often rise like a crested wave, with menace +of overwhelming despair, but the Real, the True, long hidden from her +by the lying judgments of men and women, was now at length beginning to +reveal itself to her tear-blinded vision; Hope was lifting a feeble head +above the tangled weeds of the subsiding deluge; and ere long the girl +would see and understand how little cares the Father, whose judgment is +the truth of things, what at any time his child may have been or done, +the moment that child gives herself up to be made what He would have +her! Looking down into the hearts of men, He sees differences there of +which the self-important world takes no heed; many that count themselves +of the first, He sees the last—and what He sees, alone <i>is</i>: a +gutter-child, a thief, a girl who never in this world had even a notion +of purity, may lie smiling in the arms of the Eternal, while the head +of a lordly house that still flourishes like a green bay-tree, may be +wandering about with the dogs beyond the walls of the city.</p> + +<p>Out in the open world, I say, the power of the present God began at once +to work upon Isobel, for there, although dimly, she yet looked into +His open face, sketched vaguely in the mighty something we call +Nature—chiefly on the great vault we call Heaven, the <i>Upheaved</i>. +Shapely but undefined; perfect in form, yet limitless in depth; blue and +persistent, yet ever evading capture by human heart in human eye; this +sphere of fashioned boundlessness, of definite shapelessness, called up +in her heart the formless children of upheavedness—grandeur, namely, +and awe; hope, namely, and desire: all rushed together toward the dawn +of the unspeakable One, who, dwelling in that heaven, is above all +heavens; mighty and unchangeable, yet childlike; inexorable, yet tender +as never was mother; devoted as never yet was child save one. Isy, +indeed, understood little of all this; yet she wept, she knew not why; +and it was not for sorrow.</p> + +<p>But when, the coach-journey over, she turned her back upon the house +where her child lay, and entered the desolate hill-country, a strange +feeling began to invade her consciousness. It seemed at first but an old +mood, worn shadowy; then it seemed the return of an old dream; then a +painful, confused, half-forgotten memory; but at length it cleared and +settled into a conviction that she had been in the same region before, +and had had, although a passing, yet a painful acquaintance with it; and +at the last she concluded that she must be near the very spot where she +had left and lost her baby. All that had, up to that moment, befallen +her, seemed fused in a troubled conglomerate of hunger and cold and +weariness, of help and hurt, of deliverance and returning pain: they all +mingled inextricably with the scene around her, and there condensed into +the memory of that one event—of which this must assuredly be the actual +place! She looked upon widespread wastes of heather and peat, great +stones here and there, half-buried in it, half-sticking out of it: +surely she was waiting there for something to come to pass! surely +behind this veil of the Seen, a child must be standing with outstretched +arms, hungering after his mother! In herself that very moment must +Memory be trembling into vision! At Length her heart’s desire must be +drawing near to her expectant soul!</p> + +<p>But suddenly, alas! her certainty of recollection, her assurance of +prophetic anticipation, faded from her, and of the recollection itself +remained nothing but a ruin! And all the time it took to dawn into +brilliance and fade out into darkness, had measured but a few weary +steps by the side of her companion, lost in the meditation of a glad +sermon for the next Sunday about the lost sheep carried home with +jubilance, and forgetting how unfit was the poor sheep beside him for +such a fatiguing tramp up hill and down, along what was nothing better +than the stony bed of a winter-torrent.</p> + +<p>All at once Isy darted aside from the rough track, scrambled up the +steep bank, and ran like one demented into a great clump of heather, +which she began at once to search through and through. The minister +stopped bewildered, and stood to watch her, almost fearing for a moment +that she had again lost her wits. She got on the top of a stone in +the middle of the clump, turned several times round, gazed in every +direction over the moor, then descended with a hopeless look, and came +slowly back to him, saying—</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, sir; I thought I had a glimpse of my infant through +the heather! This must be the very spot where I left him!”</p> + +<p>The next moment she faltered feebly—</p> + +<p>“Hae we far to gang yet, sir?” and before he could make her any answer, +staggered to the bank on the roadside, fell upon it, and lay still.</p> + +<p>The minister immediately felt that he had been cruel in expecting her +to walk so far; he made haste to lay her comfortably on the short grass, +and waited anxiously, doing what he could to bring her to herself. He +could see no water near, but at least she had plenty of air!</p> + +<p>In a little while she began to recover, sat up, and would have risen to +resume her journey. But the minister, filled with compunction, took her +up in his arms. They were near the crown of the ascent, and he could +carry her as far as that! She expostulated, but was unable to resist. +Light as she was, however, he found it no easy task to bear her up the +last of the steep rise, and was glad to set her down at the top—where +a fresh breeze was waiting to revive them both. She thanked him like +a child whose father had come to her help; and they seated themselves +together on the highest point of the moor, with a large, desolate land +on every side of them.</p> + +<p>“Oh, sir, but ye <i>are</i> good to me!” she murmured. “That brae just minded +me o’ the Hill of Difficulty in the Pilgrim’s Progress!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you know that story?” said the minister.</p> + +<p>“My old grannie used to make me read it to her when she lay dying. I +thought it long and tiresome then, but since you took me to your house, +sir, I have remembered many things in it; I knew then that I was come to +the house of the Interpreter. You’ve made me understand, sir!”</p> + +<p>“I am glad of that, Isy! You see I know some things that make me very +glad, and so I want them to make you glad too. And the thing that makes +me gladdest of all, is just that God is what he is. To know that such +a One is God over us and in us, makes of very being a most precious +delight. His children, those of them that know him, are all glad just +because he <i>is</i>, and they are his children. Do you think a strong man +like me would read sermons and say prayers and talk to people, doing +nothing but such shamefully easy work, if he did not believe what he +said?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure, sir, you have had hard enough work with me! I am a bad one +to teach! I thought I knew all that you have had such trouble to make +me see! I was in a bog of ignorance and misery, but now I am getting +my head up out of it, and seeing about me!—Please let me ask you one +thing, sir: how is it that, when the thought of God comes to me, I draw +back, afraid of him? If he be the kind of person you say he is, why +can’t I go close up to him?”</p> + +<p>“I confess the same foolishness, my child, <i>at times</i>,” answered the +minister. “It can only be because we do not yet see God as he is—and +that must be because we do not yet really understand Jesus—do not see +the glory of God in his face. God is just like Jesus—exactly like him!”</p> + +<p>And the parson fell a wondering how it could be that so many, gentle and +guileless as this woman-child, recoiled from the thought of the perfect +One. Why were they not always and irresistibly drawn toward the very +idea of God? Why, at least, should they not run to see and make sure +whether God was indeed such a one or not? whether he was really Love +itself—or only loved them after a fashion? It set him thinking afresh +about many things; and he soon began to discover that he had in fact +been teaching a good many things without <i>knowing</i> them; for how could +he <i>know</i> things that were not true, and therefore <i>could not</i> be known? +He had indeed been <i>saying</i> that God was Love, but he had yet been +teaching many things about him that were not lovable!</p> + +<p>They sat thinking and talking, with silences between; and while they +thought and talked, the day-star was all the time rising unnoted in +their hearts. At length, finding herself much stronger, Isy rose, and +they resumed their journey.</p> + +<p>The door stood open to receive them; but ere they reached it, a +bright-looking little woman, with delicate lines of ingrained red in a +sorrowful face, appeared in it, looking out with questioning eyes—like +a mother-bird just loosening her feet from the threshold of her nest to +fly and meet them. Through the film that blinded those expectant +eyes, Marion saw what manner of woman she was that drew nigh, and her +motherhood went out to her. For, in the love-witchery of Isy’s yearning +look, humbly seeking acceptance, and in her hesitating approach +half-checked by gentle apology, Marion imagined she saw her own Isy +coming back from the gates of Death, and sprang to meet her. The +mediating love of the minister, obliterating itself, had made him linger +a step or two behind, waiting what would follow: when he saw the two +folded each in the other’s arms, and the fountain of love thus break +forth at once from their encountering hearts, his soul leaped for joy of +the new-created love—new, but not the less surely eternal; for God +is Love, and Love is that which is, and was, and shall be for +evermore—boundless, unconditioned, self-existent, creative! “Truly,” +he said in himself, “God is Love, and God is all and in all! He is no +abstraction; he is the one eternal Individual God! In him Love evermore +breaks forth anew into fresh personality—in every new consciousness, in +every new child of the one creating Father. In every burning heart, in +everything that hopes and fears and is, Love is the creative presence, +the centre, the source of life, yea Life itself; yea, God himself!”</p> + +<p>The elder woman drew herself a little back, held the poor white-faced +thing at arms’-length, and looked her through the face into the heart.</p> + +<p>“My bonny lamb!” she cried, and pressed her again to her bosom. “Come +hame, and be a guid bairn, and ill man sall never touch ye, or gar ye +greit ony mair! There’s <i>my</i> man waitin for ye, to tak ye, and haud ye +safe!”</p> + +<p>Isy looked up, and over the shoulder of her hostess saw the strong +paternal face of the farmer, full of silent welcome. For the strange +emotion that filled him he did not seek to account: he had nothing to do +with that; his will was lord over it!</p> + +<p>“Come ben the hoose, lassie,” he said, and led the way to the parlour, +where the red sunset was shining through the low gable window, filling +the place with the glamour of departing glory. “Sit ye doon upo the sofa +there; ye maun be unco tired! Surely ye haena come a’ the lang ro’d frae +Tiltowie upo yer ain twa wee feet?”</p> + +<p>“’Deed has she,” answered the minister, who had followed them into the +room; “the mair shame to me ’at loot her dee ’t!”</p> + +<p>Marion lingered outside, wiping away the tears that would keep flowing. +For the one question, “What can be amiss wi’ Jamie?” had returned upon +her, haunting and harrying her heart; and with it had come the idea, +though vague and formless, that their good-will to the wandering outcast +might perhaps do something to make up for whatever ill thing Jamie might +have done. At last, instead of entering the parlour after them, she +turned away to the kitchen, and made haste to get ready their supper.</p> + +<p>Isy sank back in the wide sofa, lost in relief; and the minister, when +he saw her look of conscious refuge and repose, said to himself—</p> + +<p>“She is feeling as we shall all feel when first we know nothing near us +but the Love itself that was before all worlds!—when there is no doubt +more, and no questioning more!”</p> + +<p>But the heart of the farmer was full of the old uncontent, the old +longing after the heart of his boy, that had never learned to cry +“<i>Father!</i>”</p> + +<p>But soon they sat down to their meal. While they ate, hardly any one +spoke, and no one missed the speech or was aware of the silence, until +the bereaved Isobel thought of her child, and burst into tears. Then the +mother who sorrowed with such a different, and so much bitterer sorrow, +divining her thought and whence it came, rose, and from behind her +said—</p> + +<p>“Noo ye maun jist come awa wi’ me, and I s’ pit ye til yer bed, and lea’ +ye there!—Na, na; say gude nicht to naebody!—Ye’ll see the minister +again i’ the mornin!”</p> + +<p>With that she took Isy away, half-carrying her close-pressed, and +half-leading her; for Marion, although no bigger than Isy, was much +stronger, and could easily have carried her.</p> + +<p>That night both mothers slept well, and both dreamed of their mothers +and of their children. But in the morning nothing remained of their two +dreams except two hopes in the one Father.</p> + +<p>When Isy entered the little parlour, she found she had slept so long +that breakfast was over, the minister smoking his pipe in the garden, +and the farmer busy in his yard. But Marion heard her, and brought her +breakfast, beaming with ministration; then thinking she would eat it +better if left to herself, went back to her work. In about five minutes, +however, Isy joined her, and began at once to lend a helping hand.</p> + +<p>“Hoot, hoot, my dear!” cried her hostess, “ye haena taen time eneuch +to make a proaper brakfast o’ ’t! Gang awa back, and put mair intil ye. +Gien ye dinna learn to ate, we s’ never get ony guid o’ ye!”</p> + +<p>“I just can’t eat for gladness,” returned Isy. “Ye’re that good to me, +that I dare hardly think aboot it; it’ll gar me greit!—Lat me help ye, +mem, and I’ll grow hungry by dennertime!”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Blatherwick understood, and said no more. She showed her what +she might set about; and Isy, happy as a child, came and went at +her commands, rejoicing. Probably, had she started in life with less +devotion, she might have fared better; but the end was not yet, and the +end must be known before we dare judge: result explains history. It is +enough for the present to say that, with the comparative repose of mind +she now enjoyed, with the good food she had, and the wholesome exercise, +for Mrs. Blatherwick took care she should not work too hard, with the +steady kindness shown her, and the consequent growth of her faith and +hope, Isy’s light-heartedness first, and then her good looks began to +return; so that soon the dainty little creature was both prettier and +lovelier than before. At the same time her face and figure, her ways +and motions, went on mingling themselves so inextricably with Marion’s +impressions of her vanished Isy, that at length she felt as if she +never could be able to part with her. Nor was it long before she assured +herself that she was equal to anything that had to be done in the house; +and that the experience of a day or two would make her capable of +the work of the dairy as well. Thus Isy and her mistress, for so Isy +insisted on regarding and calling her, speedily settled into their new +relation.</p> + +<p>It did sometimes cross the girl’s mind, and that with a sting of doubt, +whether it was fair to hide from her new friends the full facts of her +sorrowful history; but to quiet her conscience she had only to reflect +that for the sake of the son they loved, she must keep jealous guard +over her silence. Further than James’s protection, she had no design, +cherished no scheme. The idea of compelling, or even influencing him to +do her justice, never once crossed her horizon. On the contrary, she was +possessed by the notion that she had done him a great wrong, and shrank +in horror from the danger of rendering it irretrievable. She had never +thought the thing out as between her and him, never even said to herself +that he too had been to blame. Her exaggerated notion of the share she +had in the fault, had lodged and got fixed in her mind, partly from +her acquaintance with the popular judgment concerning such as she, and +partly from her humble readiness to take any blame to herself. Even had +she been capable of comparing the relative consequences, the injury she +had done his prospects as a minister, would have seemed to her revering +soul a far greater wrong than any suffering or loss he had brought upon +her. For what was she beside him? What was the ruin of her life to the +frustration of such prospects as his? The sole alleviation of her +misery was that she seemed hitherto to have escaped involving him in the +results of her lack of self-restraint, which results, she was certain, +remained concealed from him, as from every one in any way concerned +with him in them. In truth, never was man less worthy of it, or more +devotedly shielded! And never was hidden wrong to the woman turned more +eagerly and persistently into loving service to the man’s parents! Many +and many a time did the heart of James’s mother, as she watched Isy’s +deft and dainty motions, regret, even with bitterness, that such a +capable and love-inspiring girl should have rendered herself unworthy +of her son—for, notwithstanding what she regarded as the disparity of +their positions, she would gladly have welcomed Isy as a daughter, had +she but been spotless, and fit to be loved by him.</p> + +<p>In the evenings, when the work of the day was done, Isy used to ramble +about the moor, in the lingering rays of the last of the sunset, and the +now quickly shortening twilight. In those hours unhasting, gentle, and +so spiritual in their tone that they seem to come straight from the +eternal spaces where is no recalling and no forgetting, where time and +space are motionless, and the spirit is at rest, Isy first began to read +with conscious understanding. For now first she fell into the company of +books—old-fashioned ones no doubt, but perhaps even therefore the more +fit for her, who was an old-fashioned, gentle, ignorant, thoughtful +child. Among the rest in the farmhouse, she came upon the two volumes +of a book called The Preceptor, which contained various treatises laying +down “the first principles of Polite Learning:” these drew her eager +attention; and with one or other of the not very handy volumes in her +hand, she would steal out of sight of the farm, and lapt in the solitude +of the moor, would sit and read until at last the light could reveal +not a word more. Even the Geometry she found in them attracted her not a +little; the Rhetoric and Poetry drew her yet more; but most of all, the +Natural History, with its engravings of beasts and birds, poor as they +were, delighted her; and from these antiquated repertories she gathered +much, and chiefly that most valuable knowledge, some acquaintance with +her own ignorance. There also, in a garret over the kitchen, she found +an English translation of Klopstock’s Messiah, a poem which, in the +middle of the last and in the present century, caused a great excitement +in Germany, and did not a little, I believe, for the development of +religious feeling in that country, where the slow-subsiding ripple of +its commotion is possibly not altogether unfelt even at the present +day. She read the volume through as she strolled in those twilights, not +without risking many a fall over bush and stone ere practice taught her +to see at once both the way for her feet over the moor, and that for her +eyes over the printed page. The book both pleased and suited her, the +parts that interested her most being those about the repentant angel, +Abaddon; who, if I remember aright, haunted the steps of the Saviour, +and hovered about the cross while he was crucified. The great question +with her for a long time was, whether the Saviour must not have forgiven +him; but by slow degrees it became at last clear to her, that he who +came but to seek and to save the lost, could not have closed the door +against one that sought return to his fealty. It was not until she +knew the soutar, however, that at length she understood the tireless +redeeming of the Father, who had sent men blind and stupid and +ill-conditioned, into a world where they had to learn almost everything.</p> + +<p>There were some few books of a more theological sort, which happily she +neither could understand nor was able to imagine she understood, and +which therefore she instinctively refused, as affording nourishment +neither for thought nor feeling. There was, besides, Dr. Johnson’s +<i>Rasselas</i>, which mildly interested her; and a book called <i>Dialogues of +Devils</i>, which she read with avidity. And thus, if indeed her ignorance +did not become rapidly less, at least her knowledge of its existence +became slowly greater.</p> + +<p>And all the time the conviction grew upon her, that she had been in +that region before, and that in truth she could not be far from the spot +where she laid her child down, and lost him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>In the meantime the said child, a splendid boy, was the delight of the +humble dwelling to which Maggie had borne him in triumph. But the mind +of the soutar was not a little exercised as to how far their right in +the boy approached the paternal: were they justified in regarding him +as their love-property, before having made exhaustive inquiry as to who +could claim, and might re-appropriate him? For nothing could liberate +the finder of such a thing from the duty of restoring it upon demand, +seeing there could be no assurance that the child had been deliberately +and finally abandoned! Maggie, indeed, regarded the baby as absolutely +hers by right of rescue; but her father asked himself whether by +appropriating him she might not be depriving his mother of the one +remaining link between her and humanity, and so abandoning her helpless +to the Enemy. Surely to take and withhold from any woman her child, +must be to do what was possible toward dividing her from the unseen and +eternal! And he saw that, for the sake of his own child also, and the +truth in her, both she and he must make every possible endeavour to +restore the child to his mother.</p> + +<p>So the next time that Maggie brought the crowing infant to the kitchen, +her father, who sat as usual under the small window, to gather upon his +work all the light to be had, said, with one quick glance at the child—</p> + +<p>“Eh, the bonny, glaid cratur! Wha can say ’at sic as he, ’at haena the +twa in ane to see til them, getna frae Himsel a mair partic’lar and +carefu’ regaird, gien that war poassible, than ither bairns! I would +fain believe that same!”</p> + +<p>“Eh, father, but ye aye think bonny!” exclaimed Maggie. “Some hae been +dingin ’t in upo me ’at sic as he maist aye turn oot onything but weel, +whan they step oot intil the warl. Eh, but we maun tak care o’ ’im, +father! Whaur <i>would</i> I be wi’oot you at my back!”</p> + +<p>“And God at the back o’ baith, bairn!” rejoined the soutar. “It’s +thinkable that the Almichty may hae special diffeeculty wi sic as he, +but nane can jeedge o’ ony thing or body till they see the hin’er en’ o’ +’t a’. But I’m thinkin it maun aye be harder for ane that hasna his ain +mither to luik til. Ony ither body, be she as guid as she may, maun be +but a makshift!—For ae thing he winna get the same naitral disciplene +’at ilka mither cat gies its kitlins!”</p> + +<p>“Maybe! maybe!—I ken I couldna ever lay a finger upo’ the bonny cratur +mysel!” said Maggie.</p> + +<p>“There ’tis!” returned her father. “And I dinna think,” he went on, “we +could expec muckle frae the wisdom o’ the mither o’ ’m, gien she had +him. I doobt she micht turn oot to be but a makshift hersel! There’s +mony aboot ’im ’at’ll be sair eneuch upon ’im, but nane the wiser for +that! Mony ane’ll luik upon ’im as a bairn in whause existence God has +had nae share—or jist as muckle share as gies him a grup o’ ’im to gie +’im his licks! There’s a heap o’ mystery aboot a’thing, Maggie, and that +frae the vera beginnin to the vera en’! It may be ’at yon bairnie’s i’ +the waur danger jist frae haein you and me, Maggie! Eh, but I wuss his +ain mither war gien back til him! And wha can tell but she’s needin him +waur nor he’s needin her—though there maun aye be something he canna +get—’cause ye’re no his ain mither, Maggie, and I’m no even his ain +gutcher!”</p> + +<p>The adoptive mother burst into a howl.</p> + +<p>“Father, father, ye’ll brak the hert o’ me!” she almost yelled, and laid +the child on the top of her father’s hands in the very act of drawing +his waxed ends.</p> + +<p>Thus changing him perforce from cobbler to nurse, she bolted from the +kitchen, and up the little stair; and throwing herself on her knees by +the bedside, sought, instinctively and unconsciously, the presence of +him who sees in secret. But for a time she had nothing to say even +to <i>him</i>, and could only moan on in the darkness beneath her closed +eyelids.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she came to herself, remembering that she too had abandoned her +child: she must go back to him!</p> + +<p>But as she ran, she heard loud noises of infantile jubilation, and +re-entering the kitchen, was amazed to see the soutar’s hands moving as +persistently if not quite so rapidly as before: the child hung at the +back of the soutar’s head, in the bight of the long jack-towel from +behind the door, holding on by the gray hair of his occiput. There +he tugged and crowed, while his care-taker bent over his labour, +circumspect in every movement, nor once forgetting the precious thing +on his back, who was evidently delighted with his new style of being +nursed, and only now and then made a wry face at some movement of the +human machine too abrupt for his comfort. Evidently he took it all as +intended solely for his pleasure.</p> + +<p>Maggie burst out laughing through the tears that yet filled her eyes, +and the child, who could hear but not see her, began to cry a little, +so rousing the mother in her to a sense that he was being treated too +unceremoniously; when she bounded to liberate him, undid the towel, and +seated herself with him in her lap. The grandfather, not sorry to be +released, gave his shoulders a little writhing shake, laughed an amused +laugh, and set off boring and stitching and drawing at redoubled speed.</p> + +<p>“Weel, Maggie?” he said, with loving interrogation, but without looking +up.</p> + +<p>“I saw ye was richt, father, and it set me greitin sae sair that I +forgot the bairn, and you, father, as weel. Gang on, please, and say +what ye think fit: it’s a’ true!”</p> + +<p>“There’s little left for me to say, lassie, noo ye hae begun to say’t to +yersel. But, believe me, though ye can never be the bairn’s ain mither, +<i>she</i> can never be til ’im the same ye hae been a’ready, whatever mair +or better may follow. The pairt ye hae chosen is guid eneuch never to be +taen frae ye—i’ this warl or the neist!”</p> + +<p>“Thank ye, father, for that! I’ll dee for him what I can, ohn forgotten +that he’s no mine but anither wuman’s. I maunna tak frae her what’s her +ain!”</p> + +<p>The soutar, especially while at his work, was always trying “to get,” +as he said, “into his Lord’s company,”—now endeavouring, perhaps, to +understand some saying of his, or now, it might be, to discover his +reason for saying it just then and there. Often, also, he would be +pondering why he allowed this or that to take place in the world, for it +was his house, where he was always present and always at work. Humble as +diligent disciple, he never doubted, when once a thing had taken place, +that it was by his will it came to pass, but he saw that evil itself, +originating with man or his deceiver, was often made to subserve the +final will of the All-in-All. And he knew in his own self that much must +first be set right there, before the will of the Father could be done in +earth as it was in heaven. Therefore in any new development of feeling +in his child, he could recognize the pressure of a guiding hand in the +formation of her history; and was able to understand St. John where he +says, “Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear +what we shall be, but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall +be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” For first, foremost, and +deepest of all, he positively and absolutely believed in the man whose +history he found in the Gospel: that is, he believed not only that +such a man once was, and that every word he then spoke was true, but he +believed that that man was still in the world, and that every word +he then spoke, had always been, still was, and always would be true. +Therefore he also believed—which was more both to the Master and to +John MacLear, his disciple—that the chief end of his conscious life +must be to live in His presence, and keep his affections ever, afresh +and constantly, turning toward him in hope and aspiration. Hence every +day he felt afresh that he too was living in the house of God, among the +things of the father of Jesus.</p> + +<p>The life-influence of the soutar had already for some time, and in some +measure, been felt at Tiltowie. In a certain far-off way, men seemed to +surmise what he was about, although they were, one and all, unable to +estimate the nature or value of his pursuit. What their idea of him was, +may in a measure be gathered from the answer of the village-fool to the +passer-by who said to him: “Weel, and what’s yer soutar aboot the noo?” +“Ow, as usual,” answered the <i>natural</i>, “turnin up ilka muckle stane to +luik for his maister aneth it!” For in truth he believed that the Lord +of men was very often walking to and fro in the earthly kingdom of his +Father, watching what was there going on, and doing his best to bring it +to its true condition; that he was ever and always in the deepest sense +present in the same, where he could, if he pleased, at any moment or in +any spot, appear to whom he would. Never did John MacLear lift his eyes +heavenward without a vague feeling that he might that very moment, catch +a sight of the glory of his coming Lord; if ever he fixed his eyes on +the far horizon, it was never without receiving a shadowy suggestion +that, like a sail towering over the edge of the world, the first great +flag of the Lord’s hitherward march might that moment be rising between +earth and heaven;—for certainly He would come unawares, and then who +could tell what moment he might not set his foot on the edge of the +visible, and come out of the dark in which He had hitherto clothed +himself as with a garment—to appear in the ancient glory of his +transfiguration! Thus he was ever ready to fall a watching—and thus, +also, never did he play the false prophet, with cries of “Lo here!” and +“Lo there!” And even when deepest lost in watching, the lowest whisper +of humanity seemed always loud enough to recall him to his “work +alive”—lest he should be found asleep at His coming. His was the same +live readiness that had opened the ear of Maggie to the cry of the +little one on the hill-side. As his daily work was ministration to the +weary feet of his Master’s men, so was his soul ever awake to their +sorrows and spiritual necessities.</p> + +<p>“There’s a haill warl’ o’ bonny wark aboot me!” he would say. “I hae but +to lay my han’ to what’s neist me, and it’s sure to be something that +wants deein! I’m clean ashamt sometimes, whan I wauk up i’ the mornin, +to fin’ mysel deein naething!”</p> + +<p>Every evening while the summer lasted, he would go out alone for a walk, +generally toward a certain wood nigh the town; for there lay, although +it was of no great extent, and its trees were small, a probability +of escaping for a few moments from the eyes of men, and the chance of +certain of another breed showing themselves.</p> + +<p>“No that,” he once said to Maggie, “I ever cared vera muckle aboot the +angels: it’s the man, the perfec man, wha was there wi’ the Father afore +ever an angel was h’ard tell o’, that sen’s me upo my knees! Whan I see +a man that but minds me o’ <i>Him</i>, my hert rises wi’ a loup, as gien it +wad ’maist lea’ my body ahint it.—Love’s the law o’ the universe, and +it jist works amazin!”</p> + +<p>One day a man, seeing him approach in the near distance, and knowing he +had not perceived his presence, lay down behind a great stone to watch +“the mad soutar,” in the hope of hearing him say something insane. As +John came nearer, the man saw his lips moving, and heard sounds issue +from them; but as he passed, nothing was audible but the same words +repeated several times, and with the same expression of surprise and joy +as if at something for the first time discovered:—“Eh, Lord! Eh, Lord, +I see! I un’erstan’!—Lord, I’m yer ain—to the vera deith!—a’ yer +ain!—Thy father bless thee, Lord!—I ken ye care for noucht else!—Eh, +but my hert’s glaid!—that glaid, I ’maist canna speyk!”</p> + +<p>That man ever after spoke of the soutar with a respect that resembled +awe.</p> + +<p>After that talk with her father about the child and his mother, a +certain silent change appeared in Maggie. People saw in her face an +expression which they took to resemble that of one whose child was ill, +and was expected to die. But what Maggie felt was only resignation to +the will of her Lord: the child was not hers but the Lord’s, lent to her +for a season! She must walk softly, doing everything for him as under +the eye of the Master, who might at any moment call to her, “Bring the +child: I want him now!” And she soon became as cheerful as before, but +never after quite lost the still, solemn look as of one in the eternal +spaces, who saw beyond this world’s horizon. She talked less with her +father than hitherto, but at the same time seemed to live closer to him. +Occasionally she would ask him to help her to understand something he +had said; but even then he would not always try to make it plain; he +might answer—</p> + +<p>“I see, lassie, ye’re no just ready for ’t! It’s true, though; and the +day maun come whan ye’ll see the thing itsel, and ken what it is; and +that’s the only w’y to win at the trowth o’ ’t! In fac’, to see a thing, +and ken the thing, and be sure it’s true, is a’ ane and the same thing!” +Such a word from her father was always enough to still and content the +girl.</p> + +<p>Her delight in the child, instead of growing less, went on increasing +because of the <i>awe</i>, rather than <i>dread</i> of having at last to give him +up.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Meanwhile the minister remained moody, apparently sunk in contemplation, +but in fact mostly brooding, and meditating neither form nor truth. +Sometimes he felt indeed as if he were losing altogether his power of +thinking—especially when, in the middle of the week, he sat down to +find something to say on the Sunday. He had greatly lost interest in the +questions that had occupied him while he was yet a student, and imagined +himself in preparation for what he called the ministry—never thinking +how one was to minister who had not yet learned to obey, and had never +sought anything but his own glorification! It was little wonder he +should lose interest in a profession, where all was but profession! What +pleasure could that man find in holy labour who, not indeed offered his +stipend to purchase the Holy Ghost, but offered all he knew of the Holy +Ghost to purchase popularity? No wonder he should find himself at length +in lack of talk to pay for his one thing needful! He had always been +more or less dependent on commentaries for the joint he provided—and +even for the cooking of it: was it any wonder that his guests should +show less and less appetite for his dinners?</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;"><i>The hungry sheep looked up and were not fed!</i></span><br /> +</p> +<p>To have food to give them, he must think! To think, he must have peace! +to have peace, he must forget himself! to forget himself, he must +repent, and walk in the truth! to walk in the truth, he must love God +and his neighbour!—Even to have interest in the dry bone of criticism, +which was all he could find in his larder, he must broil it—and so burn +away in the slow fire of his intellect, now dull and damp enough from +lack of noble purpose, every scrap of meat left upon it! His last +relation to his work, his fondly cherished intellect, was departing from +him, to leave him lord of a dustheap! In the unsavoury mound he grubbed +and nosed and scraped dog-like, but could not uncover a single fragment +that smelt of provender. The morning of Saturday came, and he recognized +with a burst of agonizing sweat, that he dared not even imagine his +appearance before his congregation: he had not one written word to read +to them; and extempore utterance was, from conscious vacancy, impossible +to him; he could not even call up one meaningless phrase to articulate! +He flung his concordance sprawling upon the floor, snatched up his hat +and clerical cane, and, scarce knowing what he did, presently found +himself standing at the soutar’s door, where he had already knocked, +without a notion of what he was come to seek. The old parson, generally +in a mood to quarrel with the soutar, had always walked straight into +his workshop, and greeted him crouched over his work; but the new parson +always waited on the doorstep for Maggie to admit him.</p> + +<p>She had opened the door wide ere he knew why he had come, or could think +of anything to say. And now he was in greater uneasiness than usual at +the thought of the cobbler’s deep-set black eyes about to be fixed upon +him, as if to probe his very thoughts.</p> + +<p>“Do you think your father would have time,” he asked humbly, “to measure +me for a pair of light boots?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Blatherwick was very particular about his foot-gear, and had +hitherto always fitted himself at Deemouth; but he had at length +learned that nothing he could there buy approached in quality, either +of material or workmanship, what the soutar supplied to his poorest +customer: he would mend anything worth mending, but would never <i>make</i> +anything inferior.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll get what ye want at such and such place,” he would answer, “and +I doobtna it’ll be as guid as can be made at the siller; but for my ain +pairt, ye maun excuse me!”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, sir, he’ll be baith glad and prood to mak ye as guid a pair o’ +beets as he can compass,” answered Maggie. “Jist step in here, sir, and +lat him ken what ye want. My bairn’s greitin, and I maun gang til ’im; +it’s seldom he cries oot!”</p> + +<p>The minister walked in at the open door of the kitchen, and met the eyes +of the soutar expectant.</p> + +<p>“Ye’re welcome, sir!” said MacLear, and returned his eyes to what he had +for a moment interrupted.</p> + +<p>“I want you to make me a nice pair of boots, if you please,” said the +parson, as cheerily as he could. “I am rather particular about the fit, +I fear!”</p> + +<p>“And what for no, sir?” answered the soutar. “I’ll do what I can +onygait, I promise ye—but wi’ mair readiness nor confidence as to the +fit; for I canna profess assurance o’ fittin’ the first time, no haein +the necessar instinc’ frae the mak’ o’ the man to the shape o’ the fut, +sir.”</p> + +<p>“Of course I should like to have them both neat and comfortable,” said +the parson.</p> + +<p>“In coorse ye wad, sir, and sae would I! For I confess I wad fain hae my +customers tak note o’ my success in followin the paittern set afore me +i’ the first oreeginal fut!”</p> + +<p>“But you will allow, I suppose, that a foot is seldom as perfect now +as when the divine idea of the member was first embodied by its maker?” +rejoined the minister.</p> + +<p>“Ow, ay; there’s been mony an interferin circumstance; but whan His +kingdom’s come, things ’ll tak a turn for the redemption o’ the feet +as weel as the lave o’ the body—as the apostle Paul says i’ the +twenty-third verse o’ the aucht chapter o’ his epistle to the +Romans;—only I’m weel aveesed, sir, ’at there’s no sic a thing as +<i>adoption</i> mintit at i’ the original Greek. That can hae no pairt i’ +what fowk ca’s the plan o’ salvation—as gien the consumin fire o’ the +Love eternal was to be ca’d a <i>plan</i>! Hech, minister, it scunners me! +But for the fut, it’s aye perfec’ eneuch to be <i>my</i> pattern, for it’s +the only ane I hae to follow! It’s Himsel sets the shape o’ the shune +this or that man maun weir!”</p> + +<p>“That’s very true—and the same applies to everything a man cannot help. +A man has both the make of his mind and of his circumstances to do the +best he can with, and sometimes they don’t seem to fit each other—so +well as, I hope, your boots will fit my feet.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re richt there, sir—only that no man’s bun’ to follow his +inclinations or his circumstances, ony mair than he’s bun’ to alter his +fut to the shape o’ a ready-made beet!—But hoo wull ye hae them made, +sir?—I mean what sort o’ butes wad ye hae me mak?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I leave that to you, Mr. MacLear!—a sort of half Wellington, I +suppose—a neat pair of short boots.”</p> + +<p>“I understand, sir.”</p> + +<p>“And now tell me,” said the minister, moved by a sudden impulse, coming +he knew not whence, “what you think of this new fad, if it be nothing +worse, of the English clergy—I mean about the duty of confessing to the +priest.—I see they have actually prevailed upon that wretched creature +we’ve all been reading about in the papers lately, to confess the murder +of her little brother! Do you think they had any right to do that? +Remember the jury had acquitted her.”</p> + +<p>“And has she railly confessed? I <i>am</i> glaid o’ that! I only wuss they +could get a haud o’ Madeline Smith as weel, and persuaud <i>her</i> to +confess! Eh, the state o’ that puir crater’s conscience! It ’maist gars +me greit to think o’ ’t! Gien she wad but confess, houp wad spring to +life in her sin-oppressed soul! Eh, but it maun be a gran’ lichtenin to +that puir thing! I’m richt glaid to hear o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know, Mr. MacLear, that you favoured the power and influence +of the priesthood to such an extent! We Presbyterian clergy are not in +the way of doing the business of detectives, taking upon us to act as +the agents of human justice! There is no one, guilty or not, but is safe +with us!”</p> + +<p>“As with any confessor, Papist or Protestant,” rejoined the soutar. “If +I understand your news, sir, it means that they persuaded the poor soul +to confess her guilt, and so put herself safe in the hands of God!”</p> + +<p>“And is not that to come between God and the sinner?”</p> + +<p>“Doubtless, sir—in order to bring them together; to persuade the sinner +to the first step toward reconciliation with God, and peace in his own +mind.”</p> + +<p>“That he could take without the intervention of the priest!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but not without his own consenting will! And in this case, she +would not, and did not confess without being persuaded to it!”</p> + +<p>“They had no right to threaten her!”</p> + +<p>“Did they threaten her? If they did, they were wrong.—And yet I don’t +know! In any case they did for her the very best thing that could be +done! For they did get her, you tell me, to confess—and so cast from +her the horror of carrying about in her secret heart the knowledge of an +unforgiven crime! Christians of all denominations hold, I presume, that, +to be forgiven, a sin must be confessed!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, to God—that is enough! No mere man has a right to know the sins +of his neighbour!”</p> + +<p>“Not even the man against whom the sin was committed?”</p> + +<p>“Suppose the sin has never come abroad, but remains hidden in the heart, +is a man bound to confess it? Is he, for instance, bound to tell his +neighbour that he used to hate him, and in his heart wish him evil?”</p> + +<p>“The time micht come whan to confess even that would ease a man’s hert! +but in sic a case, the man’s first duty, it seems to me, would be to +watch for an opportunity o’ doin that neebour a kin’ness. That would +be the deid blow to his hatred! But where a man has done an act o’ +injustice, a wrang to his neebour, he has no ch’ice, it seems to me, but +confess it: that neebour is the one from whom first he has to ask and +receive forgiveness; and that neebour alone can lift the burden o’ ’t +aff o’ him! Besides, the confession may be but fair, to haud the blame +frae bein laid at the door o’ some innocent man!—And the author o’ nae +offence can affoord to forget,” ended the soutar, “hoo the Lord said, +‘There’s naething happit-up, but maun come to the licht’!”</p> + +<p>It seems to me that nothing could have led the minister so near the +presentation of his own false position, except the will of God working +in him to set him free. He continued, driven by an impulse he neither +understood nor suspected—</p> + +<p>“Suppose the thing not known, however, or likely to be known, and +that the man’s confession, instead of serving any good end, would only +destroy his reputation and usefulness, bring bitter grief upon those who +loved him, and nothing but shame to the one he had wronged—what would +you say then?—You will please to remember, Mr. MacLear, that I am +putting an entirely imaginary case, for the sake of argument only!”</p> + +<p>“Eh, but I doobt—I doobt yer imaiginary case!” murmured the soutar to +himself, hardly daring even to think his thought clearly, lest somehow +it might reveal itself.</p> + +<p>“In that case,” he replied, “it seems to me the offender wad hae to cast +aboot him for ane fit to be trustit, and to him reveal the haill affair, +that he may get his help to see and do what’s richt: it maks an unco +differ to luik at a thing throuw anither man’s een, i’ the supposed +licht o’ anither man’s conscience! The wrang dune may hae caused mair +evil, that is, mair injustice, nor the man himsel kens! And what’s the +reputation ye speak o’, or what’s the eesefu’ness o’ sic a man? Can it +be worth onything? Isna his hoose a lee? isna it biggit upo the san’? +What kin’ o’ a usefulness can that be that has hypocrisy for its +fundation? Awa wi’ ’t! Lat him cry oot to a’ the warl’, ‘I’m a +heepocrit! I’m a worm, and no man!’ Lat him cry oot to his makker, ‘I’m +a beast afore thee! Mak a man o’ me’!”</p> + +<p>As the soutar spoke, overcome by sympathy with the sinner, whom he could +not help feeling in bodily presence before him, the minister, who had +risen when he began to talk about the English clergy and confession, +stood hearing with a face pale as death.</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, minister,” continued the soutar, “gien ye hae ony sic +thing upo yer min’, hurry and oot wi’ ’t! I dinna say <i>to me</i>, but to +somebody—to onybody! Mak a clean breist o’ ’t, afore the Adversary has +ye again by the thrapple!”</p> + +<p>But here started awake in the minister the pride of superiority in +station and learning: a shoemaker, from whom he had just ordered a pair +of boots, to take such a liberty, who ought naturally to have regarded +him as necessarily spotless! He drew himself up to his lanky height, and +made reply—</p> + +<p>“I am not aware, Mr. MacLear, that I have given you any pretext for +addressing me in such terms! I told you, indeed, that I was putting +a case, a very possible one, it is true, but not the less a merely +imaginary one! You have shown me how unsafe it is to enter into an +argument on any supposed case with one of limited education! It is my +own fault, however; and I beg your pardon for having thoughtlessly led +you into such a pitfall!—Good morning!”</p> + +<p>As the door closed behind the parson, he began to felicitate himself +on having so happily turned aside the course of a conversation whose +dangerous drift he seemed now first to recognize; but he little thought +how much he had already conveyed to the wide-eyed observation of one +well schooled in the symptoms of human unrest.</p> + +<p>“I must set a better watch over my thoughts lest they betray me!” he +reflected; thus resolving to conceal himself yet more carefully from the +one man in the place who would have cut for him the snare of the fowler.</p> + +<p>“I was ower hasty wi’ ’im!” concluded the soutar on his part. “But I +think the truth has some grup o’ ’im. His conscience is waukin up, I +fancy, and growlin a bit; and whaur that tyke has ance taen haud, he’s +no ready to lowsen or lat gang! We maun jist lie quaiet a bit, and see! +His hoor ’ill come!”</p> + +<p>The minister being one who turned pale when angry, walked home with a +face of such corpse-like whiteness, that a woman who met him said to +herself, “What can ail the minister, bonny laad! He’s luikin as scared +as a corp! I doobt that fule body the soutar’s been angerin him wi’ his +havers!”</p> + +<p>The first thing he did when he reached the manse, was to turn, +nevertheless, to the chapter and verse in the epistle to the Romans, +which the soutar had indicated, and which, through all his irritation, +had, strangely enough, remained unsmudged in his memory; but the passage +suggested nothing, alas! out of which he could fabricate a sermon. Could +it have proved otherwise with a heart that was quite content to have God +no nearer him than a merely adoptive father? He found at the same time +that his late interview with the soutar had rendered the machinery of +his thought-factory no fitter than before for weaving a tangled wisp of +loose ends, which was all he could command, into the homogeneous web of +a sermon; and at last was driven to his old stock of carefully preserved +preordination sermons; where he was unfortunate enough to make choice +of the one least of all fitted to awake comprehension or interest in his +audience.</p> + +<p>His selection made, and the rest of the day thus cleared for inaction, +he sat down and wrote a letter. Ever since his fall he had been +successfully practising the art of throwing a morsel straight into +one or other of the throats of the triple-headed Cerberus, his +conscience—which was more clever in catching such sops, than they were +in choking the said howler; and one of them, the letter mentioned, was +the sole wretched result of his talk with the soutar. Addressed to a +late divinity-classmate, he asked in it incidentally whether his +old friend had ever heard anything of the little girl—he could just +remember her name and the pretty face of her—Isy, general slavey to +her aunt’s lodgers in the Canongate, of whom he was one: he had often +wondered, he said, what had become of her, for he had been almost in +love with her for a whole half-year! I cannot but take the inquiry as +the merest pretence, with the sole object of deceiving himself into the +notion of having at least made one attempt to discover Isy. His friend +forgot to answer the question, and James Blatherwick never alluded to +his having put it to him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Never dawned Sunday upon soul more wretched. He had not indeed to climb +into his watchman’s tower without the pretence of a proclamation, but on +that very morning his father had put the mare between the shafts of the +gig to drive his wife to Tiltowie and their son’s church, instead of the +nearer and more accessible one in the next parish, whither they oftener +went. Arrived there, it was not wonderful they should find themselves +so dissatisfied with the spiritual food set before them, as to wish +heartily they had remained at home, or driven to the nearer church. +The moment the service was over, Mr. Blatherwick felt much inclined to +return at once, without waiting an interview with his son; for he had no +remark to make on the sermon that would be pleasant either for his son +or his wife to hear; but Marion combated the impulse with entreaties +that grew almost angry, and Peter was compelled to yield, although +sullenly. They waited in the churchyard for the minister’s appearance.</p> + +<p>“Weel, Jeemie,” said his father, shaking hands with him limply, “yon +was some steeve parritch ye gied us this mornin!—and the meal itsel was +baith auld and soor!”</p> + +<p>The mother gave her son a pitiful smile, as if in deprecation of her +husband’s severity, but said not a word; and James, haunted by the taste +of failure the sermon had left in his own mouth, and possibly troubled +by sub-conscious motions of self-recognition, could hardly look his +father in the face, and felt as if he had been rebuked by him before all +the congregation.</p> + +<p>“Father,” he replied in a tone of some injury, “you do not know how +difficult it is to preach a fresh sermon every Sunday!”</p> + +<p>“Ca’ ye yon fresh, Jeemie? To me it was like the fuistit husks o’ the +half-faimisht swine! Man, I wuss sic provender would drive yersel whaur +there’s better and to spare! Yon was lumps o’ brose in a pig-wash o’ +stourum! The tane was eneuch to choke, and the tither to droon ye!”</p> + +<p>James made a wry face, and the sight of his annoyance broke the ice +gathering over the well-spring in his mother’s heart; tears rose in her +eyes, and for one brief moment she saw the minister again her bairn. +But he gave her no filial response; ambition, and greed of the praise of +men, had blocked in him the movements of the divine, and corrupted his +wholesomest feelings, so that now he welcomed freely as a conviction the +suggestion that his parents had never cherished any sympathy with him +or his preaching; which reacted in a sudden flow of resentment, and a +thickening of the ice on his heart. Some fundamental shock must dislodge +that rooted, overmastering ice, if ever his wintered heart was to feel +the power of a reviving Spring!</p> + +<p>The threesum family stood in helpless silence for a few moments; then +the father said to the mother—</p> + +<p>“I doobt we maun be settin oot for hame, Mirran!”</p> + +<p>“Will you not come into the manse, and have something before you go?” +said James, not without anxiety lest his housekeeper should be taken at +unawares, and their acceptance should annoy her: he lived in constant +dread of offending his housekeeper!</p> + +<p>“Na, I thank ye,” returned his father: “it wad taste o’ stew!” (<i>blown +dust</i>).</p> + +<p>It was a rude remark; but Peter was not in a kind mood; and when love +itself is unkind, it is apt to be burning and bitter and merciless.</p> + +<p>Marion burst into tears. James turned away, and walked home with a gait +of wounded dignity. Peter went in haste toward the churchyard gate, to +interrupt with the bit his mare’s feed of oats. Marion saw his hands +tremble pitifully as he put the headstall over the creature’s ears, and +reproached herself that she had given him such a cold-hearted son. She +climbed in a helpless way into the gig, and sat waiting for her husband.</p> + +<p>“I’m that dry ’at I could drink cauld watter!” he said, as he took his +place beside her.</p> + +<p>They drove from the place of tombs, but they carried death with them, +and left the sunlight behind them.</p> + +<p>Neither spoke a word all the way. Not until she was dismounting at their +own door, did the mother venture her sole remark, “Eh, sirs!” It meant +a world of unexpressed and inexpressible misery. She went straight up to +the little garret where she kept her Sunday bonnet, and where she said +her prayers when in especial misery. Thence she descended after a +while to her bedroom, there washed her face, and sadly prepared for +a hungerless encounter with the dinner Isy had been getting ready for +them—hoping to hear something about the sermon, perhaps even some +little word about the minister himself. But Isy too must share in the +disappointment of that vainly shining Sunday morning! Not a word passed +between her master and mistress. Their son was called the pastor of the +flock, but he was rather the porter of the sheepfold than the shepherd +of the sheep. He was very careful that the church should be properly +swept and sometimes even garnished; but about the temple of the Holy +Ghost, the hearts of his sheep, he knew nothing, and cared as little. +The gloom of his parents, their sense of failure and loss, grew and +deepened all the dull hot afternoon, until it seemed almost to pass +their endurance. At last, however, it abated, as does every pain, for +life is at its root: thereto ordained, it slew itself by exhaustion. +“But,” thought the mother, “there’s Monday coming, and what am I to +do then?” With the new day would return the old trouble, the gnawing, +sickening pain that she was childless: her daughter was gone, and no +son was left her! Yet the new day when it came, brought with it its new +possibility of living one day more!</p> + +<p>But the minister was far more to be pitied than those whose misery he +was. All night long he slept with a sense of ill-usage sublying his +consciousness, and dominating his dreams; but with the sun came a doubt +whether he had not acted in unseemly fashion, when he turned and left +his father and mother in the churchyard. Of course they had not treated +him well; but what would his congregation, some of whom might have been +lingering in the churchyard, have thought, to see him leave them as he +did? His only thought, however, was to take precautions against their +natural judgment of his behaviour.</p> + +<p>After his breakfast, he set out, his custom of a Monday morning, for +what he called a quiet stroll; but his thoughts kept returning, ever +with fresh resentment, to the soutar’s insinuation—for such he counted +it—on the Saturday. Suddenly, uninvited, and displacing the phantasm of +her father, arose before him the face of Maggie; and with it the sudden +question, What then was the real history of the baby on whom she spent +such an irrational amount of devotion. The soutar’s tale of her finding +him was too apocryphal! Might not Maggie have made a slip? Or why should +the pretensions of the soutar be absolutely trusted? Surely he had, some +time or other, heard a rumour! A certain satisfaction arose with the +suggestion that this man, so ready to believe evil of his neighbour, had +not kept his own reputation, or that of his house, perhaps, undefiled. +He tried to rebuke himself the next moment, it is true, for having +harboured a moment’s satisfaction in the wrong-doing of another: it was +unbefitting the pastor of a Christian flock! But the thought came and +came again, and he took no continuous trouble to cast it out. When he +went home, he put a question or two to his housekeeper about the little +one, but she only smiled paukily, and gave him no answer.</p> + +<p>After his two-o’clock dinner, he thought it would be Christian-like to +forgive his parents: he would therefore call at Stonecross—which would +tend to wipe out any undesirable offence on the minds of his parents, +and also to prevent any gossip that might injure him in his sacred +profession! He had not been to see them for a long time; his visits to +them gave him no satisfaction; but he never dreamed of attributing that +to his own want of cordiality. He judged it well, however, to avoid any +appearance of evil, and therefore thought it might be his duty to pay +them in future a hurried call about once a month. For the past, he +excused himself because of the distance, and his not being a good +walker! Even now that he had made up his mind he was in no haste to set +out, but had a long snooze in his armchair first: it was evening when he +climbed the hill and came in sight of the low gable behind which he was +born.</p> + +<p>Isy was in the garden gathering up the linen she had spread to dry on +the bushes, when his head came in sight at the top of the brae. She knew +him at once, and stooping behind the gooseberries, fled to the back of +the house, and so away to the moor. James saw the white flutter of a +sheet, but nothing of the hands that took it. He had heard that his +mother had a nice young woman to help her in the house, but cherished so +little interest in home-affairs that the news waked in him no curiosity.</p> + +<p>Ever since she came to Stonecross, Isy had been on the outlook lest +James should unexpectedly surprise her, and so be himself surprised into +an involuntary disclosure of his relation to her; and not even by +the long deferring of her hope to see him yet again, had she come to +pretermit her vigilance. She did not intend to avoid him altogether, +only to take heed not to startle him into any recognition of her in the +presence of his mother. But when she saw him approaching the house, her +courage failed her, and she fled to avoid the danger of betraying +both herself and him. She was in truth ashamed of meeting him, in her +imagination feeling guiltily exposed to his just reproaches. All the +time he remained that evening with his mother, she kept watching the +house, not once showing herself until he was gone, when she reappeared +as if just returned from the moor, where Mrs. Blatherwick imagined +her still indulging the hope of finding her baby, concerning whom her +mistress more than doubted the very existence, taking the supposed fancy +for nothing but a half-crazy survival from the time of her insanity +before the Robertsons found her.</p> + +<p>The minister made a comforting peace with his mother, telling her a +part of the truth, namely, that he had been much out of sorts during the +week, and quite unable to write a new sermon; and that so he had been +driven at the very last to take an old one, and that so hurriedly that +he had failed to recall correctly the subject and nature of it; that +he had actually begun to read it before finding that it was altogether +unsuitable—at which very moment, fatally for his equanimity, he +discovered his parents in the congregation, and was so dismayed that he +could not recover his self-possession, whence had ensued his apparent +lack of cordiality! It was a lame, yet somewhat plausible excuse, and +served to silence for the moment, although it was necessarily so far +from satisfying his mother’s heart. His father was out of doors, and him +James did not see.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>As time went on, the terror of discovery grew rather than abated in the +mind of the minister. He could not tell whence or why it should be so, +for no news of Isy reached him, and he felt, in his quieter moments, +almost certain that she could not have passed so completely out of his +horizon, if she were still in the world. When most persuaded of this, +he felt ablest to live and forget the past, of which he was unable to +recall any portion with satisfaction. The darkness and silence left over +it by his unrepented offence, gave it, in his retrospect, a threatening +aspect—out of which at any moment might burst the hidden enemy, the +thing that might be known, and must not be known! He derived, however, +a feeble and right cowardly comfort from the reflection that he had done +nothing to hide the miserable fact, and could not now. He even persuaded +himself that if he could he <i>would</i> not do anything now to keep it +secret; he would leave all to that Providence which seemed hitherto +to have wrought on his behalf: he would but keep a silence which no +gentleman must break!—And why should that come abroad which Providence +itself concealed? Who had any claim to know a mere passing fault, which +the partner in it must least of all desire exposed, seeing it would fall +heavier upon her than upon him? Where was any call for that confession, +about which the soutar had maundered so foolishly? If, on the other +hand, his secret should threaten to creep out, he would not, he +flattered himself, move a finger to keep it hidden! he would that moment +disappear in some trackless solitude, rejoicing that he had nothing +left to wish undisclosed! As to the charge of hypocrisy that was sure to +follow, he was innocent: he had never said anything he did not believe! +he had made no professions beyond such as were involved in his position! +he had never once posed as a man of Christian experience—like the +soutar for instance! Simply and only he had been overtaken in a fault, +which he had never repeated, never would repeat, and which he was +willing to atone for in any way he could!</p> + +<p>On the following Saturday, the soutar was hard at work all day long +on the new boots the minister had ordered of him, which indeed he had +almost forgotten in anxiety about the man for whom he had to make them. +For MacLear was now thoroughly convinced that the young man had “some +sick offence within his mind,” and was the more anxious to finish his +boots and carry them home the same night, that he knew his words had +increased the sickness of that offence, which sickness might be the +first symptom of returning health. For nothing attracted the soutar more +than an opportunity of doing anything to lift from a human soul, were +it but a single fold of the darkness that compassed it, and so let the +light nearer to the troubled heart. As to what it might be that was +harassing the minister’s soul, he sternly repressed in himself all +curiosity. The thought of Maggie’s precious little foundling did indeed +once more occur to him, but he tried all he could to shut it out. He did +also desire that the minister should confess, but he had no wish that +he should unbosom himself to him: from such a possibility, indeed, he +shrank; while he did hope to persuade him to seek counsel of some one +capable of giving him true advice. He also hoped that, his displeasure +gradually passing, he would resume his friendly intercourse with +himself; for somehow there was that in the gloomy parson which +powerfully attracted the cheery and hopeful soutar, who hoped his +troubled abstraction might yet prove to be heart-hunger after a +spiritual good which he had not begun to find: he might not yet have +understood, he thought, the good news about God—that he was just +what Jesus seemed to those that saw the glory of God in his face. The +minister could not, the soutar thought, have learned much of the truth +concerning God; for it seemed to wake in him no gladness, no power of +life, no strength to <i>be</i>. For <i>him</i> Christ had not risen, but lay wrapt +in his winding sheet! So far as James’s feeling was concerned, the larks +and the angels must all be mistaken in singing as they did!</p> + +<p>At an hour that caused the soutar anxiety as to whether the housekeeper +might not have retired for the night, he rang the bell of the +manse-door; which in truth did bring the minister himself from his +study, to confront MacLear on the other side of the threshold, with the +new boots in his hand.</p> + +<p>But the minister had come to see that his behaviour in his last visit to +the soutar must have laid him open to suspicion from him; and he was now +bent on removing what he counted the unfortunate impression his words +might have made. Wishing therefore to appear to cherish no offence over +his parishioner’s last words to him ere they parted, and so obliterate +any suggestion of needed confession lurking behind his own words with +which he had left him, he now addressed him with an <i>abandon</i> which, +gloomy in spirit as he habitually was, he could yet assume in a moment +when the masking instinct was aroused in him—</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. MacLear,” he said jocularly, “I am glad you have just managed +to escape breaking the Sabbath! You have had a close shave! It wants ten +minutes, hardly more, to the awful midnight hour!”</p> + +<p>“I doobt, sir, it would hae broken the Sawbath waur, to fail o’ my word +for the sake o’ a steik or twa that maittered naething to God or man!” +returned the soutar.</p> + +<p>“Ah, well, we won’t argue about it! but if we were inclined to be +strict, the Sabbath began some”—here he looked at his watch—“some +five hours and three-quarters ago; that is, at six of the clock, on the +evening of Saturday!”</p> + +<p>“Hoot, minister, ye ken ye’re wrang there! for, Jew-wise, it began at +sax o’ the Friday nicht! But ye hae made it plain frae the poopit that +ye hae nae supperstition aboot the first day o’ the week, the whilk +alane has aucht to dee wi’ hiz Christians!—We’re no a’ Jews, though +there’s a heap o’ them upo’ this side the Tweed! I, for my pairt, +confess nae obligation but to drap workin, and sit doon wi’ clean han’s, +or as clean as I can weel mak them, to the speeritooal table o’ my Lord, +whaur I aye try as weel to weir a clean and a cheerfu’ face—that +is, sae far as the sermon will permit—and there’s aye a pyke o’ mate +somewhaur intil ’t! For isna it the bonny day whan the Lord wad hae us +sit doon and ait wi himsel, wha made the h’avens and the yirth, and the +waters under the yirth that haud it up! And wilna he, upo this day, at +the last gran’ merridge-feast, poor oot the bonny reid wine, and say, +‘Sit ye doon, bairns, and tak o’ my best’!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, Mr. MacLear; that’s a fine way to think of the Sabbath!” +rejoined the minister, “and the very way I am in the habit of thinking +of it myself!—I’m greatly obliged to you for bringing home my boots; +but indeed I could have managed very well without them!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, sir, maybe; I dinna doobt ye hae pairs and pairs o’ beets; but ye +see <i>I</i> couldna dee <i>wi’oot</i> them, for I had <i>promised</i>.”</p> + +<p>The word struck the minister to the heart. “He means something!” he said +to himself. “—But I never promised the girl anything! I <i>could</i> not +have done it! I never thought of such a thing! I never said anything to +bind me!”</p> + +<p>He never saw that, whether he had promised or not, his deed had bound +him more absolutely than any words.</p> + +<p>All this time he was letting the soutar stand on the doorstep, with the +new boots in his hand.</p> + +<p>“Come in,” he said at last, “and put them there in the window. It’s +about time we were all going to bed, I think—especially myself, +to-morrow being sermon-day!”</p> + +<p>The soutar betook himself to his home and to bed, sorry that he had said +nothing, yet having said more than he knew.</p> + +<p>The next evening he listened to the best sermon he had yet heard from +that pulpit—a summary of the facts bearing on the resurrection of our +Lord;—with which sermon, however, a large part of the congregation was +anything but pleased; for the minister had admitted the impossibility of +reconciling, in every particular, the differing accounts of the doings +and seeings of those who bore witness to it.</p> + +<p>“—As gien,” said the soutar, “the Lord wasna to shaw himsel till a’ +that had seen he was up war agreed as to their recollection o’ what fouk +had reportit!”</p> + +<p>He went home edified and uplifted by his fresh contemplation of the +story of his Master’s victory: thank God! he thought; his pains were +over at last! and through death he was lord for ever over death and +evil, over pain and loss and fear, who was already through his father +lord of creation and life, and of all things visible and invisible! He +was Lord also of all thinking and feeling and judgment, able to give +repentance and restoration, and to set right all that selfwill had set +wrong! So greatly did the heart of his humble disciple rejoice in him, +that he scandalized the reposing sabbath-street, by breaking out, as he +went home, into a somewhat unmelodious song, “They are all gone down to +hell with the weapons of their war!” to a tune nobody knew but himself, +and which he could never have sung again. “O Faithful and True,” he +broke out once more as he reached his own house; but checked +himself abruptly, saying, “Tut, tut, the fowk’ll think I hae been +drinkin’!—Eh,” he continued to himself as he went in, “gien I micht but +ance hear the name that no man kens but Himsel!”</p> + +<p>The next day he was very tired, and could get through but little +work; so, on the Tuesday he felt it would be right to take a holiday. +Therefore he put a large piece of oatcake in his pocket, and telling +Maggie he was going to the hills, “to do nae thing and a’thing, baith at +ance, a’ day,” disappeared with a backward look and lingering smile.</p> + +<p>He went brimful of expectation, and was not disappointed in those he met +by the way.</p> + +<p>After walking some distance in quiescent peace, and having since +noontide met no one—to use his own fashion of speech—by which he meant +that no special thought had arisen uncalled-for in his mind, always +regarding such a thought as a word direct from the First Thought, he +turned his steps toward Stonecross. He had known Peter Blatherwick for +many years, and honoured him as one in whom there was no guile; and now +the desire to see him came upon him: he wanted to share with him the +pleasure and benefit he had gathered from Sunday’s sermon, and show the +better quality of the food their pastor had that day laid before his +sheep. He knocked at the door, thinking to see the mistress, and hear +from her where her husband was likely to be found; but to his surprise, +the farmer came himself to the door, where he stood in silence, with a +look that seemed to say, “I know you; but what can you be wanting with +me?” His face was troubled, and looked not only sorrowful, but scared +as well. Usually ruddy with health, and calm with content, it was now +blotted with pallid shades, and seemed, as he held the door-handle +without a word of welcome, that of one aware of something unseen behind +him.</p> + +<p>“What ails ye, Mr. Bletherwick?” asked the soutar, in a voice that +faltered with sympathetic anxiety. “Surely—I houp there’s naething come +ower the mistress!”</p> + +<p>“Na, I thank ye; she’s vera weel. But a dreid thing has befa’en her and +me. It’s little mair nor an hoor sin syne ’at oor Isy—ye maun hae h’ard +tell o’ Isy, ’at we baith had sic a fawvour for—a’ at ance she jist +drappit doon deid as gien shotten wi’ a gun! In fac I thoucht for a +meenut, though I h’ard nae shot, that sic had been the case. The ae +moment she steed newsin wi’ her mistress i’ the kitchie, and the neist +she was in a heap upo’ the fleer o’ ’t!—But come in, come in.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, the bonnie lassie!” cried the shoemaker, without moving to enter; +“I min’ upo’ her weel, though I believe I never saw her but ance!—a +fine, delicat pictur o’ a lassie, that luikit up at ye as gien she made +ye kin’ly welcome to onything she could gie or get for ye!”</p> + +<p>“Aweel, as I’m tellin ye,” said the farmer, “she’s awa’; and we’ll see +her no more till the earth gies up her deid! The wife’s in there wi’ +what’s left o’ her, greitin as gien she wad greit her een oot. Eh, but +she lo’ed her weel:—Doon she drappit, and no even a moment to say her +prayers!”</p> + +<p>“That maitters na muckle—no a hair, in fac!” returned the soutar. “It +was the Father o’ her, nane ither, that took her. He wantit her hame; +and he’s no ane to dee onything ill, or at the wrang moment! Gien a +meenut mair had been ony guid til her, thinkna ye she wud hae had that +meenut!”</p> + +<p>“Willna ye come in and see her? Some fowk canna bide to luik upo the +deid, but ye’re no ane o’ sic!”</p> + +<p>“Na; it’s trowth I daurna be nane o’ sic. I s’ richt wullinly gang wi’ +ye to luik upo the face o’ ane ’at’s won throuw!”</p> + +<p>“Come awa’ than; and maybe the Lord ’ill gie ye a word o’ comfort for +the mistress, for she taks on terrible aboot her. It braks my hert to +see her!”</p> + +<p>“The hert o’ baith king and cobbler’s i’ the ae han’ o’ the Lord,” +answered the soutar solemnly; “and gien my hert indite onything, my +tongue ’ill be ready to speyk the same.”</p> + +<p>He followed the farmer—who trode softly, as if he feared disturbing the +sleeper—upon whom even the sudden silences of the world would break no +more.</p> + +<p>Mr. Blatherwick led the way to the parlour, and through it to a closet +behind, used as the guest-chamber. There, on a little white bed with +dimity curtains, lay the form of Isobel. The eyes of the soutar, in whom +had lingered yet a hope, at once revealed that he saw she was indeed +gone to return no more. Her lovely little face, although its beautiful +eyes were closed, was even lovelier than before; but her arms and hands +lay straight by her sides; their work was gone from them; no voice would +call her any more! she might sleep on, and take her rest!</p> + +<p>“I had but to lay them straucht,” sobbed her mistress; “her een she had +closed hersel as she drappit! Eh, but she <i>was</i> a bonny lassie—and a +guid!—hardly less nor ain bairn to me!”</p> + +<p>“And to me as weel!” supplemented Peter, with a choked sob.</p> + +<p>“And no ance had I paid her a penny wage!” cried Marion, with sudden +remorseful reminiscence.</p> + +<p>“She’ll never think o’ wages noo!” said her husband. “We’ll sen’ them to +the hospital, and that’ll ease yer min’, Mirran!”</p> + +<p>“Eh, she was a dacent, mensefu, richt lo’able cratur!” cried Marion. +“She never <i>said</i> naething to jeedge by, but I hae a glimmer o’ houp ’at +she <i>may</i> ha’ been ane o’ the Lord’s ain.”</p> + +<p>“Is that a’ ye can say, mem?” interposed the soutar. “Surely ye wadna +daur imaigine her drappit oot o’ <i>his</i> han’s!”</p> + +<p>“Na,” returned Marion; “but I wad richt fain ken her fair intil them! +Wha is there to assure ’s o’ her faith i’ the atonement?”</p> + +<p>“Deed, I kenna, and I carena, mem! I houp she had faith i’ naething, +thing nor thoucht, but the Lord himsel! Alive or deid, we’re in his +han’s wha dee’d for us, revealin his Father til ’s,” said the soutar; +“—and gien she didna ken Him afore, she wull noo! The holy All-in-All +be wi’ her i’ the dark, or whatever comes!—O God, haud up her heid, and +latna the watters gang ower her!”</p> + +<p>So-called Theology rose, dull, rampant, and indignant; but the solemn +face of the dead interdicted dispute, and Love was ready to hope, if not +quite to believe. Nevertheless to those guileless souls, the words of +the soutar sounded like blasphemy: was not her fate settled, and for +ever? Had not death in a moment turned her into an immortal angel, or +an equally immortal devil? Only how, at such a moment, with the peaceful +face before them, were they to argue the possibility that she, the +loving, the gentle, whose fault they knew but by her own voluntary +confession, was now as utterly indifferent to the heart of the living +God, as if He had never created her—nay even had become hateful to +him! No one spoke; and the soutar, after gazing on the dead for a +while, prayer overflowing his heart, but never reaching his lips, turned +slowly, and departed without a word.</p> + +<p>As he reached his own door, he met the minister, and told him of the +sorrow that had befallen his parents, adding that it was plain they were +in sore need of his sympathy. James, although marvelling at their being +so much troubled by the death of merely a servant, was roused by the +tale to the duty of his profession; and although his heart had never +yet drawn him either to the house of mourning or the house of mirth, +he judged it becoming to pay another visit to Stonecross, thinking it, +however, rather hard that he should have to go again so soon. It pleased +the soutar to see him face about at once, however, and start for the +farm with a quicker stride than, since his return to Tiltowie as its +minister, he had seen him put forth.</p> + +<p>James had not the slightest foreboding of whom he was about to see in +the arms of Death. But even had he had some feeling of what was +awaiting him, I dare not even conjecture the mood in which he would +have approached the house—whether one of compunction, or of relief. +But utterly unconscious of the discovery toward which he was rushing, +he hurried on, with a faint pleasure at the thought of having to +expostulate with his mother upon the waste of such an unnecessary +expenditure of feeling. Toward his father, he was aware of a more +active feeling of disapproval, if not indeed one of repugnance. James +Blatherwick was of such whose sluggish natures require, for the melting +of their stubbornness, and their remoulding into forms of strength +and beauty, such a concentration of the love of God that it becomes a +consuming fire.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>The night had fallen when he reached the farm. The place was silent; its +doors were all shut; and when he opened the nearest, seldom used but for +the reception of strangers, not a soul was to be seen; no one came to +meet him, for no one had even thought of him, and certainly no one, +except it were the dead, desired his coming. He went into the parlour, +and there, from the dim chamber beyond, whose door stood open, appeared +his mother. Her heart big with grief, she clasped him in her arms, and +laid her cheek against his bosom: higher she could not reach, and +nearer than his breast-bone she could not get to him. No endearment +was customary between them: James had never encouraged or missed any; +neither did he know how to receive such when offered.</p> + +<p>“I am distressed, mother,” he began, “to see you so upset; and I cannot +help thinking such a display of feeling unnecessary. If I may say so, it +seems to me unreasonable. You cannot, in such a brief period as this new +maid of yours has spent with you, have developed such an affection for +her, as this—” he hesitated for a word, “—as this <i>bouleversement</i> +would seem to indicate! The young woman can hardly be a relative, or +I should surely have heard of her existence! The suddenness of the +occurrence, of which I heard only from my shoemaker, MacLear, must have +wrought disastrously upon your nerves! Come, come, dear mother! you must +indeed compose yourself! It is quite unworthy of you, to yield to such a +paroxysm of unnatural and uncalled-for grief! Surely it is the part of a +Christian like you, to meet with calmness, especially in the case of one +you have known so little, that inevitable change which neither man +nor woman can avoid longer than a few years at most! Of course, the +appalling instantaneousness of it in the present case, goes far to +explain and excuse your emotion, but now at least, after so many hours +have elapsed, it is surely time for reason to resume her sway! Was +it not Schiller who said, ‘Death cannot be an evil, for it is +universal’?—At all events, it is not an unmitigated evil!” he +added—with a sigh, as if for his part he was prepared to welcome it.</p> + +<p>During this prolonged and foolish speech, the gentle woman, whose +mother-heart had loved the poor girl that bore her daughter’s name, had +been restraining her sobs behind her handkerchief; but now, as she heard +her son’s cold commonplaces, it was, perhaps, a little wholesome anger +that roused her, and made her able to speak.</p> + +<p>“Ye didna ken her, laddie,” she cried, “or ye wad never mint at layin +yer tongue upon her that gait!—’Deed na, ye wadna!—But I doobt gien +ever ye could hae come to ken her as she was—sic a bonny, herty sowl +as ance dwalt in yon white-faced, patient thing, lyin i’ the chaumer +there—wi’ the stang oot o’ her hert at last, and left the sharper i’ +mine! But me and yer father—eh, weel we lo’ed her! for to hiz she was +like oor ain Isy,—ay, mair a dochter nor a servan—wi’a braw lovin +kin’ness in her, no to be luikit for frae ony son, and sic as we never +had frae ony afore but oor ain Isy.—Jist gang ye intil the closet +there, gien ye wull, and ye’ll see what’ll maybe saften yer hert a bit, +and lat ye unerstan’ what mak o’ a thing’s come to the twa auld fowk ye +never cared muckle aboot!”</p> + +<p>James felt bitterly aggrieved by this personal remark of his mother. How +unfair she was! What had <i>he</i> ever done to offend her? Had he not always +behaved himself properly—except indeed in that matter of which neither +she, nor living soul else, knew anything, or would ever know! What +right had she then to say such things to him! Had he not fulfilled +the expectations with which his father sent him to college? had he not +gained a position whose reflected splendour crowned them the parents of +James Blatherwick? She showed him none of the consideration or respect +he had so justly earned but never demanded! He rose suddenly, and +with never a thought save to leave his mother so as to manifest his +displeasure with her, stalked heedlessly into the presence of the more +heedless dead.</p> + +<p>The night had indeed fallen, but, the little window of the room looking +westward, and a bar of golden light yet lying like a resurrection +stone over the spot where the sun was buried, a pale sad gleam, softly +vanishing, hovered, hardly rested, upon the lovely, still, unlooking +face, that lay white on the scarcely whiter pillow. Coming out of the +darker room, the sharp, low light blinded him a little, so that he saw +without any certainty of perception; yet he seemed to have something +before him not altogether unfamiliar, giving him a suggestion as of +something he had known once, perhaps ought now to recognize, but had +forgotten: the reality of it seemed to be obscured by the strange +autumnal light entering almost horizontally. Concluding himself oddly +affected by the sight of a room he had regarded with some awe in his +childhood, and had not set foot in it for a long time, he drew a +little nearer to the bed, to look closer at the face of this paragon +of servants, whose loss was causing his mother a sorrow so unreasonably +poignant.</p> + +<p>The sense of her resemblance to some one grew upon him; but not yet had +he begun to recognize the death-changed countenance; he became assured +only that he <i>had</i> seen that still face before, and that, would she but +open those eyes, he should know at once who she was.</p> + +<p>Then the true suspicion flashed upon him: good God! <i>could it be</i> the +dead Isy? Of course not! It was the merest illusion! a nonsensical +fancy, caused by the irregular mingling of the light and darkness! In +the daytime he could not have been so befooled by his imagination! He +had always known the clearness, both physical and mental, with which +he saw everything! Nevertheless, the folly had power to fix him staring +where he stood, with his face leant close to the face of the dead. It +was only like, it could not be the same! and yet he could not turn and +go from it! Why did he not, by the mere will in whose strength he took +pride, force his way out of the room? He stirred not a foot; he stared +and stood. And as he stared, the dead face seemed to come nearer him +through the darkness, growing more and more like the only girl he had +ever, though even then only in fancy, loved. If it was not she, how +could the dead look so like the living he had once known? At length +what doubt was left, changed suddenly to assurance that it must be she. +And—dare I say it?—it brought him a sense of relief! He breathed a +sigh of such false, rascally peace as he had not known since his sin, +and with that sigh he left the room. Passing his mother, who still wept +in the now deeper dusk of the parlour, with the observation that there +was no moon, and it would be quite dark before he reached the manse, he +bade her good-night, and went out.</p> + +<p>When Peter, who unable to sit longer inactive had gone to the stable, +re-entered, foiled in the attempt to occupy himself, and sat down by his +wife, she began to talk about the funeral preparations, and the persons +to be invited. But such sorrow overtook him afresh, that even his wife, +herself inconsolable over her loss, was surprised at the depth of his +grief for one who was no relative. It seemed to him indelicate, almost +heartless of her to talk so soon of burying the dear one but just gone +from their sight: it was unnecessary dispatch, and suggested a lack of +reverence!</p> + +<p>“What for sic a hurry?” he expostulated. “Isna there time eneuch to put +oot o’ yer sicht what ye ance lo’ed sae weel? Lat me be the nicht; the +morn ’ill be here sene eneuch! Lat my sowl rest a moment wi’ deith, and +haud awa wi yer funeral. ‘Sufficient til the day,’ ye ken!”</p> + +<p>“Eh dear, but I’m no like you, Peter! Whan the sowl’s gane, I tak no +content i’ the presence o’ the puir worthless body, luikin what it never +mair can be! Na, I wad be rid o’ ’t, I confess!—But be it as ye wull, +my ain man! It’s a sair hert ye hae as weel as me i’ yer body this +nicht; and we maun beir ane anither’s burdens! The dauty may lie as we +hae laid her, the nicht throuw, and naething said: there’s little to be +dene for her; she’s a bonny clean corp as ever was, and may weel lie a +week afore we put her awa’!—There’s no need for ony to watch her; tyke +nor baudrins ’ill never come near her.—I hae aye won’ert what for fowk +wad sit up wi the deid: yet I min’ me weel they aye did i’ the auld +time.”</p> + +<p>In this she showed, however, and in this alone, that the girl she +lamented was not her own daughter; for when the other Isy died, her body +was never for a moment left with the eternal spaces, as if she might +wake, and be terrified to find herself alone. Then, as if God had +forgotten them, they went to bed without saying their usual prayers +together: I fancy the visit of her son had been to Marion like the chill +of a wandering iceberg.</p> + +<p>In the morning the farmer, up first as usual, went into the +death-chamber and sat down by the side of the bed, reproaching himself +that he had forgotten “worship” the night before.</p> + +<p>And as he sat looking at the white face, he became aware of what might +be a little tinge of colour—the faintest possible—upon the lips. +He knew it must be a fancy, or at best an accident without +significance—for he had heard of such a thing! Still, even if his eyes +were deceiving him, he must shrink from hiding away such death out of +sight! The merest counterfeit of life was too sacred for burial! Just +such might the little daughter of Jairus have looked when the Lord took +her by the hand ere she arose!</p> + +<p>Thus feeling, and thus seeming to see on the lips of the girl a doubtful +tinge of the light of life, it was no wonder that Peter could not +entertain the thought of her immediate burial. They must at least wait +some sign, some unmistakable proof even, of change begun!</p> + +<p>Instead, therefore, of going into the yard to set in motion the needful +preparations for the harvest at hand, he sat on with the dead: he could +not leave her until his wife should come to take his place and keep +her company! He brought a bible from the next room, sat down again, and +waited beside her. In doubtful, timid, tremulous hope, not worthy of the +name of hope—a mere sense of a scarcely possible possibility, he waited +what he would not consent to believe he waited for. He would not deceive +himself; he would give his wife no hint, but wait to see how she saw! +He would put to her no leading question even, but watch for any start or +touch of surprise she might betray!</p> + +<p>By and by Marion appeared, gazed a moment on the dead, looked pitifully +in her husband’s face, and went out again.</p> + +<p>“She sees naething!” said Peter to himself. “I s’ awa’ to my +wark!—Still I winna hae her laid aside afore I’m a wheen surer o’ what +she is—leevin sowl or deid clod!”</p> + +<p>With a sad sense of vanished self-delusion, he rose and went out. As he +passed through the kitchen, his wife followed him to the door. “Ye’ll +see and sen’ a message to the vricht (<i>carpenter</i>) the day?” she +whispered.</p> + +<p>“I’m no likly to forget!” he answered; “but there’s nae hurry, seein +there’s no life concernt!”</p> + +<p>“Na, nane; the mair’s the pity!” she answered; and Peter knew, with a +glad relief, that his wife was coming to herself from the terrible blow.</p> + +<p>She sent the cowboy to the Cormacks’ cottage, to tell Eppie to come to +her.</p> + +<p>The old woman came, heard what details there were to the sad story, +shook her head mournfully, and found nothing to say; but together they +set about preparing the body for burial. That done, the mind of +Mrs. Blatherwick was at ease, and she sat expecting the visit of the +carpenter. But the carpenter did not come.</p> + +<p>On the Thursday morning the soutar came to inquire after his friends at +Stanecross, and the gudewife gave him a message to Willie Wabster, the +<i>vricht</i>, to see about the coffin.</p> + +<p>But the soutar, catching sight of the farmer in the yard, went and had +a talk with him; and the result was that he took no message to the +carpenter; and when Peter went in to his dinner, he still said there was +no hurry: why should she be so anxious to heap earth over the dead? +For still he saw, or fancied he saw, the same possible colour on Isy’s +cheek—like the faintest sunset-red, or that in the heart of the palest +blush-rose, which is either glow or pallor as you choose to think it. So +the first week of Isy’s death passed, and still she lay in state, ready +for the grave, but unburied.</p> + +<p>Not a few of the neighbours came to see her, and were admitted where she +lay; and some of them warned Marion that, when the change came, it would +come suddenly; but still Peter would not hear of her being buried “with +that colour on her cheek!” And Marion had come to see, or to imagine +with her husband that she saw the colour. So, each in turn, they kept +watching her: who could tell but the Lord might be going to work a +miracle for them, and was not in the meantime only trying them, to see +how long their patience and hope would endure!</p> + +<p>The report spread through the neighbourhood, and reached Tiltowie, where +it speedily pervaded street and lane:—“The lass at Stanecross, she’s +lyin deid, and luikin as alive as ever she was!” From street and lane +the people went crowding to see the strange sight, and would have +overrun the house, but had a reception by no means cordial: the farmer +set men at every door, and would admit no one. Angry and ashamed, they +all turned and went—except a few of the more inquisitive, who continued +lurking about in the hope of hearing something to carry home and enlarge +upon.</p> + +<p>As to the minister, he insisted upon disbelieving the whole thing, and +yet was made not a little uncomfortable by the rumour. Such a foe to +superstition that in his mind he silently questioned the truth of all +records of miracles, to whomsoever attributed, he was yet haunted by a +fear which he dared not formulate. Of course, whatever might take place, +it could be no miracle, but the mere natural effect of natural causes! +none the less, however, did he dread what might happen: he feared Isy +herself, and what she might disclose! For a time he did not dare again +go near the place. The girl might be in a trance! she might revive +suddenly, and call out his name! She might even reveal all! She had +always been a strange girl! What if, indeed, she were even being now +kept alive to tell the truth, and disgrace him before all the world! +Horrible as was the thought, might it not be well, in view of the +possibility of her revival, that he should be present to hear anything +she might say, and take precaution against it? He resolved, therefore, +to go to Stonecross, and make inquiry after her, heartily hoping to find +her undoubtedly and irrecoverably dead.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, Peter had been growing more and more expectant, and had +nearly forgotten all about the coffin, when a fresh rumour came to +the ears of William Webster, the coffin-maker, that the young woman at +Stonecross was indeed and unmistakably gone; whereupon he, having lost +patience over the uncertainty that had been crippling his operations, +questioned no more what he had so long expected, set himself at once +to his supposed task, and finished what he had already begun and indeed +half ended. The same night that the minister was on his way to the +farm, he passed Webster and his man carrying the coffin home through +the darkness: he descried what it was, and his heart gave a throb of +satisfaction. The men reaching Stonecross in the pitch-blackness of a +gathering storm, they stupidly set up their burden on end by the first +door, and went on to the other, where they made a vain effort to convey +to the deaf Eppie a knowledge of what they had done. She making them no +intelligible reply, there they left the coffin leaning up against the +wall; and, eager to get home ere the storm broke upon them, set off at +what speed was possible to them on the rough and dark road to Tiltowie, +now in their turn meeting and passing the minister on his way.</p> + +<p>By the time James arrived at Stonecross, it was too dark for him to see +the ghastly sentinel standing at the nearer door. He walked into the +parlour; and there met his father coming from the little chamber where +his wife was seated.</p> + +<p>“Isna this a most amazin thing, and houpfu’ as it’s amazing?” cried his +father. “What <i>can</i> there be to come oot o’ ’t? Eh, but the w’ys o’ +the Almichty are truly no to be mizzered by mortal line! The lass maun +surely be intendit for marvellous things, to be dealt wi’ efter sic an +extra-ordnar fashion! Nicht efter nicht has the tane or the tither o’ +hiz twa been sittin here aside her, lattin the hairst tak its chance, +and i’ the daytime lea’in ’maist a’ to the men, me sleepin and they at +their wark; and here the bonny cratur lyin, as quaiet as gien she had +never seen tribble, for thirteen days, and no change past upon her, no +more than on the three holy bairns i’ the fiery furnace! I’m jist in a +trimle to think what’s to come oot o’ ’t a’! God only kens! we can but +sit still and wait his appearance! What think ye, Jeemie?—Whan the Lord +was deid upo’ the cross, they waitit but twa nichts, and there he was up +afore them! here we hae waitit, close on a haill fortnicht—and naething +even to pruv that she’s deid! still less ony sign that ever she’ll speyk +word til’s again!—What think ye o’ ’t, man?”</p> + +<p>“Gien ever she returns to life, I greatly doobt she’ll ever bring +back her senses wi’ her!” said the mother, joining them from the inner +chamber.</p> + +<p>“Hoot, ye min’ the tale o’ the lady—Lady Fanshawe, I believe they ca’d +her? She cam til hersel a’ richt i’ the en’!” said Peter.</p> + +<p>“I don’t remember the story,” said James. “Such old world tales are +little to be heeded.”</p> + +<p>“I min’ naething aboot it but jist that muckle,” said his father. “And I +can think o’ naething but that bonny lassie lyin there afore me naither +deid nor alive! I jist won’er, Jeames, that ye’re no as concernt, and as +fillt wi’ doobt and even dreid anent it as I am mysel!”</p> + +<p>“We’re all in the hands of the God who created life and death,” returned +James, in a pious tone.</p> + +<p>The father held his peace.</p> + +<p>“And He’ll bring licht oot o’ the vera dark o’ the grave!” said the +mother.</p> + +<p>Her faith, or at least her hope, once set agoing, went farther than her +husband’s, and she had a greater power of waiting than he. James had +sorely tried both her patience and her hope, and not even now had she +given him up.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll bide and share oor watch this ae nicht, Jeames?” said Peter. +“It’s an elrische kin o’ a thing to wauk up i’ the mirk mids, wi’ a deid +corp aside ye!—No ’at even yet I gie her up for deid! but I canna help +feelin some eerie like—no to say fleyt! Bide, man, and see the nicht +oot wi’ ’s, and gie yer mither and me some hert o’ grace.”</p> + +<p>James had little inclination to add another to the party, and began to +murmur something about his housekeeper. But his mother cut him short +with the indignant remark—</p> + +<p>“Hoot, what’s <i>she</i>?—Naething to you or ony o’ ’s! Lat her sit up for +ye, gien she likes! Lat her sit, I say, and never waste thoucht upo’ the +queyn!”</p> + +<p>James had not a word to answer. Greatly as he shrank from the ordeal, he +must encounter it without show of reluctance! He dared not even propose +to sit in the kitchen and smoke. With better courage than will, he +consented to share their vigil. “And then,” he reflected, “if she should +come to herself, there would be the advantage he had foreseen and even +half desired!”</p> + +<p>His mother went to prepare supper for them. His father rose, and saying +he would have a look at the night, went toward the door; for even +his strange situation could not entirely smother the anxiety of the +husbandman. But James glided past him to the door, determined not to be +left alone with that thing in the chamber.</p> + +<p>But in the meantime the wind had been rising, and the coffin had been +tilting and resettling on its narrower end. At last, James opening the +door, the gruesome thing fell forward just as he crossed the threshold, +knocked him down, and settled on the top of him. His father, close +behind him, tumbled over the obstruction, divined, in the light of a +lamp in the passage, what the prostrate thing was, and scrambling to his +feet with the only oath he had, I fully believe, ever uttered, cried: +“Damn that fule, Willie Wabster! Had he naething better to dee nor +sen’ to the hoose coffins naebody wantit—and syne set them doon like +rotten-traps (<i>rat-traps</i>) to whomel puir Jeemie!” He lifted the thing +from off the minister, who rose not much hurt, but both amazed and +offended at the mishap, and went to his mother in the kitchen.</p> + +<p>“Dinna say muckle to yer mither, Jeames laad,” said his father as +he went; “that is, dinna explain preceesely hoo the ill-faured thing +happent. <i>I’ll</i> hae amen’s (<i>amends, vengeance</i>) upon him!” So saying, +he took the offensive vehicle, awkward burden as it was, in his two +arms, and carrying it to the back of the cornyard, shoved it over the +low wall into the dry ditch at its foot, where he heaped dirty straw +from the stable over it.</p> + +<p>“It’ll be lang,” he vowed to himsel, “or Willie Wabster hear the last +o’ this!—and langer yet or he see the glint o’ the siller he thoucht +he was yirnin by ’t!—It’s come and cairry ’t hame himsel he sall, the +muckle idiot! He may turn ’t intil a breid-kist, or what he likes, the +gomf!”</p> + +<p>“Fain wud I screw the reid heid o’ ’im intil that same kist, and +haud him there, short o’ smorin!” he muttered as he went back to the +house.—“Faith, I could ’maist beery him ootricht!” he concluded, with a +grim smile.</p> + +<p>Ere he re-entered the house, however, he walked a little way up the +hill, to cast over the vault above him a farmer’s look of inquiry as to +the coming night, and then went in, shaking his head at what the clouds +boded.</p> + +<p>Marion had brought their simple supper into the parlour, and was sitting +there with James, waiting for him. When they had ended their meal, +and Eppie had removed the remnants, the husband and wife went into the +adjoining chamber and sat down by the bedside, where James presently +joined them with a book in his hand. Eppie, having <i>rested</i> the fire in +the kitchen, came into the parlour, and sat on the edge of a chair just +inside the door.</p> + +<p>Peter had said nothing about the night, and indeed, in his wrath with +the carpenter, had hardly noted how imminent was the storm; but the air +had grown very sultry, and the night was black as pitch, for a solid +mass of cloud had blotted out the stars: it was plain that, long before +morning, a terrible storm must break. But midnight came and went, and +all was very still.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the storm was upon them, with a forked, vibrating flash of +angry light that seemed to sting their eyeballs, and was replaced by a +darkness that seemed to crush them like a ponderous weight. Then all at +once the weight itself seemed torn and shattered into sound—into heaps +of bursting, roaring, tumultuous billows. Another flash, yet another and +another followed, each with its crashing uproar of celestial avalanches. +At the first flash Peter had risen and gone to the larger window of +the parlour, to discover, if possible, in what direction the storm was +travelling. Marion, feeling as if suddenly unroofed, followed him, and +James was left alone with the dead. He sat, not daring to move; but when +the third flash came, it flickered and played so long about the dead +face, that it seemed for minutes vividly visible, and his gaze was +fixed on it, fascinated. The same moment, without a single preparatory +movement, Isy was on her feet, erect on the bed.</p> + +<p>A great cry reached the ears of the father and mother. They hurried into +the chamber: James lay motionless and senseless on the floor: a man’s +nerve is not necessarily proportioned to the hardness of his heart! The +verity of the thing had overwhelmed him.</p> + +<p>Isobel had fallen, and lay gasping and sighing on the bed. She knew +nothing of what had happened to her; she did not yet know herself—did +not know that her faithless lover lay on the floor by her bedside.</p> + +<p>When the mother entered, she saw nothing—only heard Isy’s breathing. +But when her husband came with a candle, and she saw her son on the +floor, she forgot Isy; all her care was for James. She dropped on her +knees beside him, raised his head, held it to her bosom, and lamented +over him as if he were dead. She even felt annoyed with the poor girl’s +moaning, as she struggled to get back to life. Why should she whose +history was such, be the cause of mishap to her reverend and honoured +son? Was she worth one of his little fingers! Let her moan and groan and +sigh away there—what did it matter! she could well enough wait a bit! +She would see to her presently, when her precious son was better!</p> + +<p>Very different was the effect upon Peter when he saw Isy coming to +herself. It was a miracle indeed! It could be nothing less! White as was +her face, there was in it an unmistakable look of reviving life! When +she opened her eyes and saw her master bending over her, she greeted +him with a faint smile, closed her eyes again, and lay still. James also +soon began to show signs of recovery, and his father turned to him.</p> + +<p>With the old sullen look of his boyhood, he glanced up at his mother, +still overwhelming him with caresses and tears.</p> + +<p>“Let me up,” he said querulously, and began to wipe his face. “I feel so +strange! What can have made me turn so sick all at once?”</p> + +<p>“Isy’s come to life again!” said his mother, with modified show of +pleasure.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he returned.</p> + +<p>“Ye’re surely no sorry for that!” rejoined his mother, with a reaction +of disappointment at his lack of sympathy, and rose as she said it.</p> + +<p>“I’m pleased to hear it—why not?” he answered. “But she gave me a +terrible start! You see, I never expected it, as you did!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, ye <i>are</i> hertless, Jeemie!” exclaimed his father. “Hae ye nae +spark o’ fellow-feelin wi’ yer ain mither, whan the lass comes to +life ’at she’s been fourteen days murnin for deid? But losh! she’s aff +again!—deid or in a dwaum, I kenna!—Is’t possible she’s gaein to slip +frae oor hand yet?”</p> + +<p>James turned his head aside, and murmured something inaudibly.</p> + +<p>But Isy had only fainted. After some eager ministrations on the part of +Peter, she came to herself once more, and lay panting, her forehead wet +as with the dew of death.</p> + +<p>The farmer ran out to a loft in the yard, and calling the herd-boy, a +clever lad, told him to rise and ride for the doctor as fast as the mare +could lay feet to the road.</p> + +<p>“Tell him,” he said, “that Isy has come to life, and he maun munt and +ride like the vera mischeef, or she’ll be deid again afore he wins til +her. Gien ye canna get the tae doctor, awa wi’ ye to the tither, and +dinna ley him till ye see him i’ the saiddle and startit. Syne ye can +ease the mere, and come hame at yer leisur; he’ll be here lang afore +ye!—Tell him I’ll pey him ony fee he likes, be’t what it may, and never +compleen!—Awa’ wi’ ye like the vera deevil!”</p> + +<p>“I didna think ye kenned hoo <i>he</i> rade,” answered the boy pawkily, as +he shot to the stable. “Weel,” he added, “ye maunna gley asklent at the +mere whan she comes hame some saipy-like!”</p> + +<p>When he returned on the mare’s back, the farmer was waiting for him with +the whisky-bottle in his hand.</p> + +<p>“Na, na!” he said, seeing the lad eye the bottle, “it’s no for you! ye +want a’ the sma’ wit ye ever hed: it’s no <i>you</i> ’at has to gallop; ye +hae but to stick on!—Hae, Susy!”</p> + +<p>He poured half a tumblerful into a soup-plate, and held it out to the +mare, who, never snuffing at it, licked it up greedily, and immediately +started of herself at a good pace.</p> + +<p>Peter carried the bottle to the chamber, and got Isy to swallow a +little, after which she began to recover again. Nor did Marion forget to +administer a share to James, who was not a little in want of it.</p> + +<p>When, within an hour, the doctor arrived full of amazed incredulity, he +found Isy in a troubled sleep, and James gone to bed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>The next day, Isy, although very weak, was greatly better. She was, +however, too ill to get up; and Marion seemed now in her element, with +two invalids, both dear to her, to look after. She hardly knew for which +to be more grateful—her son, given helpless into her hands, unable to +repel the love she lavished upon him; or the girl whom God had taken +from the very throat of the swallowing grave. But her heart, at first +bubbling over with gladness, soon grew calmer, when she came to perceive +how very ill James was. And before long she began to fear she must +part with her child, whose lack of love hitherto made the threatened +separation the more frightful to her. She turned even from the thought +of Isy’s restoration, as if that were itself an added wrong. From the +occasional involuntary association of the two in her thought, she would +turn away with a sort of meek loathing. To hold her James for one moment +in the same thought with any girl less spotless than he, was to disgrace +herself!</p> + +<p>James was indeed not only very ill, but growing slowly worse; for he +lay struggling at last in the Backbite of Conscience, who had him in her +unrelaxing jaws, and was worrying him well. Whence the holy dog came +we know, but how he got a hold of him to begin his saving torment, who +shall understand but the maker of men and of their secret, inexorable +friend! Every beginning is infinitesimal, and wrapt in the mystery of +creation.</p> + +<p>Its results only, not its modes of operation or their stages, I may +venture attempting to convey. It was the wind blowing where it listed, +doing everything and explaining nothing. That wind from the timeless and +spaceless and formless region of God’s feeling and God’s thought, blew +open the eyes of this man’s mind so that he saw, and became aware that +he saw. It blew away the long-gathered vapours of his self-satisfaction +and conceit; it blew wide the windows of his soul, that the sweet odour +of his father’s and mother’s thoughts concerning him might enter; and +when it entered, he knew it for what it was; it blew back to him his own +judgments of them and their doings, and he saw those judgments side by +side with his new insights into their real thoughts and feelings; it +blew away the desert sands of his own moral dulness, indifference, and +selfishness, that had so long hidden beneath them the watersprings of +his own heart, existent by and for love and its gladness; it cleared +all his conscious being, made him understand that he had never hitherto +loved his mother or his father, or any neighbour; that he had never +loved God one genuine atom, never loved the Lord Christ, his Master, +or cared in the least that he had died for him; had never at any moment +loved Isy—least of all when to himself he pleaded in his own excuse +that he had loved her. That blowing wind, which he could not see, +neither knew whence it came, and yet less whither it was going, began to +blow together his soul and those of his parents; the love in his father +and in his mother drew him; the memories of his childhood drew him; for +the heart of God himself was drawing him, as it had been from the first, +only now first he began to feel its drawing; and as he yielded to that +drawing and went nearer, God drew ever more and more strongly; until at +last—I know not, I say, how God did it, or whereby he made the soul of +James Blatherwick different from what it had been—but at last it grew +capable of loving, and did love: first, he yielded to love because he +could not help it; then he willed to love because he could love; then, +become conscious of the power, he loved the more, and so went on to +love more and more. And thus did James become what he had to become—or +perish.</p> + +<p>But for this liberty, he had to pass through wild regions of torment +and horror; he had to become all but mad, and know it; his body, and his +soul as well, had to be parched with fever, thirst, and fear; he had to +sleep and dream lovely dreams of coolness and peace and courage; then +wake and know that all his life he had been dead, and now first was +alive; that love, new-born, was driving out the gibbering phantoms; that +now indeed it was good to be, and know others alive about him; that now +life was possible, because life was to love, and love was to live. What +love was, or how it was, he could not tell; he knew only that it was the +will and the joy of the Father and the Son.</p> + +<p>Long ere he arrived at this, however, the falsehood and utter meanness +of his behaviour to Isy had become plain to him, bringing with it such +an overpowering self-contempt and self-loathing, that he was tempted +even to self-destruction to escape the knowledge that he was himself the +very man who had been such, and had done such things. “To know my deed, +’twere best not know myself!” he might have said with Macbeth. But he +must live on, for how otherwise could he make any atonement? And with +the thought of reparation, and possible forgiveness and reconcilement, +his old love for Isy rushed in like a flood, grown infinitely nobler, +and was uplifted at last into a genuine self-abandoning devotion. But +until this final change arrived, his occasional paroxysms of remorse +touched almost on madness, and for some time it seemed doubtful whether +his mind must not retain a permanent tinge of insanity. He conceived +a huge disgust of his office and all its requirements; and sometimes +bitterly blamed his parents for not interfering with his choice of a +profession that was certain to be his ruin.</p> + +<p>One day, having had no delirium for some hours, he suddenly called out +as they stood by his bed—</p> + +<p>“Oh, mother! oh, father! <i>why</i> did you tempt me to such hypocrisy? <i>Why</i> +did you not bring me up to walk at the plough-tail? <i>Then</i> I should +never have had to encounter the damnable snares of the pulpit! It was +that which ruined me—the notion that I must take the minister for my +pattern, and live up to my idea of <i>him</i>, before even I had begun to +cherish anything real in me! It was the road royal to hypocrisy! Without +that rootless, worthless, devilish fancy, I might have been no worse +than other people! Now I am lost! Now I shall never get back to bare +honesty, not to say innocence! They are both gone for ever!”</p> + +<p>The poor mother could only imagine it his humility that made him accuse +himself of hypocrisy, and that because he had not fulfilled to the +uttermost the smallest duty of his great office.</p> + +<p>“Jamie, dear,” she cried, laying her cheek to his, “ye maun cast yer +care upo’ Him that careth for ye! He kens ye hae dene yer best—or if +no yer vera best—for wha daur say that?—ye hae at least dene what ye +could!”</p> + +<p>“Na, na!” he answered, resuming the speech of his boyhood—a far better +sign of him than his mother understood, “I ken ower muckle, and that +muckle ower weel, to lay sic a flattering unction to my sowl! It’s jist +as black as the fell mirk! ‘Ah, limed soul, that, struggling to be free, +art more engaged!’”</p> + +<p>“Hoots, ye’re dreamin, laddie! Ye never was engaged to onybody—at least +that ever I h’ard tell o’! But, ony gait, fash na ye aboot that! Gien it +be onything o’ sic a natur that’s troublin ye, yer father and me we s’ +get ye clear o’ ’t!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, there ye’re at it again! It was <i>you</i> ’at laid the bird-lime! Ye +aye tuik pairt, mither, wi’ the muckle deil that wad na rist till he had +my sowl in his deepest pit!”</p> + +<p>“The Lord kens his ain: he’ll see that they come throuw unscaumit!”</p> + +<p>“The Lord disna mak ony hypocreet o’ purpose doobtless; but gien a +man sin efter he has ance come to the knowledge o’ the trowth, there +remaineth for him—ye ken the lave o’ ’t as weel as I dee mysel, mother! +My only houp lies in a doobt—a doobt, that is, whether I <i>had</i> ever +come til a knowledge o’ the trowth—or hae yet!—Maybe no!”</p> + +<p>“Laddie, ye’re no i’ yer richt min’. It’s fearsome to hearken til ye!”</p> + +<p>“It’ll be waur to hear me roarin wi’ the rich man i’ the lowes o’ hell!”</p> + +<p>“Peter! Peter!” cried Marion, driven almost to distraction, “here’s yer +ain son, puir fallow, blasphemin like ane o’ the condemned! He jist gars +me creep!”</p> + +<p>Receiving no answer, for her husband was nowhere near at the moment, she +called aloud in her desperation—</p> + +<p>“Isy! Isy! come and see gien ye can dee onything to quaiet this ill +bairn.”</p> + +<p>Isy heard, and sprang from her bed.</p> + +<p>“Comin, mistress!” she answered; “comin this moment.”</p> + +<p>They had not met since her resurrection, as Peter always called it.</p> + +<p>“Isy! Isy!” cried James, the moment he heard her approaching, “come and +haud the deil aff o’ me!”</p> + +<p>He had risen to his elbow, and was looking eagerly toward the door.</p> + +<p>She entered. James threw wide his arms, and with glowing eyes clasped +her to his bosom. She made no resistance: his mother would lay it all to +the fever! He broke into wild words of love, repentance, and devotion.</p> + +<p>“Never heed him a hair, mem; he’s clean aff o’ his heid!” she said in +a low voice, making no attempt to free herself from his embrace, but +treating him like a delirious child. “There maun be something aboot me, +mem, that quaiets him a bit! It’s the brain, ye ken, mem! it’s the het +brain! We maunna contre him! he maun hae his ain w’y for a wee!”</p> + +<p>But such was James’s behaviour to Isy that it was impossible for the +mother not to perceive that, incredible as it might seem, this must +be far from the first time they had met; and presently she fell to +examining her memory whether she herself might not have seen Isy +before ever she came to Stonecross; but she could find no answer to her +inquiry, press the question as she might. By and by, her husband came +in to have his dinner, and finding herself compelled, much against her +will, to leave the two together, she sent up Eppie to take Isy’s place, +with the message that she was to go down at once. Isy obeyed, and went +to the kitchen; but, perturbed and trembling, dropped on the first chair +she came to. The farmer, already seated at the table, looked up, and +anxiously regarding her, said—</p> + +<p>“Bairn, ye’re no fit to be aboot! Ye maun caw canny, or ye’ll be ower +the burn yet or ever ye’re safe upo’ this side o’ ’t! Preserve’s a’! ir +we to lowse ye twise in ae month?”</p> + +<p>“Jist answer me ae queston, Isy, and I’ll speir nae mair,” said Marion.</p> + +<p>“Na, na, never a queston!” interposed Peter;—“no ane afore even the +shaidow o’ deith has left the hoose!—Draw ye up to the table, my bonny +bairn: this isna a time for ceremony, and there’s sma’ room for that ony +day!”</p> + +<p>Finding, however, that she sat motionless, and looked far more +death-like than while in her trance, he got up, and insisted on her +swallowing a little whisky; when she revived, and glad to put herself +under his nearer protection, took the chair he had placed for her beside +him, and made a futile attempt at eating. “It’s sma’ won’er the puir +thing hasna muckle eppiteet,” remarked Mrs. Blatherwick, “considerin the +w’y yon ravin laddie up the stair has been cairryin on til her!”</p> + +<p>“What! Hoo’s that?” questioned her husband with a start.</p> + +<p>“But ye’re no to mak onything o’ that, Isy!” added her mistress.</p> + +<p>“Never a particle, mem!” returned Isy. “I ken weel it stan’s for +naething but the heat o’ the burnin brain! I’m richt glaid though, that +the sicht o’ me did seem to comfort him a wee!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I’m no sae sure!” answered Marion. “But we’ll say nae mair anent +that the noo! The guidman says no; and his word’s law i’ this hoose.”</p> + +<p>Isy resumed her pretence of breakfast. Presently Eppie came down, and +going to her master, said—</p> + +<p>“Here’s An’ra, sir, come to speir efter the yoong minister and Isy: am I +to gar him come in?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, and gie him his brakfast,” shouted the farmer.</p> + +<p>The old woman set a chair for her son by the door, and proceeded to +attend to him. James was left alone.</p> + +<p>Silence again fell, and the appearance of eating was resumed, Peter +being the only one that made a reality of it. Marion was occupied with +many thinkings, specially a growing doubt and soreness about Isy. The +hussy had a secret! She had known something all the time, and had been +taking advantage of her unsuspiciousness! It would be a fine thing for +her, indeed, to get hold of the minister! but she would see him dead +first! It was too bad of the Robertsons, whom she had known so long and +trusted so much! They knew what they were doing when they passed their +trash upon her! She began to distrust ministers! What right had they to +pluck brands from the burning at the expense o’ dacent fowk! It was to +do evil that good might come! She would say that to their faces! Thus +she sat thinking and glooming.</p> + +<p>A cry of misery came from the room above. Isy started to her feet. But +Marion was up before her.</p> + +<p>“Sit doon this minute,” she commanded.</p> + +<p>Isy hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Sit doon this moment, I tell ye!” repeated Marion imperiously. “Ye hae +no business there! I’m gaein til ’im mysel!” And with the word she left +the room.</p> + +<p>Peter laid down his spoon, then half rose, staring bewildered, and +followed his wife from the room.</p> + +<p>“Oh my baby! my baby!” cried Isy, finding herself alone. “If only I had +you to take my part! It was God gave you to me, or how could I love you +so? And the mistress winna believe that even I had a bairnie! Noo she’ll +be sayin I killt my bonny wee man! And yet, even for <i>his</i> sake, I never +ance wisht ye hadna been born! And noo, whan the father o’ ’im’s ill, +and cryin oot for me, they winna lat me near ’im!”</p> + +<p>The last words left her lips in a wailing shriek.</p> + +<p>Then first she saw that her master had re-entered. Wiping her eyes +hurriedly, she turned to him with a pitiful, apologetic smile.</p> + +<p>“Dinna be sair vext wi’ me, sir: I canna help bein glaid that I had him, +and to tyne him has gien me an unco sair hert!”</p> + +<p>She stopped, terrified: how much had he heard? she could not tell what +she might not have said! But the farmer had resumed his breakfast, and +went on eating as if she had not spoken. He had heard nearly all she +said, and now sat brooding on her words.</p> + +<p>Isy was silent, saying in her heart—“If only he loved me, I should be +content, and desire no more! I would never even want him to say it! I +would be so good to him, and so silent, that he could not help loving me +a little!”</p> + +<p>I wonder whether she would have been as hopeful had she known how his +mother had loved him, and how vainly she had looked for any love in +return! And when Isy vowed in her heart never to let James know that she +had borne him a son, she did not perceive that thus she would withhold +the most potent of influences for his repentance and restoration to God +and his parents. She did not see James again that night; and before she +fell asleep at last in the small hours of the morning, she had made up +her mind that, ere the same morning grew clear upon the moor, she would, +as the only thing left her to do for him, be far away from Stonecross. +She would go back to Deemouth, and again seek work at the paper-mills!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>She woke in the first of the gray dawn, while the house was in utter +stillness, and rising at once, rose and dressed herself with soundless +haste. It was hard indeed to go and leave James thus in danger, but she +had no choice! She held her breath and listened, but all was still. She +opened her door softly; not a sound reached her ear as she crept down +the stair. She had neither to unlock nor unbolt the door to leave the +house, for it was never made fast. A dread sense of the old wandering +desolation came back upon her as she stepped across the threshold, and +now she had no baby to comfort her! She was leaving a mouldy peace and +a withered love behind her, and had once more to encounter the rough +coarse world! She feared the moor she had to cross, and the old dreams +she must there encounter; and as she held on her way through them, she +felt, in her new loneliness, and the slow-breaking dawn, as if she were +lying again in her trance, partly conscious, but quite unable to move, +thinking she was dead, and waiting to be buried. Then suddenly she knew +where she was, and that God was not gone, but her own Maker was with +her, and would not forsake her.</p> + +<p>Of the roads that led from the farm she knew only that by which Mr. +Robertson had brought her, and that would guide her to the village +where they had left the coach: there she was sure to find some way of +returning to Deemouth! Feeble after her prolonged inaction, and the +crowd of emotions succeeding her recovery, she found the road very +weary, and long ere she reached Tiltowie, she felt all but worn out. +At the only house she had come to on the way, she stopped and asked for +some water. The woman, the only person she had seen, for it was still +early morning, and the road was a lonely one, perceived that she looked +ill, and gave her milk instead. In the strength of that milk she reached +the end of her first day’s journey; and for many days she had not to +take a second.</p> + +<p>Now Isy had once seen the soutar at the farm, and going about her work +had heard scraps of his conversation with the mistress, when she had +been greatly struck by certain things he said, and had often since +wished for the opportunity of a talk with him. That same morning then, +going along a narrow lane, and hearing a cobbler’s hammer, she glanced +through a window close to the path, and at once recognized the soutar. +He looked up as she obscured his light, and could scarce believe his +eyes when, so early in the day, he saw before him Mistress Blatherwick’s +maid, concerning whom there had been such a talk and such a marvelling +for weeks. She looked ill, and he was amazed to see her about so soon, +and so far from home. She smiled to him feebly, and passed from his +range with a respectful nod. He sprang to his feet, bolted out, and +overtook her at once.</p> + +<p>“I’m jist gaein to drop my wark, mem, and hae my brakfast: wull ye no +come in and share wi’ an auld man and a yoong lass? Ye hae come a gey +bit, and luik some fatiguit!”</p> + +<p>“Thank ye kindly, sir,” returned Isy. “I <i>am</i> a bit tired!—But I won’er +ye kenned me!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I canna jist say I ken ye by the name fowk ca’ ye; and still less +div I ken ye by the name the Lord ca’s ye; but nowther maitters muckle +to her that kens He has a name growin for her—or raither, a name she’s +growin til! Eh, what a day will that be whan ilk habitant o’ the holy +city ’ill tramp the streets o’ ’t weel kenned and weel kennin!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, sir! I ’maist un’erstan’ ye ootricht, for I h’ard ye ance sayin +something like that to the mistress, the nicht ye broucht hame the +maister’s shune to Stanecross. And, eh, I’m richt glaid to see ye +again!”</p> + +<p>They were already in the house, for she had followed him in almost +mechanically; and the soutar was setting for her the only chair there +was, when the cry of a child reached their ears. The girl started to +her feet. A rosy flush of delight overspread her countenance; she fell +a-trembling from head to foot, and it seemed uncertain whether she would +succeed in running to the cry, or must fall to the floor.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” exclaimed the soutar, with one of his sudden flashes of +unquestioning insight, “by the luik o’ ye, ye ken that for the cry +o’ yer ain bairn, my bonny lass! Ye’ll hae been missin him, sair, I +doobt!—There! sit ye doon, and I’ll hae him i’ yer airms afore ae +meenut!”</p> + +<p>She obeyed him and sat down, but kept her eyes fixed on the door, wildly +expectant. The soutar made haste, and ran to fetch the child. When he +returned with him in his arms, he found her sitting bolt upright, with +her hands already apart, held out to receive him, and her eyes alive as +he had never seen eyes before.</p> + +<p>“My Jamie! my ain bairn!” she cried, seizing him to her bosom with a +grasp that, trembling, yet seemed to cling to him desperately, and a +look almost of defiance, as if she dared the world to take him from her +again. “O my God!” she cried, in an agony of thankfulness, “I ken +ye noo! I ken ye noo! Never mair wull I doobt ye, my God!—Lost and +found!—Lost for a wee, and found again for ever!”</p> + +<p>Then she caught sight of Maggie, who had entered behind her father, and +stood staring at her motionless,—with a look of gladness indeed, but +not all of gladness.</p> + +<p>“I ken fine,” Isy broke out, with a trembling, yet eager, apologetic +voice, “ye’re grudgin me ilka luik at him! I ken’t by mysel! Ye’re +thinkin him mair yours nor mine! And weel ye may, for it’s you that’s +been motherin him ever since I lost my wits! It’s true I ran awa’ and +left him; but ever sin’ syne, I hae soucht him carefully wi’ tears! And +ye maunna beir me ony ill will—for there!” she added, holding him out +to Maggie! “I haena kissed him yet!—no ance!—But ye wull lat me kiss +him afore ye tak him awa’?—my ain bairnie, whause vera comin I had +prepared shame for!—Oh my God!—But he kens naething aboot it, and +winna ken for years to come! And nane but his ain mammie maun brak the +dreid trowth til him!—and by that time he’ll lo’e her weel eneuch to be +able to bide it! I thank God that I haena had to shue the birds and the +beasts aff o’ his bonny wee body! It micht hae been, but for you, my +bonnie lass!—and for you, sir!” she went on, turning to the soutar.</p> + +<p>Maggie caught the child from her offering arms, and held up his little +face for his mother to kiss; and so held him until, for the moment, +Isy’s mother-greed was satisfied. Then she sat down with him in her lap, +and Isy stood absorbed in regarding him. At last she said, with a deep +sigh—</p> + +<p>“Noo I maun awa’, and I dinna ken hoo I’m to gang! I hae found him and +maun leave him!—but I houp no for vera lang!—Maybe ye’ll keep him yet +a whilie—say for a week mair? He’s been sae lang disused til a wan’erin +life, that I doobt it mayna weel agree wi’ him; and I maun awa’ back to +Deemooth, gien I can get onybody to gie me a lift.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na; that’ll never dee,” returned Maggie, with a sob. “My father’ll +be glaid eneuch to keep him; only we hae nae richt ower him, and ye maun +hae him again whan ye wull.”</p> + +<p>“Ye see I hae nae place to tak him til!” pleaded Isy.</p> + +<p>“Gien ye dinna want him, gie him to me: I want him!” said Maggie +eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Want him!” returned Isy, bursting into tears; “I hae lived but upo the +bare houp o’ gettin him again! I hae grutten my een sair for the sicht +o’ ’im! Aften hae I waukent greetin ohn kenned for what!—and noo ye +tell me I dinna want him, ’cause I hae nae spot but my breist to lay his +heid upo! Eh, guid fowk, keep him till I get a place to tak him til, and +syne haudna him a meenute frae me!”</p> + +<p>All this time the soutar had been watching the two girls with a divine +look in his black eyes and rugged face; now at last he opened his mouth +and said:</p> + +<p>“Them ’at haps the bairn, are aye sib (<i>related</i>) to the mither!—Gang +ben the hoose wi’ Maggie, my dear; and lay ye doon on her bed, and +she’ll lay the bairnie aside ye, and fess yer brakfast there til ye. Ye +winna be easy to sair (<i>satisfy</i>), haein had sae little o’ ’im for +sae lang!—Lea’ them there thegither, Maggie, my doo,” he went on with +infinite tenderness, “and come and gie me a han’ as sune as ye hae +maskit the tay, and gotten a lof o’ white breid. I s’ hae my parritch a +bit later.”</p> + +<p>Maggie obeyed at once, and took Isy to the other end of the house, where +the soutar had long ago given up his bed to her and the baby.</p> + +<p>When they had all breakfasted, the soutar and Maggie in the kitchen, and +Isy and the bairnie in the ben en’, Maggie took her old place beside her +father, and for a long time they worked without word spoken.</p> + +<p>“I doobt, father,” said Maggie at length, “I haena been atten’in til ye +properly! I fear the bairnie ’s been garrin me forget ye!”</p> + +<p>“No a hair, dautie!” returned the soutar. “The needs o’ the little ane +stude aye far afore mine, and <i>had</i> to be seen til first! And noo that +we hae the mither o’ ’im, we’ll get on faumous!—Isna she a fine cratur, +and richt mitherlike wi’ the bairn? That was a’ I was concernt aboot! +We’ll get her story frae her or lang, and syne we’ll ken a hantle better +hoo to help her on! And there can be nae fear but, atween you and +me, and the Michty at the back o’ ’s, we s’ get breid eneuch for the +quaternion o’ ’s!”</p> + +<p>He laughed at the odd word as it fell from his mouth and the Acts of +Apostles. Maggie laughed too, and wiped her eyes.</p> + +<p>Before long, Maggie recognized that she had never been so happy in her +life. Isy told them as much as she could without breaking her resolve +to keep secret a certain name; and wrote to Mr. Robertson, telling him +where she was, and that she had found her baby. He came with his wife to +see her, and so a friendship began between the soutar and him, which Mr. +Robertson always declared one of the most fortunate things that had ever +befallen him.</p> + +<p>“That soutar-body,” he would say, “kens mair aboot God and his kingdom, +the hert o’ ’t and the w’ys o’ ’t, than ony man I ever h’ard tell +o’—and <i>that</i> heumble!—jist like the son o’ God himsel!”</p> + +<p>Before many days passed, however, a great anxiety laid hold of the +little household: wee Jamie was taken so ill that the doctor had to be +summoned. For eight days he had much fever, and his appealing looks +were pitiful to see. When first he ceased to run about, and wanted to be +nursed, no one could please him but the soutar himself, and he, at once +discarding his work, gave himself up to the child’s service. Before +long, however, he required defter handling, and then no one would do but +Maggie, to whom he had been more accustomed; nor could Isy get any share +in the labour of love except when he was asleep: as soon as he woke, she +had to encounter the pain of hearing him cry out for Maggie, and seeing +him stretch forth his hands, even from his mother’s lap, to one whom he +knew better than her. But Maggie was very careful over the poor mother, +and would always, the minute he was securely asleep, lay him softly upon +her lap. And Maggie soon got so high above her jealousy, that one of the +happiest moments in her life was when first the child consented to leave +her arms for those of his mother. And when he was once more able to run +about, Isy took her part with Maggie in putting hand and needle to the +lining of the more delicate of the soutar’s shoes.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>There was great concern, and not a little alarm at Stonecross because of +the disappearance of Isy. But James continued so ill, that his parents +were unable to take much thought about anybody else. At last, however, +the fever left him, and he began to recover, but lay still and silent, +seeming to take no interest in anything, and remembered nothing he +had said, or even that he had seen Isy. At the same time his wakened +conscience was still at work in him, and had more to do with his +enfeebled condition than the prolonged fever. At length his parents were +convinced that he had something on his mind that interfered with his +recovery, and his mother was confident that it had to do with “that +deceitful creature, Isy.” To learn that she was safe, might have given +Marion some satisfaction, had she not known her refuge so near the +manse; and having once heard where she was, she had never asked another +question about her. Her husband, however, having overheard certain +of the words that fell from Isy when she thought herself alone, was +intently though quietly waiting for what must follow.</p> + +<p>“I’m misdoobtin sair, Peter,” began Marion one morning, after a long +talk with the cottar’s wife, who had been telling her of Isy’s having +taken up her abode with the soutar, “I’m sair misdoobtin whether that +hizzie hadna mair to dee nor we hae been jaloosin, wi Jamie’s attack, +than the mere scare he got. It seems to me he’s lang been broodin ower +something we ken noucht aboot.”</p> + +<p>“That would be nae ferlie, woman! Whan was it ever we kent onything +gaein on i’ that mysterious laddie! Na, but his had need be a guid +conscience, for did ever onybody ken eneuch aboot it or him to say +richt or wrang til ’im! But gien ye hae a thoucht he’s ever wranged that +lassie, I s’ hae the trowth o’ ’t, gien it cost him a greitin! He’ll +never come to health o’ body or min’ till he’s confest, and God has +forgien him. He maun confess! He maun confess!”</p> + +<p>“Hoot, Peter, dinna be sae suspicious o’ yer ain. It’s no like ye to +be sae maisterfu’ and owerbeirin. I wad na lat ae ill thoucht o’ puir +Jeemie inside this auld heid o’ mine! It’s the lassie, I’ll tak my aith, +it’s that Isy’s at the bothom o’ ’t!”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re some ready wi’ yer aith, Mirran, to what ye ken naething aboot! I +say again, gien he’s dene ony wrang to that bonnie cratur—and it wudna +tak ower muckle proof to convince me o’ the same, he s’ tak his stan’, +minister or no minister, upo the stele o’ repentance!”</p> + +<p>“Daur ye to speyk that gait aboot yer ain son—ay, and mine the mair +gien <i>ye</i> disown him, Peter Bletherwick!—and the Lord’s ain ordeent +minister forbye!” cried Marion, driven almost to her wits’ end, but more +by the persistent haunting of her own suspicion, which she could not +repress, than the terror of her husband’s threat. “Besides, dinna ye +see,” she added cunningly, “that that would be to affront the lass as +weel?—<i>He</i> wadna be the first to fa’ intil the snare o’ a designin +wuman, and wad it be for his ain father to expose him to public contemp? +<i>Your</i> pairt sud be to cover up his sin—gien it were a multitude, and +no ae solitary bit faut!”</p> + +<p>“Daur <i>ye</i> speyk o’ a thing like that as a bit faut?—Ca’ ye leein and +hypocrisy a bit faut? I alloo the sin itsel mayna be jist damnable, +but to what bouk mayna it come wi ither and waur sins upo the back o’ +’t?—Wi leein, and haudin aff o’ himsel, a man may grow a cratur no fit +to be taen up wi the taings! Eh me, but my pride i’ the laddie! It ’ill +be sma’ pride for me gien this fearsome thing turn oot to be true!”</p> + +<p>“And wha daur say it’s true?” rejoined Marion almost fiercely.</p> + +<p>“Nane but himsel; and gien it be sae, and he disna confess, the rod +laid upon him ’ill be the rod o’ iron, ’at smashes a man like a muckle +crock.—I maun tak Jamie throuw han’ (<i>to task</i>)!”</p> + +<p>“Noo jist tak ye care, Peter, ’at ye dinna quench the smokin flax.”</p> + +<p>“I’m mair likly to get the bruised reed intil my nakit loof (<i>palm</i>)!” +returned Peter. “But I s’ say naething till he’s a wee better, for we +maunna drive him to despair!—Eh gien he would only repent! What is +there I wadna dee to clear him—that is, to ken him innocent o’ ony +wrang til her! I wad dee wi thanksgivin!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I kenna that we’re jist called upon sae far as that!” said +Marion. “A lass is aye able to tak care o’ hersel!”</p> + +<p>“I wud! I wud!—God hae mercy upo’ the twa o’ them!”</p> + +<p>In the afternoon James was a good deal better. When his father went in +to see him, his first words were—</p> + +<p>“I doobt, father, I’m no likly to preach ony mair: I’ve come to see ’at +I never was fit for the wark, neither had I ever ony ca’ til’t.”</p> + +<p>“It may be sae, Jeemie,” answered his father; “but we’ll haud awa frae +conclusions till ye’re better, and able to jeedge wi’oot the bias o’ ony +thrawin distemper.”</p> + +<p>“Oh father,” James went on, and to his delight Peter saw, for the first +time since he was the merest child, tears running down his cheeks, now +thin and wan; “Oh father, I hae been a terrible hypocreet! But my een’s +come open at last! I see mysel as I am!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, there’s God hard by, to tak ye by the han’ like Enoch! Tell me,” +Peter went on, “hae ye onything upo yer min’, laddie, ’at ye wud like +to confess and be eased o’? There’s nae papistry in confessin to yer ain +auld father!”</p> + +<p>James lay still for a few moments; then he said, almost inaudibly—</p> + +<p>“I think I could tell my mother better nor you, father.”</p> + +<p>“It’ll be a’ ane whilk o’ ’s ye tell. The forgiein and the forgettin +’ill be ae deed—by the twa o’ ’s at ance! I s’ gang and cry doon +the stair til yer mother to come up and hear ye.” For Peter knew by +experience that good motions must be taken advantage of in their first +ripeness. “We maunna try the speerit wi ony delays!” he added, as he +went to the head of the stair, where he called aloud to his wife. Then +returning to the bedside, he resumed his seat, saying, “I’ll jist bide a +minute till she comes.”</p> + +<p>He was loath to let in any risk between his going and her coming, for he +knew how quickly minds may change; but the moment she appeared, he left +the room, gently closing the door behind him.</p> + +<p>Then the trembling, convicted soul plucked up what courage his so long +stubborn and yet cringing heart was capable of, and began.</p> + +<p>“Mother, there was a lass I cam to ken in Edinburgh, whan I was a +divinity student there, and—”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, I ken a’ aboot it!” interrupted his mother, eager to spare him; +“—an ill-faured, designin limmer, ’at micht ha kent better nor come +ower the son o’ a respectable wuman that gait!—Sic like, I doobtna, wad +deceive the vera elec’!”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, mother, she was nane o’ that sort! She was baith bonny and +guid, and pleasant to the hert as to the sicht: she wad hae saved me +gien I had been true til her! She was ane o’ the Lord’s makin, as he has +made but feow!”</p> + +<p>“Whatfor didna she haud frae ye till ye had merried her than? Dinna tell +me she didna lay hersel oot to mak a prey o’ ye!”</p> + +<p>“Mother, i’ that sayin ye hae sclandert yersel!—I’ll no say a word +mair!”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure neither yer father nor mysel wud hae stede i’ yer gait!” said +Marion, retreating from the false position she had taken.</p> + +<p>She did not know herself, or how bitter would have been her opposition; +for she had set her mind on a distinguished match for her Jamie!</p> + +<p>“God knows how I wish I had keepit a haud o’ mysel! Syne I micht hae +steppit oot o’ the dirt o’ my hypocrisy, i’stead o’ gaein ower the heid +intil’t! I was aye a hypocrite, but she would maybe hae fun’ me oot, and +garred me luik at mysel!”</p> + +<p>He did not know the probability that, if he had not fallen, he would +have but sunk the deeper in the worst bog of all, self-satisfaction, and +none the less have played her false, and left her to break her heart.</p> + +<p>If any reader of this tale should argue it better then to do wrong and +repent, than to resist the devil, I warn him, that in such case he will +not repent until the sorrows of death and the pains of hell itself lay +hold upon him. An overtaking fault may be beaten with few stripes, but +a wilful wrong shall be beaten with many stripes. The door of the latter +must share, not with Judas, for he did repent, although too late, but +with such as have taken from themselves the power of repentance.</p> + +<p>“Was there no mark left o’ her disgrace?” asked his mother. “Wasna there +a bairn to mak it manifest?”</p> + +<p>“Nane I ever heard tell o’.”</p> + +<p>“In that case she’s no muckle the waur, and ye needna gang lamentin: +<i>she</i> ’ll no be the ane to tell! and <i>ye</i> maunna, for her sake! Sae +tak ye comfort ower what’s gane and dune wi’, and canna come back, and +maunna happen again.—Eh, but it’s a’ God’s mercy there was nae bairn!”</p> + +<p>Thus had the mother herself become an evil councillor, crying Peace! +peace! when there was no peace, and tempting her son to go on and +become a devil! But one thing yet rose up for the truth in his miserable +heart—his reviving and growing love for Isy. It had seemed smothered in +selfishness, but was alive and operative: God knows how—perhaps through +feverish, incoherent, forgotten dreams.</p> + +<p>He had expected his mother to aid his repentance, and uphold his walk +in the way of righteousness, even should the way be that of social +disgrace. He knew well that reparation must go hand in hand with +repentance where the All-wise was judge, and selfish Society dared not +urge one despicable pretence for painting hidden shame in the hues of +honour. James had been the cowering slave of a false reputation; but +his illness and the assaults of his conscience had roused him, set +repentance before him, brought confession within sight, and purity +within reach of prayer.</p> + +<p>“I maun gang til her,” he cried, “the meenute I’m able to be up!—Whaur +is she, mother?”</p> + +<p>“Upo nae accoont see her, Jamie! It wad be but to fa’ again intil her +snare!” answered his mother, with decision in her look and tone. “We’re +to abstain frae a’ appearance o’ evil—as ye ken better nor I can tell +ye.”</p> + +<p>“But Isy’s no an appearance o’ evil, mother!”</p> + +<p>“Ye say weel there, I confess! Na, she’s no an appearance; she’s the +vera thing! Haud frae her, as ye wad frae the ill ane himsel.”</p> + +<p>“Did she never lat on what there had been atween ’s?”</p> + +<p>“Na, never. She kenned weel what would come o’ that!”</p> + +<p>“What, mother?”</p> + +<p>“The ootside o’ the door.”</p> + +<p>“Think ye she ever tauld onybody?”</p> + +<p>“Mony ane, I doobtna.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I dinna believe ’t. I hae nae fear but she’s been dumb as deith!”</p> + +<p>“Hoo ken ye that?—What for said she never ae word aboot ye til yer ain +mither?”</p> + +<p>“’Cause she was set on haudin her tongue. Was she to bring an owre true +tale o’ me to the vera hoose I was born in? As lang as I haud til my +tongue, she’ll never wag hers!—Eh, but she’s a true ane! <i>She’s</i> ane to +lippen til!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I alloo, she’s deen as a wuman sud—the faut bein a’ her ain!”</p> + +<p>“The faut bein’ a’ mine, mother, she wouldna tell what would disgrace +me!”</p> + +<p>“She micht hae kenned her secret would be safe wi’ me!”</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> micht hae said the same, but for the w’y ye spak o’ her this vera +meenut!—Whaur is she, mother? Whaur’s Isy?”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, she’s made a munelicht flittin o’ ’t!”</p> + +<p>“I telled ye she would never tell upo me!—Hed she ony siller?”</p> + +<p>“Hoo can <i>I</i> tell?”</p> + +<p>“Did ye pey her ony wages?”</p> + +<p>“She gae me no time!—But she’s no likly to tell noo; for, hearin her +tale, wha wad tak her in?”</p> + +<p>“Eh, mother, but ye <i>are</i> hard-hertit!”</p> + +<p>“I ken a harder, Jamie!”</p> + +<p>“That’s me!—and ye’re richt, mother! But, eh, gien ye wad hae me loe +ye frae this meenut to the end o’ my days, be but a wee fair to Isy: <i>I</i> +hae been a damnt scoon’rel til her!”</p> + +<p>“Jamie; Jamie! ye’re provokin the Lord to anger—sweirin like that in +his vera face—and you a minister!”</p> + +<p>“I provokit him a heap waur whan I left Isy to dree her shame! Divna ye +min’ hoo the apostle Peter cursed, whan he said to Simon, ‘Gang to hell +wi’ yer siller!’”</p> + +<p>“She’s telt the soutar, onygait!”</p> + +<p>“What! has <i>he</i> gotten a haud o’ her?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, has he!—And dinna ye think it’ll be a’ ower the toon lang or +this!”</p> + +<p>“And hoo will ye meet it, mother?”</p> + +<p>“We maun tell yer father, and get him to quaiet the soutar!—For <i>her</i>, +we maun jist stap her mou wi’ a bunch o’ bank-notts!”</p> + +<p>“That wad jist mak it ’maist impossible for even her to forgie you or me +aither ony langer!”</p> + +<p>“And wha’s she to speyk o’ forgivin!”</p> + +<p>The door opened, and Peter entered. He strode up to his wife, and stood +over her like an angel of vengeance. His very lips were white with +wrath.</p> + +<p>“Efter thirty years o’ merried life, noo first to ken the wife o’ my +boasom for a messenger o’ Sawtan!” he panted. “Gang oot o’ my sicht, +wuman!”</p> + +<p>She fell on her knees, and held up her two hands to him.</p> + +<p>“Think o’ Jamie, Peter!” she pleaded. “I wad tyne my sowl for Jamie!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, and tyne his as weel!” he returned. “Tyne what’s yer ain to tyne, +wuman—and that’s no your sowl, nor yet Jamie’s! He’s no yours to save, +but ye’re deein a’ ye can to destroy him—and aiblins ye’ll succeed! for +ye wad sen’ him straucht awa to hell for the sake o’ a guid name—a lee! +a hypocrisy!—Oot upo ye for a Christian mither, Mirran!—Jamie, I’m awa +to the toon, upo my twa feet, for the mere’s cripple: the vera deil’s +i’ the hoose and the stable and a’, it would seem!—I’m awa to fess Isy +hame! And, Jamie, ye’ll jist tell her afore me and yer mother, that as +sene ’s ye’re able to crawl to the kirk wi’ her, ye’ll merry her afore +the warl’, and tak her hame to the manse wi’ ye!”</p> + +<p>“Hoot, Peter! Wad ye disgrace him afore a’ the beggars o’ Tiltowie?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, and afore God, that kens a’thing ohn onybody tellt him! Han’s and +hert I s’ be clear o’ this abomination!”</p> + +<p>“Merry a wuman ’at was ta’en wi’ a wat finger!—a maiden that never said +<i>na</i>!—Merry a lass that’s nae maiden, nor ever will be!—Hoots!”</p> + +<p>“And wha’s to blame for that?”</p> + +<p>“Hersel.”</p> + +<p>“Jeemie! Jist Jeemie!—I’m fair scunnert at ye, Mirran!—Oot o’ my +sicht, I tell ye!—Lord, I kenna hoo I’m to win ower ’t!—No to a’ +eternity, I doobt!”</p> + +<p>He turned from her with a tearing groan, and went feeling for the open +door, like one struck blind.</p> + +<p>“Oh, father, father!” cried James, “forgie my mither afore ye gang, +or my hert ’ill brak. It’s the awfu’est thing o’ ony to see you twa +striven!”</p> + +<p>“She’s no sorry, no ae bit sorry!” said Peter.</p> + +<p>“I am, I am, Peter!” cried Marion, breaking down at once, and utterly. +“Dee what ye wull, and I’ll dee the same—only lat it be dene quaietly, +’ithoot din or proclamation! What for sud a’body ken a’thing! Wha has +the richt to see intil ither fowk’s herts and lives? The warl’ could ill +gang on gien that war the gait o’ ’t!”</p> + +<p>“Father,” said James, “I thank God that noo ye ken a’! Eh, sic a weicht +as it taks aff o’ me! I’ll be hale and weel noo in ae day!—I think I’ll +gang wi’ ye to Isy, mysel!—But I’m a wee bit sorry ye cam in jist that +minute! I wuss ye had harkit a wee langer! For I wasna giein-in to my +mother; I was but thinkin hoo to say oot what was in me, ohn vext her +waur nor couldna be helpit. Believe me, father, gien ye can; though I +doobt sair ye winna be able!”</p> + +<p>“I believe ye, my bairn; and I thank God I hae that muckle pooer o’ +belief left in me! I confess I was in ower great a hurry, and I’m sure +ye war takin the richt gait wi’ yer puir mither.—Ye see she loed ye sae +weel that she could think o’ nae thing or body but yersel! That’s the +w’y o’ mithers, Jamie, gien ye only kenned it! She was nigh sinnin an +awfu sin for your sake, man!”</p> + +<p>Here he turned again to his wife. “That’s what comes o’ lovin the praise +o’ men, Mirran! Easy it passes intil the fear o’ men, and disregaird o’ +the Holy!—I s’ awa doon to the soutar, and tell him the cheenge that’s +come ower us a’: he’ll no be a hair surprised!”</p> + +<p>“I’m ready, father—or will be in ae minute!” said James, making as if +to spring out of bed.</p> + +<p>“Na, na; ye’re no fit!” interposed his father. “I would hae to be takin +ye upo my back afore we wis at the fut o’ the brae!—Bide ye at hame, +and keep yer mither company.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, bide, Jamie; and I winna come near ye,” sobbed his mother.</p> + +<p>“Onything to please ye, mother!—but I’m fitter nor my father thinks,” +said James as he settled down again in bed.</p> + +<p>So Peter went, leaving mother and son silent together.</p> + +<p>At last the mother spoke.</p> + +<p>“It’s the shame o’ ’t, Jamie!” she said.</p> + +<p>“The shame was i’ the thing itsel, mother, and in hidin frae that +shame!” he answered. “Noo, I hae but the dregs to drink, and them I maun +glog ower wi’ patience, for I hae weel deserved to drink them!—But, eh, +my bonnie Isy, she maun hae suffert sair!—I daur hardly think what she +maun hae come throuw!”</p> + +<p>“Her mither couldna hae broucht her up richt! The first o’ the faut lay +i’ the upbringin!”</p> + +<p>“There’s anither whause upbringin wasna to blame: <i>my</i> upbringin was a’ +it oucht to hae been—and see hoo ill <i>I</i> turnt oot!”</p> + +<p>“It wasna what it oucht! I see ’t a’ plain the noo! I was aye ower feart +o’ garrin ye hate me!—Oh, Isy, Isy, I hae dene ye wrang! I ken ye cud +never hae laid yersel oot to snare him—it wasna in ye to dee ’t!”</p> + +<p>“Thank ye, mother! It was, railly and truly, a’ my wyte! And noo my life +sall gang to mak up til her!”</p> + +<p>“And I maun see to the manse!” rejoined his mother. “—And first in +order o’ a’, that Jinse o’ yours ’ill hae to gang!”</p> + +<p>“As ye like, mother. But for the manse, I maun clear oot o’ that! I’ll +speak nae mair frae that poopit! I hae hypocreesit in ’t ower lang! The +vera thoucht o’ ’t scunners me!”</p> + +<p>“Speyk na like that o’ the poopit, Jamie, whaur sae mony holy men hae +stede up and spoken the word o’ God! It frichts me to hear ye! Ye’ll +be a burnin and a shinin licht i’ that poopit for mony a lang day efter +we’re deid and hame!”</p> + +<p>“The mair holy men that hae there witnessed, the less daur ony livin lee +stan’ there braggin and blazin i’ the face o’ God and man! It’s shame o’ +mysel that gars me hate the place, mother! Ance and no more wull I stan’ +there, making o’ ’t my stele o’ repentance; and syne doon the steps and +awa, like Adam frae the gairden!”</p> + +<p>“And what’s to come o’ Eve? Are ye gaein, like him, to say, ‘The wuman +thoo giedest til me—it was a’ her wyte’?”</p> + +<p>“Ye ken weel I’m takin a’ the wyte upo mysel!”</p> + +<p>“But hoo can ye tak it a’, or even ony fair share o’ ’t, gien up there +ye stan’ and confess? Ye maun hae some care o’ the lass—that is, gien +efter and a’ ye’re gaein to mak o’ her yer wife, as ye profess.—And +what are ye gaein to turn yer han’ til neist, seein ye hae a’ready laid +it til the pleuch and turnt back?”</p> + +<p>“To the pleuch again, mother—the rael pleuch this time! Frae the kirk +door I’ll come hame like the prodigal to my father’s hoose, and say til +him, ‘Set me to the pleuch, father. See gien I canna be something <i>like</i> +a son to ye, efter a’’!”</p> + +<p>So wrought in him that mighty power, mysterious in its origin as +marvellous in its result, which had been at work in him all the time he +lay whelmed under feverish phantasms.</p> + +<p>His repentance was true; he had been dead, and was alive again! God and +the man had met at last! As to <i>how</i> God turned the man’s heart, Thou +God, knowest. To understand that, we should have to go down below the +foundations themselves, underneath creation, and there see God send out +from himself man, the spirit, distinguished yet never divided from God, +the spirit, for ever dependent upon and growing in Him, never completed +and never ended, his origin, his very life being infinite; never outside +of God, because <i>in</i> him only he lives and moves and grows, and <i>has</i> +his being. Brothers, let us not linger to ask! let us obey, and, +obeying, ask what we will! thus only shall we become all we are capable +of being; thus only shall we learn all we are capable of knowing! The +pure in heart shall see God; and to see him is to know all things.</p> + +<p>Something like this was the meditation of the soutar, as he saw the +farmer stride away into the dusk of the gathering twilight, going home +with glad heart to his wife and son.</p> + +<p>Peter had told the soutar that his son was sorely troubled because of +a sin of his youth and its long concealment: now he was bent on all the +reparation he could make. “Mr. Robertson,” said Peter, “broucht the lass +to oor hoose, never mentionin Jamie, for he didna ken they war onything +til ane anither; and for her, she never said ae word aboot him to Mirran +or me.”</p> + +<p>The soutar went to the door, and called Isy. She came, and stood humbly +before her old master.</p> + +<p>“Weel, Isy,” said the farmer kindly, “ye gied ’s a clever slip yon +morning and a gey fricht forbye! What possessed ye, lass, to dee sic a +thing?”</p> + +<p>She stood distressed, and made no answer.</p> + +<p>“Hoot, lassie, tell me!” insisted Peter; “I haena been an ill maister +til ye, have I?”</p> + +<p>“Sir, ye hae been like the maister o’ a’ til me! But I canna—that is, I +maunna—or raither, I’m determined no to explain the thing til onybody.”</p> + +<p>“Thoucht ye my wife was feart the minister micht fa’ in love wi ye?”</p> + +<p>“Weel, sir, there micht hae been something like that intil ’t! But I +wantit sair to win at my bairn again; for i’ that trance I lay in sae +lang, I saw or h’ard something I took for an intimation that he was +alive, and no that far awa.—And—wad ye believe’t, sir?—i’ this vera +hoose I fand him, and here I hae him, and I’m jist as happy the noo as I +was meeserable afore! Is ’t ill o’ me at I <i>canna</i> be sorry ony mair?”</p> + +<p>“Na, na,” interposed the soutar: “whan the Lord wad lift the burden, it +wad be baith senseless and thankless to grup at it! In His name lat it +gang, lass!”</p> + +<p>“And noo,” said Mr. Blatherwick, again taking up his probe, “ye hae but +ae thing left to confess—and that’s wha’s the father o’ ’im!”</p> + +<p>“Na, I canna dee that, sir; it’s enough that I have disgracet <i>myself</i>! +You wouldn’t have me disgrace another as well! What good would that be?”</p> + +<p>“It wad help ye beir the disgrace.”</p> + +<p>“Na, no a hair, sir; <i>he</i> cudna stan’ the disgrace half sae weel ’s me! +I reckon the man the waiker vessel, sir; the woman has her bairn to fend +for, and that taks her aff o’ the shame!”</p> + +<p>“Ye dinna tell me he gies ye noucht to mainteen the cratur upo?”</p> + +<p>“I tell ye naething, sir. He never even kenned there <i>was</i> a bairn!”</p> + +<p>“Hoot, toot! ye canna be sae semple! It’s no poassible ye never loot him +ken!”</p> + +<p>“’Deed no; I was ower sair ashamit! Ye see it was a’ my wyte!—and it +was naebody’s business! My auntie said gien I wouldna tell, I micht put +the door atween ’s; and I took her at her word; for I kenned weel <i>she</i> +couldna keep a secret, and I wasna gaein to hae <i>his</i> name mixed up wi’ +a lass like mysel! And, sir, ye maunna try to gar me tell, for I hae no +richt, and surely ye canna hae the hert to gar me!—But that ye <i>sanna</i>, +ony gait!”</p> + +<p>“I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there’s jist ae thing I’m determined +upo—and that is that the rascal sall merry ye!”</p> + +<p>Isy’s face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her +pleasure at such a word from <i>his</i> mouth. But the flush faded, and +presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and +getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted +across her face as she answered—</p> + +<p>“Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til +ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han’!”</p> + +<p>“That’s what he’ll hae to dee though—jist merry ye aff han’! I s’ <i>gar</i> +him.”</p> + +<p>“I winna hae him garred! It’s me that has the richt ower him, and +no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o’ +me—thinkin I would tak a man ’at was garred! Na, na; there s’ be nae +garrin!—And ye canna gar <i>him</i> merry me gien <i>I</i> winna hae him! The +day’s by for that!—A garred man! My certy!—Na, I thank ye!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, my bonny leddy,” said Peter, “gien I had a prence to my +son,—providit he was worth yer takin—I wad say to ye, ‘Hae, my +leddy!’”</p> + +<p>“And I would say to you, sir, ‘No—gien he bena willin,’” answered Isy, +and ran from the room.</p> + +<p>“Weel, what think ye o’ the lass by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?” said +the soutar, with a flash in his eye.</p> + +<p>“I think jist what I thoucht afore,” answered Peter: “she’s ane amo’ a +million!”</p> + +<p>“I’m no that sure aboot the proportion!” returned MacLear. “I doobt ye +micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!—A million’s a heap +o’ women!”</p> + +<p>“All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea’ father and +mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he’s +no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s’ never +speyk word til ’im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o’ auld +Methuselah!”</p> + +<p>“Tak tent what ye say, or mint at sayin, to persuaud him:—Isy ’ill +be upo ye!” said the soutar laughing. “—But hearken to me, Mr. +Bletherwick, and sayna a word to the minister aboot the bairnie.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na; it’ll be best to lat him fin’ that oot for himsel.—And noo I +maun be gaein, for I hae my wallet fu’!”</p> + +<p>He strode to the door, holding his head high, and with never a word +more, went out. The soutar closed the door and returned to his work, +saying aloud as he went, “Lord, lat me ever and aye see thy face, and +noucht mair will I desire—excep that the haill warl, O Lord, may behold +it likewise. The prayers o’ the soutar are endit!”</p> + +<p>Peter Blatherwick went home joyous at heart. His son was his son, and +no villain!—only a poor creature, as is every man until he turns to +the Lord, and leaves behind him every ambition, and all care about the +judgment of men. He rejoiced that the girl he and Marion had befriended +would be a strength to his son: she whom his wife would have rejected +had proved herself indeed right noble! And he praised the father of men, +that the very backslidings of those he loved had brought about their +repentance and uplifting.</p> + +<p>“Here I am!” he cried as he entered the house. “I hae seen the lassie +ance mair, and she’s better and bonnier nor ever!”</p> + +<p>“Ow ay; ye’re jist like a’ the men I ever cam across!” rejoined Marion +smiling; “—easy taen wi’ the skin-side!”</p> + +<p>“Doobtless: the Makker has taen a heap o’ pains wi the skin!—Ony gait, +yon lassie’s ane amang ten thoosan! Jeemie sud be on his k-nees til her +this vera moment—no sitting there glowerin as gien his twa een war twa +bullets—fired aff, but never won oot o’ their barrels!”</p> + +<p>“Hoot! wad ye hae him gang on his k-nees til ony but the Ane!”</p> + +<p>“Aye wad I—til ony ane that’s nearer His likness nor himsel—and that +ane’s oor Isy!—I wadna won’er, Jeemie, gien ye war fit for a drive the +morn! In that case, I s’ caw ye doon to the toon, and lat ye say yer ain +say til her.”</p> + +<p>James did not sleep much that night, and nevertheless was greatly better +the next day—indeed almost well.</p> + +<p>Before noon they were at the soutar’s door. The soutar opened it +himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, +where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him.</p> + +<p>“Isy,” he faltered, “can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene’s +ever we can be cried?—I’m as ashamed o’ mysel as even ye would hae me!”</p> + +<p>“Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o’ as <i>I</i> hae, sir: it was a’ my +wyte!”</p> + +<p>“And syne no to haud my face til’t!—Isy, I hae been a scoonrel til ye! +I’m that disgustit at mysel ’at I canna luik ye i’ the face!”</p> + +<p>“Ye didna ken whaur I was! I ran awa that naebody micht ken.”</p> + +<p>“What rizzon was there for onybody to ken? I’m sure ye never tellt!”</p> + +<p>Isy went to the door and called Maggie. James stared after her, +bewildered.</p> + +<p>“There was this rizzon,” she said, re-entering with the child, and +laying him in James’s arms.</p> + +<p>He gasped with astonishment, almost consternation.</p> + +<p>“Is this mine?” he stammered.</p> + +<p>“Yours and mine, sir,” she replied. “Wasna God a heap better til me nor +I deserved?—Sic a bonnie bairn! No a mark, no a spot upon him frae heid +to fut to tell that he had no business to be here!—Gie the bonnie wee +man a kiss, Mr. Blatherwick. Haud him close to ye, sir, and he’ll tak +the pain oot o’ yer heart: aften has he taen ’t oot o’ mine—only it +aye cam again!—He’s yer ain son, sir! He cam to me bringin the Lord’s +forgiveness, lang or ever I had the hert to speir for ’t. Eh, but we +maun dee oor best to mak up til God’s bairn for the wrang we did him +afore he was born! But he’ll be like his great Father, and forgie us +baith!”</p> + +<p>As soon as Maggie had given the child to his mother, she went to her +father, and sat down beside him, crying softly. He turned on his leather +stool, and looked at her.</p> + +<p>“Canna ye rejice wi’ them that rejice, noo that ye hae nane to greit +wi’, Maggie, my doo?” he said. “Ye haena lost ane, and ye hae gaint twa! +Haudna the glaidness back that’s sae fain to come to the licht i’ yer +grudgin hert, Maggie! God himsel ’s glaid, and the Shepherd’s glaid, and +the angels are a’ makin sic a flut-flutter wi’ their muckle wings ’at I +can ’maist see nor hear for them!”</p> + +<p>Maggie rose, and stood a moment wiping her eyes. The same instant the +door opened, and James entered with the little one in his arms. He laid +him with a smile in Maggie’s.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, sir!” said the girl humbly, and clasped the child to her +bosom; nor, after that, was ever a cloud of jealousy to be seen on her +face. I will not say she never longed or even wept after the little one, +whom she still regarded as her very own, even when he was long gone +away with his father and mother; indeed she mourned for him then like +a mother from whom death has taken away her first-born and only son; +neither did she see much difference between the two forms of loss; for +Maggie felt in her heart that life nor death could destroy the relation +that already existed between them: she could not be her father’s +daughter and not understand that! Therefore, like a bereaved mother, she +only gave herself the more to her father.</p> + +<p>I will not dwell on the delight of James and Isobel, thus restored to +each other, the one from a sea of sadness, the other from a gulf of +perdition. The one had deserved many stripes, the other but a few: +needful measure had been measured to each; and repentance had brought +them together.</p> + +<p>Before James left the house, the soutar took him aside, and said—</p> + +<p>“Daur I offer ye a word o’ advice, sir?”</p> + +<p>“’Deed that ye may!” answered the young man with humility: “and I dinna +see hoo it can be possible for me to haud frae deein as ye tell me; for +you and my father and Isy atween ye, hae jist saved my vera sowl!”</p> + +<p>“Weel, what I wad beg o’ ye is, that ye tak no further step o’ ony +consequence, afore ye see Maister Robertson, and mak him acquant wi the +haill affair.”</p> + +<p>“I’m vera willin,” answered James; “and I doobtna Isy ’ill be content.”</p> + +<p>“Ye may be vera certain, sir, that she’ll be naething but pleased: she +has a gran’ opingon, and weel she may, o’ Maister Robertson. Ye see, +sir, I want ye to put yersels i’ the han’s o’ a man that kens ye baith, +and the half o’ yer story a’ready—ane, that is, wha’ll jeedge ye truly +and mercifully, and no condemn ye affhan’. Syne tak his advice what ye +oucht to dee neist.”</p> + +<p>“I will—and thank you, Mr. MacLear! Ae thing only I houp—that naither +you, sir, nor he will ever seek to pursuaud me to gang on preachin. Ae +thing I’m set upon, and that is, to deliver my sowl frae hypocrisy, and +walk softly a’ the rest o’ my days! Happy man wad I hae been, had they +set me frae the first to caw the pleuch, and cut the corn, and gether +the stooks intil the barn—i’stead o’ creepin intil a leaky boat to fish +for men wi’ a foul and tangled net! I’m affrontit and jist scunnert +at mysel!—Eh, the presumption o’ the thing! But I hae been weel and +richteously punished! The Father drew his han’ oot o’ mine, and loot me +try to gang my lane; sae doon I cam, for I was fit for naething but to +fa’: naething less could hae broucht me to mysel—and it took a lang +time! I houp Mr. Robertson will see the thing as I dee mysel!—Wull I +write and speir him oot to Stanecross to advise wi my father aboot Isy? +That would bring him! There never was man readier to help!—But it’s +surely my pairt to gang to <i>him</i>, and mak my confession, and boo til his +judgment!—Only I maun tell Isy first!”</p> + +<p>Isy was not only willing, but eager that Mr. and Mrs. Robertson should +know everything.</p> + +<p>“But be sure,” she added, “that you let them know you come of yourself, +and I never asked you.”</p> + +<p>Peter said he could not let him go alone, but must himself go with him, +for he was but weakly yet—and they must not put it off a single day, +lest anything should transpire and be misrepresented.</p> + +<p>The news which father and son carried them, filled the Robertsons with +more than pleasure; and if their reception of him made James feel +the repentant prodigal he was, it was by its heartiness, and their +jubilation over Isy.</p> + +<p>The next Sunday, Mr. Robertson preached in James’s pulpit, and published +the banns of marriage between James Blatherwick and Isobel Rose. The +two following Sundays he repeated his visit to Tiltowie for the same +purpose; and on the Monday married them at Stonecross. Then was also the +little one baptized, by the name of Peter, in his father’s arms—amid +much gladness, not unmingled with shame. The soutar and his Maggie were +the only friends present besides the Robertsons.</p> + +<p>Before the gathering broke up, the farmer put the big Bible in the hands +of the soutar, with the request that he would lead their prayers; and +this was very nearly what he said:—“O God, to whom we belang, hert and +soul, body and blude and banes, hoo great art thou, and hoo close to us, +to haud the richt ower us o’ sic a gran’ and fair, sic a just and true +ownership! We bless thee hertily, rejicin in what thoo hast made us, +and still mair in what thoo art thysel! Tak to thy hert, and haud them +there, these thy twa repentant sinners, and thy ain little ane and +theirs, wha’s innocent as thoo hast made him. Gie them sic grace to +bring him up, that he be nane the waur for the wrang they did him afore +he was born; and lat the knowledge o’ his parents’ faut haud him safe +frae onything siclike! and may they baith be the better for their fa’, +and live a heap the mair to the glory o’ their Father by cause o’ that +slip! And gien ever the minister should again preach thy word, may it be +wi’ the better comprehension, and the mair fervour; and to that en’ +gie him to un’erstan’ the hicht and deepth and breid and len’th o’ thy +forgivin love. Thy name be gloryfeed! Amen!”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, I’ll never preach again!” whispered James to the soutar, as +they rose from their knees.</p> + +<p>“I winna be a’thegither sure o’ that!” returned the soutar. “Doobtless +ye’ll dee as the Spirit shaws ye!”</p> + +<p>James made no answer, and neither spoke again that night.</p> + +<p>The next morning, James sent to the clerk of the synod his resignation +of his parish and office.</p> + +<p>No sooner had Marion, repentant under her husband’s terrible rebuke, +set herself to resist her rampant pride, than the indwelling goodness +swelled up in her like a reviving spring, and she began to be herself +again, her old and lovely self. Little Peter, with his beauty and +his winsome ways, melted and scattered the last lingering rack of her +fog-like ambition for her son. Twenty times in a morning would she drop +her work to catch up and caress her grandchild, overwhelming him with +endearments; while over the return of his mother, her second Isy, now +her daughter indeed, she soon became jubilant.</p> + +<p>From the first publication of the banns, she had begun cleaning and +setting to rights the parlour, meaning to make it over entirely to +Isy and James; but the moment Isy discovered her intent, she protested +obstinately: it should not, could not, must not be! The very morning +after the wedding she was down in the kitchen, and had put the water on +the fire for the porridge before her husband was awake. Before her new +mother was down, or her father-in-law come in from his last preparations +for the harvest, it was already boiling, and the table laid for +breakfast.</p> + +<p>“I ken weel,” she said to her mother, “that I hae no richt to contre ye; +but ye was glaid o’ my help whan first I cam to be yer servan-lass; and +what for shouldna things be jist the same noo? I ken a’ the w’ys o’ the +place, and that they’ll lea’ me plenty o’ time for the bairnie: ye maun +jist lat me step again intil my ain auld place! and gien onybody comes, +it winna tak me a minute to mak mysel tidy as becomes the minister’s +wife!—Only he says that’s to be a’ ower noo, and there’ll be no need!”</p> + +<p>With that she broke into a little song, and went on with her work, +singing.</p> + +<p>At breakfast, James made request to his father that he might turn a +certain unused loft into a room for Isy and himself and little Peter. +His father making no objection, he set about the scheme at once, but was +interrupted by the speedy advent of an exceptionally plentiful harvest.</p> + +<p>The very day the cutting of the oats began, James appeared on the field +with the other scythe-men, prepared to do his best. When his father +came, however, he interfered, and compelled him to take the thing +easier, because, unfit by habit and recent illness, it would be even +dangerous for him to emulate the others. But what delighted his father +even more than his good-will, was the way he talked with the men and +women in the field: every show of superiority had vanished from his +bearing and speech, and he was simply himself, behaving like the others, +only with greater courtesy.</p> + +<p>When the hour for the noonday meal arrived, Isy appeared with her +mother-in-law and old Eppie, carrying their food for the labourers, +and leading little Peter in her hand. For a while the whole company was +enlivened by the child’s merriment; after which he was laid with his +bottle in the shadow of an overarching stook, and went to sleep, his +mother watching him, while she took her first lesson in gathering and +binding the sheaves. When he woke, his grandfather sent the whole family +home for the rest of the day.</p> + +<p>“Hoots, Isy, my dauty,” he said, when she would fain have continued her +work, “wad ye mak a slave-driver o’ me, and bring disgrace upo the name +o’ father?”</p> + +<p>Then at once she obeyed, and went with her husband, both of them tired +indeed, but happier than ever in their lives before.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>The next morning James was in the field with the rest long before the +sun was up. Day by day he grew stronger in mind and in body, until at +length he was not only quite equal to the harvest-work, but capable of +anything required of a farm servant.</p> + +<p>His deliverance from the slavery of Sunday prayers and sermons, and his +consequent sense of freedom and its delight, greatly favoured his growth +in health and strength. Before the winter came, however, he had begun +to find his heart turning toward the pulpit with a waking desire after +utterance. For, almost as soon as his day’s work ceased to exhaust him, +he had begun to take up the study of the sayings and doings of the +Lord of men, full of eagerness to verify the relation in which he stood +toward him, and, through him, toward that eternal atmosphere in which he +lived and moved and had his being, God himself.</p> + +<p>One day, with a sudden questioning hunger, he rose in haste from his +knees, and turned almost trembling to his Greek Testament, to find +whether the words of the Master, “If any man will do the will of the +Father,” meant “If any man <i>is willing</i> to do the will of the Father;” +and finding that just what they did mean, he was thenceforward so far at +rest as to go on asking and hoping; nor was it then long before he began +to feel he had something worth telling, and must tell it to any that +would hear. And heartily he betook himself to pray for that spirit of +truth which the Lord had promised to them that asked it of their Father +in heaven.</p> + +<p>He talked with his wife about what he had found; he talked with his +father about it; he went to the soutar, and talked with him about it.</p> + +<p>Now the soutar had for many years made a certain use of his Sundays, +by which he now saw he might be of service to James: he went four miles +into the country to a farm on the other side of Stonecross, to hold +there a Sunday-school. It was the last farm for a long way in that +direction: beyond it lay an unproductive region, consisting mostly of +peat-mosses, and lone barren hills—where the waters above the firmament +were but imperfectly divided from the waters below the firmament. +For there roots of the hills coming rather close together, the waters +gathered and made marshy places, with here and there a patch of ground +on which crops could be raised. There were, however, many more houses, +such as they were, than could have been expected from the appearance +of the district. In one spot, indeed, not far from the farm I have +mentioned, there was a small, thin hamlet. A long way from church or +parish-school, and without any, nearer than several miles, to minister +to the spiritual wants of the people, it was a rather rough and ignorant +place, with a good many superstitions—none of them in their nature +specially mischievous, except indeed as they blurred the idea of divine +care and government—just the country for bogill-baes and brownie-baes, +boodies and water-kelpies to linger and disport themselves, long after +they had elsewhere disappeared!</p> + +<p>When, therefore, the late minister came seeking his counsel, the soutar +proposed, without giving any special reason for it, that he should +accompany him the next Sunday afternoon, to his school at Bogiescratt; +and James consenting, the soutar undertook to call for him at Stonecross +on his way.</p> + +<p>“Mr. MacLear,” said James, as they walked along the rough parish road +together, “I have but just arrived at a point I ought to have reached +before even entertaining a thought of opening my mouth upon anything +belonging to religion. Perhaps I knew some little things <i>about</i> +religion; certainly I knew nothing <i>of</i> religion; least of all had I +made any discovery for myself <i>in</i> religion; and before that, how can a +man understand or know anything whatever concerning it? Even now I may +be presuming, but now at last, if I may dare to say so, I do seem to +have begun to recognize something of the relation between a man and the +God who made him; and with the sense of that, as I ventured to hint +when I saw you last Friday, there has risen in my mind a desire to +communicate to my fellow-men something of what I have seen and learned. +One thing I dare to hope—that, at the first temptation to show-off, I +shall be made aware of my danger, and have the grace given me to pull +up. And one thing I have resolved upon—that, if ever I preach again, I +will never again write a sermon. I know I shall make many blunders, and +do the thing very badly; but failure itself will help to save me from +conceit—will keep me, I hope, from thinking of myself at all, enabling +me to leave myself in God’s hands, willing to fail if he please. Don’t +you think, Mr. MacLear, we may even now look to God for what we ought to +say, as confidently as if, like the early Christians, we stood accused +before the magistrates?”</p> + +<p>“I div that, Maister Jeames!” answered the soutar. “Hide yersel in God, +sir, and oot o’ that secret place, secret and safe, speyk—and fear +naething. And never ye mint at speykin <i>doon</i> to your congregation. Luik +them straucht i’ the een, and say what at the moment ye think and feel; +and dinna hesitate to gie them the best ye hae.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, thank you, sir! I think I understand,” replied James.—“If +ever I speak again, I should like to begin in your school!”</p> + +<p>“Ye sall—this vera nicht, gien ye like,” rejoined the soutar. “I think +ye hae something e’en noo upo yer min’ ’at ye would like to say to +them—but we’ll see hoo ye feel aboot it efter I hae said a word to them +first!”</p> + +<p>“When you have said what you want to say, Mr. MacLear, give me a look; +and if I <i>have</i> anything to say, I will respond to your sign. Then you +can introduce me, saying what you will. Only dinna spare me; use me +after your judgment.”</p> + +<p>The soutar held out his hand to his disciple, and they finished their +journey in silence.</p> + +<p>When they reached the farmhouse, the small gathering was nearly +complete. It was mostly of farm labourers; but a few of the congregation +worked in a quarry, where serpentine lay under the peat. In this +serpentine occurred veins of soapstone, occasionally of such a thickness +as to be itself the object of the quarrier: it was used in the making of +porcelain; and small quantities were in request for other purposes.</p> + +<p>When the soutar began, James was a little shocked at first to hear him +use his mother-tongue as in his ordinary conversation; but any sense of +its unsuitableness vanished presently, and James soon began to feel +that the vernacular gave his friend additional power of expression, and +therewith of persuasion.</p> + +<p>“My frien’s, I was jist thinkin, as I cam ower the hill,” he began, +“hoo we war a’ made wi’ differin pooers—some o’ ’s able to dee ae thing +best, and some anither; and that led me to remark, that it was the same +wi’ the warl we live in—some pairts o’ ’t fit for growin aits, and some +bere, and some wheat, or pitatas; and hoo ilk varyin rig had to be +turnt til its ain best eese. We a’ ken what a lot o’ eeses the bonny +green-and-reid-mottlet marble can be put til; but it wadna do weel for +biggin hooses, specially gien there war mony streaks o’ saipstane intil +’t. Still it’s no ’at the saipstane itsel’s o’ nae eese, for ye ken +there’s a heap o’ eeses it can be put til. For ae thing, the tailor taks +a bit o’ ’t to mark whaur he’s to sen’ the shears alang the claith, when +he’s cuttin oot a pair o’ breeks; and again they mix’t up wi the clay +they tak for the finer kin’s o’ crockery. But upo’ the ither han’ +there’s ae thing it’s eesed for by some, ’at canna be considert a richt +eese to mak o’ ’t: there’s ae wull tribe in America they tell me o’, ’at +ait a hantle o’ ’t—and that’s a thing I can<i>not</i> un’erstan’; for it diz +them, they say, no guid at a’, ’cep, maybe, it be jist to fill-in the +toom places i’ their stammacks, puir reid craturs, and haud their ribs +ohn stucken thegither—and maybe that’s jist what they ait it for! Eh, +but they maun be sair hungert afore they tak til the vera dirt! But +they’re only savage fowk, I’m thinkin, ’at hae hardly begun to be men +ava!</p> + +<p>“Noo ye see what I’m drivin’ at? It’s this—that things hae aye to be +put to their richt eeses! But there are guid eeses and better eeses, +and things canna <i>aye</i> be putten to their <i>best</i> eeses; only, whaur they +can, it’s a shame to put them to ony ither but their best! Noo, +what’s the best eese o’ a man?—what’s a man made for? The carritchis +(<i>catechism</i>) says, <i>To glorifee God</i>. And hoo is he to dee that? Jist +by deein the wull o’ God. For the ae perfec’ man said he was born intil +the warl for that ae special purpose, to dee the wull o’ him that sent +him. A man’s for a heap o’ eeses, but that ae eese covers them a’. Whan +he’s deein’ the wull o’ God, he’s deein jist a’thing.</p> + +<p>“Still there are vahrious wy’s in which a man can be deein the wull o’ +his Father in h’aven, and the great thing for ilk ane is to fin’ oot the +best w’y <i>he</i> can set aboot deein that wull.</p> + +<p>“Noo here’s a man sittin aside me that I maun help set to the best eese +he’s fit for—and that is, tellin ither fowk what he kens aboot the God +that made him and them, and stirrin o’ them up to dee what He would hae +them dee. The fac is, that the man was ance a minister o’ the Kirk o’ +Scotlan’; but whan he was a yoong man, he fell intil a great faut:—a +yoong man’s faut—I’m no gaein to excuse ’t—dinna think it!—Only I +chairge ye, be ceevil til him i’ yer vera thouchts, rememberin hoo mony +things ye hae dene yersels ’at ye hae to be ashamit o’, though some +o’ them may never hae come to the licht; for, be sure o’ this, he has +repentit richt sair. Like the prodigal, he grew that ashamit o’ what he +had dene, that he gied up his kirk, and gaed hame to the day’s darg +upon his father’s ferm. And that’s what he’s at the noo, thof he be a +scholar, and that a ripe ane! And by his repentance he’s learnt a heap +that he didna ken afore, and that he couldna hae learnt ony ither +w’y than by turnin wi’ shame frae the path o’ the transgressor. I hae +broucht him wi’ me this day, sirs, to tell ye something—he hasna said +to me what—that the Lord in his mercy has tellt him. I’ll say nae mair: +Mr. Bletherwick, wull ye please tell’s what the Lord has putten it intil +yer min’ to say?”</p> + +<p>The soutar sat down; and James got up, white and trembling. For a moment +or two he was unable to speak, but overcoming his emotion, and falling +at once into the old Scots tongue, he said—</p> + +<p>“My frien’s, I hae little richt to stan’ up afore ye and say onything; +for, as some o’ ye ken, if no afore, at least noo, frae what my frien’ +the soutar has jist been tellin ye, I was ance a minister o’ the kirk, +but upon a time I behavet mysel that ill, that, whan I cam to my senses, +I saw it my duty to withdraw, and mak room for anither to tak up my +disgracet bishopric, as was said o’ Judas the traitor. But noo I seem +to hae gotten some mair licht, and to ken some things I didna ken afore; +sae, turnin my back upo’ my past sin, and believin God has forgien me, +and is willin I sud set my han’ to his pleuch ance mair, I hae thoucht +to mak a new beginnin here in a quaiet heumble fashion, tellin ye +something o’ what I hae begoud, i’ the mercy o’ God, to un’erstan’ a +wee for mysel. Sae noo, gien ye'll turn, them o’ ye that has broucht +yer buiks wi’ ye, to the saeventh chapter o’ John’s gospel, and the +saeventeenth verse, ye’ll read wi me what the Lord says there to the +fowk o Jerus’lem: <i>Gien ony man be wullin to dee His wull, he’ll ken +whether what I tell him comes frae God, or whether I say ’t only oot +o’ my ain heid</i>. Luik at it for yersels, for that’s what it says i’ the +Greek, the whilk is plainer than the English to them that un’erstan’ +the auld Greek tongue: Gien onybody <i>be wullin</i> to dee the wull o’ God, +he’ll ken whether my teachin comes frae God, or I say ’t o’ mysel.”</p> + +<p>From that he went on to tell them that, if they kept trusting in God, +and doing what Jesus told them, any mistake they made would but help +them the better to understand what God and his son would have them do. +The Lord gave them no promise, he said, of knowing what this or that man +ought to do; but only of knowing what the man himself ought to do. And +he illustrated this by the rebuke the Lord gave Peter when, leaving +inquiry into the will of God that he might do it, he made inquiry into +the decree of God concerning his friend that he might know it; seeking +wherewithal, not to prophesy, but to foretell. Then he showed them the +difference between the meaning of the Greek word, and that of the modern +English word <i>prophesy</i>.</p> + +<p>The little congregation seemed to hang upon his words, and as they were +going away, thanked him heartily for thus talking to them.</p> + +<p>That same night as James and the soutar were going home together, they +were overtaken by an early snowstorm, and losing their way, were in the +danger, not a small one, of having to pass the night on the moor. But +happily, the farmer’s wife, in whose house was their customary assembly, +had, as they were taking their leave, made the soutar a present of some +onion bulbs, of a sort for which her garden was famous: exhausted in +conflict with the freezing blast, they had lain down, apparently to die +before the morning, when the soutar bethought himself of the onions; +and obeying their nearer necessity, they ate instead of keeping them to +plant; with the result that they were so refreshed, and so heartened for +battle with the wind and snow, that at last, in the small hours of the +morning, they reached home, weary and nigh frozen.</p> + +<p>All through the winter, James accompanied the soutar to his +Sunday-school, sometimes on his father’s old gig-horse, but oftener +on foot. His father would occasionally go also; and then the men of +Stonecross began to go, with the cottar and his wife; so that the little +company of them gradually increased to about thirty men and women, and +about half as many children. In general, the soutar gave a short +opening address; but he always made “the minister” speak; and thus James +Blatherwick, while encountering many hidden experiences, went through +his apprenticeship to extempore preaching; and, hardly knowing how, grew +capable at length of following out a train of thought in his own mind +even while he spoke, and that all the surer from the fact that, as it +rose, it found immediate utterance; and at the same time it was rendered +the more living and potent by the sight of the eager faces of his humble +friends fixed upon him, as they drank in, sometimes even anticipated, +the things he was saying. He seemed to himself at times almost to see +their thoughts taking reality and form to accompany him whither he +led them; while the stream of his thought, as it disappeared from his +consciousness and memory, seemed to settle in the minds of those who +heard him, like seed cast on open soil—some of it, at least, to grow +up in resolves, and bring forth fruit. And all the road as the friends +returned, now in moonlight, now in darkness and rain, sometimes in wind +and snow, they had such things to think of and talk about, that the +way never seemed long. Thus dwindled by degrees Blatherwick’s +self-reflection and self-seeking, and, growing divinely conscious, +he grew at the same time divinely self-oblivious. Once, upon such a +home-coming, as his wife was helping him off with his wet boots, he +looked up in her face and said—</p> + +<p>“To think, Isy, that here am I, a dull, selfish creature, so long +desiring only for myself knowledge and influence, now at last grown able +to feel in my heart all the way home, that I took every step, one after +the other, only by the strength of God in me, caring for me as my own +making father!—Ken ye what I’m trying to say, Isy, my dear?”</p> + +<p>“I canna be a’thegither certain I un’erstan’,” answered his wife; “but +I’ll keep thinkin aboot it, and maybe I’ll come til’t!”</p> + +<p>“I can desire no more,” answered James, “for until the Lord lat ye see +a thing, hoo can you or I or onybody see the thing that <i>he</i> maun see +first! And what is there for us to desire, but to see things as God sees +them, and would hae us see them? I used to think the soutar a puir fule +body whan he was sayin the vera things I’m tryin to say noo! I saw nae +mair what he was efter than that puir collie there at my feet—maybe no +half sae muckle, for wha can tell what he mayna be thinkin, wi’ that far +awa luik o’ his!”</p> + +<p>“Div ye think, Jeames, that ever we’ll be able to see inside thae +doggies, and ken what they’re thinkin?”</p> + +<p>“I wouldna won’er what we mayna come til; for ye ken Paul says, ‘A’ +things are yours, and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s!’ Wha can +tell but the vera herts o’ the doggies may ae day lie bare and open to +<i>oor</i> herts, as to the hert o’ Him wi’ whom they and we hae to do! Eh, +but the thouchts o’ a doggie maun be a won’erfu’ sicht! And syne to +think o’ the thouchts o’ Christ aboot that doggie! We’ll ken them, I +daurna weel doobt, some day! I’m surer aboot that nor aboot kennin the +thouchts o’ the doggie himsel!”</p> + +<p>Another Sunday night, having come home through a terrible storm of +thunder and lightning, he said to Isy—</p> + +<p>“I hae been feelin, a’ the w’y hame, as gien, afore lang, I micht hae +to gie a wider testimony. The apostles and the first Christians, ye see, +had to beir testimony to the fac’ that the man that was hangt and dee’d +upo the cross, the same was up again oot o’ the grave, and gangin aboot +the warl; noo I canna beir testimony to that, for I wasna at that time +awaur o’ onything; but I micht weel be called upon to beir testimony to +the fac’ that, whaur ance he lay deid and beeried, there he’s come alive +at last—that is, i’ the sepulchre o’ my hert! For I hae seen him noo, +and ken him noo—the houp o’ glory in my hert and my life! Whatever he +said ance, that I believe for ever.”</p> + +<p>The talks James Blatherwick and the soutar had together, were now, +according to Mr. Robertson, even wonderful. But it was chiefly the +soutar that spoke, while James sat and listened in silence. On one +occasion, however, James had spoken out freely, and indeed eloquently; +and Mr. Robertson, whom the soutar accompanied to his inn that night, +had said to him ere they parted—</p> + +<p>“Do you see any good and cogent reason, Mr. MacLear, why this man should +not resume his pastoral office?”</p> + +<p>“One thing at least I am sure of,” answered the soutar, “—that he is +far fitter for it than ever he was in his life before.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Robertson repeated this to James the next day, adding—</p> + +<p>“And I am certain every one who knows you will vote the restoration of +your license!”</p> + +<p>“I must speak to Isy about it,” answered James with simplicity.</p> + +<p>“That is quite right, of course,” rejoined Mr. Robertson: “you know I +tell my wife everything that I am at liberty to tell.”</p> + +<p>“Will not some public recognition of my reinstatement be necessary?” +suggested James.</p> + +<p>“I will have a talk about it with some of the leaders of the synod, and +let you know what they say,” answered Mr. Robertson.</p> + +<p>“Of course I am ready,” returned Blatherwick, “to make any public +confession judged necessary or desirable; but that would involve my +wife; and although I know perfectly that she will be ready for anything +required of her, it remains not the less my part to do my best to shield +her!”</p> + +<p>“Of one thing I think you may be sure—that, with our present moderator, +your case will be handled with more than delicacy—with tenderness!”</p> + +<p>“I must not doubt it; but for myself I would deprecate indulgence. I +must have a talk with my wife about it! She is sure to know what will be +best!”</p> + +<p>“My advice is to leave it all in the hands of the moderator. We have no +right to choose, appoint, or apportion our own penalties!”</p> + +<p>James went home and laid the whole matter before his wife.</p> + +<p>Instead of looking frightened, or even anxious, Isy laid little Peter +softly in his crib, threw her arms round James’s neck, and cried—</p> + +<p>“Thank God, my husband, that you have come to this! Don’t think to leave +me out, I beg of you. I am more than ready to accept my shame. I have +always said <i>I</i> was to blame, and not you! It was me that should have +known better!”</p> + +<p>“You trusted me, and I proved quite unworthy of your confidence!—But +had ever man a wife to be so proud of as I of you!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Robertson brought the matter carefully before the synod; but neither +James nor Isy ever heard anything more of it—except the announcement +of the cordial renewal of James’s license. This was soon followed by the +offer of a church in the poorest and most populous parish north of the +Tweed.</p> + +<p>“See the loving power at the heart of things, Isy!” said James to his +wife: “out of evil He has brought good, the best good, and nothing +but good!—a good ripened through my sin and selfishness and ambition, +bringing upon you as well as me disgrace and suffering! The evil in me +had to come out and show itself, before it could be cleared away! Some +people nothing but an earthquake will rouse from their dead sleep: I was +one of such. God in His mercy brought on the earthquake: it woke me and +saved me from death. Ignorant creatures go about asking why God permits +evil: <i>we</i> know why! It may be He could with a word cause evil to +cease—but would that be to create good? The word might make us good +like oxen or harmless sheep, but would that be a goodness worthy of him +who was made in the image of God? If a man ceased to be <i>capable</i> of +evil, he must cease to be a man! What would the goodness be that could +not help being good—that had no choice in the matter, but must be such +because it was so made? God chooses to be good, else he would not be +God: man must choose to be good, else he cannot be the son of God! +Herein we see the grand love of the Father of men—that he gives them +a share, and that share as necessary as his own, in the making of +themselves! Thus, and thus only, that is, by willing the good, can they +become ‘partakers of the divine nature!’ Satan said, ‘Ye shall be as +gods, knowing good and evil!’ God says, ‘Ye shall be as gods, knowing +good and evil, and choosing the good.’ For the sake of this, that we may +come to choose the good, all the discipline of the world exists. God is +teaching us to know good and evil in some real degree <i>as they are</i>, and +not as <i>they seem to the incomplete</i>; so shall we learn to choose the +good and refuse the evil. He would make his children see the two things, +good and evil, in some measure as they are, and then say whether they +will be good children or not. If they fail, and choose the evil, he will +take yet harder measures with them. If at last it should prove possible +for a created being to see good and evil as they are, and choose the +evil, then, and only then, there would, I presume, be nothing left for +God but to set his foot upon him and crush him, as we crush a noxious +insect. But God is deeper in us than our own life; yea, God’s life is +the very centre and creative cause of that life which we call <i>ours</i>; +therefore is the Life in us stronger than the Death, in as much as the +creating Good is stronger than the created Evil.”</p> + + +<p class="center p4">THE END</p> + + + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06c57de --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #9154 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9154) diff --git a/old/9154-0.txt b/old/9154-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41dfc1e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9154-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7422 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Salted With Fire, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Salted With Fire + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9154] +This file was first posted on September 8, 2003 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Debra Storr and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + +SALTED WITH FIRE + +By George Macdonald + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +“Whaur are ye aff til this bonny mornin', Maggie, my doo?” said the +soutar, looking up from his work, and addressing his daughter as she +stood in the doorway with her shoes in her hand. + +“Jist ower to Stanecross, wi' yer leave, father, to speir the +mistress for a goupin or twa o' chaff: yer bed aneth ye's grown unco +hungry-like.” + +“Hoot, the bed's weel eneuch, lassie!” + +“Na, it's onything but weel eneuch! It's my pairt to luik efter my ain +father, and see there be nae k-nots aither in his bed or his parritch.” + +“Ye're jist yer mither owre again, my lass!--Weel, I winna miss ye that +sair, for the minister 'ill be in this mornin'.” + +“Hoo ken ye that, father?” + +“We didna gree vera weel last nicht.” + +“I canna bide the minister--argle-barglin body!” + +“Toots, bairn! I dinna like to hear ye speyk sae scornfulike o' the gude +man that has the care o' oor sowls!” + +“It wad be mair to the purpose ye had the care o' his!” + +“Sae I hae: hasna ilkabody the care o' ilk ither's?” + +“Ay; but he preshumes upo' 't--and ye dinna; there's the differ!” + +“Weel, but ye see, lassie, the man has nae insicht--nane to speak o', +that is; and it's pleased God to mak him a wee stoopid, and some thrawn +(_twisted_). He has nae notion even o' the wark I put intil thae wee bit +sheenie (_little shoes_) o' his--that I'm this moment labourin ower!” + +“It's sair wastit upo' him 'at caana see the thoucht intil't!” + +“Is God's wark wastit upo' you and me excep' we see intil't, and +un'erstan't, Maggie?” + +The girl was silent. Her father resumed. + +“There's three concernt i' the matter o' the wark I may be at: first, +my ain duty to the wark--that's me; syne him I'm working for--that's +the minister; and syne him 'at sets me to the wark--ye ken wha that is: +whilk o' the three wad ye hae me lea' oot o' the consideration?” + +For another moment the girl continued silent; then she said-- + +“Ye maun be i' the richt, father! I believe 't, though I canna jist +_see_ 't. A body canna like a'body, and the minister's jist the ae man I +canna bide.” + +“Ay could ye, gi'en ye lo'ed the _ane_ as he oucht to be lo'ed, and as +ye maun learn to lo'e him.” + +“Weel I'm no come to that wi' the minister yet!” + +“It's a trowth--but a sair pity, my dautie _(daughter--darling)_.” + +“He provokes me the w'y that he speaks to ye, father--him 'at's no fit +to tie the thong o' your shee!” + +“The Maister would lat him tie his, and say _thank ye_!” + +“It aye seems to me he has sic a scrimpit way o' believin'! It's no like +believin' at a'! He winna trust him for naething that he hasna his ain +word, or some ither body's for! Ca' ye that lippenin' til him?” + +It was now the father's turn to be silent for a moment. Then he said,-- + +“Lea' the judgin' o' him to his ain maister, lassie. I ha'e seen him +whiles sair concernt for ither fowk.” + +“'At they wouldna hand wi' _him,_ and war condemnt in consequence--wasna +that it?” + +“I canna answer ye that, bairn.” + +“Weel, I ken he doesna like you--no ae wee bit. He's aye girdin at ye to +ither fowk!” + +“May be: the mair's the need I sud lo'e him.” + +“But noo _can_ ye, father?” + +“There's naething, o' late, I ha'e to be sae gratefu' for to _Him_ as +that I can. But I confess I had lang to try sair!” + +“The mair I was to try, the mair I jist couldna.” + +“But ye could try; and He could help ye!” + +“I dinna ken; I only ken that sae ye say, and I maun believe ye. Nane +the mair can I see hoo it's ever to be broucht aboot.” + +“No more can I, though I ken it can be. But just think, my ain Maggie, +hoo would onybody ken that ever ane o' 's was his disciple, gien we war +aye argle-barglin aboot the holiest things--at least what the minister +coonts the holiest, though may be I think I ken better? It's whan twa +o' 's strive that what's ca'd a schism begins, and I jist winna, please +God--and it does please him! He never said, Ye maun a' think the same +gait, but he did say, Ye man a' loe are anither, and no strive!” + +“Ye dinna aye gang to his kirk, father!” + +“Na, for I'm jist feared sometimes lest I should stop loein him. It +matters little about gaein to the kirk ilka Sunday, but it matters a +heap aboot aye loein are anither; and whiles he says things aboot the +mind o' God, sic that it's a' I can dee to sit still.” + +“Weel, father, I dinna believe that I can lo'e him ony the day; sae, wi' +yer leave, I s' be awa to Stanecross afore he comes.” + +“Gang yer wa's, lassie, and the Lord gang wi' ye, as ance he did wi' +them that gaed to Emmaus.” + +With her shoes in her hand, the girl was leaving the house when her +father called after her-- + +“Hoo's folk to ken that I provide for my ain, whan my bairn gangs +unshod? Tak aff yer shune gin ye like when ye're oot o' the toon.” + +“Are ye sure there's nae hypocrisy aboot sic a fause show, father?” + asked Maggie, laughing, “I maun hide them better!” + +As she spoke she put the shoes in the empty bag she carried for the +chaff. “There's a hidin' o' what I hae--no a pretendin' to hae what I +haena!--Is' be hame in guid time for yer tay, father.--I can gang a heap +better withoot them!” she added, as she threw the bag over her shoulder. +“I'll put them on whan I come to the heather,” she concluded. + +“Ay, ay; gang yer wa's, and lea' me to the wark ye haena the grace to +adverteeze by weirin' o' 't.” + +Maggie looked in at the window as she passed it on her way, to get a +last sight of her father. The sun was shining into the little bare room, +and her shadow fell upon him as she passed him; but his form lingered +clear in the close chamber of her mind after she had left him far. And +it was not her shadow she had seen, but the shadow, rather, of a great +peace that rested concentred upon him as he bowed over his last, his +mind fixed indeed upon his work, but far more occupied with the affairs +of quite another region. Mind and soul were each so absorbed in its +accustomed labour that never did either interfere with that of the +other. His shoemaking lost nothing when he was deepest sunk in some +one or other of the words of his Lord, which he sought eagerly to +understand--nay, I imagine his shoemaking gained thereby. In his leisure +hours, not a great, he was yet an intense reader; but it was nothing in +any book that now occupied him; it was the live good news, the man Jesus +Christ himself. In thought, in love, in imagination, that man dwelt in +him, was alive in him, and made him alive. This moment He was with him, +had come to visit him--yet was never far from him--was present always +with an individuality that never quenched but was continually developing +his own. For the soutar absolutely believed in the Lord of Life, was +always trying to do the things he said, and to keep his words abiding in +him. Therefore was he what the parson called a mystic, and was the +most practical man in the neighbourhood; therefore did he make the best +shoes, because the Word of the Lord abode in him. + +The door opened, and the minister came into the kitchen. The soutar +always worked in the kitchen, to be near his daughter, whose presence +never interrupted either his work or his thought, or even his +prayers--which often seemed as involuntary as a vital automatic impulse. + +“It's a grand day!” said the minister. “It aye seems to me that just on +such a day will the Lord come, nobody expecting him, and the folk all +following their various callings--as when the flood came and astonished +them.” + +The man was but reflecting, without knowing it, what the soutar had +been saying the last time they encountered; neither did he think, at the +moment, that the Lord himself had said something like it first. + +“And I was thinkin, this vera meenute,” returned the soutar, “sic a +bonny day as it was for the Lord to gang aboot amang his ain fowk. I +was thinkin maybe he was come upon Maggie, and was walkin wi' her up the +hill to Stanecross--nearer til her, maybe, nor she could hear or see or +think!” + +“Ye're a deal taen up wi' vain imaiginins, MacLear!” rejoined the +minister, tartly. “What scriptur hae ye for sic a wanderin' invention, +o' no practical value?” + +“'Deed, sir, what scriptur hed I for takin my brakwast this mornin, or +ony mornin? Yet I never luik for a judgment to fa' upon me for that! +I'm thinkin we dee mair things in faith than we ken--but no eneuch! no +eneuch! I was thankfu' for't, though, I min' that, and maybe that'll +stan' for faith. But gien I gang on this gait, we'll be beginnin as +we left aff last nicht, and maybe fa' to strife! And we hae to loe ane +anither, not accordin to what the ane thinks, or what the ither thinks, +but accordin as each kens the Maister loes the ither, for he loes the +twa o' us thegither.” + +“But hoo ken ye that he's pleased wi' ye?” + +“I said naething aboot that: I said he loes you and me!” + +“For that, he maun be pleast wi' ye!” + +“I dinna think nane aboot that; I jist tak my life i' my han', and awa' +wi' 't til _Him_;--and he's never turned his face frae me yet.--Eh, sir! +think what it would be gien ever he did!” + +“But we maunna think o' him ither than he would hae us think.” + +“That's hoo I'm aye hingin aboot his door, luikin for him.” + +“Weel, I kenna what to mak o' ye! I maun jist lea' ye to him!” + +“Ye couldna dee a kinder thing! I desire naething better frae man or +minister than be left to Him.” + +“Weel, weel, see til yersel.” + +“I'll see to _him_, and try to loe my neebour--that's you, Mr. Pethrie. +I'll hae yer shune ready by Setterday, sir. I trust they'll be worthy +o' the feet that God made, and that hae to be shod by me. I trust and +believe they'll nowise distress ye, sir, or interfere wi' yer comfort +in preachin. I'll fess them hame mysel, gien the Lord wull, and that +without fail.” + +“Na, na; dinna dee that; lat Maggie come wi' them. Ye wad only be puttin +me oot o' humour for the Lord's wark wi' yer havers!” + +“Weel, I'll sen' Maggie--only ye wad obleege me by no seein her, for ye +micht put _her_ oot o' humour, sir, and she michtna gie yer sermon fair +play the morn!” + +The minister closed the door with some sharpness. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +In the meantime, Maggie was walking shoeless and bonnetless up the hill +to the farm she sought. It was a hot morning in June, tempered by a wind +from the north-west. The land was green with the slow-rising tide of +the young corn, among which the cool wind made little waves, showing the +brown earth between them on the somewhat arid face of the hill. A few +fleecy clouds shared the high blue realm with the keen sun. As she rose +to the top of the road, the gable of the house came suddenly in sight, +and near it a sleepy old gray horse, treading his ceaseless round at the +end of a long lever, too listless to feel the weariness of a labour +that to him must have seemed unprogressive, and, to anything young, +heart-breaking. Nor did it appear to give him any consolation to be +aware of the commotion he was causing on the other side of the wall, +where a threshing machine of an antiquated sort responded with multiform +movement to the monotony of his round-and-round. + +Near by, a peacock, as conscious of his glorious plumage as indifferent +to the ugliness of his feet, kept time with undulating neck to the +motion of those same feet, as he strode with stagey gait across the +cornyard, now and then stooping to pick up a stray grain spitefully, and +occasionally erecting his superb neck to give utterance to a hideous cry +of satisfaction at his own beauty--a cry as unlike the beauty as ever +was discord to harmony. His glory, his legs and his voice, perplexed +Maggie with an unanalyzed sense of contradiction and unfitness. + +Radiant with age and light, the old horse stood still just as the sun +touched the meridian; the hour of repose and food was come, and he knew +it; and at the same moment the girl, passing one of the green-painted +doors of the farm house, stopped at the other, the kitchen one. It stood +open, and in answer to her modest knock, a ruddy maid appeared, with +a question in her eyes, and a smile on her lips at sight of the +shoemaker's Maggie, whom she knew well. Maggie asked if She might see +the mistress. + +“Here's soutar's Maggie wanting ye, mem!” said the maid and Mistress +Blatherwick who was close at hand, came; to which Maggie humbly but +confidently making her request had it as kindly granted, and followed +her to the barn to fill her pock with the light plumy covering of the +husk of the oats, the mistress of Stonecross helping her the while +and talking to her as she did so--for the soutar and his daughter were +favourites with her and her husband, and they had not seen either of +them for some while. + +“Ye used to ken oor Maister Jeames I' the auld land-syne, Maggie!” for +the two has played together as children in the same school although +growth and difference in station had gradually put and end to +their intimacy so that it became the mother to refer to him with +circumspection, seeing that, in her eyes at least, Maister Jeames was +now far on the way to becoming a great man, being a divinity student; +for in the Scotch church, although it sets small store on apostolitic +descent, every Minister, until he has shown himself eccentic or +incapable of interesting a congregation, is regarded with quite as +much respect as in England is accorded to the claimant of a +phantom-priesthood; and therefore, prospectively, Jeames was to his +mother a man of no little note. Maggie remembered how, when a boy, he +had liked to talk with her father; and how her father would listen to +him with a curious look on his rugged face, while the boy set forth +the commonplaces of a lifeless theology with an occasional freshness +of logical presentation that at least interested himself. But she +remembered also that she had never heard the soutar on his side make +any attempt to lay open to the boy his stores of what one or two in the +place, one or two only, counted wisdom and knowledge. + +“He's a gey clever laddie,” he had said once to Maggie, “and gien he +gets his een open i' the coorse o' the life he's hardly yet ta'en hand +o', he'll doobtless see something; but he disna ken yet that there's +onything rael to be seen, ootside or inside o' him!” When he heard that +he was going to study divinity, he shook his head, and was silent. + +“I'm jist hame frae peyin him a short veesit,” Mrs. Blatherwick went on. +“I cam hame but twa nichts ago. He's lodged wi' a dacent widow in Arthur +Street, in a flat up a lang stane stair that gangs roun and roun till ye +come there, and syne gangs past the door and up again. She taks in han' +to luik efter his claes, and sees to the washin o' them, and does her +best to hand him tidy; but Jeamie was aye that partic'lar aboot his +appearance! And that's a guid thing, special in a minister, wha has to +set an example! I was sair pleased wi' the auld body.” + +There was one in the Edinburgh lodging, however, of whom Mrs. +Blatherwick had but a glimpse, and of whom, therefore, she had made no +mention to her husband any more than now to Maggie MacLear; indeed, she +had taken so little notice of her that she could hardly be said to +have seen her at all--a girl of about sixteen, who did far more for the +comfort of her aunt's two lodgers than she who reaped all the advantage. +If Mrs. Blatherwick had let her eyes rest upon her but for a moment, she +would probably have looked again; and might have discovered that she was +both a good-looking and graceful little creature, with blue eyes, and +hair as nearly black as that kind of hair, both fine and plentiful, ever +is. She might then have discovered as well a certain look of earnestness +and service that would at first have attracted her for its own sake, and +then repelled her for James's; for she would assuredly have read in it +what she would have counted dangerous for him; but seeing her poorly +dressed, and looking untidy, which at the moment she could not help, the +mother took her for an ordinary maid-of-all-work, and never for a moment +doubted that her son must see her just as she did. He was her only son; +her heart was full of ambition for him; and she brooded on the honour +he was destined to bring her and his father. The latter, however, caring +less for his good looks, had neither the same satisfaction in him nor an +equal expectation from him. Neither of his parents, indeed, had as yet +reaped much pleasure from his existence, however much one of them might +hope for in the time to come. There were two things indeed against such +satisfaction or pleasure--that James had never been open-hearted toward +them, never communicative as to his feelings, or even his doings; +and--which was worse--that he had long made them feel in him a certain +unexpressed claim to superiority. Nor would it have lessened their +uneasiness at this to have noted that the existence of such an implicit +claim was more or less evident in relation to every one with whom +he came in contact, manifested mainly by a stiff, incommunicative +reluctance, taking the form now of a pretended absorption in his books, +now of contempt for any sort of manual labour, even to the saddling of +the pony he was about to ride; and now and always by an affectation of +proper English, which, while successful as to grammar and accentuation, +did not escape the ludicrous in a certain stiltedness of tone and +inflection, from which intrusion of the would-be gentleman, his father, +a simple, old-fashioned man, shrank with more of dislike than he was +willing to be conscious of. + +Quite content that, having a better education than himself, his son +should both be and show himself superior, he could not help feeling that +these his ways of asserting himself were signs of mere foolishness, and +especially as conjoined with his wish to be a minister--in regard to +which Peter but feebly sympathized with the general ambition of Scots +parents. Full of simple paternal affection, whose utterance was quenched +by the behaviour of his son, he was continuously aware of something that +took the shape of an impassable gulf between James and his father and +mother. Profoundly religious, and readily appreciative of what was new +in the perception of truth, he was, above all, of a great and simple +righteousness--full, that is, of a loving sense of fairplay--a +very different thing indeed from that which most of those who count +themselves religious mean when they talk of the righteousness of God! +Little, however, was James able to see of this, or of certain other +great qualities in his father. I would not have my reader think that he +was consciously disrespectful to either of his parents, or knew that his +behaviour was unloving. He honoured their character, indeed, but shrank +from the simplicity of their manners; he thought of them with no +lively affection, though not without some kindly feeling and much +confidence--at the same time regarding himself with still greater +confidence. He had never been an idler, or disobedient; and had made +such efforts after theological righteousness as served to bolster +rather than buttress his conviction that he was a righteous youth, +and nourished his ignorance of the fact that he was far from being the +person of moral strength and value that he imagined himself. The person +he saw in the mirror of his self-consciousness was a very fine and +altogether trustworthy personage; the reality so twisted in its +reflection was but a decent lad, as lads go, with high but untrue +notions of personal honour, and an altogether unwarranted conviction +that such as he admiringly imagined himself, such he actually was: he +had never discovered his true and unworthy self! There were many things +in his life and ways upon which had he but fixed eyes of question, he +would at once have perceived that they were both judged and condemned; +but so far, nevertheless, his father and mother might have good hope of +his future. + +It is folly to suppose that such as follow most the fashions of this +world are more enslaved by them than multitudes who follow them only +afar off. These reverence the judgments of society in things of far +greater importance than the colour or cut of a gown; often without +knowing it, they judge life, and truth itself, by the falsest of all +measures, namely, the judgment of others falser than themselves; they do +not ask what is true or right, but what folk think and say about this +or that. James, for instance, altogether missed being a gentleman by his +habit of asking himself how, in such or such circumstances, a gentleman +would behave. As the man of honour he would fain know himself, he would +never tell a lie or break a promise; but he had not come to perceive +that there are other things as binding as the promise which alone +he regarded as obligatory. He did not, for instance, mind raising +expectations which he had not the least intention of fulfilling. + +Being a Scotch lad, it is not to be wondered at that he should turn +to Theology as a means of livelihood; neither is it surprising that +he should do so without any conscious love to God, seeing it is not in +Scotland alone that untrue men take refuge in the Church, and turn the +highest of professions into the meanest, laziest, poorest, and most +unworthy, by following it without any genuine call to the same. In +any profession, the man must be a poor common creature who follows +it without some real interest in it; but he who without a spark of +enthusiasm for it turns to the Church, is either a “blind mouth,” as +Milton calls him--scornfullest of epithets, or an “old wife” ambitious +of telling her fables well; and James's ambition was of the same +contemptible sort--that, namely, of distinguishing himself in the +pulpit. This, if he had the natural gift of eloquence, he might well do +by its misuse to his own glory; or if he had it not, he might acquire a +spurious facility resembling it, and so be every way a mere windbag. + +Mr. Petrie, whom it cost the soutar so much care and effort to love, and +who, although intellectually small, was yet a good man, and by no means +a coward where he judged people's souls in danger, thought to save +the world by preaching a God, eminently respectable to those who could +believe in such a God, but to those who could not, a God far from lovely +because far from righteous. His life, nevertheless, showed him in many +ways a believer in Him who revealed a very different God indeed from the +God he set forth. His faith, therefore, did not prevent him from looking +upon the soutar, who believed only in the God he saw in Jesus Christ, +as one in a state of rebellion against him whom Jesus claimed as his +father. + +Young Blatherwick had already begun to turn his back upon several of the +special tenets of Calvinism, without, however, being either a better or +a worse man because of the change in his opinions. He had cast aside, +for instance, the doctrine of an everlasting hell for the unbeliever; +but in doing so he became aware that he was thus leaving fallow a great +field for the cultivation of eloquence; and not having yet discovered +any other equally productive of the precious crop, without which so +little was to be gained for the end he desired--namely, the praise of +men, he therefore kept on, “for the meantime,” sowing and preparing to +reap that same field. Mr. Petrie, on the other hand, held the doctrine +as absolutely fundamental to Christianity, and preached it with power; +while the soutar, who had discarded it from his childhood, positively +refused, jealous of strife, to enter into any argument upon it with the +disputatious little man. + +As yet, then, James was reading Scotch metaphysics, and reconciling +himself to the concealment of his freer opinions, upon which concealment +depended the success of his probation, and his license. But the close of +his studies in divinity was now near at hand. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Upon a certain stormy day in the great northern city, preparing for +what he regarded as his career, James sat in the same large, shabbily +furnished room where his mother had once visited him--half-way up the +hideously long spiral stair of an ancient house, whose entrance was in a +narrow close. The great clock of a church in the neighbouring street had +just begun to strike five of a wintry afternoon, dark with snow, falling +and yet to fall: how often in after years was he not to hear the ghostly +call of that clock, and see that falling snow!--when a gentle tap came +to his door, and the girl I have already mentioned came in with a tray +and the materials for his most welcomed meal, coffee with bread and +butter. She set it down in a silence which was plainly that of deepest +respect, gave him one glance of devotion, and was turning to leave the +room, when he looked up from the paper he was writing, and said-- + +“Don't be in such a hurry, Isy. Haven't you time to pour out my coffee +for me?” + +Isy was a small, dark, neat little thing, with finely formed features, +and a look of child-like simplicity, not altogether removed from +childishness. She answered him first with her very blue eyes full of +love and trust, then said-- + +“Plenty o' time, sir. What other have I to do than see that you be at +your ease?” + +He shoved aside his work, and looking up with some concentration in his +regard, pushed his chair back a little from the table, and rejoined-- + +“What's the matter with you this last day or two, Isy? You're not +altogether like yourself!” + +She hesitated a moment, then answered-- + +“It can be naething, I suppose, sir, but just that I'm growin older and +beginnin to think aboot things.” + +She stood near him. He put his arm round her little waist, and would +have drawn her down upon his knees, but she resisted. + +“I don't see what difference that can make in you all at once, Isy! +We've known each other so long that there can be no misunderstanding of +any sort between us. You have always behaved like the good and modest +girl you are; and I'm sure you have been most attentive to me all the +time I have been in your aunt's house.” + +He spoke in a tone of superior approval. + +“It was my bare duty, and ye hae aye been kinder to me than I could hae +had ony richt to expec'. But it's nearhan' ower noo!” she concluded with +a sigh that indicated approaching tears, as she yielded a little to the +increased pressure of his arm. + +“What makes you say that?” he returned, giving her a warm kiss, plainly +neither unwelcome nor the first. + +“Dinna ye think it would be better to drop that kin' o' thing the noo, +sir?” she said, and would have stood erect, but he held her fast. + +“Why now, more than any time--I don't know for how long? Where does a +difference come in? What puts the notion in your pretty little head?” + +“It maun come some day, and the langer the harder it'll be!” + +“But tell me what has set you thinking about it all at once?” + +She burst into tears. He tried to soothe and comfort her, but in +struggling not to cry she only sobbed the worse. At last, however, she +succeeded in faltering out an explanation. + +“Auntie's been tellin me that I maun luik to my hert, so as no to tyne't +to ye a'thegither! But it's awa a'ready,” she went on, with a fresh +outburst, “and it's no manner o' use cryin til't to come back to me. I +micht as weel cry upo' the win' as it blaws by me! I canna understan' +'t! I ken weel ye'll soon be a great man, and a' the toon crushin to +hear ye; and I ken jist as weel that I'll hae to sit still in my seat +and luik up to ye whaur ye stan', no daurin to say a word--no daurin +even to think a thoucht lest somebody sittin aside me should hear't ohn +me spoken. For what would it be but clean impidence o' me to think 'at +there was a time when I was sittin whaur I'm sittin the noo--and thinkin +'t i' the vera kirk! I would be nearhan' deein for shame!” + +“Didn't you ever think, Isy, that maybe I might marry you some day?” + said James jokingly, confident in the gulf between them. + +“Na, no ance. I kenned better nor that! I never even wusst it, for that +would be nae freen's wuss: ye would never get ony farther gien ye did! +I'm nane fit for a minister's wife--nor worthy o' bein ane! I micht +do no that ill, and pass middlin weel, in a sma' clachan wi' a wee bit +kirkie--but amang gran' fowk, in a muckle toon--for that's whaur ye're +sure to be! Eh me, me! A' the last week or twa I hae seen ye driftin +awa frae me, oot and oot to the great sea, whaur never a thoucht o' Isy +would come nigh ye again;--and what for should there? Ye camna into the +warl' to think aboot me or the likes o' me, but to be a great preacher, +and lea' me ahin ye, like a sheaf o' corn ye had jist cuttit and left +unbun'!” + +Here came another burst of bitter weeping, followed by words whose very +articulation was a succession of sobs. + +“Eh, me, me! I doobt I hae clean disgraced mysel!” she cried at last, +and ended, wiping her eyes--in vain, for the tears would keep flowing. + +As to young Blatherwick, I venture to assert that nothing vulgar or +low, still less of evil intent, was passing through his mind during this +confession; and yet what but evil was his unpitying, selfish exultation +in the fact that this simple-hearted and very pretty girl should love +him unsought, and had told him so unasked? A true-hearted man would +at once have perceived and shrunk from what he was bringing upon her: +James's vanity only made him think it very natural, and more than +excusable in her; and while his ambition made him imagine himself so +much her superior as to exclude the least thought of marrying her, it +did not prevent him from yielding to the delight her confession caused +him, or from persuading her that there was no harm in loving one to whom +she must always be dear, whatever his future might bring with it. Isy +left the room not a little consoled, and with a new hope in possession +of her innocent imagination; leaving James exultant over his conquest, +and indulging a more definite pleasure than hitherto in the person and +devotion of the girl. As to any consciousness in him of danger to either +of them, it was no more than, on the shore, the uneasy stir of a storm +far out at sea. Had the least thought of wronging her invaded his mind, +he would have turned from it with abhorrence; yet was he endangering all +her peace without giving it one reasonable thought. He was acting with a +selfishness too much ingrained to manifest its own unlovely shape; while +in his mind lay all the time a half-conscious care to avoid making the +girl any promise. + +As to her fitness for a minister's wife, he had never asked himself a +question concerning it; but in truth she might very soon have grown far +fitter for the position than he was for that of a minister. In character +she was much beyond him; and in breeding and consciousness far more of +a lady than he of a gentleman--fine gentleman as he would fain know +himself. Her manners were immeasurably better than his, because they +were simple and aimed at nothing. Instinctively she avoided whatever, +had she done it, she would at once have recognized as uncomely. She did +not know that simplicity was the purest breeding, yet from mere truth of +nature practised it unknowing. If her words were older-fashioned, that +is more provincial than his, at least her tone was less so, and her +utterance was prettier than if, like him, she had aped an Anglicized +mode of speech. James would, I am sure, have admired her more if she +had been dressed on Sundays in something more showy than a simple cotton +gown; and I fear that her poverty had its influence in the freedoms he +allowed himself with her. + +Her aunt was a weak as well as unsuspicious woman, who had known better +days, and pitied herself because they were past and gone. She gave +herself no anxiety as to her niece's prudence, but continued well +assured of it even while her very goodness was conspiring against her +safety. It would have required a man, not merely of greater goodness +than James, but of greater insight into the realities of life as well, +to perceive the worth and superiority of the girl who waited upon him +with a devotion far more angelic than servile; for whatever might +have seemed to savour of the latter, had love, hopeless of personal +advantage, at the root of it. + +Thus things went on for a while, with a continuous strengthening of the +pleasant yet not altogether easy bonds in which Isobel walked, and +a constant increase of the attraction that drew the student to the +self-yielding girl; until the appearance of another lodger in the house +was the means of opening Blatherwick's eyes to the state of his own +feelings, by occasioning the birth and recognition of a not unnatural +jealousy, which “gave him pause.” On Isy's side there was not the least +occasion for this jealousy, and he knew it; but not the less he saw +that, if he did not mean to go further, here he must stop--the immediate +result of which was that he began to change a little in his behaviour +toward her, when at any time she had to enter his room in ministration +to his wants. + +Of this change the poor girl was at once aware, but she attributed it +to a temporary absorption in his studies. Soon, however, she could not +doubt that not merely was his voice or his countenance changed toward +her, but that his heart had grown cold, and that he was no longer +“friends with her.” For there was another and viler element than mere +jealousy concerned in his alteration: he had become aware of a more +real danger into which he was rapidly drifting--that of irrecoverably +blasting the very dawn of his prospects by an imprudent marriage. “To +saddle himself with a wife,” as he vulgarily expressed it, before he had +gained his license--before even he had had the poorest opportunity of +distinguishing himself in that wherein lay his every hope and +ambition of proving his excellence, was a thing not for a moment to +be contemplated! And now, when Isobel asked him in sorrowful mood some +indifferent question, the uneasy knowledge that he was about to increase +her sadness made him answer her roughly--a form not unnatural to +incipient compunction: white as a ghost she stood a moment silently +staring at him, then sank on the floor senseless. + +Seized with an overmastering repentance that brought back with a rush +all his tenderness, James sprang to her, lifted her in his arms, laid +her on the sofa, and lavished caresses upon her, until at length she +recovered sufficiently to know where she lay--in the false paradise of +his arms, with him kneeling over her in a passion of regret, the first +passion he had ever felt or manifested toward her, pouring into her ear +words of incoherent dismay--which, taking shape as she revived, soon +became promises and vows. Thereupon the knowledge that he had committed +himself, and the conviction that he was henceforth bound to one course +in regard to her, wherein he seemed to himself incapable of falsehood, +unhappily freed him from the self-restraint then most imperative upon +him, and his trust in his own honour became the last loop of the snare +about to entangle his and her very life. At the moment when a genuine +love would have hastened to surround the woman with bulwarks of safety, +he ceased to regard himself as his sister's keeper. Even thus did Cain +cease to be his brother's keeper, and so slew him. + +But the vengeance on his unpremeditated treachery, for treachery, +although unpremeditated, it was none the less, came close upon its +heels. The moment that Isy left the room, weeping and pallid, conscious +that a miserable shame but waited the entrance of a reflection even now +importunate, he threw himself on the floor, writhing as in the claws of +a hundred demons. The next day but one he was to preach his first sermon +before his class, in the presence of his professor of divinity! His +immediate impulse was to rush from the house, and home hot-foot to his +mother; and it would have been well for him to have done so indeed, +confessed all, and turned his back on the church and his paltry ambition +together! But he had never been open with his mother, and he feared his +father, not knowing the tender righteousness of that father's heart, +or the springs of love which would at once have burst open to meet the +sorrowful tale of his wretched son; and instead of fleeing at once +to his one city of refuge, he fell but to pacing the room in hopeless +bewilderment; and before long he was searching every corner of his +reviving consciousness, not indeed as yet for any justification, but +for what palliation of his “fault” might there be found; for it was the +first necessity of this self-lover to think well, or at least endurably, +of himself. Nor was it long before a multitude of sneaking arguments, +imps of Satan, began to assemble at the agonized cry of his +self-dissatisfaction--for it was nothing more. + +For, in that agony of his, there was no detestation of himself because +of his humiliation of the trusting Isobel; he did not loathe his abuse +of her confidence, or his having wrapt her in the foul fire-damp of his +miserable weakness: the hour of a true and good repentance was for him +not yet come; shame only as yet possessed him, because of the failure +of his own fancied strength. If it should ever come to be known, what +contempt would not clothe him, instead of the garments of praise of +which he had dreamed all these years! The pulpit, that goal of his +ambition, that field of his imagined triumphs--the very thought of +it now for a time made him feel sick. Still, there at least lay yet a +possibility of recovery--not indeed by repentance, of which he did not +seek to lay hold, but in the chance that no one might hear a word of +what had happened! Sure he felt, that Isy would never reveal it, and +least of all to her aunt! His promise to marry Isy he would of course +keep! Neither would that be any great hardship, if only it had no +consequences. As an immediate thing, however, it was not to be thought +of! there could be at the moment no necessity for such an extreme +measure! He would wait and see! he would be guided by events! As to +the sin of the thing--how many had not fallen like him, and no one the +wiser! Never would he so offend again! and in the meantime he would let +it go, and try to forget it--in the hope that providence now, and at +length time, would bury it from all men's sight! He would go on the same +as if the untoward thing had not so cruelly happened, had cast no such +cloud over the fair future before him! Nor were his selfish regrets +unmingled with annoyance that Isy should have yielded so easily: why had +she not aided him to resist the weakness that had wrought his undoing? +She was as much to blame as he; and for her unworthiness was he to be +left to suffer? Within an hour he had returned to the sermon under his +hand, and was revising it for the twentieth time, to perfect it before +finally committing it to memory; for so should the lie of his life +be crowned with success, and seem the thing it was not--an outcome of +extemporaneous feeling! During what remained of the two days following +he spared no labour, and at last delivered it with considerable unction, +and the feeling that he had achieved his end. + +Neither of those days did Isy make her appearance in his room, her aunt +excusing her apparent neglect with the information that she was in bed +with a bad headache, while herself she supplied her place. + +The next day Isy went about her work as usual, but never once looked up. +James imagined reproach in her silence, and did not venture to address +her, having, indeed, no wish to speak to her, for what was there to be +said? A cloud was between them; a great gulf seemed to divide them! He +wondered at himself, no longer conscious of her attraction, or of his +former delight in her proximity. His resolve to marry her was not yet +wavering; he fully intended to keep his promise; but he must wait the +proper time, the right opportunity for revealing to his parents the fact +of his engagement! After a few days, however, during which there had +been no return to their former familiarity, it was with a fearful kind +of relief that he learned she was gone to pay a visit to a relation in +the country. He did not care that she had gone without taking leave of +him, only wondered if she could have said anything to incriminate him. + +The session came to an end while she was still absent; he took a formal +leave of her aunt, and went home to Stonecross. + +His father at once felt a wider division between them than before, and +his mother was now compelled, much against her will, to acknowledge to +herself its existence. At the same time he carried himself with less +arrogance, and seemed humbled rather than uplifted by his success. + +During the year that followed, he made several visits to Edinburgh, and +before long received the presentation to a living in the gift of his +father's landlord, a certain duke who had always been friendly to the +well-to-do and unassuming tenant of one of his largest farms in the +north. But during none of these visits did he inquire or hear anything +about Isy; neither now, when, without blame he might have taken steps +toward the fulfilment of the promise which he had never ceased to regard +as binding, could he persuade himself that the right time had come for +revealing it to his parents: he knew it would be a great blow to his +mother to learn that he had so handicapped his future, and he feared the +silent face of his father at the announcement of it. + +It is hardly necessary to say that he had made no attempt to establish +any correspondence with the poor girl. Indeed by this time he found +himself not unwilling to forget her, and cherished a hope that she had, +if not forgotten, at least dismissed from her mind all that had taken +place between them. Now and then in the night he would wake to a few +tender thoughts of her, but before the morning they would vanish, +and during the day he would drown any chance reminiscence of her in a +careful polishing and repolishing of his sentences, aping the style +of Chalmers or of Robert Hall, and occasionally inserting some +fine-sounding quotation; for apparent richness of composition was his +principal aim, not truth of meaning, or lucidity of utterance. + +I can hardly be presumptuous in adding that, although growing in a +certain popularity with men, he was not thus growing in favour with +God. And as he continued to hear nothing about Isy, the hope at length, +bringing with it a keen shoot of pleasure, awoke in him that he was +never to hear of her more. For the praise of men, and the love of that +praise, having now restored him to his own good graces, he regarded +himself with more interest and approbation than ever; and his continued +omission of inquiry after Isy, heedless of the predicament in which +he might have placed her, was a far worse sin against her, because +deliberate, than his primary wrong to her, and it now recoiled upon him +in increased hardness of heart and self-satisfaction. + +Thus in love with himself, and thereby shut out from the salvation of +love to another, he was specially in danger of falling in love with the +admiration of any woman; and thence now occurred a little episode in his +history not insignificant in its results. + +He had not been more than a month or two in his parish when he was +attracted by a certain young woman in his congregation of some inborn +refinement and distinction of position, to whom he speedily became +anxious to recommend himself: he must have her approval, and, if +possible, her admiration! Therefore in his preaching, if the word +used for the lofty, simple utterance of divine messengers, may without +offence be misapplied to his paltry memorizations, his main thought was +always whether the said lady was justly appreciating the eloquence and +wisdom with which he meant to impress her--while in fact he remained +incapable of understanding how deep her natural insight penetrated both +him and his pretensions. Her probing attention, however, he so entirely +misunderstood that it gave him no small encouragement; and thus becoming +only the more eager after her good opinion, he came at length to imagine +himself heartily in love with her--a thing impossible to him with +any woman--and at last, emboldened by the fancied importance of his +position, and his own fancied distinction in it, he ventured an offer +of his feeble hand and feebler heart;--but only to have them, to his +surprise, definitely and absolutely refused. He turned from the lady's +door a good deal disappointed, but severely mortified; and, judging it +impossible for any woman to keep silence concerning such a refusal, and +unable to endure the thought of the gossip to ensue, he began at once +to look about him for a refuge, and frankly told his patron the whole +story. It happened to suit his grace's plans, and he came speedily to +his assistance with the offer of his native parish--whence the soutar's +argumentative antagonist had just been removed to a place, probably not +a very distinguished one, in the kingdom of heaven; and it seemed to all +but a natural piety when James Blatherwick exchanged his parish for that +where he was born, and where his father and mother continued to occupy +the old farm. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +The soutar was still meditating on things spiritual, still reading the +gospel of St. John, still making and mending shoes, and still watching +the development of his daughter, who had begun to unfold what not a few +of the neighbours, with most of whom she was in favour, counted beauty. +The farm labourers in the vicinity were nearly all more or less her +admirers, and many a pair of shoes was carried to her father for the +sake of a possible smile from Maggie; but because of a certain awe that +seemed to pervade her presence, no one had as yet dared a word to her +beyond that of greeting or farewell: each that looked upon her became at +once aware of a certain inferiority. Her beauty seemed to suggest behind +it a beauty it was unable to reveal. + +She was rather short in stature, but altogether well proportioned, with +a face wonderfully calm and clear, and quiet but keen dark eyes. Her +complexion owed its white-rose tinge to a strong, gentle life, and its +few freckles to the pale sun of Scotland, for she courted every breeze +bonnetless on the hills, when she accompanied her father in his walks, +or carried home the work he had finished. He rejoiced especially that +she should delight in feeling the wind about her, for he held it to +indicate sympathy with that spirit whose symbol it was, and which he +loved to think of as folding her about, closer and more lovingly than +his own cherishing soul. + +Of her own impulse, and almost from the moment of her mother's death, +she had given herself to his service, first in doing all the little +duties of the house, and then, as her strength and faculty grew, in +helping him more and more in his trade. As soon as she had cleared away +the few things necessary for a breakfast of porridge and milk, Maggie +would hasten to join her father where he stooped over his last, for he +was a little shortsighted. + +When he lifted his head you might see that, notwithstanding the +ruggedness of his face, he was a good looking man, with strong, +well-proportioned features, in which, even on Sundays, when he scrubbed +his face unmercifully, there would still remain lines suggestive of +ingrained rosin and heelball. On week days he was not so careful to +remove every sign of the labour by which he earned his bread; but when +his work was over till the morning, and he was free to sit down to a +book, he would never even touch one without first carefully washing his +hands and face. In the workshop, Maggie's place was a leather-seated +stool like her father's, a yard or so away from his, to leave room for +his elbows in drawing out the lingels (_rosined threads_): there she +would at once resume the work she had left unfinished the night before; +for it was a curious trait in the father, early inherited by the +daughter, that he would never rise from a finished job, however near +might be the hour for dropping work, without having begun another to go +on with in the morning. It was wonderful how much cleaner Maggie managed +to keep her hands; but then to her fell naturally the lighter work for +women and children. She declared herself ambitious, however, of one day +making with her own hands a perfect pair of top-boots. + +The advantages she gained from this constant intercourse with her father +were incalculable. Without the least loss to her freedom of thought, +nay, on the contrary, to the far more rapid development of her truest +liberty, the soutar seemed to avoid no subject as unsuitable for the +girl's consideration, but to insist only on its being regarded from the +highest attainable point of view. Matters of indifferent import they +seldom, if ever, discussed at all; and nothing she knew her father cared +about did Maggie ever allude to with indifference. Full of an honest +hilarity ever ready to break out when occasion occurred, she was at the +same time incapable of a light word upon a sacred subject. Such jokes +as, more than elsewhere, one is in danger of hearing among the clergy of +every church, very seldom came out in her father's company; and she +very early became aware of the kind of joke he would take or refuse. +The light use, especially, of any word of the Lord would sink him in a +profound silence. If it were an ordinary man who thus offended, he might +rebuke him by asking if he remembered who said those words; once, when +it was a man specially regarded who gave the offence, I heard him say +something to this effect, “The maister doesna forget whaur and whan he +spak thae words: I houp ye do forget!” Indeed the most powerful force +in the education of Maggie was the evident attitude of her father toward +that Son of Man who was even now bringing the children of God to the +knowledge of that Father of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is +named. Mingling with her delights in the inanimate powers of Nature, in +the sun and the wind, in the rain and the growth, in the running waters +and the darkness sown with stars, was such a sense of His presence that +she felt like him, He might at any moment appear to her father, or, +should it so please Him, even to herself. + +Two or three miles away, in the heart of the hills, on the outskirts of +the farm of Stonecross, lived an old cottar and his wife, who paid a few +shillings of rent to Mr. Blatherwick for the acre or two their ancestors +had redeemed from the heather and bog, and gave, with their one son +who remained at home, occasional service on the farm. They were much +respected by the farmer and his wife, as well as the small circle to +which they were known in the neighbouring village--better known, and +more respected still in that kingdom called of heaven; for they were +such as he to whom the promise was given, that he should yet see the +angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man. They had long +and heartily loved and honoured the soutar, whom they had known before +the death of his wife, and for his sake and hers, both had always +befriended the motherless Maggie. They could not greatly pity her, +seeing she had such a father, yet old Eppie had her occasional moments +of anxiety as to how the bairn would grow up without a mother's care. +No sooner, however, did the little one begin to show character, than +Eppie's doubt began to abate; and long before the time to which my +narrative has now come, the child and the child like old woman were fast +friends. Maggie was often invited to spend a day at Bogsheuch--oftener +indeed than she felt at liberty to leave her father and their common +work, though not oftener than she would have liked to go. + +One morning, early in summer, when first the hillsides had begun to look +attractive, a small agricultural cart, such as is now but seldom seen, +with little paint except on its two red wheels, and drawn by a thin, +long-haired little horse, stopped at the door of the soutar's house, +clay-floored and straw-thatched, in a back-lane of the village. It was +a cart the cottar used in the cultivation of his little holding, and his +son who drove it, now nearly middle-aged, was likely to succeed to the +hut and acres of Bogsheuch. Man and equipage, both well known to the +soutar, had come with an invitation, more pressing than usual, that +Maggie would pay them a visit of a few days. + +Father and daughter, consulting together in the presence of Andrew +Cormack, arrived at the conclusion that, work being rather slacker than +usual, and nobody in need of any promised job which the soutar could not +finish by himself in good time, Maggie was quite at liberty to go. She +sprang up joyfully--not without a little pang at the thought of leaving +her father alone, although she knew him quite equal to anything +that could be required in the house before her return--and set about +preparing their dinner, while Andrew went to execute a few commissions +that the mistress at Stonecross and his mother at Bogsheuch had given +him. By the time he returned, Maggie was in her Sunday gown, with her +week-day wrapper and winsey petticoat in a bundle--for she reckoned on +being of some use to Eppie during her visit When they had eaten their +humble dinner, Andrew brought the cart to the door, and Maggie scrambled +into it. + +“Tak a piece wi' ye,” said her father, following her to the cart: “ye +hadna muckle to yer denner, and ye may be hungry again or ye hae the +lang road ahint ye!” + +He put several pieces of oatcake in her hand, which she received with a +loving smile; and they set out at a walking pace, which Andrew made no +attempt to quicken. + +It was far from a comfortable carriage, neither was her wisp of straw in +the bottom of it altogether comfortable to sit upon; but the change from +her stool and the close attention her work required, to the open air +and the free rush of the thoughts that came crowding to her out of +the wilderness, put her at once in a blissful mood. Even the few dull +remarks that the slow-thinking Andrew made at intervals from his perch +on the front of the cart, seemed to come to her from the realm of +Faerie, the mysterious world that lay in the folds of the huddled hills. +Everything Maggie saw or heard that afternoon seemed to wear the glamour +of God's imagination, which is at once the birth and the very truth of +everything. Selfishness alone can rub away that divine gilding, without +which gold itself is poor indeed. + +Suddenly the little horse stood still. Andrew, waking up from a snooze, +jumped to the ground, and began, still half asleep, to search into the +cause of the arrest; for Jess, although she could not make haste, never +of her own accord stood still while able to keep on walking. Maggie, +on her part, had for some time noted that they were making very slow +progress. + +“She's deid cripple!” said Andrew at length, straightening his long back +from an examination of Jess's fore feet, and coming to Maggie's side of +the cart with a serious face. “I dinna believe the crater's fit to gang +ae step furder! Yet I canna see what's happent her.” + +Maggie was on the road before he had done speaking. Andrew tried once +to lead Jess, but immediately desisted. “It would be fell cruelty!” he +said. “We maun jist lowse her, and tak her gien we can to the How o' the +Mains. They'll gie her a nicht's quarters there, puir thing! And we'll +see gien they can tak you in as weel, Maggie. The maister, I mak nae +doobt, 'ill len' me a horse to come for ye i' the morning.” + +“I winna hear o' 't!” answered Maggie. “I can tramp the lave o' the ro'd +as weel's you, Andrew!” + +“But I hae a' thae things to cairry, and that'll no lea' me a ban' to +help ye ower the burn!” objected Andrew. + +“What o' that?” she returned. “I was sae fell tired o' sittin that my +legs are jist like to rin awa wi' me. Lat me jist dook mysel i' the +bonny win'!” she added, turning herself round and round. “--Isna it jist +like awfu' thin watter, An'rew?--Here, gie me a haud o' that loaf. I s' +cairry that, and my ain bit bundle as weel; syne, I fancy, ye can manage +the lave yersel!” + +Andrew never had much to say, and this time he had nothing. But her +readiness relieved him of some anxiety; for his mother would be very +uncomfortable if he went home without her! + +Maggie's spirits rose to lark-pitch as the darkness came on and +deepened; and the wind became to her a live gloom, in which, with no +eye-bound to the space enclosing her, she could go on imagining after +the freedom of her own wild will. As the world and everything in it +gradually disappeared, it grew easy to imagine Jesus making the darkness +light about him, and stepping from it plain before her sight. That +could be no trouble to him, she argued, as, being everywhere, he must be +there. He could appear in any form, who had created every shape on the +face of the whole world! If she were but fit to see him, then surely he +would come to her! For thus often had her father spoken to her, talking +of the varied appearances of the Lord after his resurrection, and his +promise that he would be with his disciples always to the end of the +world. Even after he had gone back to his father, had he not appeared to +the apostle Paul? and might it not be that he had shown himself to many +another through the long ages? In any case he was everywhere, and always +about them, although now, perhaps from lack of faith in the earth, he +had not been seen for a long time. And she remembered her father once +saying that nobody could even _think_ a thing if there was no possible +truth in it. The Lord went away that they might believe in him when out +of the sight of him, and so be in him, and he in them! + +“I dinna think,” said Maggie aloud to herself, as she trudged along +beside the delightfully silent Andrew, “that my father would be the +least astonished--only filled wi' an awfu' glaidness--if at ony moment, +walkin at his side, the Lord was to call him by his name, and appear +til him. He would but think he had just steppit oot upon him frae some +secret door, and would say,--'I thoucht, Lord, I would see you some day! +I was aye greedy efter a sicht o' ye, Lord, and here ye are!'” + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +The same moment to her ears came the cry of an infant. Her first thought +was, “Can that be Himsel, come ance again as he cam ance afore?” + +She stopped in the dusky starlight, and listened with her very soul. + +“Andrew!” she cried, for she heard the sound of his steps as he plodded +on in front of her, and could vaguely see him, “Andrew, what was yon?” + +“I h'ard naething,” answered Andrew, stopping at her cry and listening. + +There came a second cry, a feeble, sad wail, and both of them heard it. + +Maggie darted off in the direction whence it seemed to come; nor had she +far to run, for it was not one to reach any distance. + +They were at the moment climbing a dreary, desolate ridge, where the +road was a mere stony hollow, in winter a path for the rain rather +than the feet of men. On each side of it lay a wild moor, covered +with heather and low berry-bearing shrubs. Under a big bush Maggie saw +something glimmer, and, flying to it, found a child. It might be a year +old, but was so small and poorly nourished that its age was hard to +guess. “With the instinct of a mother, she caught it up, and clasping it +close to her panting bosom, was delighted to find it cease wailing the +moment it felt her arm. Andrew, who had dropped the things he carried, +and started at once after her, met her half-way, so absorbed in her +treasure trove, and so blind to aught else, that he had to catch them +both in his arms to break the imminent shock; but she slipped from them, +and, to his amazement, went on down the hill, back the way they had +come: clearly she thought of nothing but carrying the infant home to her +father; and here even the slow perception of her companion understood +her. + +“Maggie, Maggie,” he cried, “ye'll baith be deid afore ye win hame wi' +'t! Come on to my mither. There never was wuman like her for bairns! +She'll ken a hantle better nor ony father what to dee wi' 't!” + +Maggie at once recovered her senses, and knew he was right--but not +before she had received an instantaneous insight that never after left +her: now she understood the heart of the Son of Man, come to find and +carry back the stray children to their Father and His. When afterward +she told her father what she had then felt, he answered her with just +the four words and no more-- + +“Lassie, ye hae 't!” + +Happily the moon was now up, so that Andrew was soon able to find the +things they had both dropped in their haste, and Maggie had soon wrapped +the baby in the winsey petticoat she had been carrying. Andrew took up +his loaf and his other packages, and they set out again for Bogsheuch, +Maggie's heart all but overwhelmed with its exultation. Had the precious +thing been twice the weight, so exuberant was her feeling of wealth in +it that she could have carried it twice the distance with ease, although +the road was so rough that she went in constant terror of stumbling. +Andrew gave now and then a queer chuckle at the ludicrousness of their +home-coming, and every second minute had to stop and pick up one or +other of his many parcels; but Maggie strode on in front, full of +possession, and with the feeling of having now at last entered upon her +heavenly inheritance; so that she was quite startled when suddenly they +came in sight of the turf cottage, and the little window in which a +small cresset-lamp was burning. Before they reached it the door opened, +and Eppie appeared with an overflow of question and anxious welcome. + +“What on earth--” she began. + +“Naething but a bonny wee bairnie, whause mither has tint it!” at once +interrupted and answered Maggie, flying up to her, and laying the child +in her arms. + +Mrs. Cormack stood and stared, now at Maggie, and now at the bundle that +lay in her own arms. Tenderly searching in the petticoat, she found at +last the little one's face, and uncovered the sleeping child. + +“Eh the puir mither!” she said, and hurriedly covered again the tiny +countenance. + +“It's mine!” cried Maggie. “I faund it honest!” + +“Its mither may ha' lost it honest, Maggie!” said Eppie. + +“Weel, its mither can come for't gien she want it! It's mine till she +dis, ony gait!” rejoined the girl. + +“Nae doobt o' that!” replied the old woman, scarcely questioning that +the infant had been left to perish by some worthless tramp. “Ye'll maybe +hae't langer nor ye'll care to keep it!” + +“That's no vera likly,” answered Maggie with a smile, as she stood in +the doorway, in the wakeful night of the northern summer: “it's ane o' +the Lord's ain lammies 'at he cam to the hills to seek. He's fund this +ane!” + +“Weel, weel, my bonnie doo, it sanna be for me to contradick ye!--But +wae's upo' me for a menseless auld wife! come in; come in: the mair +welcome 'at ye're lang expeckit!--But bless me, An'rew, what hae ye dune +wi' the cairt and the beastie?” + +In a few words, for brevity was easy to him, Andrew told the story of +their disaster. + +“It maun hae been the Lord's mercy! The puir beastie bude to suffer for +the sake o' the bairnie!” + +She got them their supper, which was keeping hot by the fire; and then +sent Maggie to her bed in the ben-end, where she laid the baby beside +her, after washing him and wrapping him in a soft well-worn shift of +her own. But Maggie scarcely slept for listening lest the baby's breath +should stop; and Eppie sat in the kitchen with Andrew until the light, +slowly travelling round the north, deepened in the east, and at last +climbed the sky, leading up the sun himself; when Andrew rose, and set +his face toward Stonecross, in full but not very anxious expectation +of a stormy reception from his mistress before he should have time +to explain. When he reached home, however, he found the house not yet +astir; and had time to feed and groom his horses before any one was +about, so that, to his relief, no rendering of reasons was necessary. + +All the next day Maggie was ill at ease, in much dread of the appearance +of a mother. The baby seemed nothing the worse for his exposure, and +although thin and pale, appeared a healthy child, taking heartily the +food offered him. He was decently though poorly clad, and very clean. +The Cormacks making inquiry at every farmhouse and cottage within range +of the moor, the tale of his finding was speedily known throughout the +neighbourhood; but to the satisfaction of Maggie at least, who fretted +to carry home her treasure, without any result; so that by the time the +period of her visit arrived, she was feeling tolerably secure in her +possession, and returned with it in triumph to her father. + +The long-haired horse not yet proving equal to the journey, she had to +walk home; but Eppie herself accompanied her, bent on taking her share +in the burden of the child, which Maggie was with difficulty persuaded +to yield. Eppie indeed carried him up to the soutar's door, but Maggie +insisted on herself laying him in her father's arms. The soutar rose +from his stool, received him like Simeon taking the infant Jesus from +the arms of his mother, and held him high like a heave-offering to him +that had sent him forth from the hidden Holiest of Holies. One moment in +silence he held him, then restoring him to his daughter, sat down again, +and took up his last and shoe. Then suddenly becoming aware of a breach +in his manners, he rose again at once, saying-- + +“I crave yer pardon, Mistress Cormack: I was clean forgettin ony breedin +I ever had!--Maggie, tak oor freen ben the hoose, and gar her rest her +a bit, while ye get something for her efter her lang walk. I'll be ben +mysel' in a meenute or twa to hae a crack wi' her. I hae but a feow +stitches mair to put intil this same sole! The three o' 's maun tak some +sarious coonsel thegither anent the upbringin o' this God-sent bairn! +I doobtna but he's come wi' a blessin to this hoose! Eh, but it was a +mercifu fittin o' things that the puir bairn and Maggie sud that nicht +come thegither! Verily, He shall give his angels chairge over thee! They +maun hae been aboot the muir a' that day, that nane but Maggie sud get +a haud o' 'im--aiven as they maun hae been aboot the field and the flock +and the shepherds and the inn-stable a' that gran' nicht!” + +The same moment entered a neighbour who, having previously heard and +misinterpreted the story, had now caught sight of their arrival. + +“Eh, soutar, but ye _ir_ a man by Providence sair oppressed!” she cried. +“Wha think ye's been i' the faut here?” + +The wrath of the soutar sprang up flaming. + +“Gang oot o' my hoose, ye ill-thouchtit wuman!” he shouted. “Gang oot +o' 't this verra meenit--and comena intil 't again 'cep it be to beg my +pardon and that o' this gude wuman and my bonny lass here! The Lord God +bless her frae ill tongues!--Gang oot, I tell ye!” + +The outraged father stood towering, whom all the town knew for a man of +gentlest temper and great courtesy. The woman stood one moment dazed and +uncertain, then turned and fled. Maggie retired with Mistress Cormack; +and when the soutar joined them, he said never a word about the +discomfited gossip. Eppie having taken her tea, rose and bade them +good-night, nor crossed another threshold in the village. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +As soon as the baby was asleep, Maggie went back to the kitchen where +her father still sat at work. + +“Ye're late the night, father!” she said. + +“I am that, lassie; but ye see I canna luik for muckle help frae you for +some time: ye'll hae eneuch to dee wi' that bairn o' yours; and we hae +him to fen for noo as weel's oorsels! No 'at I hae the least concern +aboot the bonny white raven, only we maun consider _him_ like the lave!” + “It's little he'll want for a whilie, father!” answered Maggie. “--But +noo,” she went on, in a tone of seriousness that was almost awe, “lat me +hear what ye're thinkin:--what kin' o' a mither could she be that left +her bairn theroot i' the wide, eerie nicht? and what for could she hae +dene 't?” + +“She maun hae been some puir lassie that hadna learnt to think first +o' His wull! She had believt the man whan he promised to merry her, no +kennin he was a leear, and no heedin the v'ice inside her that said _ye +maunna_; and sae she loot him dee what he likit wi' her, and mak himsel +the father o' a bairnie that wasna meant for him. Sic leeberties as he +took wi' her, and she ouchtna to hae permittit, made a mither o' her +afore ever she was merried. Sic fules hae an awfu' time o' 't; for fowk +hardly ever forgies them, and aye luiks doon upo' them. Doobtless the +rascal ran awa and left her to fen for hersel; naebody would help her; +and she had to beg the breid for hersel, and the drap milk for the +bairnie; sae that at last she lost hert and left it, jist as Hagar left +hers aneath the buss i' the wilderness afore God shawed her the bonny +wall o' watter.” + +“I kenna whilk o' them was the warst--father or mither!” cried Maggie. + +“Nae mair do I!” said the soutar; “but I doobt the ane that lee'd to the +ither, maun hae to be coontit the warst!” + +“There canna be mony sic men!” said Maggie. + +“'Deed there's a heap o' them no a hair better!” rejoined her father; +“but wae's me for the puir lassie that believes them!” + +“She kenned what was richt a' the time, father!” + +“That's true, my dauty; but to ken is no aye to un'erstan'; and even to +un'erstan' is no aye to see richt intil't! No wuman's safe that hasna +the love o' God, the great Love, in her hert a' the time! What's best in +her, whan the vera best's awa, may turn to be her greatest danger. And +the higher ye rise ye come into the waur danger, till ance ye're fairly +intil the ae safe place, the hert o' the Father. There, and there only, +ye're safe!--safe frae earth, frae hell, and frae yer ain hert! A' the +temptations, even sic as ance made the haivenly hosts themsels fa' frae +haiven to hell, canna touch ye there! But whan man or wuman repents and +heumbles himsel, there is He to lift them up, and that higher than ever +they stede afore!” + +“Syne they're no to be despised that fa'!” + +“Nane despises them, lassie, but them that haena yet learnt the danger +they're in o' that same fa' themsels. Mony ane, I'm thinking, is keepit +frae fa'in, jist because she's no far eneuch on to get the guid o' the +shame, but would jist sink farther and farther!” + +“But Eppie tells me that maist o' them 'at trips gangs on fa'in, and +never wins up again.” + +“Ou, ay; that's true as far as we, short-lived and short-sichtit +craturs, see o' them! but this warl's but the beginnin; and the glory +o' Christ, wha's the vera Love o' the Father, spreads a heap further nor +that. It's no for naething we're tellt hoo the sinner-women cam til him +frae a' sides! They needit him sair, and cam. Never ane o' them was +ower black to be latten gang close up til him; and some o' sic women +un'erstede things he said 'at mony a respectable wuman cudna get a glimp +o'! There's aye rain eneuch, as Maister Shaksper says, i' the sweet +haivens to wash the vera han' o' murder as white as snow. The creatin +hert is fu' o' sic rain. Loe _him_, lassie, and ye'll never glaur the +bonny goon ye broucht white frae his hert!” + +The soutar's face was solemn and white, and tears were running down the +furrows of his cheeks. Maggie too was weeping. At length she said-- + +“Supposin the mither o' my bairnie a wuman like that, can ye think it +fair that _her_ disgrace should stick til _him?_” + +“It sticks til him only in sic minds as never saw the lovely greatness +o' God.” + +“But sic bairns come na intil the warl as God wad hae them come!” + +“But your bairnie _is_ come, and that he couldna withoot the creatin +wull o' the Father! Doobtless sic bairnies hae to suffer frae the prood +jeedgment o' their fellow-men and women, but they may get muckle guid +and little ill frae that--a guid naebody can reive them o'. It's no +a mere veesitin o' the sins o' the fathers upo' the bairns, but a +provision to haud the bairns aff o' the like, and to shame the fathers +o' them. Eh, but sic maun be sair affrontit wi' themsels, that disgrace +at ance the wife that should hae been and the bairn that shouldna! Eh, +the puir bairnie that has sic a father! But he has anither as weel--a +richt gran' father to rin til!--The ae thing,” the soutar went on, “that +you and me, Maggie, has to do, is never to lat the bairn ken the miss o' +father or mother, and sae lead him to the ae Father, the only real and +true ane.--There he's wailin, the bonny wee man!” + +Maggie ran to quiet her little one, but soon returned, and sitting down +again beside her father, asked him for a piece of work. + +All this time, through his own cowardly indifference, the would-be-grand +preacher, James Blatherwick, knew nothing of the fact that, somewhere in +the world, without father or mother, lived a silent witness against him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Isy had contrived to postpone her return to her aunt until James was +gone; for she dreaded being in the house with him lest anything should +lead to the discovery of the relation between them. Soon after his +departure, however, she had to encounter the appalling fact that the +dread moment was on its way when she would no longer be able to conceal +the change in her condition. Her first and last thought was then, how +to protect the good name of her lover, and avoid involving him in the +approaching ruin of her reputation. With this in view she vowed to God +and to her own soul absolute silence with regard to the past: James's +name even should never pass her lips! Nor did she find the vow hard to +keep, even when her aunt took measures to draw her secret from her; but +the dread lest in her pains she should cry out for the comfort which +James alone could give her, almost drove her to poison, from which only +the thought of his coming child restrained her. Enabled at length only +by the pure inexorability of her hour, she passed through her sorrow and +found herself still alive, with her lips locked tight on her secret. +The poor girl who was weak enough to imperil her good name for love of +a worthless man, was by that love made strong to shield him from the +consequences of her weakness. Whether in this she did well for the +world, for the truth, or for her own soul, she never wasted a thought. +In vain did her aunt ply her with questions; she felt that to answer one +of them would be to wrong him, and lose her last righteous hold upon the +man who had at least once loved her a little. Without a gleam, without +even a shadow of hope for herself, she clung, through shame and blame, +to his scathlessness as the only joy left her. He had most likely, she +thought, all but forgotten her very existence, for he had never written +to her, or made any effort to discover what had become of her. She clung +to the conviction that he could never have heard of what had befallen +her. + +By and by she grew able to reflect that to remain where she was would be +the ruin of her aunt; for who would lodge in the same house with _her_? +She must go at once! and her longing to go, with the impossibility +of even thinking where she could go, brought her to the very verge of +despair, and it was only the thought of her child that still gave her +strength enough to live on. And to add immeasurably to her misery, she +was now suddenly possessed by the idea, which for a long time remained +immovably fixed, that, agonizing as had been her effort after silence, +she had failed in her resolve, and broken the promise she imagined +she had given to James; that she had been false to him, brought him to +shame, and for ever ruined his prospects; that she had betrayed him into +the power of her aunt, and through her to the authorities of the church! +That was why she had never heard a word from him, she thought, and she +was never to see him any more! The conviction, the seeming consciousness +of all this, so grew upon her that, one morning, when her infant was +not yet a month old, she crept from the house, and wandered out into the +world, with just one shilling in a purse forgotten in the pocket of +her dress. After that, for a time, her memory lost hold of her +consciousness, and what befel her remained a blank, refusing to be +recalled. + +When she began to come to herself she had no knowledge of where she had +been, or for how long her mind had been astray; all was irretrievable +confusion, crossed with cloud-like trails of blotted dreams, and vague +survivals of gratitude for bread and pieces of money. Everything she +became aware of surprised her, except the child in her arms. Her story +had been plain to every one she met, and she had received thousands of +kindnesses which her memory could not hold. At length, intentionally or +not, she found herself in a neighbourhood to which she had heard James +Blatherwick refer. + +Here again a dead blank stopped her backward gaze--till suddenly once +more she grew aware, and knew that she was aware, of being alone on a +wide moor in a dim night, with her hungry child, to whom she had given +the last drop of nourishment he could draw from her, wailing in her +arms. Then fell upon her a hideous despair, and unable to carry him a +step farther, she dropped him from her helpless hands into a bush, and +there left him, to find, as she thought, some milk for him. She could +sometimes even remember that she went staggering about, looking under +the great stones, and into the clumps of heather, in the hope of finding +something for him to drink. At last, I presume, she sank on the ground, +and lay for a time insensible; anyhow, when she came to herself, she +searched in vain for the child, or even the place where she had left +him. + +The same evening it was that Maggie came along with Andrew, and found +the baby as I have already told. All that night, and a great part of the +next day, Isy went searching about in vain, doubtless with intervals of +repose compelled by utter exhaustion. Imagining at length that she had +discovered the very spot where she left him, and not finding him, she +came to the conclusion that some wild beast had come upon the helpless +thing and carried him off. Then a gleam of water coming to her eye, she +rushed to the peat-hag whence it was reflected, and would there have +drowned herself. But she was intercepted and turned aside by a man who +threw down his flauchter-spade, and ran between her and the frightful +hole. He thought she was out of her mind, and tried to console her with +the assurance that no child left on that moor could be in other than +luck's way. He gave her a few half-pence, and directed her to the next +town, with a threat of hanging if she made a second attempt of the +sort. A long time of wandering followed, with ceaseless inquiry, +and alternating disappointment and fresh expectation; but every day +something occurred that served just to keep the life in her, and at last +she reached the county-town, where she was taken to a place of shelter. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +James Blatherwick was proving himself not unacceptable to his native +parish, where he was thought a very rising man, inasmuch as his fluency +was far ahead of his perspicuity. He soon came to note the soutar as a +man far in advance of the rest of his parishioners; but he saw, at the +same time, that he was regarded by most as a wild fanatic if not as +a dangerous heretic; and himself imagined that he saw in him certain +indications of a mild lunacy. + +In Tiltowie he pursued the same course as elsewhere: anxious to let +nothing come between him and the success of his eloquence, he avoided +any appearance of differing in doctrine from his congregation; and until +he should be more firmly established, would show himself as much as +possible of the same mind with them, using the doctrinal phrases he had +been accustomed to in his youth, or others so like that they would be +taken to indicate unchanged opinions, while for his part he practised a +mental reservation in regard to them. + +He had noted with some degree of pleasure in the soutar, that he used +almost none of the set phrases of the good people of the village, who +devoutly followed the traditions of the elders; but he knew little as to +what the soutar did not believe, and still less of what he did believe +with all his heart and soul; for John MacLear could not even utter the +name of God without therein making a confession of faith immeasurably +beyond anything inhabiting the consciousness of the parson; and on his +part soon began to note in James a total absence of enthusiasm in regard +to such things of which his very calling implied at least an absolute +acceptance: he would allude to any or all of them as merest matters of +course! Never did his face light up when he spoke of the Son of God, +of his death, or of his resurrection; never did he make mention of the +kingdom of heaven as if it were anything more venerable than the kingdom +of Great Britain and Ireland. + +But the soul of the soutar would venture far into the twilight, +searching after the things of God, opening wider its eyes, as the +darkness widened around them. On one occasion the parson took upon him +to remonstrate with what seemed to him the audacity of his parishioner: + +“Don't you think you are just going a little too far there, Mr. +MacLear?” he said. + +“Ye mean ower far intil the dark, Mr. Blatherwick?” + +“Yes, that is what I mean. You speculate too boldly.” + +“But dinna ye think, sir, that that direction it's plain the dark grows +a wee thinner, though I grant ye there's nothing yet to ca' licht? Licht +we may aye ken by its ain fair shinin, and by noucht else!” + +“But the human soul is just as apt to deceive itself as the human +eye! It is always ready to take a flash inside itself for something +objective!” said Blatherwick. + +“Nae doobt! nae doobt! but whan the true licht comes, ye aye ken the +differ! A man _may_ tak the dark for licht, but he canna take the licht +for darkness!” + +“And there must always be something for the light to shine upon, else +the man sees nothing!” said the parson. + +“There's thoucht, and possible insicht intil the man!” said the soutar +to himself.--“Maybe, like the Ephesians, ye haena yet fund oot gien +there be ony Holy Ghost, sir?” he said to him aloud. + +“No man dares deny that!” answered the minister. + +“Still a man mayna _ken't_, though he daursna deny't! Nane but them 'at +follows whaur he leads, can ken that he verily is.” + +“We must beware of private interpretation!” suggested James. + +“Gien a man hearsna a word spoken til his ain sel', he has na the word +to lippen til! The Scriptur is to him but a sealed buik; he walks i' the +dark. The licht is neither pairtit nor gethered. Gien a man has licht, +he has nane the less that there's twa or three o' them thegither +present.--Gien there be twa or three prayin thegither, ilk ane o' the +three has jist what he's able to receive, and he kens 't in himsel as +licht; and the fourth may hae nane. Gien it comena to ilk ane o' them, +it comesna to a'. Ilk ane maun hae the revelation intil his ain sel', as +gien there wasna ane mair. And gien it be sae, hoo are we to win at ony +trouth no yet revealed, 'cep we gang oot intil the dark to meet it? Ye +maun caw canny, I admit, i' the mirk; but ye maun caw gien ye wad win at +onything!” + +“But suppose you know enough to keep going, and do not care to venture +into the dark?” + +“Gien a man hauds on practeesin what he kens, the hunger 'ill wauk in +him efter something mair. I'm thinkin the angels had lang to desire +afore they could luik intil certain things they sair wantit; but ye may +be sure they warna left withoot as muckle licht as would lead honest +fowk safe on!” + +“But suppose they couldn't tell whether what they seemed to see was true +light or not?” + +“Syne they would hae to fa' back upo the wull o' the great Licht: we ken +weel he wants us a' to see as he himsel sees! Gien we seek that Licht, +we'll get it; gien we carena for't, we're jist naething and naegait, and +are in sore need o' some sharp discipleen.” + +“I'm afraid I can't follow you quite. The fact is, I have been so long +occupied with the Bible history, and the new discoveries that bear +testimony to it, that I have had but little time for metaphysics.” + +“And what's the guid o' history, or sic metapheesics as is the vera sowl +o' history, but to help ye to see Christ? and what's the guid o' seein +Christ but sae to see God wi' hert and un'erstan'in baith as to ken that +yer seein him? Ye min' hoo the Lord said nane could ken the Father but +the man to whom the Son revealt him? Sir, it's fell time ye had a glimp +o' that! Ye ken naething till ye ken God--the only ane a man can truly +and railly ken!” + +“Well, you're a long way ahead of me, and for the present I'm afraid +there's nothing left but to say good-night to you!” + +And therewith the minister departed. + +“Lord,” said the soutar, as he sat guiding his awl through sole and welt +and upper of the shoe on his last, “there's surely something at work i' +the yoong man! Surely he canna be that far frae waukin up to see and ken +that he sees and kens naething! Lord, pu' doon the dyke o' learnin and +self-richteousness that he canna see ower the tap o', and lat him see +thee upo' the ither side o' 't. Lord, sen' him the grace o' oppen e'en +to see whaur and what he is, that he may cry oot wi' the lave o' 's, +puir blin' bodies, to them that winna see. 'Wauk, thoo that sleepest, +and come oot o' thy grave, and see the licht o' the Father i' the face +o' the Son.'” + +But the minister went away intent on classifying the soutar by finding +out with what sect of the middle-age mystics to place him. At the same +time something strange seemed to hover about the man, refusing to be +handled in that way. Something which he called his own religious sense +appeared to know something of what the soutar must mean, though he could +neither isolate nor define it. + +Faithlessly as he had behaved to Isy, Blatherwick was not consciously, +that is with purpose or intent, a deceitful man. He had, on the +contrary, always cherished a strong faith in his own honour. But faith +in a thing, in an idea, in a notion, is no proof, or even sign that the +thing actually exists: in the present case it had no root except in +the man's thought of himself, in his presentation to himself of his own +reflected self. The man who thought so much of his honour was in truth a +moral unreality, a cowardly fellow, a sneak who, in the hope of escaping +consequences, carried himself as beyond reproof. How should such a one +ever have the power of spiritual vision developed in him? How should +such a one ever see God--ever exist in the same region in which the +soutar had long taken up his abode? Still there was this much reality +in him, and he had made this much progress that, holding fast by his +resolve henceforward no more to slide, he was aware also of a dim +suspicion of something he had not seen, but which he might become able +to see; and was half resolved to think and read, for the future, with +the intent to find out what this strange man seemed to know, or thought +he knew. + +Soon finding himself unable, however, try as hard as he might, to be +sure of anything, he became weary of the effort, and sank back into the +old, self-satisfied, blind sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Out of this quiescence, however, a pang from the past one morning +suddenly waked him, and almost without consciousness of a volition, he +found himself at the soutar's door. Maggie opened it with the baby in +her arms, with whom she had just been having a game. Her face was in a +glow, her hair tossed about, and her dark eyes flashing with excitement. +To Blatherwick, without any great natural interest in life, and in the +net of a haunting trouble which caused him no immediate apprehension, +the young girl, of so little account in the world, and so far below him +as he thought, affected him as beautiful; and, indeed, she was far more +beautiful than he was able to appreciate. It must be remembered too, +that it was not long since he had been refused by another; and at such +a time a man is readier to fall in love afresh. Trouble then, lack of +interest, and late repulse, had laid James's heart, such as it was, open +to assault from a new quarter whence he foresaw no danger. + +“That's a very fine baby you have!” he said. “Whose is he?” + +“Mine, sir,” answered Maggie, with some triumph, for she thought every +one must know the story of her treasure. + +“Oh, indeed; I did not know!” answered the parson, bewildered. + +“At least,” Maggie resumed a little hurriedly, “I have the best right to +him!” and there stopped. + +“She cannot possibly be his mother!” thought the minister, and resolved +to question his housekeeper about the child. + +“Is your father in the house?” he asked, and without waiting for an +answer, went in. “Such a big boy is too heavy for you to carry!” he +added, as he laid his hand on the latch of the kitchen door. + +“No ae bit!” rejoined Maggie, with a little contempt at his +disparagement of her strength. “And wha's to cairry him but me?” + +Huddling the boy to her bosom, she went on talking to him in childish +guise, as she lifted the latch for the minister:-- + +“Wad he hae my pet gang traivellin the warl' upo thae twa bonny wee legs +o' his ain, wantin the wings he left ahint him? Na, na! they maun grow a +heap stronger first. His ain mammie wad cairry him gien he war twice the +size! Noo, we s' gang but the hoose and see daddy.” + +She bore him after the minister, and sat down with him on her own stool, +beside her father, who looked up, with his hands and knees in skilful +consort of labour. + +“Weel, minister, hoo are ye the day? Is the yerd ony lichter upo' the +tap o' ye?” he said, with a smile that was almost pauky. + +“I do not understand you, Mr. MacLear!” answered James with dignity. + +“Na, ye canna! Gien ye could, ye wouldna be sae comfortable as ye seem!” + +“I cannot think, Mr. MacLear, why you should be rude to me!” + +“Gien ye saw the hoose on fire aboot a man deid asleep, maybe ye micht +be in ower great a hurry to be polite til 'im!” remarked the soutar. + +“Dare you suggest, sir, that I have been drinking?” cried the parson. + +“Not for a single moment, sir; and I beg yer pardon for causin ye so to +mistak me: I do not believe, sir, ye war ever ance owertaen wi' drink in +a' yer life! I fear I'm jist ower ready to speyk in parables, for it's +no a'body that can or wull un'erstan' them! But the last time ye left me +upo' this same stule, it was wi' that cry o' the Apostle o' the Gentiles +i' my lug--'Wauk up, thoo that sleepest!' For even the deid wauk whan +the trumpet blatters i' their lug!” + +“It seems to me that there the Apostle makes allusion to the condition +of the Gentile nations, asleep in their sins! But it may apply, +doubtless, to the conversion of any unbelieving man from the error of +his ways.” + +“Weel,” said the soutar, turning half round, and looking the minister +full in the face, “are _ye_ convertit, sir? Or are ye but turnin frae +side to side i' yer coffin--seekin a sleepin assurance that ye're +waukin?” + +“You are plain-spoken anyway!” said the minister, rising. + +“Maybe I am at last, sir! And maybe I hae been ower lang in comin +to that same plainness! Maybe I was ower feart for yer coontin me +ill-fashiont--what ye ca' _rude!_” + +The parson was half-way to the door, for he was angry, which was not +surprising. But with the latch in his hand he turned, and, lo, there in +the middle of the floor, with the child in her arms, stood the beautiful +Maggie, as if in act to follow him: both were staring after him. + +“Dinna anger him, father,” said Maggie; “he disna ken better!” + +“Weel ken I, my dautie, that he disna ken better; but I canna help +thinkin he's maybe no that far frae the waukin. God grant I be richt +aboot that! Eh, gien he wud but wauk up, what a man he would mak! He +kens a heap--only what's that whaur a man has no licht?” + +“I certainly do not see things as you would have me believe you see +them; and you are hardly capable of persuading me that you do, I fear!” + said Blatherwick, with the angry flush again on his face, which had for +a moment been dispelled by pallor. + +But here the baby seeming to recognize the unsympathetic tone of the +conversation, pulled down his lovely little mouth, and sent from it a +dread and potent cry. Clasping him to her bosom, Maggie ran from the +room with him, jostling James in the doorway as he let her pass. + +“I am afraid I frightened the little man!” he said. + +“'Deed, sir, it may ha' been you, or it may ha' been me 'at frichtit +him,” rejoined the soutar. “It's a thing I'm sair to blame in--that, +whan I'm in richt earnest, I'm aye ready to speyk as gien I was angert. +Sir, I humbly beg yer pardon.” + +“As humbly I beg yours,” returned the parson; “I was in the wrong.” + +The heart of the old man was drawn afresh to the youth. He laid aside +his shoe, and turning on his stool, took James's hand in both of his, +and said solemnly and lovingly-- + +“This moment I wad wullin'ly die, sir, that the licht o' that uprisin o' +which we spak micht brak throuw upon ye!” + +“I believe you, sir,” answered James; “but,” he went on, with an attempt +at humour, “it wouldn't be so much for you to do after all, seeing you +would straightway find yourself in a much better place!” + +“Maybe whaur the penitent thief sat, some auchteen hunner year ago, +waitin to be called up higher!” rejoined the soutar with a watery smile. + +The parson opened the door, and went home--where his knees at once found +their way to the carpet. + +From that night Blatherwick began to go often to the soutar's, and soon +went almost every other day, for at least a few minutes; and on such +occasions had generally a short interview with Maggie and the baby, in +both of whom, having heard from the soutar the story of the child, he +took a growing interest. + +“You seem to love him as if he were your own, Maggie!” he said one +morning to the girl. + +“And isna he my ain? Didna God himsel gie me the bairn intil my vera +airms--or a' but?” she rejoined. + +“Suppose he were to die!” suggested the minister. “Such children often +do!” + +“I needna think aboot that,” she answered. “I would just hae to say, +as mony ane has had to say afore me: 'The Lord gave,'--ye ken the rest, +sir!” + +But day by day Maggie grew more beautiful in the minister's eyes, until +at last he was not only ready to say that he loved her, but for her sake +to disregard worldly and ambitious considerations. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +On the morning of a certain Saturday, therefore, which day of the week +he always made a holiday, he resolved to let her know without further +delay that he loved her; and the rather that on the next day he was +engaged to preach for a brother clergyman at Deemouth, and felt that, +his fate with Maggie unknown, his mind would not be cool enough for him +to do well in the pulpit. But neither disappointment nor a fresh love +had yet served to set him free from his old vanity or arrogance: he +regarded his approaching declaration as about to confer great honour +as well as favour upon the damsel of low estate, about to be invited +to share in his growing distinction. In his late disappointment he had +asked a lady to descend a little from her social pedestal, in the belief +that he offered her a greater than proportionate counter-elevation; and +now in his suit to Maggie he was almost unable to conceive a possibility +of failure. When she would have shown him into the kitchen, he took +her by the arm, and leading her to the _ben-end_, at once began his +concocted speech. Scarcely had she gathered his meaning, however, when +he was checked by her startled look. + +“And what wad ye hae me dee wi' my bairn?” she asked instantly, without +sign of perplexity, smiling on the little one as at some absurdity in +her arms rather than suggested to her mind. + +But the minister was sufficiently in love to disregard the unexpected +indication. His pride was indeed a little hurt, but he resisted any show +of offence, reflecting that her anxiety was not altogether an unnatural +one. + +“Oh, we shall easily find some experienced mother,” he answered, “who +will understand better than you even how to take care of him!” + +“Na, na!” she rejoined. “I hae baith a father and a wean to luik efter; +and that's aboot as muckle as I'll ever be up til!” + +So saying, she rose and carried the little one up to the room her father +now occupied, nor cast a single glance in the direction of her would-be +lover. + +Now at last he was astonished. Could it mean that she had not understood +him? It could not be that she did not appreciate his offer! Her devotion +to the child was indeed absurdly engrossing, but that would soon come +right! He could have no fear of such a rivalry, however unpleasant at +the moment! That little vagrant to come between him and the girl he +would make his wife! + +He glanced round him: the room looked very empty! He heard her +oft-interrupted step through the thin floor: she was lavishing caresses +on the senseless little animal! He caught up his hat, and with a flushed +face went straight to the soutar where he sat at work. + +“I have come to ask you, Mr. MacLear, if you will give me your daughter +to be my wife!” he said. + +“Ow, sae that's it!” returned the soutar, without raising his eyes. + +“You have no objection, I hope?” continued the minister, finding him +silent. + +“What says she hersel? Ye comena to me first, I reckon!” + +“She said, or implied at least, that she could not leave the child. But +she cannot mean that!” + +“And what for no?--There's nae need for me to objeck!” + +“But I shall soon persuade her to withdraw that objection!” + +“Then I should _hae_ objections--mair nor ane--to put to the fore!” + +“You surprise me! Is not a woman to leave father and mother and cleave +to her husband?” + +“Ow ay--sae be the woman is his wife! Than lat nane sun'er them!--But +there's anither sayin, sir, that I doobt may hae something to dee wi' +Maggie's answer!” + +“And what, pray, may that be?” + +“That man or woman must leave father and mother, wife and child, for the +sake o' the Son o' Man.” + +“You surely are not papist enough to think that means a minister is not +to marry?” + +“Not at all, sir; but I doobt that's what it'll come til atween you and +Maggie!” + +“You mean that she will not marry?” + +“I mean that she winna merry _you_, sir.” + +“But just think how much more she could do for Christ as the minister's +wife!” + +“I'm 'maist convinced she wad coont merryin you as tantamount to refusin +to lea' a' for the Son o' Man.” + +“Why should she think that?” + +“Because, sae far as I see, she canna think that _ye_ hae left a' for +_him_.” + +“Ah, that is what you have been teaching her! She does not say that of +herself! You have not left her free to choose!” + +“The queston never came up atween's. She's perfecly free to tak her ain +gait--and she kens she is!--Ye dinna seem to think it possible she +sud tak _his_ wull raither nor yours!--that the love o' Christ should +constrain her ayont the love offert her by Jeames Bletherwick!--We _hae_ +conversed aboot ye, sir, but niver differt!” + +“But allowing us--you and me--to be of different opinions on some +points, must that be a reason why she and I should not love one +another?” + +“No reason whatever, sir--if ye can and do: _that_ point would be +already settlet. But ye winna get Maggie to merry ye sae long as she +disna believe ye loe her Lord as well as she loes him hersel. It's no +a common love that Maggie beirs to her Lord; and gien ye loed her wi' a +luve worthy o' her, ye would see that!” + +“Then you will promise me not to interfere?” + +“I'll promise ye naething, sir, excep to do my duty by her--sae far as +I understan' what that duty is. Gien I thoucht--which the God o' my life +forbid!--that Maggie didna lo'e him as weel at least as I lo'e him, I +would gang upo' my auld knees til her, to entreat her to loe him wi' a' +her heart and sowl and stren'th and min';--and whan I had done that, she +micht merry wha she wad--hangman or minister: no a word would I say! +For trouble she maun hae, and trouble she wull get--I thank my God, who +giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not!” + +“Then I am free to do my best to win her?” + +“Ye are, sir; and mair--afore the morn's mornin, I winna pass a word wi' +her upo the subjeck.” + +“Thank you, sir,” returned the minister, and took his leave. + +“A fine lad! a fine lad!” said the soutar aloud to himself, as +he resumed the work for a moment interrupted,”--but no clear--no +crystal-clear--no clear like the Son o' Man!” + +He looked up, and saw his daughter in the doorway. + +“No a word, lassie!” he cried. “I'm no for ye this meenute.--No a word +to me aboot onything or onybody the day, but what's absolute necessar!” + +“As ye wull! father,” rejoined Maggie.--“I'm gaein oot to seek auld +Eppy; she was intil the baker's shop a meenute ago!--The bairnie's +asleep.” + +“Vera weel! Gien I hear him, I s' atten' til 'im,” answered the soutar. + +“Thank ye, father,” returned Maggie, and left the house. + +But the minister, having to start that same afternoon for Deemouth, and +feeling it impossible, things remaining as they were, to preach at his +ease, had been watching the soutar's door: he saw it open and Maggie +appear. For a moment he flattered himself she was coming to look for +him, in order to tell him how sorry she was for her late behaviour to +him. But her start when first she became aware of his presence, did not +fail, notwithstanding his conceit, to satisfy him that such was not her +intent. He made haste to explain his presence. + +“I've been waiting all this time on the chance of seeing you, Margaret!” + he said. “I am starting within an hour or so for Deemouth, but could not +bear to go without telling you that your father has no objection to my +saying to you what I please. He means to have a talk with you to-morrow +morning, and as I cannot possibly get back from Deemouth before Monday, +I must now express the hope that he will not succeed in persuading you +to doubt the reality of my love. I admire your father more than I can +tell you, but he seems to hold the affections God has given us of small +account compared with his judgment of the strength and reality of them.” + +“Did he no tell ye I was free to do or say what I liked?” rejoined +Maggie rather sharply. + +“Yes; he did say something to that effect.” + +“Then, for mysel, and i' the name o' my father, I tell ye, Maister +Bletherwick, I dinna care to see ye again.” + +“Do you mean what you say, Margaret?” rejoined the minister, in a voice +that betrayed not a little genuine emotion. + +“I do mean it,” she answered. + +“Not if I tell you that I am both ready and willing to take the child +and bring him up as my own?” + +“He wouldna _be_ yer ain!” + +“Quite as much as yours!” + +“Hardly,” she returned, with a curious little laugh. “But, as I daur say +my father tellt ye, I canna believe ye lo'e God wi' a' yer hert.” + +“Dare you say that for yourself, Margaret?” + +“No; but I do want to love God wi' my whole hert. Mr. Bletherwick, are +ye a rael Christian? Or are ye sure ye're no a hypocreet? I wad like to +ken. But I dinna believe ye ken yersel!” + +“Well, perhaps I do not. But I see there is no occasion to say more!” + +“Na, nane,” answered Maggie. + +He lifted his hat, and turned away to the coach-office. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It would be difficult to represent the condition of mind in which +Blatherwick sat on the box-seat of the Defiance coach that evening, +behind four gray thorough-breds, carrying him at the rate of ten miles +an hour towards Deemouth. Hurt pride, indignation, and a certain mild +revenge in contemplating Maggie's disappointment when at length she +should become aware of the distinction he had gained and she had lost, +were its main components. He never noted a feature of the rather tame +scenery that went hurrying past him, and yet the time did not seem to go +slowly, for he was astonished when the coach stopped, and he found his +journey at an end. + +He got down rather cramped and stiff, and, as it was still early, +started for a stroll about the streets to stretch his legs, and see what +was going on, glad that he had not to preach in the morning, and would +have all the afternoon to go over his sermon once more in that dreary +memory of his. The streets were brilliant with gas, for Saturday was +always a sort of market-night, and at that moment they were crowded with +girls going merrily home from the paper-mill at the close of the week's +labour. To Blatherwick, who had very little sympathy with gladness of +any sort, the sight only called up by contrast the very different scene +on which his eyes would look down the next evening from the vantage +coigne of the pulpit, in a church filled with an eminently respectable +congregation--to which he would be setting forth the results of certain +late geographical discoveries and local identifications, not knowing +that already even later discoveries had rendered all he was about to say +more than doubtful. + +But while, sunk in a not very profound reverie, he was in the act of +turning the corner of a narrow wynd, he was all but knocked down by +a girl whom another in the crowd had pushed violently against him. +Recoiling from the impact, and unable to recover her equilibrium, she +fell helplessly prostrate on the granite pavement, and lay motionless. +Annoyed and half-angry, he was on the point of walking on, heedless +of the accident, when something in the pale face among the coarse and +shapeless shoes that had already gathered thick around it, arrested him +with a strong suggestion of some one he had once known. But the same +moment the crowd hid her from his view; and, shocked even to be reminded +of Isy in such an assemblage, he turned resolutely away, and cherishing +the thought of the many chances against its being she, walked steadily +on. When he looked round again ere crossing the street, the crowd had +vanished, the pavement was nearly empty, and a policeman who just then +came up, had seen nothing of the occurrence, remarking only that the +girls at the paper-mills were a rough lot. + +A moment more and his mind was busy with a passage in his sermon which +seemed about to escape his memory: it was still as impossible for him to +talk freely about the things a minister is supposed to love best, as +it had been when he began to preach. It was not, certainly, out of the +fulness of the heart that _his_ mouth ever spoke! + +He sought the house of Mr. Robertson, the friend he had come to assist, +had supper with him and his wife, and retired early. In the morning he +went to his friend's church, in the afternoon rehearsed his sermon to +himself, and when the evening came, climbed the pulpit-stair, and soon +appeared engrossed in its rites. But as he seemed to be pouring out his +soul in the long extempore prayer, he suddenly opened his eyes as +if unconsciously compelled, and that moment saw, in the front of the +gallery before him, a face he could not doubt to be that of Isy. Her +gaze was fixed upon him; he saw her shiver, and knew that she saw and +recognized him. He felt himself grow blind. His head swam, and he felt +as if some material force was bending down his body sideways from her. +Such, nevertheless, was his self-possession, that he reclosed his eyes, +and went on with his prayer--if that could in any sense be prayer where +he knew neither word he uttered, thing he thought, nor feeling that +moved him. With Claudius in _Hamlet_ he might have said, + + My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: + Words without thoughts never to heaven go! + +But while yet speaking, and holding his eyes fast that he might not +see her again, his consciousness all at once returned--it seemed to him +through a mighty effort of the will, and upon that he immediately began +to pride himself. Instantly there-upon he was aware of his thoughts and +words, and knew himself able to control his actions and speech. All +the while, however, that he conducted the rest of the “service,” he was +constantly aware, although he did not again look at her, of the figure +of Isy before him, with its gaze fixed motionless upon him, and began at +last to wonder vaguely whether she might not be dead, and come back from +the grave to his mind a mysterious thought-spectre. But at the close of +the sermon, when the people stood up to sing, she rose with them; and +the half-dazed preacher sat down, exhausted with emotion, conflict, and +effort at self-command. When he rose once more for the benediction, +she was gone; and yet again he took refuge in the doubt whether she had +indeed been present at all. + +When Mrs. Robertson had retired, and James was sitting with his host +over their tumbler of toddy, a knock came to the door. Mr. Robertson +went to open it, and James's heart sank within him. But in a moment his +host returned, saying it was a policeman to let him know that a woman +was lying drunk at the bottom of his doorsteps, and to inquire what he +wished done with her. + +“I told him,” said Mr. Robertson, “to take the poor creature to the +station, and in the morning I would see her. When she's ill the next +day, you see,” he added, “I may have a sort of chance with her; but it +is seldom of any use.” + +A horrible suspicion that it was Isy herself had seized on Blatherwick; +and for a moment he was half inclined to follow the men to the station; +but his friend would be sure to go with him, and what might not come of +it! Seeing that she had kept silent so long, however, it seemed to him +more than probable that she had lost all care about him, and if let +alone would say nothing. Thus he reasoned, lost in his selfishness, and +shrinking from the thought of looking the disreputable creature in the +eyes. Yet the awful consciousness haunted him that, if she had fallen +into drunken habits and possibly worse, it was his fault, and the ruin +of the once lovely creature lay at his door, and his alone. + +He made haste to his room, and to bed, where for a long while he +lay unable even to think. Then all at once, with gathered force, the +frightful reality, the keen, bare truth broke upon him like a huge, cold +wave; he had a clear vision of his guilt, and the vision was +conscious of itself as _his_ guilt; he saw it rounded in a gray fog of +life-chilling dismay. What was he but a troth-breaker, a liar--and that +in strong fact, not in feeble tongue? “What am I,” said Conscience, “but +a cruel, self-seeking, loveless horror--a contemptible sneak, who, in +dread of missing the praises of men, crept away unseen, and left the +woman to bear alone our common sin?” What was he but a whited sepulchre, +full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness?--a fellow posing in the +pulpit as an example to the faithful, but knowing all the time that +somewhere in the land lived a woman--once a loving, trusting woman--who +could with a word hold him up to the world a hypocrite and a dastard-- + + A fixed figure for the Time of scorn + To point his slow unmoving finger at! + +He sprang to the floor; the cold hand of an injured ghost seemed +clutching feebly at his throat. But, in or out of bed, what could he +do? Utterly helpless, he thought, but in truth not daring to look the +question as to what he could do in the face, he crept back ignominiously +into his bed; and, growing a little less uncomfortable, began to reason +with himself that things were not so bad as they had for that moment +seemed; that many another had failed in like fashion with him, but +his fault had been forgotten, and had never reappeared against him! No +culprit was ever required to bear witness against himself! He must learn +to discipline and repress his over-sensitiveness, otherwise it would one +day seize him at a disadvantage, and betray him into self-exposure! + +Thus he reasoned--and sank back once more among the all but dead; the +loud alarum of his rousing conscience ceased, and he fell asleep in the +resolve to get away from Deemouth the first thing in the morning, before +Mr. Robertson should be awake. How much better it had been for him to +hold fast his repentant mood, and awake to tell everything! but he was +very far from having even approached any such resolution. Indeed no +practical idea of his, however much brooded over at night, had ever +lived to bear fruit in the morning; not once had he ever embodied in +action an impulse toward atonement! He could welcome the thought of a +final release from sin and suffering at the dissolution of nature, +but he always did his best to forget that at that very moment he was +suffering because of wrong he had done for which he was taking no least +trouble to make amends. He had lived for himself, to the destruction of +one whom he had once loved, and to the denial of his Lord and Master! + +More than twice on his way home in the early morning, he all but turned +to go back to the police-station, but it was, as usual, only _all but_, +and he kept walking on. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Already, ere James's flight was discovered, morning saw Mr. Robertson +on his way to do what he might for the redemption of one of whom he +knew little or nothing: the policemen returning from their night's duty, +found him already at the door of the office. He was at once admitted, +for he was well known to most of them. He found the poor woman miserably +recovered from the effects of her dissipation, and looking so woebegone, +that the heart of the good man was immediately filled with profoundest +pity, recognizing before him a creature whose hope was wasted to the +verge of despair. She neither looked up nor spoke; but what he could see +of her face appeared only ashamed, neither sullen nor vengeful. When +he spoke to her, she lifted her head a little, but not her eyes to his +face, confessing apparently that she had nothing to say for herself; and +he saw her plainly at the point of taking refuge in the Dee. Tenderly, +as if to the little one he had left behind him in bed, he spoke in +her scarce listening ear child-soothing words of almost inarticulate +sympathy, which yet his tone carried where they were meant to go. She +lifted her lost eyes at length, saw his face, and burst into tears. + +“Na, na,” she cried, through tearing sobs, “ye canna help me, sir! +There's naething 'at you or onybody can dee for me! But I'm near the +mou o' the pit, and God be thankit, I'll be ower the rim o' 't or I hae +grutten my last greit oot!--For God's sake gie me a drink--a drink o' +onything!” + +“I daurna gie ye onything to ca' drink,” answered the minister, who +could scarcely speak for the swelling in his throat. “The thing to dee +ye guid is a cup o' het tay! Ye canna hae had a moofu' this mornin! I +hae a cab waitin me at the door, and ye'll jist get in, my puir bairn, +and come awa hame wi' me! My wife'll be doon afore we win back, and +she'll hae a cup o' tay ready for ye in a moment! You and me 'ill hae +oor brakfast thegither.” + +“Ken ye what ye're sayin, sir? I daurna luik an honest wuman i' the +face. I'm sic as ye ken naething aboot.” + +“I ken a heap aboot fowk o' a' kin's--mair a heap, I'm thinkin, nor ye +ken yersel!--I ken mair aboot yersel, tee, nor ye think; I hae seen ye +i' my ain kirk mair nor ance or twice. The Sunday nicht afore last I was +preachin straucht intil yer bonny face, and saw ye greitin, and maist +grat mysel. Come awa hame wi' me, my dear; my wife's anither jist like +mysel, an'll turn naething to ye but the smilin side o' her face, I s' +un'ertak! She's a fine, herty, couthy, savin kin' o' wuman, my wife! +Come ye til her, and see!” + +Isy rose to her feet. + +“Eh, but I would like to luik ance mair intil the face o' a bonny, clean +wuman!” she said. “I'll gang, sir,” she went on, with sudden resolve +“--only, I pray ye, sir, mak speed, and tak me oot o' the sicht o'fowk!” + +“Ay, ay, come awa; we s' hae ye oot o' this in a moment,” answered Mr. +Robertson.--“Put the fine doon to me,” he whispered to the inspector as +they passed him on their way out. + +The man returned his nod, and took no further notice. + +“I thoucht that was what would come o' 't!” he murmured to himself, +looking after them with a smile. But indeed he knew little of what was +going to come of it! + +The good minister, whose heart was the teacher of his head, and who was +not ashamed either of himself or his companion, showed Isy into their +little breakfast-parlour, and running up the stair to his wife, told her +he had brought the woman home, and wanted her to come down at once. Mrs. +Robertson, who was dressing her one child, hurried her toilet, gave over +the little one to the care of her one servant, and made haste to welcome +the poor shivering night-bird, waiting with ruffled feathers below. When +she opened the door, the two women stood for a moment silently gazing +on each other--then the wife opened her arms wide, and the girl fled to +their shelter; but her strength failing her on the way, she fell to the +floor. Instantly the other was down by her side. The husband came to her +help; and between them they got her at once on the little couch. + +“Shall I get the brandy?” said Mrs. Robertson. + +“Try a cup of tea,” he answered. + +His wife made haste, and soon had the tea poured out and cooling. But +Isy still lay motionless. Her hostess raised the helpless head upon her +arm, put a spoonful of the tea to her lips, and found to her joy that +she tried to swallow it. The next minute she opened her eyes, and would +have risen; but the rescuing hand held her down. + +“I want to tell ye,” moaned Isy with feeble expostulation, “'at ye dinna +ken wha ye hae taen intil yer hoose! Lat me up to get my breath, or I'll +no be able to tell ye.” + +“Drink your tea,” answered the other, “and then say what you like. +There's no hurry. You'll have time enough.” + +The poor girl opened her eyes wide, and gazed for a moment at Mrs. +Robertson. Then she took the cup and drank the tea. Her new friend went +on-- + +“You must just be content to bide where you are a day or two. Ye're no +to fash yersel aboot onything: I have clothes enough to give you all the +change you can want. Hold your tongue, please, and finish your tea.” + +“Eh, mem,” cried Isy, “fowk 'ill say ill o' ye, gien they see the like +o' me in yer hoose!” + +“Lat them say, and say 't again! What's fowk but muckle geese!” + +“But there's the minister and his character!” she persisted. + +“Hoots! what cares the minister?” said his wife. “Speir at him there, +what he thinks o' clash.” + +“'Deed,” answered her husband, “I never heedit it eneuch to tell! +There's but ae word I heed, and that's my Maister's!” + +“Eh, but ye canna lift me oot o' the pit!” groaned the poor girl. + +“God helpin, I can,” returned the minister. “--But ye're no i' the pit +yet by a lang road; and oot o' that road I s' hae ye, please God, afore +anither nicht has darkent!” + +“I dinna ken what's to come o' me!” again she groaned. + +“That we'll sune see! Brakfast's to come o' ye first, and syne my wife +and me we'll sit in jeedgment upo ye, and redd things up. Min' ye're to +say what ye like, and naither ill fowk nor unco guid sail come nigh ye.” + +A pitiful smile flitted across Isy's face, and with it returned the +almost babyish look that used to form part of her charm. Like an +obedient child, she set herself to eat and drink what she could; and +when she had evidently done her best-- + +“Now put up your feet again on the sofa, and tell us everything,” said +the minister. + +“No,” returned Isy; “I'm not at liberty to tell you _everything_.” + +“Then tell us what you please--so long as it's true, and that I am sure +it will be,” he rejoined. + +“I will, sir,” she answered. + +For several moments she was silent, as if thinking how to begin; then, +after a gasp or two,-- + +“I'm not a good woman,” she began. “Perhaps I am worse than you think +me.--Oh, my baby! my baby!” she cried, and burst into tears. + +“There's nae that mony o' 's just what ither fowk think us,” said the +minister's wife. “We're in general baith better and waur nor that.--But +tell me ae thing: what took ye, last nicht, straucht frae the kirk to +the public? The twa haudna weel thegither!” + +“It was this, ma'am,” she replied, resuming the more refined speech to +which, since living at Deemouth, she had been less accustomed--“I had +a shock that night from suddenly seeing one in the church whom I had +thought never to see again; and when I got into the street, I turned so +sick that some kind body gave me whisky, and that was how, not having +been used to it for some time, that I disgraced myself. But indeed, I +have a much worse trouble and shame upon me than that--one you would +hardly believe, ma'am!” + +“I understand,” said Mrs. Robertson, modifying her speech also the +moment she perceived the change in that of her guest: “you saw him +in church--the man that got you into trouble! I thought that must be +it!--won't you tell me all about it?” + +“I will not tell his name. _I_ was the most in fault, for I knew +better; and I would rather die than do him any more harm!--Good morning, +ma'am!--I thank you kindly, sir! Believe me I am not ungrateful, +whatever else I may be that is bad.” + +She rose as she spoke, but Mrs. Robertson got to the door first, and +standing between her and it, confronted her with a smile. + +“Don't think I blame you for holding your tongue, my dear. I don't want +you to tell. I only thought it might be a relief to you. I believe, if +I were in the same case--or, at least, I hope so--that hot pincers +wouldn't draw his name out of me. What right has any vulgar inquisitive +woman to know the thing gnawing at your heart like a live serpent? +I will never again ask you anything about him.--There! you have my +promise!--Now sit down again, and don't be afraid. Tell me what you +please, and not a word more. The minister is sure to find something to +comfort you.” + +“What can anybody say or do to comfort such as me, ma'am? I am +lost--lost out of sight! Nothing can save me! The Saviour himself +wouldn't open the door to a woman that left her suckling child out in +the dark night!--That's what I did!” she cried, and ended with a wail as +from a heart whose wound eternal years could never close. + +In a while growing a little calmer-- + +“I would not have you think, ma'am,” she resumed, “that I wanted to get +rid of the darling. But my wits went all of a sudden, and a terror, I +don't know of what, came upon me. Could it have been the hunger, do you +think? I laid him down in the heather, and ran from him. How far I went, +I do not know. All at once I came to myself, and knew what I had done, +and ran to take him up. But whether I lost my way back, or what I did, +or how it was, I cannot tell, only I could not find him! Then for a +while I think I must have been clean out of my mind, and was always +seeing him torn by the foxes, and the corbies picking out his eyes. Even +now, at night, every now and then, it comes back, and I cannot get the +sight out of my head! For a while it drove me to drink, but I got rid of +that until just last night, when again I was overcome.--Oh, if I could +only keep from seeing the beasts and birds at his little body when I'm +falling asleep!” + +She gave a smothered scream, and hid her face in her hands. Mrs. +Robertson, weeping herself, sought to comfort her, but it seemed in +vain. + +“The worst of it is,” Isy resumed, “--for I must confess everything, +ma'am!--is that I cannot tell what I may have done in the drink. I may +even have told his name, though I remember nothing about it! It must +be months, I think, since I tasted a drop till last night; and now I've +done it again, and I'm not fit he should ever cast a look at me! My +heart's just like to break when I think I may have been false to him, +as well as false to his child! If all the devils would but come and tear +me, I would say, thank ye, sirs!” + +“My dear,” came the voice of the parson from where he sat listening to +every word she uttered, “my dear, naething but the han' o' the Son o' +Man'll come nigh ye oot o' the dark, saft-strokin yer hert, and closin +up the terrible gash intil't. I' the name o' God, the saviour o' men, I +tell ye, dautie, the day 'ill come whan ye'll smile i' the vera face o' +the Lord himsel, at the thoucht o' what he has broucht ye throuw! Lord +Christ, haud a guid grup o' thy puir bairn and hers, and gie her back +her ain. Thy wull be deen!--and that thy wull's a' for redemption!--Gang +on wi' yer tale, my lassie.” + +“'Deed, sir, I can say nae mair--and seem to hae nae mair to say.--I'm +some--some sick like!” + +She fell back on the sofa, white as death. + +The parson was a big man; he took her up in his arms, and carried her to +a room they had always ready on the chance of a visit from “one of the +least of these.” + +At the top of the stair stood their little daughter, a child of five +or six, wanting to go down to her mother, and wondering why she was not +permitted. + +“Who is it, moder?” she whispered, as Mrs. Robertson passed her, +following her husband and Isy. “Is she very dead?” + +“No, darling,” answered her mother; “it is an angel that has lost her +way, and is tired--so tired!--You must be very quiet, and not disturb +her. Her head is going to ache very much.” + +The child turned and went down the stair, step by step, softly, saying-- + +“I will tell my rabbit not to make any noise--and to be as white as he +can.” + +Once more they succeeded in bringing back to the light of consciousness +her beclouded spirit. She woke in a soft white bed, with two faces of +compassion bending over her, closed her eyes again with a smile of sweet +content, and was soon wrapt in a wholesome slumber. + +In the meantime, the caitiff minister had reached his manse, and found +a ghastly loneliness awaiting him--oh, how much deeper than that of the +woman he had forsaken! She had lost her repute and her baby; he had lost +his God! He had never seen his shape, and had not his word abiding in +him; and now the vision of him was closed in an unfathomable abyss of +darkness, far, far away from any point his consciousness could reach! +The signs of God were around him in the Book, around him in the world, +around him in his own existence--but the signs only! God did not +speak to him, did not manifest himself to him. God was not where James +Blatherwick had ever sought him; he was not in any place where was the +least likelihood of his ever looking for or finding him! + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +It must be remembered that Blatherwick knew nothing of the existence +of his child: such knowledge might have modified the half-conscious +satisfaction with which, on his way home, he now and then saw a +providence in the fact that he had been preserved from marrying a +woman who had now proved herself capable of disgracing him in the very +streets. But during his slow journey of forty miles, most of which he +made on foot, hounded on from within to bodily motion, he had again, as +in the night, to pass through many an alternation of thought and feeling +and purpose. To and fro in him, up and down, this way and that, went +the changing currents of self-judgment, of self-consolement, and of +fresh-gathering dread. Never for one persistent minute was his mind +clear, his purpose determined, his line set straight for honesty. He +must live up--not to the law of righteousness, but to the show of what +a minister ought to be! he must appear unto men! In a word, he must +keep up the deception he had begun in childhood, and had, until of late +years, practised unknowingly! Now he knew it, and went on, not knowing +how to get rid of it; or rather, shrinking in utter cowardice from the +confession which alone could have set him free. Now he sought only how +to conceal his deception and falseness. He had no pleasure in them, +but was consciously miserable in knowing himself not what he seemed--in +being compelled, as he fancied himself in excuse, to look like one that +had not sinned. In his heart he grumbled that God should have forsaken +him so far as to allow him to disgrace himself before his conscience. +He did not yet see that his foulness was ingrained; that the Ethiopian +could change his skin, or the leopard his spots, as soon as he; that he +had never yet looked purity in the face; that the fall which disgraced +him in his own eyes was but the necessary outcome of his character--that +it was no accident but an unavoidable result; that his true nature had +but disclosed itself, and appeared--as everything hid must be known, +everything covered must be revealed. Even _to begin_ the purification +without which his moral and spiritual being must perish eternally, +he must dare to look on himself as he was: he _would_ not recognize +himself, and thought he lay and would lie hid from all. Dante describes +certain of the redeemed as lying each concealed in his or her own cocoon +of emitted light: James lay hidden like a certain insect in its own +_gowk-spittle_. It is strange, but so it is, that many a man will never +yield to see himself until he become aware of the eyes of other men +fixed upon him; they seeing him, and he knowing that they see him, then +first, even to himself, will he be driven to confess what he has long +all but known. Blatherwick's hour was on its way, slow-coming, but no +longer to be shunned. His soul was ripening to self-declaration. The +ugly self must blossom, must show itself the flower, the perfection of +that evil thing he counted himself! What a hold has not God upon us in +this inevitable ripening of the unseen into the visible and present! The +flower is there, and must appear! + +In the meantime he suffered, and went on in silence, walking like a +servant of the Ancient of Days, and knowing himself a whited sepulchre. +Within him he felt the dead body that could not rest until it was laid +bare to the sun; but all the time he comforted himself that he had +not fallen a second time, and that the _once_ would not be remembered +against him: did not the fact that it was forgotten, most likely was +never known, indicate the forgiveness of God? And so, unrepentant, he +remained unforgiven, and continued a hypocrite and the slave of sin. + +But the hideous thing was not altogether concealed; something showed +under the covering whiteness! His mother saw that something shapeless +haunted him, and often asked herself what it could be, but always +shrank even from conjecturing. His father felt that he had gone from +him utterly, and that his son's feeding of the flock had done nothing to +bring him and his parents nearer to each other! What could be hidden, he +thought, beneath the mask of that unsmiling face? + +But there was a humble observer who saw deeper than the parents--John +MacLear, the soutar. + +One day, after about a fortnight, the minister walked into the workshop +of the soutar, and found him there as usual. His hands were working away +diligently, but his thoughts had for some time been brooding over the +blessed fact, that God is not the God of the perfect only, but of the +growing as well; not the God of the righteous only, but of such as +hunger and thirst after righteousness. + +“God blaw on the smoking flax, and tie up the bruised reed!” he was +saying to himself aloud, when in walked the minister. + +Now, as in some other mystical natures, a certain something had been +developed in the soutar not unlike a spirit of prophecy--an insight +which, seemingly without exercise of the will, sometimes laid bare to +him in a measure the thoughts and intents of hearts in which he was more +than usually interested; or perhaps it was rather a faculty, working +unconsciously, of putting signs together, and drawing from them +instantaneous conclusion of the fact at which they pointed. After their +greeting, he suddenly looked up at his visitor with a certain fixed +attention: the mere glance had shown him that he looked ill, and he now +saw that something in the man's heart was eating at it like a canker. +Therewith at once arose in his brain the question: could he be the +father of the little one crowing in the next room? But he shut it into +the darkest closet of his mind, shrinking from the secret of another +soul, as from the veil of the Holy of Holies! The next moment, however, +came the thought: what if the man stood in need of the offices of a +friend? It was one thing to pry into a man's secret; another, to help +him escape from it! As out of this thought the soutar sat looking at him +for a moment, the minister felt the hot blood rush to his cheeks. + +“Ye dinna luik that weel, minister,” said the soutar: “is there onything +the maitter wi' ye, sir?” + +“Nothing worth mentioning,” answered the parson. “I have sometimes a +touch of headache in the early morning, especially when I have sat later +than usual over my books the night before; but it always goes off during +the day.” + +“Ow weel, sir, that's no, as ye say, a vera sairious thing! I couldna +help fancyin ye had something on yer min' by ord'nar!” + +“Naething, naething,” answered James with a feeble laugh. “--But,” he +went on--and something seemed to send the words to his lips without +giving him time to think--“it is curious you should say that, for I was +just thinking what was the real intent of the apostle in his injunction +to confess our faults one to another.” + +The moment he uttered the words he felt as if he had proclaimed his +secret on the housetop; and he would have begun the sentence afresh, +with some notion of correcting it; but again he knew the hot blood shoot +to his face.--“I _must_ go on with something!” he felt rather than said +to himself, “or those sharp eyes will see through and through me!” + +“It came into my mind,” he went on, “that I should like to know what +_you_ thought about the passage: it cannot surely give the least ground +for auricular confession! I understand perfectly how a man may want +to consult a friend in any difficulty--and that friend naturally the +minister; but--” + +This was by no means a thing he had meant to say, but he seemed carried +on to say he knew not what. It was as if, without his will, the will +of God was driving the man to the brink of a pure confession--to the +cleansing of his stuffed bosom “of that perilous stuff which weighs upon +the heart.” + +“Do you think, for instance,” he continued, thus driven, “that a man is +bound to tell _everything_--even to the friend he loves best?” + +“I think,” answered the soutar after a moment's thought, “that we must +answer the _what_, before we enter upon the _how much_. And I think, +first of all we must ask--to _whom_ are we bound to confess?--and there +surely the answer is, to him to whom we have done the wrong. If we have +been grumbling in our hearts, it is to God we must confess: who else +has to do with the matter? To _Him_ we maun flee the moment oor eyes +are opent to what we've been aboot! But, gien we hae wranged ane o' oor +fallow-craturs, wha are we to gang til wi' oor confession but that same +fallow-cratur? It seems to me we maun gang to that man first--even afore +we gang to God himsel. Not one moment must we indulge procrastination on +the plea o' prayin! From our vera knees we maun rise in haste, and say +to brother or sister, 'I've done ye this or that wrang: forgie me.' God +can wait for your prayer better nor you, or him ye've wranged, can +wait for your confession! Efter that, ye maun at ance fa' to your best +endeevour to mak up for the wrang. 'Confess your sins,' I think +it means, 'each o' ye to the ither again whom ye hae dene the +offence.'--Divna ye think that's the cowmonsense o' the maitter?” + +“Indeed, I think you must be right!” replied the minister, who sat +revolving only how best, alas, to cover his retreat! “I will go home at +once and think it all over. Indeed, I am even now all but convinced that +what you say must be what the Apostle intended!” + +With a great sigh, of which he was not aware, Blatherwick rose and +walked from the kitchen, hoping he looked--not guilty, but sunk in +thought. In truth he was unable to think. Oppressed and heavy-laden with +the sense of a duty too unpleasant for performance, he went home to his +cheerless manse, where his housekeeper was the only person he had +to speak to, a woman incapable of comforting anybody. There he went +straight to his study, but, kneeling, found he could not pray the +simplest prayer; not a word would come, and he could not pray without +words! He was dead, and in hell--so far perished that he felt nothing. +He rose, and sought the open air; it brought him no restoration. He had +not heeded his friend's advice, had not entertained the thought of the +one thing possible to him--had not moved, even in spirit, toward Isy! +The only comfort he could now find for his guilty soul was the thought +that he could do nothing, for he did not know where Isy was to be found. +When he remembered the next moment that his friend Robertson must be +able to find her, he soothed his conscience with the reflection that +there was no coach till the next morning, and in the meantime he could +write: a letter would reach him almost as soon as he could himself! + +But what then would Robertson think? He might give his wife the letter +to read! She might even read it of herself, for they concealed nothing +from each other! So he only walked the faster, tired himself, and earned +an appetite as the result of his day's work! He ate a good dinner, +although with little enjoyment, and fell fast asleep in his chair. No +letter was written to Robertson that day. No letter of such sort was +ever written. The spirit was not willing, and the flesh was weakness +itself. + +In the evening he took up a learned commentary on the Book of Job; but +he never even approached the discovery of what Job wanted, received, and +was satisfied withal. He never saw that what he himself needed, but did +not desire, was the same thing--even a sight of God! He never discovered +that, when God came to Job, Job forgot all he had intended to say to +him--did not ask him a single question--knew that all was well. The +student of Scripture remained blind to the fact that the very presence +of the Living One, of the Father of men, proved sufficient in itself to +answer every question, to still every doubt! But then James's heart was +not pure like Job's, and therefore he could never have seen God; he did +not even desire to see him, and so could see nothing as it was. He read +with the blindness of the devil in his heart. + +In Marlowe's _Faust_, the student asks Mephistopheles-- + + How comes it then that thou art out of hell? + +And the demon answers him-- + + Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it; + +and again-- + + Where we are is hell; + And where hell is there must we ever be: + ... when all the world dissolves, + And every creature shall be purified, + All places shall be hell that are not heaven; + +and yet again-- + + I tell thee I am damned, and now in hell; + +and it was thus James fared; and thus he went to bed. + +And while he lay there sleepless, or walked in his death to and fro in +the room, his father and mother, some three miles away, were talking +about him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +For some time they had lain silent, thinking about him by no means +happily. They were thinking how little had been their satisfaction in +their minister-son; and had gone back in their minds to a certain time, +long before, when conferring together about him, a boy at school. + +Even then the heart of the mother had resented his coldness, his seeming +unconsciousness of his parents as having any share or interest in his +life or prospects. Scotch parents are seldom demonstrative to each other +or to their children; but not the less in them, possibly the hotter +because of their outward coldness, burns the causal fire, the central, +the deepest--that eternal fire, without which the world would turn to a +frozen clod, the love of the parent for the child. That must burn while +_the_ Father lives! that must burn until the universe _is_ the Father +and his children, and none beside. That fire, however long held down and +crushed together by the weight of unkindled fuel, must go on to gather +heat, and, gathering, it must glow, and at last break forth in the +scorching, yea devouring flames of a righteous indignation: the Father +must and _will_ be supreme, that his children perish not! But as yet +_The Father_ endured and was silent; and the child-parents also must +endure and be still! In the meantime their son remained hidden from them +as by an impervious moral hedge; he never came out from behind it, never +stood clear before them, and they were unable to break through to him: +within his citadel of indifference there was no angelic traitor to draw +back the bolts of its iron gates, and let them in. They had gone on +hoping, and hoping in vain, for some holy, lovely change in him; but +at last had to confess it a relief when he left the house, and went to +Edinburgh. + +But the occasion to which I refer was long before that. + +The two children were in bed and asleep, and the parents were lying +then, as they lay now, sleepless. + +“Hoo's Jeemie been gettin on the day?” said his father. + +“Well enough, I suppose,” answered his mother, who did not then speak +Scotch quite so broad as her husband's, although a good deal broader +than her mother, the wife of a country doctor, would have permitted when +she was a child; “he's always busy at his books. He's a good boy, and a +diligent; there's no gainsayin that! But as to hoo he's gettin on, I +can beir no testimony. He never lets a word go from him as to what he's +doin, one way or anither. 'What _can_ he be thinkin aboot?' I say whiles +to mysel--sometimes ower and ower again. When I gang intil the parlour, +where he always sits till he has done his lessons, he never lifts his +heid to show that he hears me, or cares wha's there or wha isna. And as +soon as he's learnt them, he taks a buik and gangs up til his room, or +oot aboot the hoose, or intil the cornyard or the barn, and never comes +nigh me!--I sometimes won'er gien he would ever miss me deid!” she +ended, with a great sigh. + +“Hoot awa, wuman! dinna tak on like that,” returned her husband. “The +laddie's like the lave o' laddies! They're a' jist like pup-doggies till +their een comes oppen, and they ken them 'at broucht them here. He's +bun' to mak a guid man in time, and he canna dee that ohn learnt to be +a guid son to her 'at bore him!--Ye canna say 'at ever he contert ye! Ye +hae tellt me that a hunner times!” + +“I have that! But I would hae had no occasion to dwall upo' the fac', +gien he had ever gi'en me, noo or than, jist a wee bit sign o' ony +affection!” + +“Ay, doobtless! but signs are nae preefs! The affection, as ye ca' 't, +may be there, and the signs o' 't wantin!--But I ken weel hoo the hert +o' ye 's workin, my ain auld dautie!” he added, anxious to comfort her +who was dearer to him than son or daughter. + +“I dinna think it wad be weel,” he resumed after a pause, “for me to say +onything til 'im aboot his behaviour til 's mither: I dinna believe he +wud ken what I was aimin at! I dinna believe he has a notion o' onything +amiss in himsel, and I fear he wad only think I was hard upon him, and +no' fair. Ye see, gien a thing disna come o' 'tsel, no cryin upo' 't 'll +gar 't lift its heid--sae lang, at least, as the man kens naething aboot +it!” + +“I dinna doobt ye're right, Peter,” answered his wife; “I ken weel that +flytin 'ill never gar love spread oot his wings--excep' it be to flee +awa'! Naething but shuin can come o' flytin!” + +“It micht be even waur nor shuin!” rejoined Peter.”--But we better gang +til oor sleeps, lass!--We hae ane anither, come what may!” + +“That's true, Peter; but aye the mair I hae you, the mair I want my +Jeemie!” cried the poor mother. + +The father said no more. But, after a while, he rose, and stole softly +to his son's room. His wife stole after him, and found him on his knees +by the bedside, his face buried in the blankets, where his boy lay +asleep with calm, dreamless countenance. + +She took his hand, and led him back to bed. + +“To think,” she moaned as they went, “'at yon's the same bairnie I +glowert at till my sowl ran oot at my een! I min' weel hoo I leuch and +grat, baith at ance, to think I was the mother o' a man-child! and I +thought I kenned weel what was i' the hert o' Mary, whan she claspit the +blessed ane til her boasom!” + +“May that same bairnie, born for oor remeid, bring oor bairn til his +richt min' afore he's ower auld to repent!” responded the father in a +broken voice. + +“What for,” moaned Marion, “was the hert o' a mither put intil me? What +for was I made a wuman, whause life is for the beirin o' bairns to the +great Father o' a' gien this same was to be my reward?--Na, na, Lord,” + she went on, checking herself, “I claim naething but thy wull; and weel +I ken ye wouldna hae me think siclike thy wull!” + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +It would be too much to say that the hearts of his parents took no +pleasure in the advancement of their son, such as it was. I suspect the +mother was glad to be proud where she could find no happiness--proud +with the love that lay incorruptible in her being. But the love that is +all on one side, though it may be stronger than death, can hardly be so +strong as life! A poor, maimed, one-winged thing, such love cannot soar +into any region of conscious bliss. Even when it soars into the region +where God himself dwells, it is but to partake there of the divine +sorrow which his heartless children cause him. My reader may well +believe that father nor mother dwelt much upon what their neighbours +called James's success--or cared in the least to talk about it: that +they would have felt to be mere hypocrisy, while hearty and genuine +relations were so far from perfect between them. Never to human being, +save the one to the other, and that now but very seldom, did they allude +to the bitterness which their own hearts knew; for to speak of it would +have seemed almost equivalent to disowning their son. And alas the +daughter was gone to whom the mother had at one time been able to bemoan +herself, knowing she understood and shared in their misery! For Isobel +would gladly have laid down her life to kindle in James's heart such a +love to their parents as her own. + +We may now understand a little, into what sort of man the lad James +Blatherwick had grown. When he left Stonecross for the University, it +was with scarce a backward look; nothing was in his heart but eagerness +for the coming conflict. Having gained there one of its highest +bursaries, he never spent a thought, as he donned his red gown, on the +son of the poor widow who had competed with him, and who, failing, had +to leave ambition behind him and take a place in a shop--where, however, +he soon became able to keep, and did keep, his mother in what was to her +nothing less than happy luxury; while the successful James--well, so far +my reader already knows about him. + +As often as James returned home for the vacations, things, as between +him and his parents, showed themselves unaltered; and by his third +return, the heart of his sister had ceased to beat any faster at the +thought of his arrival: she knew that he would but shake hands limply, +let hers drop, and the same moment be set down to read. Before the time +for taking his degree arrived, Isobel was gone to the great Father. +James never missed her, and neither wished nor was asked to go home to +her funeral. To his mother he was never anything more or less than quite +civil; she never asked him to do anything for her. He came and went as +he pleased, cared for nothing done on the farm or about the house, and +seemed, in his own thoughts and studies, to have more than enough to +occupy him. He had grown a powerful as well as handsome youth, and +had dropped almost every sign of his country breeding. He hardly ever +deigned a word in his mother-dialect, but spoke good English with +a Scotch accent. Neither had he developed any of the abominable +affectations by which not a few such as he have imagined to repudiate +their origin. + +His father had not then first to discover that his son was far too fine +a gentleman to show any interest in agriculture, or put out his hand +to the least share in that oldest and most dignified of callings. His +mother continued to look forward, although with fading interest, to +the time when he should be--the messenger of a gospel which he nowise +understood; but his father did not at all share her anticipation; and +she came to know ere long that to hear him preach would but renew and +intensify a misery to which she had become a little accustomed in their +ordinary intercourse. The father felt that his boy had either left him a +long way off, or had never at any time come near him. He seemed to stand +afar upon some mountain-top of conscious or imagined superiority. + +James, as one having no choice, lived at _home_, so called by custom +and use, but lived as one come of another breed than his parents, having +with theirs but few appreciable points of contact. Most conventional +of youths, he yet wrote verses in secret, and in his treasure-closet +worshipped Byron. What he wrote he seldom showed, and then only to +one or two of his fellow-students. Possibly he wrote only to prove to +himself that he could do that also, for he never doubted his faculty +in any direction. When he went to Edinburgh--to learn theology, +forsooth!--he was already an accomplished mathematician, and a yet +better classic, with some predilections for science, and a very small +knowledge of the same: his books showed for the theology, and for the +science, an occasional attempt to set his father right on some point of +chemistry. His first aspiration was to show himself a gentleman in the +eyes of the bubblehead calling itself Society--of which in fact he knew +nothing; and the next, to have his eloquence, at present existent only +in an ambitious imagination, recognized by the public. Such were the two +devils, or rather the two forms of the one devil Vanity, that possessed +him. He looked down on his parents, and the whole circumstance of +their ordered existence, as unworthy of him, because old-fashioned and +bucolic, occupied only with God's earth and God's animals, and having +nothing to do with the shows of life. And yet to the simply honourable, +to such of gentle breeding as despised mere show, the ways of life in +their house would have seemed altogether admirable: the homely, yet not +unfastidious modes and conditions of the unassuming homestead, would +have appeared to them not a little attractive. But James took no +interest in any of them, and, if possible, yet less in the ways of the +tradesmen and craftsmen of the neighbouring village. He never felt the +common humanity that made him one with them, did not in his thoughts +associate himself at all with them. Had he turned his feeling into +thoughts and words, he would have said, “I cannot help being the son of +a farmer, but at least my mother's father was a doctor; and had I been +consulted, my father should have been at least an officer in one of his +majesty's services, not a treader of dung or artificial manure!” The +root of his folly lay in the groundless self-esteem of the fellow; +fostered, I think, by a certain literature which fed the notion, if +indeed it did not plainly inculcate the _duty_ of rising in the world. +To such as he, the praise of men may well seem the patent of their +nobility; but the man whom we call _The Saviour_, and who knew the +secret of Life, warned his followers that they must not seek that sort +of distinction if they would be the children of the Father who claimed +them. + +I have said enough, perhaps too much, of this most uninteresting of men! +How he came to be born such, is not for my speculation: had he remained +such, his story would not have been for my telling. How he became +something better, it remains my task to try to set forth. + +I now complete the talk that followed the return of the simple couple to +bed. “I was jist thinkin, Peter,” said Marion, after they had again +lain silent for a while, “o' the last time we spak thegither aboot the +laddie--it maun be nigh sax year sin syne, I'm thinkin!” + +“'Deed I canna say! ye may be richt, Mirran,” replied her spouse. “It's +no sic a cheery subjec' 'at we sud hae muckle to say to ane anither +anent it! He's a man noo, and weel luikit upo'; but it maks unco little +differ to his parents! He's jist as dour as ever, and as far as man +could weel be frae them he cam o'!--never a word to the ane or the ither +o' 's! Gien we war twa dowgs, he couldna hae less to say til's, and +micht weel hae mair! I s' warran' Frostie says mair in ae half-hoor to +his tyke, nor Jeemie has said to you or me sin' first he gaed to the +college!” + +“Bairns is whiles a queer kin' o' a blessin!” remarked the mother. “But, +eh, Peter! it's what may lie ahint the silence that frichts me!” + +“Lass, ye're frichtin _me_ noo! What _div_ ye mean?” + +“Ow naething!” returned Marion, bursting into tears. “But a' at ance +it was borne in upo me, that there maun be something to accoont for the +thing. At the same time I daurna speir at God himsel what that thing +can be. For there's something waur noo, and has been for some time, +than ever was there afore! He has sic a luik, as gien he saw nor heard +onything but ae thing, the whilk ae thing keeps on inside him, and winna +wheesht. It's an awfu' thing to say o' a mither's ain laddie; and to hae +said it only to my ain man, and the father o' the laddie, maks my hert +like to brak!--it's as gien I had been fause to my ain flesh and blude +but to think it o' 'im!--Eh, Peter, what _can_ it be?” + +“Ow jist maybe naething ava'! Maybe he's in love, and the lass winna +hear til 'im!” + +“Na, Peter; love gars a man luik up, no doon at his ain feet! It gars +him fling his heid back, and set his een richt afore him--no turn them +in upo his ain inside! It maks a man straucht i' the back, strong i' the +airm, and bauld i' the hert.--Didna it you, Peter?” + +“Maybe it did; I dinna min' vera weel.--But I see love can hardly be the +thing that's amiss wi' the lad. Still, even his parents maun tak tent o' +jeedgin--specially ane o' the Lord's ministers--maybe ane o' the Lord's +ain elec'!” + +“It's awfu' to think--I daurna say 't--I daurna maist think the words +o' 't, Peter, but it _wull_ cry oot i' my vera hert!--Steik the door, +Peter--and ticht, that no a stray stirk may hear me!--Was a minister o' +the gospel ever a heepocreete, Peter?--like ane o' the auld scribes +and Pharisees, Peter?--Wadna it be ower terrible, Peter, to be +permittit?--Gien our ain only son was--” + +But here she broke down; she could not finish the frightful sentence. +The farmer again left his bed, and dropt upon a chair by the side of it. +The next moment he sank on his knees, and hiding his face in his hands, +groaned, as from a thicket of torture-- + +“God in haven, hae mercy upon the haill lot o' 's.” + +Then, apparently unconscious of what he did, he went wandering from the +room, down to the kitchen, and out to the barn on his bare feet, closing +the door of the house behind him. In the barn he threw himself, face +downward, on a heap of loose straw, and there lay motionless. His wife +wept alone in her bed, and hardly missed him: it required of her no +reflection to understand whither he had gone, or what he was doing. He +was crying, like King Lear from the bitterness of an outraged father's +heart, to the Father of fathers: + +“God, ye're a father yersel,” he groaned; “and sae ye ken hoo it's rivin +at my hert!--Na, Lord, ye dinna ken; for ye never had a doobt aboot +_your_ son!--Na, I'm no blamin Jeemie, Lord; I'm no cryin oot upo _him_; +for ye ken weel hoo little I ken aboot him: he never opened the buik o' +his hert to _me_! Oh God, grant that he hae naething to hide; but gien +he has, Lord, pluck it oot o' 'im, and _him_ oot o' the glaur! latna him +stick there. I kenna hoo to shape my petition, for I'm a' i' the dark; +but deliver him some gait, Lord, I pray thee, for his mither's sake!--ye +ken what she is!--_I_ dinna coont for onything, but ye ken _her_!--Lord, +deliver the hert o' her frae the awfu'est o' a' her fears.--Lord, a +hypocreet! a Judas-man!” + +More of what he said, I cannot tell; somehow this much has reached my +ears. He remained there upon the straw while hour after hour passed, +pleading with the great Father for his son; his soul now lost in dull +fatigue, now uttering itself in groans for lack of words, until at +length the dawn looked in on the night-weary earth, and into the two +sorrow-laden hearts, bringing with it a comfort they did not seek to +understand. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +But it brought no solace to the mind of the weak, hard-hearted, and +guilty son. He had succeeded once more in temporarily soothing his +conscience with some narcotic of false comfort, and now slept the sleep +of the houseless, whose covering was narrower than he could wrap himself +in. Ah, those nights! Alas for the sleepless human soul out in the +eternal cold! But so heartless was James, that, if his mother had come +to him in the morning with her tear-dimmed eyes, he would never have +asked himself what could ail her; would never even have seen that she +was unhappy; least of all would have suspected himself the cause of her +red eyes and aching head, or that the best thing in him was that mental +uneasiness of which he was constantly aware. Thank God, there was no way +round the purifying fire! he could not escape it; he _must_ pass through +it! + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Little knows the world what a power among men is the man who simply and +really believes in him who is Lord of the world to save men from +their sins! He may be neither wise nor prudent; he may be narrow and +dim-sighted even in the things he loves best; they may promise him much, +and yield him but a poor fragment of the joy that might be and ought to +be his; he may present them to others clothed in no attractive hues, or +in any word of power; and yet, if he has but that love to his neighbour +which is rooted in, and springs from love to his God, he is always a +redeeming, reconciling influence among his fellows. The Robertsons were +genial of heart, loving and tender toward man or woman in need of them; +their door was always on the latch for such to enter. If the parson +insisted on the wrath of God against sin, he did not fail to give +assurance of His tenderness toward such as had fallen. Together the +godly pair at length persuaded Isobel of the eager forgiveness of the +Son of Man. They assured her that he could not drive from him the very +worst of sinners, but loved--nothing less than tenderly _loved_ any +one who, having sinned, now turned her face to the Father. She +would doubtless, they said, have to see her trespass in the eyes of +unforgiving women, but the Lord would lift her high, and welcome her to +the home of the glad-hearted. + +But poor Isy, who regarded her fault as both against God and the man who +had misled her, and was sick at the thought of being such as she judged +herself, insisted that nothing God himself could do, could ever restore +her, for nothing could ever make it that she had not fallen: such a +contradiction, such an impossibility alone could make her clean! God +might be ready to forgive her, but He could not love her! Jesus +might have made satisfaction for her sin, but how could that make any +difference in or to her? She was troubled that Jesus should have so +suffered, but that could not give her back her purity, or the peace of +mind she once possessed! That was gone for ever! The life before her +took the appearance of an unchanging gloom, a desert region whence the +gladness had withered, and whence came no purifying wind to blow from +her the odours of the grave by which she seemed haunted! Never to all +eternity could she be innocent again! Life had no interest for her! She +was, and must remain just what she was; for, alas, she could not cease +to be! + +Such thoughts had at one period ravaged her life, but they had for some +time been growing duller and deader: now once more revived by goodness +and sympathy, they had resumed their gnawing and scorching, and she +had grown yet more hateful to herself. Even the two who befriended and +comforted her, could never, she thought, cease to regard her as what +they knew she was! But, strange to say, with this revival of her +suffering, came also a requickening of her long dormant imagination, +favoured and cherished, doubtless, by the peace and love that surrounded +her. First her dreams, then her broodings began to be haunted with sweet +embodiments. As if the agonized question of the guilty Claudius were +answered to her, to assure her that there _was_ “rain enough in the +sweet heavens to wash her white as snow,” she sometimes would wake from +a dream where she stood in blessed nakedness with a deluge of +cool, comforting rain pouring upon her from the sweetness of those +heavens--and fall asleep again to dream of a soft strong west wind +chasing from her the offensive emanations of the tomb, that seemed to +have long persecuted her nostrils as did the blood of Duncan those of +the wretched Lady Macbeth. And every night to her sinful bosom came back +the soft innocent hands of the child she had lost--when ever and again +her dream would change, and she would be Hagar, casting her child away, +and fleeing from the sight of his death. More than once she dreamed that +an angel came to her, and went out to look for her boy--only to return +and lay him in her arms grievously mangled by some horrid beast. + +When the first few days of her sojourn with the good Samaritans were +over, and she had gathered strength enough to feel that she ought no +longer to be burdensome to them, but look for work, they positively +refused to let her leave them before her spirit also had regained some +vital tone, and she was able to “live a little”; and to that end they +endeavoured to revive in her the hope of finding her lost child: setting +inquiry on foot in every direction, they promised to let her know the +moment when her presence should begin to cause them inconvenience. + +“Let you go, child?” her hostess had exclaimed: “God forbid! Go you +shall not until you go for your own sake: you cannot go for ours!” + +“But I'm such a burden to you--and so useless!” + +“Was the Lord a burden to Mary and Lazarus, think ye, my poor bairn?” + rejoined Mrs. Robertson. + +“Don't, ma'am, please!” sobbed Isy. + +“Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it to me!” + insisted her hostess. + +“That doesna apply, ma'am,” objected Isy. “I'm nane o' his!” + +“Who is then? Who was it he came to save? Are you not one of his lost +sheep? Are you not weary and heavy-laden? Will you never let him feel at +home with you? Are _you_ to say who he is to love and who he isn't? Are +_you_ to tell him who are fit to be counted his, and who are not good +enough?” + +Isy was silent for a long time. The foundations of her coming peace were +being dug deeper, and laid wider. + +She still found it impossible, from the disordered state of her mind at +the time, to give any notion of whereabout she had been when she laid +her child down, and leaving him, could not again find him. And Maggie, +who loved him passionatately and believed him wilfully abandoned, +cherished no desire to discover one who could claim him, but was +unworthy to have him. For a long time, therefore, neither she nor +her father ever talked, or encouraged talk about him; whence certain +questing busybodies began to snuff and give tongue. It was all very +well, they said, for the cobbler and his Maggie to pose as rescuers and +benefactors: but whose was the child? His growth nevertheless went on +all the same, and however such hints might seem to concern him, happily +they never reached him. Maggie flattered herself, indeed, that never in +this world would they reach him, but would die away in the void, or like +a fallen wave against the heedless shore! And yet, all the time, in the +not so distant city, a loving woman was weeping and pining for lack +of him, whose conduct, in the eyes of the Robertsons, was not merely +blameless, but sweetly and manifestly true, constantly yielding fuel to +the love that encompassed her. But, although mentally and spiritually +she was growing rapidly, she seemed to have lost all hope. For, deeper +in her soul, and nearer the root of her misery than even the loss of her +child, lay the character and conduct of the man to whom her love seemed +inextinguishable. His apostasy from her, his neglect of her, and her +constantly gnawing sense of pollution, burned at the bands of her life; +and her friends soon began to fear that she was on the verge of a slow +downward slide, upon which there is seldom any turning. + +The parson and his wife had long been on friendliest terms with the +farmer of Stonecross and his wife; and, brooding on the condition of +their guest, it was natural that the thought of Mrs. Blatherwick should +occur to them as one who might be able to render them the help they +needed for her. Difficulties were in the way, it was true, chiefly that +of conveying a true conception of the nature and character of the woman +in whom they desired her interest; but if Mrs. Blatherwick were once to +see her, there would be no fear of the result: received at the farm, she +was certain in no way to compromise them! They were confident she would +never belie the character they were prepared to give her. Neither was +there any one at the farm for whom it was possible to dread intercourse +with her, seeing that, since the death of their only daughter, they had +not had a servant in the house. It was concluded therefore between them +that Mr. Robertson should visit their friends at Stonecross, and tell +them all they knew about Isy. + +It was a lovely morning in the decline of summer, the corn nearly full +grown, but still green, without sign of the coming gold of perfection, +when the minister mounted the top of the coach, to wait, silent and +a little anxious, for the appearance of the coachman from the office, +thrusting the waybill into the pocket of his huge greatcoat, to gather +his reins, and climb heavily to his perch. A journey of four hours, +through a not very interesting country, but along a splendid road, +would carry him to the village where the soutar lived, and where James +Blatherwick was parson! There a walk of about three miles awaited him--a +long and somewhat weary way to the town-minister--accustomed indeed to +tramping the hard pavements, but not to long walks unbroken by calls. +Climbing at last the hill on which the farmhouse stood, he caught sight +of Peter Blatherwick in a neighbouring field of barley stubble, with the +reins of a pair of powerful Clydesdales in his hands, wrestling with +the earth as it strove to wrench from his hold the stilts of the plough +whose share and coulter he was guiding through it. Peter's delight was +in the open air, and hard work in it. He was as far from the vulgar idea +that a man rose in the scale of honour when he ceased to labour with his +hands, as he was from the fancy that a man rose in the kingdom of heaven +when he was made a bishop. + +As to his higher nature, the farmer believed in God--that is, he tried +to do what God required of him, and thus was on the straight road to +know him. He talked little about religion, and was no partisan. When he +heard people advocating or opposing the claims of this or that party +in the church, he would turn away with a smile such as men yield to +the talk of children. He had no time, he would say, to spend on such +disputes: he had enough to do in trying to practise what was beyond +dispute. + +He was a reading man, who not merely drank at every open source he came +across, but thought over what he read, and was, therefore, a man of true +intelligence, who was regarded by his neighbours with more than ordinary +respect. He had been the first in the district to lay hold of the +discoveries in chemistry applicable to agriculture, and had made use of +them, with notable results, upon his own farm; setting thus an example +which his neighbours were so ready to follow, that the region, nowise +remarkable for its soil, soon became remarkable for its crops. The +note-worthiest thing in him, however, was his _humanity_, shown first +and chiefly in the width and strength of his family affections. He had +a strong drawing, not only to his immediate relations, but to all of his +blood; who were not few, for he came of an ancient family, long settled +in the neighbourhood. In his worldly affairs he was well-to-do, having +added not a little to the little his father had left him; but he was no +lover of money, being open-handed even to his wife, upon whom first your +money-grub is sure to exercise his parsimony. There was, however, at +Stonecross, little call to spend and less temptation from without, +the farm itself being equal to the supply of almost every ordinary +necessity. + +In disposition Peter Blatherwick was a good-humoured, even merry man, +with a playful answer almost always ready for a greeting neighbour. + +The minister did not however go on to join the farmer, but went to the +house, which stood close at hand, with its low gable toward him. Late +summer still lorded it in the land; only a few fleecy clouds shared the +blue of the sky with the ripening sun, and on the hot ridges the air +pulsed and trembled, like vaporized layers of mother-of-pearl. + +At the end of the idle lever, no sleepy old horse was now making his +monotonous rounds; his late radiance, born of age and sunshine, was +quenched in the dark of the noonday stall. But the peacock still +strutted among the ricks, as conscious of his glorious plumage, as +regardless of the ugliness of his feet as ever; now and then checking +the rhythmic movement of his neck, undulating green and blue, to scratch +the ground with those feet, and dart his beak, with apparently spiteful +greed, at some tiny crystal of quartz or pickle of grain they exposed; +or, from the towering steeple of his up lifted throat, to utter his +self-satisfaction in a hideous cry. + +In the gable before him, Mr. Robertson passed a low window, through +which he had a glimpse of the pretty, old-fashioned parlour within, as +he went round to the front, to knock at the nearer of two green-painted +doors. + +Mrs. Blatherwick herself came to open it, and finding who it was +that knocked--of all men the most welcome to her in her present +mood--received him with the hearty simplicity of an evident welcome. + +For was he not a minister? and was not he who caused all her trouble, a +minister also? She was not, indeed, going to lay open her heart and let +him see into its sorrow; for to confess her son a cause of the least +anxiety to her, would be faithless and treacherous; but the unexpected +appearance of Mr. Robertson brought her, nevertheless, as it were the +dawn of a winter morning after a long night of pain. + +She led him into the low-ceiled parlour, the green gloom of the big +hydrangea that filled the front window, and the ancient scent of the +withered rose-leaves in the gorgeous china basin on the gold-bordered +table-cover. There the minister, after a few kind commonplaces, sat for +a moment, silently pondering how to enter upon his communication. But he +did not ponder long, however; for his usual way was to rush headlong +at whatever seemed to harbour a lion, and come at once to the +death-grapple. + +Marion Blatherwick was a good-looking woman, with a quiet strong +expression, and sweet gray eyes. The daughter of a country surgeon, she +had been left an orphan without means; but was so generally respected, +that all said Mr. Blatherwick had never done better than when he married +her. Their living son seemed almost to have died in his infancy; their +dead daughter, gone beyond range of eye and ear, seemed never to have +left them: there was no separation, only distance between them. + +“I have taken the liberty, Mrs. Blatherwick, of coming to ask your help +in a great perplexity,” began Mr. Robertson, with an embarrassment she +had never seen in him before, and which bewildered her not a little. + +“Weel, sir, it's an honour done me--a great honour, for which I hae to +thank ye, I'm sure!” she answered. + +“Bide ye, mem, till ye hear what it is,” rejoined the minister. “We, +that is, my wife and mysel, hae a puir lass at hame i' the hoose. We hae +ta'en a great interest in her for some weeks past; but noo we're 'maist +at oor wits' en' what to do wi' her neist. She's sair oot o' hert, and +oot o' health, and out o' houp; and in fac' she stan's in sair, ay, +desperate need o' a cheenge.” + +“Weel, that ouchtna to mak muckle o' a diffeeclety atween auld friens +like oorsels, Maister Robertson!--Ye wad hae us tak her in for a whilie, +till she luiks up a bit, puir thing?--Hoo auld may she be?” + +“She can hardly be mair nor twenty, or aboot that--sic like as your +ain bonnie lassie would hae been by this time, gien she had ripent +here i'stead o' gaein awa to the gran' finishin schuil o' the just made +perfec. Weel min' I her bonny face! And, 'deed, this ane's no' that +unlike yer ain Isy! She something favours her.” + +“Eh, sir, fess her to me! My hert's waitin for her! Her mither maunna +lowse her! She couldna stan' that!” + +“She has nae mither, puir thing!--But ye maun dee naething in a hurry; I +maun tell ye aboot her first!” + +“I'm content 'at she's a frien o' yours, sir. I ken weel ye wad never +hae me tak intil my hoose are that was na fit--and a' the lads aboot the +place frae ae mornin til anither!” + +“Indeed she _is_ a frien o' mine, mem; and I hae never a dreid o' +onything happenin ye wadna like. She's in ower sair trouble to cause ony +anxiety. The fac' is, she's had a terrible misfortun!” + +The good woman started, drew herself up a little, and said hurriedly, + +“There's no a wean, is there?” + +“'Deed is there, mem!--but pairt o' the meesery is, the bairn's +disappeart; and she's brackin her heart aboot 'im. She's maist oot o' +her min', mem! No that she's onything but perfecly reasonable, and gies +never a grain o' trouble! I canna doobt she'd be a great help til ye, +and that ilka minute ye saw fit to lat her bide. But she's jist huntit +wi' the idea that she pat the bairnie doon, and left him, and kens na +whaur.--Verily, mem, she's are o' the lambs o' the Lord's ain flock!” + +“That's no the w'y the lambs o' _his_ flock are i' the w'y o' behavin +themsels!--I fear me, sir, ye're lattin yer heart rin awa wi' yer +jeedgment!” + +“I hae aye coontit Mary Magdalen are o' the Lord's ain yowies, that he +left the lave i' the wilderness to luik for: this is sic anither! Gien +ye help Him to come upon her, ye'll cairry her hame 'atween ye rej'icin! +And ye min' hoo he stude 'atween are far waur nor her, and the ill +men that would fain hae shamet her, and sent them oot like sae mony +tykes--thae gran' Pharisees--wi their tails tuckit in 'atween their +legs!--Sair affrontit they war, doobtless!--But I maun be gaein, mem, +for we're no vera like to agree! My Maister's no o' ae min' wi' you, +mem, aboot sic affairs--and sae I maun gang, and lea' ye to yer ain +opingon! But I would jist remin' ye, mem, that she's at this present i' +_my_ hoose, wi my wife; and my wee bit lassie hings aboot her as gien +she was an angel come doon to see the bonny place this warl luks frae +up there.--Eh, puir lammie, the stanes oucht to be feower upo thae +hill-sides!” + +“What for that, Maister Robertson?” + +“'Cause there's so mony o' them whaur human herts oucht to be.--Come +awa, doggie!” he added, rising. + +“Dear me, sir! haena ye hae a grain o' patience to waur (_spend_) upon +a puir menseless body?” cried Marion, wringing her hands in dismay. “To +think _I_ sud be nice whaur my Lord was sae free!” + +“Ay,” returned the minister, “and he was jist as clean as ever, wi' mony +ane siclike as her inside the heart o' him!--_Gang awa, and dinna dee +the like again_, was a' he said to that ane!--and ye may weel be sure +she never did! And noo she and Mary are followin, wi' yer ain Isy, i' +the vera futsteps o' the great shepherd, throuw the gowany leys o' the +New Jerus'lem--whaur it may be they ca' her Isy yet, as they ca' this +ane I hae to gang hame til.” + +“Ca' they her _that_, sir?--Eh, gar her come, gar her come! I wud fain +cry upo _Isy_ ance mair!--Sit ye doon, sir, shame upo' me!--and tak a +bite efter yer lang walk!--Will ye no bide the nicht wi' 's, and gang +back by the mornin's co'ch?” + +“I wull that, mem--and thank ye kindly! I'm a bit fatiguit wi' the hill +ro'd, and the walk a wee langer than I'm used til.--Ye maun hae peety +upo my kittle temper, mem, and no drive me to ower muckle shame o' +myself!” he concluded, wiping his forehead. + +“And to think,” cried his hostess, “that my hard hert sud hae drawn sic +a word frae ane o' the Lord's servans that serve him day and nicht! I +beg yer pardon, and that richt heumbly, sir! I daurna say I'll never do +the like again, but I'm no sae likly to transgress a second time as the +first.--Lord, keep the doors o' my lips, that ill-faured words comena +thouchtless oot, and shame me and them that hear me!--I maun gang and +see aboot yer denner, sir! I s' no be lang.” + +“Yer gracious words, mem, are mair nor meat and drink to me. I could, +like Elijah, go i' the stren'th o' them--maybe something less than forty +days, but it wad be by the same sort o' stren'th as that angels'-food +gied the prophet!” + +Marion hurried none the less for such a word; and soon the minister had +eaten his supper, and was seated in the cool of a sweet summer-evening, +in the garden before the house, among roses and lilies and poppy-heads +and long pink-striped grasses, enjoying a pipe with the farmer, who had +anticipated the hour for unyoking, and hurried home to have a talk with +Mr. Robertson. The minister opened wide his heart, and told them all he +knew and thought of Isy. And so prejudiced were they in her favour +by what he said of her, and the arguments he brought to show that the +judgment of the world was in her case tyrannous and false, that what +anxiety might yet remain as to the new relation into which they +were about to enter, was soon absorbed in hopeful expectation of her +appearance. + +“But,” he concluded, “you will have to be wise as serpents, lest aiblins +(_possibly_) ye kep (_intercept_) a lost sheep on her w'y back to the +shepherd, and gar her lie theroot (_out of doors_), exposed to the +prowlin wouf. Afore God, I wud rether share wi' her in _that_ day, nor +wi' them that keppit her!” + +But when he reached home, the minister was startled, indeed dismayed by +the pallor that overwhelmed Isy's countenance when she heard, following +his assurance of the welcome that awaited her, the name and abode of her +new friends. + +“They'll be wantin to ken a'thing!” she sobbed. + +“Tell you them,” returned the minister, “everything they have a right +to know; they are good people, and will not ask more. Beyond that, they +will respect your silence.” + +“There's but ae thing, as ye ken, sir, that I canna, and winna tell. To +haud my tongue aboot that is the ae particle o' honesty left possible to +me! It's enough I should have been the cause of the poor man's sin; and +I'm not going to bring upon him any of the consequences of it as well. +God keep the doors of my lips!” + +“We will not go into the question whether you or he was the more to +blame,” returned the parson; “but I heartily approve of your resolve, +and admire your firmness in holding to it. The time _may_ come when you +_ought_ to tell; but until then, I shall not even allow myself to wonder +who the faithless man may be.” + +Isy burst into tears. + +“Don't call him that, sir! Don't drive me to doubt him. Don't let the +thought cross my mind that he could have helped doing nothing! Besides, +I deserve nothing! And for my bonny bairn, he maun by this time be back +hame to Him that sent him!” + +Thus assured that her secret would be respected by those to whom she +was going, she ceased to show further reluctance to accept the shelter +offered her. And, in truth, underneath the dread of encountering James +Blatherwick's parents, lay hidden in her mind the fearful joy of a +chance of some day catching, herself unseen, a glimpse of the man whom +she still loved with the forgiving tenderness of a true, therefore +strong heart. With a trembling, fluttering bosom she took her place +on the coach beside Mr. Robertson, to go with him to the refuge he had +found for her. + +Once more in the open world, with which she had had so much intercourse +that was other than joyous, that same world began at once to work the +will of its Maker upon her poor lacerated soul; and afar in its hidden +deeps the process of healing was already begun. Agony would many a time +return unbidden, would yet often rise like a crested wave, with menace +of overwhelming despair, but the Real, the True, long hidden from her +by the lying judgments of men and women, was now at length beginning to +reveal itself to her tear-blinded vision; Hope was lifting a feeble head +above the tangled weeds of the subsiding deluge; and ere long the girl +would see and understand how little cares the Father, whose judgment is +the truth of things, what at any time his child may have been or, done, +the moment that child gives herself up to be made what He would have +her! Looking down into the hearts of men, He sees differences there of +which the self-important world takes no heed; many that count themselves +of the first, He sees the last--and what He sees, alone _is_: a +gutter-child, a thief, a girl who never in this world had even a notion +of purity, may lie smiling in the arms of the Eternal, while the head +of a lordly house that still flourishes like a green bay-tree, may be +wandering about with the dogs beyond the walls of the city. + +Out in the open world, I say, the power of the present God began at once +to work upon Isobel, for there, although dimly, she yet looked into +His open face, sketched vaguely in the mighty something we call +Nature--chiefly on the great vault we call Heaven, the _Upheaved_. +Shapely but undefined; perfect in form, yet limitless in depth; blue and +persistent, yet ever evading capture by human heart in human eye; this +sphere of fashioned boundlessness, of definite shapelessness, called up +in her heart the formless children of upheavedness--grandeur, namely, +and awe; hope, namely, and desire: all rushed together toward the dawn +of the unspeakable One, who, dwelling in that heaven, is above all +heavens; mighty and unchangeable, yet childlike; inexorable, yet tender +as never was mother; devoted as never yet was child save one. Isy, +indeed, understood little of all this; yet she wept, she knew not why; +and it was not for sorrow. + +But when, the coach-journey over, she turned her back upon the house +where her child lay, and entered the desolate hill-country, a strange +feeling began to invade her consciousness. It seemed at first but an old +mood, worn shadowy; then it seemed the return of an old dream; then a +painful, confused, half-forgotten memory; but at length it cleared and +settled into a conviction that she had been in the same region before, +and had had, although a passing, yet a painful acquaintance with it; and +at the last she concluded that she must be near the very spot where she +had left and lost her baby. All that had, up to that moment, befallen +her, seemed fused in a troubled conglomerate of hunger and cold and +weariness, of help and hurt, of deliverance and returning pain: they all +mingled inextricably with the scene around her, and there condensed into +the memory of that one event--of which this must assuredly be the actual +place! She looked upon widespread wastes of heather and peat, great +stones here and there, half-buried in it, half-sticking out of it: +surely she was waiting there for something to come to pass! surely +behind this veil of the Seen, a child must be standing with outstretched +arms, hungering after his mother! In herself that very moment must +Memory be trembling into vision! At Length her heart's desire must be +drawing near to her expectant soul! + +But suddenly, alas! her certainty of recollection, her assurance of +prophetic anticipation, faded from her, and of the recollection itself +remained nothing but a ruin! And all the time it took to dawn into +brilliance and fade out into darkness, had measured but a few weary +steps by the side of her companion, lost in the meditation of a glad +sermon for the next Sunday about the lost sheep carried home with +jubilance, and forgetting how unfit was the poor sheep beside him for +such a fatiguing tramp up hill and down, along what was nothing better +than the stony bed of a winter-torrent. + +All at once Isy darted aside from the rough track, scrambled up the +steep bank, and ran like one demented into a great clump of heather, +which she began at once to search through and through. The minister +stopped bewildered, and stood to watch her, almost fearing for a moment +that she had again lost her wits. She got on the top of a stone in +the middle of the clump, turned several times round, gazed in every +direction over the moor, then descended with a hopeless look, and came +slowly back to him, saying-- + +“I beg your pardon, sir; I thought I had a glimpse of my infant through +the heather! This must be the very spot where I left him!” + +The next moment she faltered feebly-- + +“Hae we far to gang yet, sir?” and before he could make her any answer, +staggered to the bank on the roadside, fell upon it, and lay still. + +The minister immediately felt that he had been cruel in expecting her +to walk so far; he made haste to lay her comfortably on the short grass, +and waited anxiously, doing what he could to bring her to herself. He +could see no water near, but at least she had plenty of air! + +In a little while she began to recover, sat up, and would have risen to +resume her journey. But the minister, filled with compunction, took her +up in his arms. They were near the crown of the ascent, and he could +carry her as far as that! She expostulated, but was unable to resist. +Light as she was, however, he found it no easy task to bear her up the +last of the steep rise, and was glad to set her down at the top--where +a fresh breeze was waiting to revive them both. She thanked him like +a child whose father had come to her help; and they seated themselves +together on the highest point of the moor, with a large, desolate land +on every side of them. + +“Oh, sir, but ye _are_ good to me!” she murmured. “That brae just minded +me o' the Hill of Difficulty in the Pilgrim's Progress!” + +“Oh, you know that story?” said the minister. + +“My old grannie used to make me read it to her when she lay dying. I +thought it long and tiresome then, but since you took me to your house, +sir, I have remembered many things in it; I knew then that I was come to +the house of the Interpreter. You've made me understand, sir!” + +“I am glad of that, Isy! You see I know some things that make me very +glad, and so I want them to make you glad too. And the thing that makes +me gladdest of all, is just that God is what he is. To know that such +a One is God over us and in us, makes of very being a most precious +delight. His children, those of them that know him, are all glad just +because he _is_, and they are his children. Do you think a strong man +like me would read sermons and say prayers and talk to people, doing +nothing but such shamefully easy work, if he did not believe what he +said?” + +“I'm sure, sir, you have had hard enough work with me! I am a bad one +to teach! I thought I knew all that you have had such trouble to make +me see! I was in a bog of ignorance and misery, but now I am getting +my head up out of it, and seeing about me!--Please let me ask you one +thing, sir: how is it that, when the thought of God comes to me, I draw +back, afraid of him? If he be the kind of person you say he is, why +can't I go close up to him?” + +“I confess the same foolishness, my child, _at times_,” answered the +minister. “It can only be because we do not yet see God as he is--and +that must be because we do not yet really understand Jesus--do not see +the glory of God in his face. God is just like Jesus--exactly like him!” + +And the parson fell a wondering how it could be that so many, gentle and +guileless as this woman-child, recoiled from the thought of the perfect +One. Why were they not always and irresistibly drawn toward the very +idea of God? Why, at least, should they not run to see and make sure +whether God was indeed such a one or not? whether he was really Love +itself--or only loved them after a fashion? It set him thinking afresh +about many things; and he soon began to discover that he had in fact +been teaching a good many things without _knowing_ them; for how could +he _know_ things that were not true, and therefore _could not_ be known? +He had indeed been _saying_ that God was Love, but he had yet been +teaching many things about him that were not lovable! + +They sat thinking and talking, with silences between; and while they +thought and talked, the day-star was all the time rising unnoted in +their hearts. At length, finding herself much stronger, Isy rose, and +they resumed their journey. + +The door stood open to receive them; but ere they reached it, a +bright-looking little woman, with delicate lines of ingrained red in a +sorrowful face, appeared in it, looking out with questioning eyes--like +a mother-bird just loosening her feet from the threshold of her nest to +fly and meet them. Through the film that blinded those expectant +eyes, Marion saw what manner of woman she was that drew nigh, and her +motherhood went out to her. For, in the love-witchery of Isy's yearning +look, humbly seeking acceptance, and in her hesitating approach +half-checked by gentle apology, Marion imagined she saw her own Isy +coming back from the gates of Death, and sprang to meet her. The +mediating love of the minister, obliterating itself, had made him linger +a step or two behind, waiting what would follow: when he saw the two +folded each in the other's arms, and the fountain of love thus break +forth at once from their encountering hearts, his soul leaped for joy of +the new-created love--new, but not the less surely eternal; for God +is Love, and Love is that which is, and was, and shall be for +evermore--boundless, unconditioned, self-existent, creative! “Truly,” + he said in himself, “God is Love, and God is all and in all! He is no +abstraction; he is the one eternal Individual God! In him Love evermore +breaks forth anew into fresh personality--in every new consciousness, in +every new child of the one creating Father. In every burning heart, in +everything that hopes and fears and is, Love is the creative presence, +the centre, the source of life, yea Life itself; yea, God himself!” + +The elder woman drew herself a little back, held the poor white-faced +thing at arms'-length, and looked her through the face into the heart. + +“My bonny lamb!” she cried, and pressed her again to her bosom. “Come +hame, and be a guid bairn, and ill man sall never touch ye, or gar ye +greit ony mair! There's _my_ man waitin for ye, to tak ye, and haud ye +safe!” + +Isy looked up, and over the shoulder of her hostess saw the strong +paternal face of the farmer, full of silent welcome. For the strange +emotion that filled him he did not seek to account: he had nothing to do +with that; his will was lord over it! + +“Come ben the hoose, lassie,” he said, and led the way to the parlour, +where the red sunset was shining through the low gable window, filling +the place with the glamour of departing glory. “Sit ye doon upo the sofa +there; ye maun be unco tired! Surely ye haena come a' the lang ro'd frae +Tiltowie upo yer ain twa wee feet?” + +“'Deed has she,” answered the minister, who had followed them into the +room; “the mair shame to me 'at loot her dee 't!” + +Marion lingered outside, wiping away the tears that would keep flowing. +For the one question, “What can be amiss wi' Jamie?” had returned upon +her, haunting and harrying her heart; and with it had come the idea, +though vague and formless, that their goodwill to the wandering outcast +might perhaps do something to make up for whatever ill thing Jamie might +have done. At last, instead of entering the parlour after them, she +turned away to the kitchen, and made haste to get ready their supper. + +Isy sank back in the wide sofa, lost in relief; and the minister, when +he saw her look of conscious refuge and repose, said to himself-- + +“She is feeling as we shall all feel when first we know nothing near us +but the Love itself that was before all worlds!--when there is no doubt +more, and no questioning more!” + +But the heart of the farmer was full of the old uncontent, the old +longing after the heart of his boy, that had never learned to cry +“_Father!_” + +But soon they sat down to their meal. While they ate, hardly any one +spoke, and no one missed the speech or was aware of the silence, until +the bereaved Isobel thought of her child, and burst into tears. Then the +mother who sorrowed with such a different, and so much bitterer sorrow, +divining her thought and whence it came, rose, and from behind her +said-- + +“Noo ye maun jist come awa wi' me, and I s' pit ye til yer bed, and lea' +ye there!--Na, na; say gude nicht to naebody!--Ye'll see the minister +again i' the mornin!” + +With that she took Isy away, half-carrying her close-pressed, and +half-leading her; for Marion, although no bigger than Isy, was much +stronger, and could easily have carried her. + +That night both mothers slept well, and both dreamed of their mothers +and of their children. But in the morning nothing remained of their two +dreams except two hopes in the one Father. + +When Isy entered the little parlour, she found she had slept so long +that breakfast was over, the minister smoking his pipe in the garden, +and the farmer busy in his yard. But Marion heard her, and brought her +breakfast, beaming with ministration; then thinking she would eat it +better if left to herself, went back to her work. In about five minutes, +however, Isy joined her, and began at once to lend a helping hand. + +“Hoot, hoot, my dear!” cried her hostess, “ye haena taen time eneuch +to make a proaper brakfast o' 't! Gang awa back, and put mair intil ye. +Gien ye dinna learn to ate, we s' never get ony guid o' ye!” + +“I just can't eat for gladness,” returned Isy. “Ye're that good to me, +that I dare hardly think aboot it; it'll gar me greit!--Lat me help ye, +mem, and I'll grow hungry by dennertime!” + +Mrs. Blatherwick understood, and said no more. She showed her what +she might set about; and Isy, happy as a child, came and went at +her commands, rejoicing. Probably, had she started in life with less +devotion, she might have fared better; but the end was not yet, and the +end must be known before we dare judge: result explains history. It is +enough for the present to say that, with the comparative repose of mind +she now enjoyed, with the good food she had, and the wholesome exercise, +for Mrs. Blatherwick took care she should not work too hard, with the +steady kindness shown her, and the consequent growth of her faith and +hope, Isy's light-heartedness first, and then her good looks began to +return; so that soon the dainty little creature was both prettier and +lovelier than before. At the same time her face and figure, her ways +and motions, went on mingling themselves so inextricably with Marion's +impressions of her vanished Isy, that at length she felt as if she +never could be able to part with her. Nor was it long before she assured +herself that she was equal to anything that had to be done in the house; +and that the experience of a day or two would make her capable of +the work of the dairy as well. Thus Isy and her mistress, for so Isy +insisted on regarding and calling her, speedily settled into their new +relation. + +It did sometimes cross the girl's mind, and that with a sting of doubt, +whether it was fair to hide from her new friends the full facts of her +sorrowful history; but to quiet her conscience she had only to reflect +that for the sake of the son they loved, she must keep jealous guard +over her silence. Further than James's protection, she had no design, +cherished no scheme. The idea of compelling, or even influencing him to +do her justice, never once crossed her horizon. On the contrary, she was +possessed by the notion that she had done him a great wrong, and shrank +in horror from the danger of rendering it irretrievable. She had never +thought the thing out as between her and him, never even said to herself +that he too had been to blame. Her exaggerated notion of the share she +had in the fault, had lodged and got fixed in her mind, partly from +her acquaintance with the popular judgment concerning such as she, and +partly from her humble readiness to take any blame to herself. Even had +she been capable of comparing the relative consequences, the injury she +had done his prospects as a minister, would have seemed to her revering +soul a far greater wrong than any suffering or loss he had brought upon +her. For what was she beside him? What was the ruin of her life to the +frustration of such prospects as his? The sole alleviation of her +misery was that she seemed hitherto to have escaped involving him in the +results of her lack of self-restraint, which results, she was certain, +remained concealed from him, as from every one in any way concerned +with him in them. In truth, never was man less worthy of it, or more +devotedly shielded! And never was hidden wrong to the woman turned more +eagerly and persistently into loving service to the man's parents! Many +and many a time did the heart of James's mother, as she watched Isy's +deft and dainty motions, regret, even with bitterness, that such a +capable and love-inspiring girl should have rendered herself unworthy +of her son--for, notwithstanding what she regarded as the disparity of +their positions, she would gladly have welcomed Isy as a daughter, had +she but been spotless, and fit to be loved by him. + +In the evenings, when the work of the day was done, Isy used to ramble +about the moor, in the lingering rays of the last of the sunset, and the +now quickly shortening twilight. In those hours unhasting, gentle, and +so spiritual in their tone that they seem to come straight from the +eternal spaces where is no recalling and no forgetting, where time and +space are motionless, and the spirit is at rest, Isy first began to read +with conscious understanding. For now first she fell into the company of +books--old-fashioned ones no doubt, but perhaps even therefore the more +fit for her, who was an old-fashioned, gentle, ignorant, thoughtful +child. Among the rest in the farmhouse, she came upon the two volumes +of a book called The Preceptor, which contained various treatises laying +down “the first principles of Polite Learning:” these drew her eager +attention; and with one or other of the not very handy volumes in her +hand, she would steal out of sight of the farm, and lapt in the solitude +of the moor, would sit and read until at last the light could reveal +not a word more. Even the Geometry she found in them attracted her not a +little; the Rhetoric and Poetry drew her yet more; but most of all, the +Natural History, with its engravings of beasts and birds, poor as they +were, delighted her; and from these antiquated repertories she gathered +much, and chiefly that most valuable knowledge, some acquaintance with +her own ignorance. There also, in a garret over the kitchen, she found +an English translation of Klopstock's Messiah, a poem which, in the +middle of the last and in the present century, caused a great excitement +in Germany, and did not a little, I believe, for the development of +religious feeling in that country, where the slow-subsiding ripple of +its commotion is possibly not altogether unfelt even at the present +day. She read the volume through as she strolled in those twilights, not +without risking many a fall over bush and stone ere practice taught her +to see at once both the way for her feet over the moor, and that for her +eyes over the printed page. The book both pleased and suited her, the +parts that interested her most being those about the repentant angel, +Abaddon; who, if I remember aright, haunted the steps of the Saviour, +and hovered about the cross while he was crucified. The great question +with her for a long time was, whether the Saviour must not have forgiven +him; but by slow degrees it became at last clear to her, that he who +came but to seek and to save the lost, could not have closed the door +against one that sought return to his fealty. It was not until she +knew the soutar, however, that at length she understood the tireless +redeeming of the Father, who had sent men blind and stupid and +ill-conditioned, into a world where they had to learn almost everything. + +There were some few books of a more theological sort, which happily she +neither could understand nor was able to imagine she understood, and +which therefore she instinctively refused, as affording nourishment +neither for thought nor feeling. There was, besides, Dr. Johnson's +_Rasselas_, which mildly interested her; and a book called _Dialogues of +Devils_, which she read with avidity. And thus, if indeed her ignorance +did not become rapidly less, at least her knowledge of its existence +became slowly greater. + +And all the time the conviction grew upon her, that she had been in +that region before, and that in truth she could not be far from the spot +where she laid her child down, and lost him. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +In the meantime the said child, a splendid boy, was the delight of the +humble dwelling to which Maggie had borne him in triumph. But the mind +of the soutar was not a little exercised as to how far their right in +the boy approached the paternal: were they justified in regarding him +as their love-property, before having made exhaustive inquiry as to who +could claim, and might re-appropriate him? For nothing could liberate +the finder of such a thing from the duty of restoring it upon demand, +seeing there could be no assurance that the child had been deliberately +and finally abandoned! Maggie, indeed, regarded the baby as absolutely +hers by right of rescue; but her father asked himself whether by +appropriating him she might not be depriving his mother of the one +remaining link between her and humanity, and so abandoning her helpless +to the Enemy. Surely to take and withhold from any woman her child, +must be to do what was possible toward dividing her from the unseen and +eternal! And he saw that, for the sake of his own child also, and the +truth in her, both she and he must make every possible endeavour to +restore the child to his mother. + +So the next time that Maggie brought the crowing infant to the kitchen, +her father, who sat as usual under the small window, to gather upon his +work all the light to be had, said, with one quick glance at the child-- + +“Eh, the bonny, glaid cratur! Wha can say 'at sic as he, 'at haena the +twa in ane to see til them, getna frae Himsel a mair partic'lar and +carefu' regaird, gien that war poassible, than ither bairns! I would +fain believe that same!” + +“Eh, father, but ye aye think bonny!” exclaimed Maggie. “Some hae been +dingin 't in upo me 'at sic as he maist aye turn oot onything but weel, +whan they step oot intil the warl. Eh, but we maun tak care o' 'im, +father! Whaur _would_ I be wi'oot you at my back!” + +“And God at the back o' baith, bairn!” rejoined the soutar. “It's +thinkable that the Almichty may hae special diffeeculty wi sic as he, +but nane can jeedge o' ony thing or body till they see the hin'er en' o' +'t a'. But I'm thinkin it maun aye be harder for ane that hasna his ain +mither to luik til. Ony ither body, be she as guid as she may, maun be +but a makshift!--For ae thing he winna get the same naitral disciplene +'at ilka mither cat gies its kitlins!” + +“Maybe! maybe!--I ken I couldna ever lay a finger upo' the bonny cratur +mysel!” said Maggie. + +“There 'tis!” returned her father. “And I dinna think,” he went on, “we +could expec muckle frae the wisdom o' the mither o' 'm, gien she had +him. I doobt she micht turn oot to be but a makshift hersel! There's +mony aboot 'im 'at'll be sair eneuch upon 'im, but nane the wiser for +that! Mony ane'll luik upon 'im as a bairn in whause existence God has +had nae share--or jist as muckle share as gies him a grup o' 'im to gie +'im his licks! There's a heap o' mystery aboot a'thing, Maggie, and that +frae the vera beginnin to the vera en'! It may be 'at yon bairnie's i' +the waur danger jist frae haein you and me, Maggie! Eh, but I wuss his +ain mither war gien back til him! And wha can tell but she's needin him +waur nor he's needin her--though there maun aye be something he canna +get--'cause ye're no his ain mither, Maggie, and I'm no even his ain +gutcher!” + +The adoptive mother burst into a howl. + +“Father, father, ye'll brak the hert o' me!” she almost yelled, and laid +the child on the top of her father's hands in the very act of drawing +his waxed ends. + +Thus changing him perforce from cobbler to nurse, she bolted from the +kitchen, and up the little stair; and throwing herself on her knees by +the bedside, sought, instinctively and unconsciously, the presence of +him who sees in secret. But for a time she had nothing to say even +to _him_, and could only moan on in the darkness beneath her closed +eyelids. + +Suddenly she came to herself, remembering that she too had abandoned her +child: she must go back to him! + +But as she ran, she heard loud noises of infantile jubilation, and +re-entering the kitchen, was amazed to see the soutar's hands moving as +persistently if not quite so rapidly as before: the child hung at the +back of the soutar's head, in the bight of the long jack-towel from +behind the door, holding on by the gray hair of his occiput. There +he tugged and crowed, while his care-taker bent over his labour, +circumspect in every movement, nor once forgetting the precious thing +on his back, who was evidently delighted with his new style of being +nursed, and only now and then made a wry face at some movement of the +human machine too abrupt for his comfort. Evidently he took it all as +intended solely for his pleasure. + +Maggie burst out laughing through the tears that yet filled her eyes, +and the child, who could hear but not see her, began to cry a little, +so rousing the mother in her to a sense that he was being treated too +unceremoniously; when she bounded to liberate him, undid the towel, and +seated herself with him in her lap. The grandfather, not sorry to be +released, gave his shoulders a little writhing shake, laughed an amused +laugh, and set off boring and stitching and drawing at redoubled speed. + +“Weel, Maggie?” he said, with loving interrogation, but without looking +up. + +“I saw ye was richt, father, and it set me greitin sae sair that I +forgot the bairn, and you, father, as weel. Gang on, please, and say +what ye think fit: it's a' true!” + +“There's little left for me to say, lassie, noo ye hae begun to say't to +yersel. But, believe me, though ye can never be the bairn's ain mither, +_she_ can never be til 'im the same ye hae been a'ready, whatever mair +or better may follow. The pairt ye hae chosen is guid eneuch never to be +taen frae ye--i' this warl or the neist!” + +“Thank ye, father, for that! I'll dee for him what I can, ohn forgotten +that he's no mine but anither wuman's. I maunna tak frae her what's her +ain!” + +The soutar, especially while at his work, was always trying “to get,” + as he said, “into his Lord's company,”--now endeavouring, perhaps, to +understand some saying of his, or now, it might be, to discover his +reason for saying it just then and there. Often, also, he would be +pondering why he allowed this or that to take place in the world, for it +was his house, where he was always present and always at work. Humble as +diligent disciple, he never doubted, when once a thing had taken place, +that it was by his will it came to pass, but he saw that evil itself, +originating with man or his deceiver, was often made to subserve the +final will of the All-in-All. And he knew in his own self that much must +first be set right there, before the will of the Father could be done in +earth as it was in heaven. Therefore in any new development of feeling +in his child, he could recognize the pressure of a guiding hand in the +formation of her history; and was able to understand St. John where he +says, “Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear +what we shall be, but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall +be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” For first, foremost, and +deepest of all, he positively and absolutely believed in the man whose +history he found in the Gospel: that is, he believed not only that +such a man once was, and that every word he then spoke was true, but he +believed that that man was still in the world, and that every word +he then spoke, had always been, still was, and always would be true. +Therefore he also believed--which was more both to the Master and to +John MacLear, his disciple--that the chief end of his conscious life +must be to live in His presence, and keep his affections ever, afresh +and constantly, turning toward him in hope and aspiration. Hence every +day he felt afresh that he too was living in the house of God, among the +things of the father of Jesus. + +The life-influence of the soutar had already for some time, and in some +measure, been felt at Tiltowie. In a certain far-off way, men seemed to +surmise what he was about, although they were, one and all, unable to +estimate the nature or value of his pursuit. What their idea of him was, +may in a measure be gathered from the answer of the village-fool to the +passer-by who said to him: “Weel, and what's yer soutar aboot the noo?” + “Ow, as usual,” answered the _natural_, “turnin up ilka muckle stane to +luik for his maister aneth it!” For in truth he believed that the Lord +of men was very often walking to and fro in the earthly kingdom of his +Father, watching what was there going on, and doing his best to bring it +to its true condition; that he was ever and always in the deepest sense +present in the same, where he could, if he pleased, at any moment or in +any spot, appear to whom he would. Never did John MacLear lift his eyes +heavenward without a vague feeling that he might that very moment, catch +a sight of the glory of his coming Lord; if ever he fixed his eyes on +the far horizon, it was never without receiving a shadowy suggestion +that, like a sail towering over the edge of the world, the first great +flag of the Lord's hitherward march might that moment be rising between +earth and heaven;--for certainly He would come unawares, and then who +could tell what moment He might not set his foot on the edge of the +visible, and come out of the dark in which He had hitherto clothed +himself as with a garment--to appear in the ancient glory of his +transfiguration! Thus he was ever ready to fall a watching--and thus, +also, never did he play the false prophet, with cries of “Lo here!” and +“Lo there!” And even when deepest lost in watching, the lowest whisper +of humanity seemed always loud enough to recall him to his “work +alive”--lest he should be found asleep at His coming. His was the same +live readiness that had opened the ear of Maggie to the cry of the +little one on the hill-side. As his daily work was ministration to the +weary feet of his Master's men, so was his soul ever awake to their +sorrows and spiritual necessities. + +“There's a haill warl' o' bonny wark aboot me!” he would say. “I hae but +to lay my han' to what's neist me, and it's sure to be something that +wants deein! I'm clean ashamt sometimes, whan I wauk up i' the mornin, +to fin' mysel deein naething!” + +Every evening while the summer lasted, he would go out alone for a walk, +generally toward a certain wood nigh the town; for there lay, although +it was of no great extent, and its trees were small, a probability +of escaping for a few moments from the eyes of men, and the chance of +certain of another breed showing themselves. + +“No that,” he once said to Maggie, “I ever cared vera muckle aboot the +angels: it's the man, the perfec man, wha was there wi' the Father afore +ever an angel was h'ard tell o', that sen's me upo my knees! Whan I see +a man that but minds me o' _Him_, my hert rises wi' a loup, as gien it +wad 'maist lea' my body ahint it.--Love's the law o' the universe, and +it jist works amazin!” + +One day a man, seeing him approach in the near distance, and knowing he +had not perceived his presence, lay down behind a great stone to watch +“the mad soutar,” in the hope of hearing him say something insane. As +John came nearer, the man saw his lips moving, and heard sounds issue +from them; but as he passed, nothing was audible but the same words +repeated several times, and with the same expression of surprise and joy +as if at something for the first time discovered:--“Eh, Lord! Eh, Lord, +I see! I un'erstaun'!--Lord, I'm yer ain--to the vera deith!--a' yer +ain!--Thy father bless thee, Lord!--I ken ye care for noucht else!--Eh, +but my hert's glaid!--that glaid, I 'maist canna speyk!” + +That man ever after spoke of the soutar with a respect that resembled +awe. + +After that talk with her father about the child and his mother, a +certain silent change appeared in Maggie. People saw in her face an +expression which they took to resemble that of one whose child was ill, +and was expected to die. But what Maggie felt was only resignation to +the will of her Lord: the child was not hers but the Lord's, lent to her +for a season! She must walk softly, doing everything for him as under +the eye of the Master, who might at any moment call to her, “Bring the +child: I want him now!” And she soon became as cheerful as before, but +never after quite lost the still, solemn look as of one in the eternal +spaces, who saw beyond this world's horizon. She talked less with her +father than hitherto, but at the same time seemed to live closer to him. +Occasionally she would ask him to help her to understand something he +had said; but even then he would not always try to make it plain; he +might answer-- + +“I see, lassie, ye're no just ready for 't! It's true, though; and the +day maun come whan ye'll see the thing itsel, and ken what it is; and +that's the only w'y to win at the trowth o' 't! In fac', to see a thing, +and ken the thing, and be sure it's true, is a' ane and the same thing!” + Such a word from her father was always enough to still and content the +girl. + +Her delight in the child, instead of growing less, went on increasing +because of the _awe_, rather than _dread_ of having at last to give him +up. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +Meanwhile the minister remained moody, apparently sunk in contemplation, +but in fact mostly brooding, and meditating neither form nor truth. +Sometimes he felt indeed as if he were losing altogether his power of +thinking--especially when, in the middle of the week, he sat down to +find something to say on the Sunday. He had greatly lost interest in the +questions that had occupied him while he was yet a student, and imagined +himself in preparation for what he called the ministry--never thinking +how one was to minister who had not yet learned to obey, and had never +sought anything but his own glorification! It was little wonder he +should lose interest in a profession, where all was but profession! What +pleasure could that man find in holy labour who, not indeed offered his +stipend to purchase the Holy Ghost, but offered all he knew of the Holy +Ghost to purchase popularity? No wonder he should find himself at length +in lack of talk to pay for his one thing needful! He had always been +more or less dependent on commentaries for the joint he provided--and +even for the cooking of it: was it any wonder that his guests should +show less and less appetite for his dinners? + + The hungry sheep looked up and were not fed! + +To have food to give them, he must think! To think, he must have peace! +to have peace, he must forget himself! to forget himself, he must +repent, and walk in the truth! to walk in the truth, he must love God +and his neighbour!--Even to have interest in the dry bone of criticism, +which was all he could find in his larder, he must broil it--and so burn +away in the slow fire of his intellect, now dull and damp enough from +lack of noble purpose, every scrap of meat left upon it! His last +relation to his work, his fondly cherished intellect, was departing from +him, to leave him lord of a dustheap! In the unsavoury mound he grubbed +and nosed and scraped dog-like, but could not uncover a single fragment +that smelt of provender. The morning of Saturday came, and he recognized +with a burst of agonizing sweat, that he dared not even imagine his +appearance before his congregation: he had not one written word to read +to them; and extempore utterance was, from conscious vacancy, impossible +to him; he could not even call up one meaningless phrase to articulate! +He flung his concordance sprawling upon the floor, snatched up his hat +and clerical cane, and, scarce knowing what he did, presently found +himself standing at the soutar's door, where he had already knocked, +without a notion of what he was come to seek. The old parson, generally +in a mood to quarrel with the soutar, had always walked straight into +his workshop, and greeted him crouched over his work; but the new parson +always waited on the doorstep for Maggie to admit him. + +She had opened the door wide ere he knew why he had come, or could think +of anything to say. And now he was in greater uneasiness than usual at +the thought of the cobbler's deep-set black eyes about to be fixed upon +him, as if to probe his very thoughts. + +“Do you think your father would have time,” he asked humbly, “to measure +me for a pair of light boots?” + +Mr. Blatherwick was very particular about his foot-gear, and had +hitherto always fitted himself at Deemouth; but he had at length +learned that nothing he could there buy approached in quality, either +of material or workmanship, what the soutar supplied to his poorest +customer: he would mend anything worth mending, but would never _make_ +anything inferior. + +“Ye'll get what ye want at such and such place,” he would answer, “and +I doobtna it'll be as guid as can be made at the siller; but for my ain +pairt, ye maun excuse me!” + +“'Deed, sir, he'll be baith glad and prood to mak ye as guid a pair o' +beets as he can compass,” answered Maggie. “Jist step in here, sir, and +lat him ken what ye want. My bairn's greitin, and I maun gang til 'im; +it's seldom he cries oot!” + +The minister walked in at the open door of the kitchen, and met the eyes +of the soutar expectant. + +“Ye're welcome, sir!” said MacLear, and returned his eyes to what he had +for a moment interrupted. + +“I want you to make me a nice pair of boots, if you please,” said the +parson, as cheerily as he could. “I am rather particular about the fit, +I fear!” + +“And what for no, sir?” answered the soutar. “I'll do what I can +onygait, I promise ye--but wi' mair readiness nor confidence as to the +fit; for I canna profess assurance o' fittin' the first time, no haein +the necessar instinc' frae the mak' o' the man to the shape o' the fut, +sir.” + +“Of course I should like to have them both neat and comfortable,” said +the parson. + +“In coorse ye wad, sir, and sae would I! For I confess I wad fain hae my +customers tak note o' my success in followin the paittern set afore me +i' the first oreeginal fut!” + +“But you will allow, I suppose, that a foot is seldom as perfect now +as when the divine idea of the member was first embodied by its maker?” + rejoined the minister. + +“Ow, ay; there's been mony an interferin circumstance; but whan His +kingdom's come, things 'll tak a turn for the redemption o' the feet +as weel as the lave o' the body--as the apostle Paul says i' the +twenty-third verse o' the aucht chapter o' his epistle to the +Romans;--only I'm weel aveesed, sir, 'at there's no sic a thing as +_adoption_ mintit at i' the original Greek. That can hae no pairt i' +what fowk ca's the plan o' salvation--as gien the consumin fire o' the +Love eternal was to be ca'd a _plan_! Hech, minister, it scunners me! +But for the fut, it's aye perfec' eneuch to be _my_ pattern, for it's +the only ane I hae to follow! It's Himsel sets the shape o' the shune +this or that man maun weir!” + +“That's very true--and the same applies to everything a man cannot help. +A man has both the make of his mind and of his circumstances to do the +best he can with, and sometimes they don't seem to fit each other--so +well as, I hope, your boots will fit my feet.” + +“Ye're richt there, sir--only that no man's bun' to follow his +inclinations or his circumstances, ony mair than he's bun' to alter his +fut to the shape o' a ready-made beet!--But hoo wull ye hae them made, +sir?--I mean what sort o' butes wad ye hae me mak?” + +“Oh, I leave that to you, Mr. MacLear!--a sort of half Wellington, I +suppose--a neat pair of short boots.” + +“I understand, sir.” + +“And now tell me,” said the minister, moved by a sudden impulse, coming +he knew not whence, “what you think of this new fad, if it be nothing +worse, of the English clergy--I mean about the duty of confessing to the +priest.--I see they have actually prevailed upon that wretched creature +we've all been reading about in the papers lately, to confess the murder +of her little brother! Do you think they had any right to do that? +Remember the jury had acquitted her.” + +“And has she railly confessed? I _am_ glaid o' that! I only wuss they +could get a haud o' Madeline Smith as weel, and persuaud _her_ to +confess! Eh, the state o' that puir crater's conscience! It 'maist gars +me greit to think o' 't! Gien she wad but confess, houp wad spring to +life in her sin-oppressed soul! Eh, but it maun be a gran' lichtenin to +that puir thing! I'm richt glaid to hear o' 't.” + +“I didn't know, Mr. MacLear, that you favoured the power and influence +of the priesthood to such an extent! We Presbyterian clergy are not in +the way of doing the business of detectives, taking upon us to act as +the agents of human justice! There is no one, guilty or not, but is safe +with us!” + +“As with any confessor, Papist or Protestant,” rejoined the soutar. “If +I understand your news, sir, it means that they persuaded the poor soul +to confess her guilt, and so put herself safe in the hands of God!” + +“And is not that to come between God and the sinner?” + +“Doubtless, sir--in order to bring them together; to persuade the sinner +to the first step toward reconciliation with God, and peace in his own +mind.” + +“That he could take without the intervention of the priest!” + +“Yes, but not without his own consenting will! And in this case, she +would not, and did not confess without being persuaded to it!” + +“They had no right to threaten her!” + +“Did they threaten her? If they did, they were wrong.--And yet I don't +know! In any case they did for her the very best thing that could be +done! For they did get her, you tell me, to confess--and so cast from +her the horror of carrying about in her secret heart the knowledge of an +unforgiven crime! Christians of all denominations hold, I presume, that, +to be forgiven, a sin must be confessed!” + +“Yes, to God--that is enough! No mere man has a right to know the sins +of his neighbour!” + +“Not even the man against whom the sin was committed?” + +“Suppose the sin has never come abroad, but remains hidden in the heart, +is a man bound to confess it? Is he, for instance, bound to tell his +neighbour that he used to hate him, and in his heart wish him evil?” + +“The time micht come whan to confess even that would ease a man's hert! +but in sic a case, the man's first duty, it seems to me, would be to +watch for an opportunity o' doin that neebour a kin'ness. That would +be the deid blow to his hatred! But where a man has done an act o' +injustice, a wrang to his neebour, he has no ch'ice, it seems to me, but +confess it: that neebour is the one from whom first he has to ask and +receive forgiveness; and that neebour alone can lift the burden o' 't +aff o' him! Besides, the confession may be but fair, to baud the blame +frae bein laid at the door o' some innocent man!--And the author o' nae +offence can affoord to forget,” ended the soutar, “hoo the Lord said, +'There's naething happit-up, but maun come to the licht'!” + +It seems to me that nothing could have led the minister so near the +presentation of his own false position, except the will of God working +in him to set him free. He continued, driven by an impulse he neither +understood nor suspected-- + +“Suppose the thing not known, however, or likely to be known, and +that the man's confession, instead of serving any good end, would only +destroy his reputation and usefulness, bring bitter grief upon those who +loved him, and nothing but shame to the one he had wronged--what would +you say then?--You will please to remember, Mr. MacLear, that I am +putting an entirely imaginary case, for the sake of argument only!” + +“Eh, but I doobt--I doobt yer imaiginary case!” murmured the soutar to +himself, hardly daring even to think his thought clearly, lest somehow +it might reveal itself. + +“In that case,” he replied, “it seems to me the offender wad hae to cast +aboot him for ane fit to be trustit, and to him reveal the haill affair, +that he may get his help to see and do what's richt: it maks an unco +differ to luik at a thing throuw anither man's een, i' the supposed +licht o' anither man's conscience! The wrang dune may hae caused mair +evil, that is, mair injustice, nor the man himsel kens! And what's the +reputation ye speak o', or what's the eesefu'ness o' sic a man? Can it +be worth onything? Isna his hoose a lee? isna it biggit upo the san'? +What kin' o' a usefulness can that be that has hypocrisy for its +fundation? Awa wi' 't! Lat him cry oot to a' the warl', 'I'm a +heepocrit! I'm a worm, and no man!' Lat him cry oot to his makker, 'I'm +a beast afore thee! Mak a man o' me'!” + +As the soutar spoke, overcome by sympathy with the sinner, whom he could +not help feeling in bodily presence before him, the minister, who had +risen when he began to talk about the English clergy and confession, +stood hearing with a face pale as death. + +“For God's sake, minister,” continued the soutar, “gien ye hae ony sic +thing upo yer min', hurry and oot wi' 't! I dinna say _to me_, but to +somebody--to onybody! Mak a clean breist o' 't, afore the Adversary has +ye again by the thrapple!” + +But here started awake in the minister the pride of superiority in +station and learning: a shoemaker, from whom he had just ordered a pair +of boots, to take such a liberty, who ought naturally to have regarded +him as necessarily spotless! He drew himself up to his lanky height, and +made reply-- + +“I am not aware, Mr. MacLear, that I have given you any pretext for +addressing me in such terms! I told you, indeed, that I was putting +a case, a very possible one, it is true, but not the less a merely +imaginary one! You have shown me how unsafe it is to enter into an +argument on any supposed case with one of limited education! It is my +own fault, however; and I beg your pardon for having thoughtlessly led +you into such a pitfall!--Good morning!” + +As the door closed behind the parson, he began to felicitate himself +on having so happily turned aside the course of a conversation whose +dangerous drift he seemed now first to recognize; but he little thought +how much he had already conveyed to the wide-eyed observation of one +well schooled in the symptoms of human unrest. + +“I must set a better watch over my thoughts lest they betray me!” he +reflected; thus resolving to conceal himself yet more carefully from the +one man in the place who would have cut for him the snare of the fowler. + +“I was ower hasty wi' 'im!” concluded the soutar on his part. “But I +think the truth has some grup o' 'im. His conscience is waukin up, I +fancy, and growlin a bit; and whaur that tyke has ance taen haud, he's +no ready to lowsen or lat gang! We maun jist lie quaiet a bit, and see! +His hoor 'ill come!” + +The minister being one who turned pale when angry, walked home with a +face of such corpse-like whiteness, that a woman who met him said to +herself, “What can ail the minister, bonny laad! He's luikin as scared +as a corp! I doobt that fule body the soutar's been angerin him wi' his +havers!” + +The first thing he did when he reached the manse, was to turn, +nevertheless, to the chapter and verse in the epistle to the Romans, +which the soutar had indicated, and which, through all his irritation, +had, strangely enough, remained unsmudged in his memory; but the passage +suggested nothing, alas! out of which he could fabricate a sermon. Could +it have proved otherwise with a heart that was quite content to have God +no nearer him than a merely adoptive father? He found at the same time +that his late interview with the soutar had rendered the machinery of +his thought-factory no fitter than before for weaving a tangled wisp of +loose ends, which was all he could command, into the homogeneous web of +a sermon; and at last was driven to his old stock of carefully preserved +preordination sermons; where he was unfortunate enough to make choice +of the one least of all fitted to awake comprehension or interest in his +audience. + +His selection made, and the rest of the day thus cleared for inaction, +he sat down and wrote a letter. Ever since his fall he had been +successfully practising the art of throwing a morsel straight into +one or other of the throats of the triple-headed Cerberus, his +conscience--which was more clever in catching such sops, than they were +in choking the said howler; and one of them, the letter mentioned, was +the sole wretched result of his talk with the soutar. Addressed to a +late divinity-classmate, he asked in it incidentally whether his +old friend had ever heard anything of the little girl--he could just +remember her name and the pretty face of her--Isy, general slavey to +her aunt's lodgers in the Canongate, of whom he was one: he had often +wondered, he said, what had become of her, for he had been almost in +love with her for a whole half-year! I cannot but take the inquiry as +the merest pretence, with the sole object of deceiving himself into the +notion of having at least made one attempt to discover Isy. His friend +forgot to answer the question, and James Blatherwick never alluded to +his having put it to him. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +Never dawned Sunday upon soul more wretched. He had not indeed to climb +into his watchman's tower without the pretence of a proclamation, but on +that very morning his father had put the mare between the shafts of the +gig to drive his wife to Tiltowie and their son's church, instead of the +nearer and more accessible one in the next parish, whither they oftener +went. Arrived there, it was not wonderful they should find themselves +so dissatisfied with the spiritual food set before them, as to wish +heartily they had remained at home, or driven to the nearer church. +The moment the service was over, Mr. Blatherwick felt much inclined to +return at once, without waiting an interview with his son; for he had no +remark to make on the sermon that would be pleasant either for his son +or his wife to hear; but Marion combated the impulse with entreaties +that grew almost angry, and Peter was compelled to yield, although +sullenly. They waited in the churchyard for the minister's appearance. + +“Weel, Jeemie,” said his father, shaking hands with him limply, “yon +was some steeve parritch ye gied us this mornin!--and the meal itsel was +baith auld and soor!” + +The mother gave her son a pitiful smile, as if in deprecation of her +husband's severity, but said not a word; and James, haunted by the taste +of failure the sermon had left in his own mouth, and possibly troubled +by sub-conscious motions of self-recognition, could hardly look his +father in the face, and felt as if he had been rebuked by him before all +the congregation. + +“Father,” he replied in a tone of some injury, “you do not know how +difficult it is to preach a fresh sermon every Sunday!” + +“Ca' ye yon fresh, Jeemie? To me it was like the fuistit husks o' the +half-faimisht swine! Man, I wuss sic provender would drive yersel whaur +there's better and to spare! Yon was lumps o' brose in a pig-wash o' +stourum! The tane was eneuch to choke, and the tither to droon ye!” + +James made a wry face, and the sight of his annoyance broke the ice +gathering over the well-spring in his mother's heart; tears rose in her +eyes, and for one brief moment she saw the minister again her bairn. +But he gave her no filial response; ambition, and greed of the praise of +men, had blocked in him the movements of the divine, and corrupted his +wholesomest feelings, so that now he welcomed freely as a conviction the +suggestion that his parents had never cherished any sympathy with him +or his preaching; which reacted in a sudden flow of resentment, and a +thickening of the ice on his heart. Some fundamental shock must dislodge +that rooted, overmastering ice, if ever his wintered heart was to feel +the power of a reviving Spring! + +The threesum family stood in helpless silence for a few moments; then +the father said to the mother-- + +“I doobt we maun be settin oot for hame, Mirran!” + +“Will you not come into the manse, and have something before you go?” + said James, not without anxiety lest his housekeeper should be taken at +unawares, and their acceptance should annoy her: he lived in constant +dread of offending his housekeeper! + +“Na, I thank ye,” returned his father: “it wad taste o' stew!” (_blown +dust_). + +It was a rude remark; but Peter was not in a kind mood; and when love +itself is unkind, it is apt to be burning and bitter and merciless. + +Marion burst into tears. James turned away, and walked home with a gait +of wounded dignity. Peter went in haste toward the churchyard gate, to +interrupt with the bit his mare's feed of oats. Marion saw his hands +tremble pitifully as he put the headstall over the creature's ears, and +reproached herself that she had given him such a cold-hearted son. She +climbed in a helpless way into the gig, and sat waiting for her husband. + +“I'm that dry 'at I could drink cauld watter!” he said, as he took his +place beside her. + +They drove from the place of tombs, but they carried death with them, +and left the sunlight behind them. + +Neither spoke a word all the way. Not until she was dismounting at their +own door, did the mother venture her sole remark, “Eh, sirs!” It meant +a world of unexpressed and inexpressible misery. She went straight up to +the little garret where she kept her Sunday bonnet, and where she said +her prayers when in especial misery. Thence she descended after a +while to her bedroom, there washed her face, and sadly prepared for +a hungerless encounter with the dinner Isy had been getting ready for +them--hoping to hear something about the sermon, perhaps even some +little word about the minister himself. But Isy too must share in the +disappointment of that vainly shining Sunday morning! Not a word passed +between her master and mistress. Their son was called the pastor of the +flock, but he was rather the porter of the sheepfold than the shepherd +of the sheep. He was very careful that the church should be properly +swept and sometimes even garnished; but about the temple of the Holy +Ghost, the hearts of his sheep, he knew nothing, and cared as little. +The gloom of his parents, their sense of failure and loss, grew and +deepened all the dull hot afternoon, until it seemed almost to pass +their endurance. At last, however, it abated, as does every pain, for +life is at its root: thereto ordained, it slew itself by exhaustion. +“But,” thought the mother, “there's Monday coming, and what am I to +do then?” With the new day would return the old trouble, the gnawing, +sickening pain that she was childless: her daughter was gone, and no +son was left her! Yet the new day when it came, brought with it its new +possibility of living one day more! + +But the minister was far more to be pitied than those whose misery he +was. All night long he slept with a sense of ill-usage sublying his +consciousness, and dominating his dreams; but with the sun came a doubt +whether he had not acted in unseemly fashion, when he turned and left +his father and mother in the churchyard. Of course they had not treated +him well; but what would his congregation, some of whom might have been +lingering in the churchyard, have thought, to see him leave them as he +did? His only thought, however, was to take precautions against their +natural judgment of his behaviour. + +After his breakfast, he set out, his custom of a Monday morning, for +what he called a quiet stroll; but his thoughts kept returning, ever +with fresh resentment, to the soutar's insinuation--for such he counted +it--on the Saturday. Suddenly, uninvited, and displacing the phantasm of +her father, arose before him the face of Maggie; and with it the sudden +question, What then was the real history of the baby on whom she spent +such an irrational amount of devotion. The soutar's tale of her finding +him was too apocryphal! Might not Maggie have made a slip? Or why should +the pretensions of the soutar be absolutely trusted? Surely he had, some +time or other, heard a rumour! A certain satisfaction arose with the +suggestion that this man, so ready to believe evil of his neighbour, had +not kept his own reputation, or that of his house, perhaps, undefiled. +He tried to rebuke himself the next moment, it is true, for having +harboured a moment's satisfaction in the wrong-doing of another: it was +unbefitting the pastor of a Christian flock! But the thought came and +came again, and he took no continuous trouble to cast it out. When he +went home, he put a question or two to his housekeeper about the little +one, but she only smiled paukily, and gave him no answer. + +After his two-o'clock dinner, he thought it would be Christian-like to +forgive his parents: he would therefore call at Stonecross--which would +tend to wipe out any undesirable offence on the minds of his parents, +and also to prevent any gossip that might injure him in his sacred +profession! He had not been to see them for a long time; his visits to +them gave him no satisfaction; but he never dreamed of attributing that +to his own want of cordiality. He judged it well, however, to avoid any +appearance of evil, and therefore thought it might be his duty to pay +them in future a hurried call about once a month. For the past, he +excused himself because of the distance, and his not being a good +walker! Even now that he had made up his mind he was in no haste to set +out, but had a long snooze in his armchair first: it was evening when he +climbed the hill and came in sight of the low gable behind which he was +born. + +Isy was in the garden gathering up the linen she had spread to dry on +the bushes, when his head came in sight at the top of the brae. She knew +him at once, and stooping behind the gooseberries, fled to the back of +the house, and so away to the moor. James saw the white flutter of a +sheet, but nothing of the hands that took it. He had heard that his +mother had a nice young woman to help her in the house, but cherished so +little interest in home-affairs that the news waked in him no curiosity. + +Ever since she came to Stonecross, Isy had been on the outlook lest +James should unexpectedly surprise her, and so he himself surprised into +an involuntary disclosure of his relation to her; and not even by +the long deferring of her hope to see him yet again, had she come to +pretermit her vigilance. She did not intend to avoid him altogether, +only to take heed not to startle him into any recognition of her in the +presence of his mother. But when she saw him approaching the house, her +courage failed her, and she fled to avoid the danger of betraying +both, herself and him. She was in truth ashamed of meeting him, in her +imagination feeling guiltily exposed to his just reproaches. All the +time he remained that evening with his mother, she kept watching the +house, not once showing herself until he was gone, when she reappeared +as if just returned from the moor, where Mrs. Blatherwick imagined +her still indulging the hope of finding her baby, concerning whom her +mistress more than doubted the very existence, taking the supposed fancy +for nothing but a half-crazy survival from the time of her insanity +before the Robertsons found her. + +The minister made a comforting peace with his mother, telling her a +part of the truth, namely, that he had been much out of sorts during the +week, and quite unable to write a new sermon; and that so he had been +driven at the very last to take an old one, and that so hurriedly that +he had failed to recall correctly the subject and nature of it; that +he had actually begun to read it before finding that it was altogether +unsuitable--at which very moment, fatally for his equanimity, he +discovered his parents in the congregation, and was so dismayed that he +could not recover his self-possession, whence had ensued his apparent +lack of cordiality! It was a lame, yet somewhat plausible excuse, and +served to silence for the moment, although it was necessarily so far +from satisfying his mother's heart. His father was out of doors, and him +James did not see. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +As time went on, the terror of discovery grew rather than abated in the +mind of the minister. He could not tell whence or why it should be so, +for no news of Isy reached him, and he felt, in his quieter moments, +almost certain that she could not have passed so completely out of his +horizon, if she were still in the world. When most persuaded of this, +he felt ablest to live and forget the past, of which he was unable to +recall any portion with satisfaction. The darkness and silence left over +it by his unrepented offence, gave it, in his retrospect, a threatening +aspect--out of which at any moment might burst the hidden enemy, the +thing that might be known, and must not be known! He derived, however, +a feeble and right cowardly comfort from the reflection that he had done +nothing to hide the miserable fact, and could not now. He even persuaded +himself that if he could he _would_ not do anything now to keep it +secret; he would leave all to that Providence which seemed hitherto +to have wrought on his behalf: he would but keep a silence which no +gentleman must break!--And why should that come abroad which Providence +itself concealed? Who had any claim to know a mere passing fault, which +the partner in it must least of all desire exposed, seeing it would fall +heavier upon her than upon him? Where was any call for that confession, +about which the soutar had maundered so foolishly? If, on the other +hand, his secret should threaten to creep out, he would not, he +flattered himself, move a finger to keep it hidden! he would that moment +disappear in some trackless solitude, rejoicing that he had nothing +left to wish undisclosed! As to the charge of hypocrisy that was sure to +follow, he was innocent: he had never said anything he did not believe! +he had made no professions beyond such as were involved in his position! +he had never once posed as a man of Christian experience--like the +soutar for instance! Simply and only he had been overtaken in a fault, +which he had never repeated, never would repeat, and which he was +willing to atone for in any way he could! + +On the following Saturday, the soutar was hard at work all day long +on the new boots the minister had ordered of him, which indeed he had +almost forgotten in anxiety about the man for whom he had to make them. +For MacLear was now thoroughly convinced that the young man had “some +sick offence within his mind,” and was the more anxious to finish his +boots and carry them home the same night, that he knew his words had +increased the sickness of that offence, which sickness might be the +first symptom of returning health. For nothing attracted the soutar more +than an opportunity of doing anything to lift from a human soul, were +it but a single fold of the darkness that compassed it, and so let the +light nearer to the troubled heart. As to what it might be that was +harassing the minister's soul, he sternly repressed in himself all +curiosity. The thought of Maggie's precious little foundling did indeed +once more occur to him, but he tried all he could to shut it out. He did +also desire that the minister should confess, but he had no wish that +he should unbosom himself to him: from such a possibility, indeed, he +shrank; while he did hope to persuade him to seek counsel of some one +capable of giving him true advice. He also hoped that, his displeasure +gradually passing, he would resume his friendly intercourse with +himself; for somehow there was that in the gloomy parson which +powerfully attracted the cheery and hopeful soutar, who hoped his +troubled abstraction might yet prove to be heart-hunger after a +spiritual good which he had not begun to find: he might not yet have +understood, he thought, the good news about God--that he was just +what Jesus seemed to those that saw the glory of God in his face. The +minister could not, the soutar thought, have learned much of the truth +concerning God; for it seemed to wake in him no gladness, no power of +life, no strength to _be_. For _him_ Christ had not risen, but lay wrapt +in his winding sheet! So far as James's feeling was concerned, the larks +and the angels must all be mistaken in singing as they did! + +At an hour that caused the soutar anxiety as to whether the housekeeper +might not have retired for the night, he rang the bell of the +manse-door; which in truth did bring the minister himself from his +study, to confront MacLear on the other side of the threshold, with the +new boots in his hand. + +But the minister had come to see that his behaviour in his last visit to +the soutar must have laid him open to suspicion from him; and he was now +bent on removing what he counted the unfortunate impression his words +might have made. Wishing therefore to appear to cherish no offence over +his parishioner's last words to him ere they parted, and so obliterate +any suggestion of needed confession lurking behind his own words with +which he had left him, he now addressed him with an _abandon_ which, +gloomy in spirit as he habitually was, he could yet assume in a moment +when the masking instinct was aroused in him-- + +“Oh, Mr. MacLear,” he said jocularly, “I am glad you have just managed +to escape breaking the Sabbath! You have had a close shave! It wants ten +minutes, hardly more, to the awful midnight hour!” + +“I doobt, sir, it would hae broken the Sawbath waur, to fail o' my word +for the sake o' a steik or twa that maittered naething to God or man!” + returned the soutar. + +“Ah, well, we won't argue about it! but if we were inclined to be +strict, the Sabbath began some “--here he looked at his watch--“some +five hours and three-quarters ago; that is, at six of the clock, on the +evening of Saturday!” + +“Hoot, minister, ye ken ye're wrang there! for, Jew-wise, it began at +sax o' the Friday nicht! But ye hae made it plain frae the poopit that +ye hae nae supperstition aboot the first day o' the week, the whilk +alane has aucht to dee wi' hiz Christians!--We're no a' Jews, though +there's a heap o' them upo' this side the Tweed! I, for my pairt, +confess nae obligation but to drap workin, and sit doon wi' clean han's, +or as clean as I can weel mak them, to the speeritooal table o' my Lord, +whaur I aye try as weel to weir a clean and a cheerfu' face--that +is, sae far as the sermon will permit--and there's aye a pyke o' mate +somewhaur intil 't! For isna it the bonny day whan the Lord wad hae us +sit doon and ait wi himsel, wha made the h'avens and the yirth, and the +waters under the yirth that haud it up! And wilna he, upo this day, at +the last gran' merridge-feast, poor oot the bonny reid wine, and say, +'Sit ye doon, bairns, and tak o' my best'!” + +“Ay, ay, Mr. MacLear; that's a fine way to think of the Sabbath!” + rejoined the minister, “and the very way I am in the habit of thinking +of it myself!--I'm greatly obliged to you for bringing home my boots; +but indeed I could have managed very well without them!” + +“Ay, sir, maybe; I dinna doobt ye hae pairs and pairs o' beets; but ye +see _I_ couldna dee _wi'oot_ them, for I had _promised_.” + +The word struck the minister to the heart. “He means something!” he said +to himself. “--But I never promised the girl anything! I _could_ not +have done it! I never thought of such a thing! I never said anything to +bind me!” + +He never saw that, whether he had promised or not, his deed had bound +him more absolutely than any words. + +All this time he was letting the soutar stand on the doorstep, with the +new boots in his hand. + +“Come in,” he said at last, “and put them there in the window. It's +about time we were all going to bed, I think--especially myself, +to-morrow being sermon-day!” + +The soutar betook himself to his home and to bed, sorry that he had said +nothing, yet having said more than he knew. + +The next evening he listened to the best sermon he had yet heard from +that pulpit--a summary of the facts bearing on the resurrection of our +Lord;--with which sermon, however, a large part of the congregation was +anything but pleased; for the minister had admitted the impossibility of +reconciling, in every particular, the differing accounts of the doings +and seeings of those who bore witness to it. + +“--As gien,” said the soutar, “the Lord wasna to shaw himsel till a' +that had seen he was up war agreed as to their recollection o' what fouk +had reportit!” + +He went home edified and uplifted by his fresh contemplation of the +story of his Master's victory: thank God! he thought; his pains were +over at last! and through death he was lord for ever over death and +evil, over pain and loss and fear, who was already through his father +lord of creation and life, and of all things visible and invisible! He +was Lord also of all thinking and feeling and judgment, able to give +repentance and restoration, and to set right all that selfwill had set +wrong! So greatly did the heart of his humble disciple rejoice in him, +that he scandalized the reposing sabbath-street, by breaking out, as he +went home, into a somewhat unmelodious song, “They are all gone down to +hell with the weapons of their war!” to a tune nobody knew but himself, +and which he could never have sung again. “O Faithful and True,” he +broke out once more as he reached his own house; but checked +himself abruptly, saying, “Tut, tut, the fowk'll think I hae been +drinkin'!--Eh,” he continued to himself as he went in, “gien I micht but +ance hear the name that no man kens but Himsel!” + +The next day he was very tired, and could get through but little +work; so, on the Tuesday he felt it would be right to take a holiday. +Therefore he put a large piece of oatcake in his pocket, and telling +Maggie he was going to the hills, “to do nae thing and a'thing, baith at +ance, a' day,” disappeared with a backward look and lingering smile. + +He went brimful of expectation, and was not disappointed in those he met +by the way. + +After walking some distance in quiescent peace, and having since +noontide met no one--to use his own fashion of speech--by which he meant +that no special thought had arisen uncalled-for in his mind, always +regarding such a thought as a word direct from the First Thought, he +turned his steps toward Stonecross. He had known Peter Blatherwick for +many years, and honoured him as one in whom there was no guile; and now +the desire to see him came upon him: he wanted to share with him the +pleasure and benefit he had gathered from Sunday's sermon, and show the +better quality of the food their pastor had that day laid before his +sheep. He knocked at the door, thinking to see the mistress, and hear +from her where her husband was likely to be found; but to his surprise, +the farmer came himself to the door, where he stood in silence, with a +look that seemed to say, “I know you; but what can you be wanting with +me?” His face was troubled, and looked not only sorrowful, but scared +as well. Usually ruddy with health, and calm with content, it was now +blotted with pallid shades, and seemed, as he held the door-handle +without a word of welcome, that of one aware of something unseen behind +him. + +“What ails ye, Mr. Bletherwick?” asked the soutar, in a voice that +faltered with sympathetic anxiety. “Surely--I houp there's naething come +ower the mistress!” + +“Na, I thank ye; she's vera weel. But a dreid thing has befa'en her and +me. It's little mair nor an hoor sin syne 'at oor Isy--ye maun hae h'ard +tell o' Isy, 'at we baith had sic a fawvour for--a' at ance she jist +drappit doon deid as gien shotten wi' a gun! In fac I thoucht for a +meenut, though I h'ard nae shot, that sic had been the case. The ae +moment she steed newsin wi' her mistress i' the kitchie, and the neist +she was in a heap upo' the fleer o' 't!--But come in, come in.” + +“Eh, the bonnie lassie!” cried the shoemaker, without moving to enter; +“I min' upo' her weel, though I believe I never saw her but ance!--a +fine, delicat pictur o' a lassie, that luikit up at ye as gien she made +ye kin'ly welcome to onything she could gie or get for ye!” + +“Aweel, as I'm tellin ye,” said the farmer, “she's awa'; and we'll see +her no more till the earth gies up her deid! The wife's in there wi' +what's left o' her, greitin as gien she wad greit her een oot. Eh, but +she lo'ed her weel:--Doon she drappit, and no even a moment to say her +prayers!” + +“That maitters na muckle--no a hair, in fac!” returned the soutar. “It +was the Father o' her, nane ither, that took her. He wantit her hame; +and he's no are to dee onything ill, or at the wrang moment! Gien a +meenut mair had been ony guid til her, thinkna ye she wud hae had that +meenut!” + +“Willna ye come in and see her? Some fowk canna bide to luik upo the +deid, but ye're no are o' sic!” + +“Na; it's trowth I daurna be nane o' sic. I s' richt wullinly gang wi' +ye to luik upo the face o' ane 'at's won throuw!” + +“Come awa' than; and maybe the Lord 'ill gie ye a word o' comfort for +the mistress, for she taks on terrible aboot her. It braks my hert to +see her!” + +“The hert o' baith king and cobbler's i' the ae han' o' the Lord,” + answered the soutar solemnly; “and gien my hert indite onything, my +tongue 'ill be ready to speyk the same.” + +He followed the farmer--who trode softly, as if he feared disturbing the +sleeper--upon whom even the sudden silences of the world would break no +more. + +Mr. Blatherwick led the way to the parlour, and through it to a closet +behind, used as the guest-chamber. There, on a little white bed with +dimity curtains, lay the form of Isobel. The eyes of the soutar, in whom +had lingered yet a hope, at once revealed that he saw she was indeed +gone to return no more. Her lovely little face, although its beautiful +eyes were closed, was even lovelier than before; but her arms and hands +lay straight by her sides; their work was gone from them; no voice would +call her any more! she might sleep on, and take her rest! + +“I had but to lay them straucht,” sobbed her mistress; “her een she had +closed hersel as she drappit! Eh, but she _was_ a bonny lassie--and a +guid!--hardly less nor ain bairn to me!” + +“And to me as weel!” supplemented Peter, with a choked sob. + +“And no ance had I paid her a penny wage!” cried Marion, with sudden +remorseful reminiscence. + +“She'll never think o' wages noo!” said her husband. “We'll sen' them to +the hospital, and that'll ease yer min', Mirran!” + +“Eh, she was a dacent, mensefu, richt lo'able cratur!” cried Marion. +“She never _said_ naething to jeedge by, but I hae a glimmer o' houp 'at +she _may_ ha' been ane o' the Lord's ain.” + +“Is that a' ye can say, mem?” interposed the soutar. “Surely ye wadna +daur imaigine her drappit oot o' _his_ han's!” + +“Na,” returned Marion; “but I wad richt fain ken her fair intil them! +Wha is there to assure 's o' her faith i' the atonement?” + +“Deed, I kenna, and I carena, mem! I houp she had faith i' naething, +thing nor thoucht, but the Lord himsel! Alive or deid, we're in his +han's wha dee'd for us, revealin his Father til 's,” said the soutar; +“--and gien she didna ken Him afore, she wull noo! The holy All-in-all +be wi' her i' the dark, or whatever comes!--O God, hand up her heid, and +latna the watters gang ower her!” + +So-called Theology rose, dull, rampant, and indignant; but the solemn +face of the dead interdicted dispute, and Love was ready to hope, if not +quite to believe. Nevertheless to those guileless souls, the words of +the soutar sounded like blasphemy: was not her fate settled, and for +ever? Had not death in a moment turned her into an immortal angel, or +an equally immortal devil? Only how, at such a moment, with the peaceful +face before them, were they to argue the possibility that she, the +loving, the gentle, whose fault they knew but by her own voluntary +confession, was now as utterly indifferent to the heart of the living +God, as if He had never created her--nay even had become hateful to +him! No one spoke; and the soutar, after gazing on the dead for a +while, prayer overflowing his heart, but never reaching his lips, turned +slowly, and departed without a word. + +As he reached his own door, he met the minister, and told him of the +sorrow that had befallen his parents, adding that it was plain they were +in sore need of his sympathy. James, although marvelling at their being +so much troubled by the death of merely a servant, was roused by the +tale to the duty of his profession; and although his heart had never +yet drawn him either to the house of mourning or the house of mirth, +he judged it becoming to pay another visit to Stonecross, thinking it, +however, rather hard that he should have to go again so soon. It pleased +the soutar to see him face about at once, however, and start for the +farm with a quicker stride than, since his return to Tiltowie as its +minister, he had seen him put forth. + +James had not the slightest foreboding of whom he was about to see in +the arms of Death. But even had he had some feeling of what was +awaiting him, I dare not even conjecture the mood in which he would +have approached the house--whether one of compunction, or of relief. +But utterly unconscious of the discovery toward which he was rushing, +he hurried on, with a faint pleasure at the thought of having to +expostulate with his mother upon the waste of such an unnecessary +expenditure of feeling. Toward his father, he was aware of a more +active feeling of disapproval, if not indeed one of repugnance. James +Blatherwick was of such whose sluggish natures require, for the melting +of their stubbornness, and their remoulding into forms of strength +and beauty, such a concentration of the love of God that it becomes a +consuming fire. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +The night had fallen when he reached the farm. The place was silent; its +doors were all shut; and when he opened the nearest, seldom used but for +the reception of strangers, not a soul was to be seen; no one came to +meet him, for no one had even thought of him, and certainly no one, +except it were the dead, desired his coming. He went into the parlour, +and there, from the dim chamber beyond, whose door stood open, appeared +his mother. Her heart big with grief, she clasped him in her arms, and +laid her cheek against his bosom: higher she could not reach, and +nearer than his breast-bone she could not get to him. No endearment +was customary between them: James had never encouraged or missed any; +neither did he know how to receive such when offered. + +“I am distressed, mother,” he began, “to see you so upset; and I cannot +help thinking such a display of feeling unnecessary. If I may say so, it +seems to me unreasonable. You cannot, in such a brief period as this new +maid of yours has spent with you, have developed such an affection for +her, as this--” he hesitated for a word, “--as this _bouleversement_ +would seem to indicate! The young woman can hardly be a relative, or +I should surely have heard of her existence! The suddenness of the +occurrence, of which I heard only from my shoemaker, MacLear, must have +wrought disastrously upon your nerves! Come, come, dear mother! you must +indeed compose yourself! It is quite unworthy of you, to yield to such a +paroxysm of unnatural and uncalled-for grief! Surely it is the part of a +Christian like you, to meet with calmness, especially in the case of one +you have known so little, that inevitable change which neither man +nor woman can avoid longer than a few years at most! Of course, the +appalling instantaneousness of it in the present case, goes far to +explain and excuse your emotion, but now at least, after so many hours +have elapsed, it is surely time for reason to resume her sway! Was +it not Schiller who said, 'Death cannot be an evil, for it is +universal'?--At all events, it is not an unmitigated evil!” he +added--with a sigh, as if for his part he was prepared to welcome it. + +During this prolonged and foolish speech, the gentle woman, whose +mother-heart had loved the poor girl that bore her daughter's name, had +been restraining her sobs behind her handkerchief; but now, as she heard +her son's cold commonplaces, it was, perhaps, a little wholesome anger +that roused her, and made her able to speak. + +“Ye didna ken her, laddie,” she cried, “or ye wad never mint at layin +yer tongue upon her that gait!--'Deed na, ye wadna!--But I doobt gien +ever ye could hae come to ken her as she was--sic a bonny, herty sowl +as ance dwalt in yon white-faced, patient thing, lyin i' the chaumer +there--wi' the stang oot o' her hert at last, and left the sharper i' +mine! But me and yer father--eh, weel we lo'ed her! for to hiz she was +like oor ain Isy,--ay, mair a dochter nor a servan--wi'a braw lovin +kin'ness in her, no to be luikit for frae ony son, and sic as we never +had frae ony afore but oor ain Isy.--Jist gang ye intil the closet +there, gien ye wull, and ye'll see what'll maybe saften yer hert a bit, +and lat ye unerstan' what mak o' a thing's come to the twa auld fowk ye +never cared muckle aboot!” + +James felt bitterly aggrieved by this personal remark of his mother. How +unfair she was! What had _he_ ever done to offend her? Had he not always +behaved himself properly--except indeed in that matter of which neither +she, nor living soul else, knew anything, or would ever know! What +right had she then to say such things to him! Had he not fulfilled +the expectations with which his father sent him to college? had he not +gained a position whose reflected splendour crowned them the parents of +James Blatherwick? She showed him none of the consideration or respect +he had so justly earned but never demanded! He rose suddenly, and +with never a thought save to leave his mother so as to manifest his +displeasure with her, stalked heedlessly into the presence of the more +heedless dead. + +The night had indeed fallen, but, the little window of the room looking +westward, and a bar of golden light yet lying like a resurrection +stone over the spot where the sun was buried, a pale sad gleam, softly +vanishing, hovered, hardly rested, upon the lovely, still, unlooking +face, that lay white on the scarcely whiter pillow. Coming out of the +darker room, the sharp, low light blinded him a little, so that he saw +without any certainty of perception; yet he seemed to have something +before him not altogether unfamiliar, giving him a suggestion as of +something he had known once, perhaps ought now to recognize, but had +forgotten: the reality of it seemed to be obscured by the strange +autumnal light entering almost horizontally. Concluding himself oddly +affected by the sight of a room he had regarded with some awe in his +childhood, and had not set foot in it for a long time, he drew a +little nearer to the bed, to look closer at the face of this paragon +of servants, whose loss was causing his mother a sorrow so unreasonably +poignant. + +The sense of her resemblance to some one grew upon him; but not yet had +he begun to recognize the death-changed countenance; he became assured +only that he _had_ seen that still face before, and that, would she but +open those eyes, he should know at once who she was. + +Then the true suspicion flashed upon him: good God! _could it be_ the +dead Isy? Of course not! It was the merest illusion! a nonsensical +fancy, caused by the irregular mingling of the light and darkness! In +the daytime he could not have been so befooled by his imagination! He +had always known the clearness, both physical and mental, with which +he saw everything! Nevertheless, the folly had power to fix him staring +where he stood, with his face leant close to the face of the dead. It +was only like, it could not be the same! and yet he could not turn and +go from it! Why did he not, by the mere will in whose strength he took +pride, force his way out of the room? He stirred not a foot; he stared +and stood. And as he stared, the dead face seemed to come nearer him +through the darkness, growing more and more like the only girl he had +ever, though even then only in fancy, loved. If it was not she, how +could the dead look so like the living he had once known? At length +what doubt was left, changed suddenly to assurance that it must be she. +And--dare I say it?--it brought him a sense of relief! He breathed a +sigh of such false, rascally peace as he had not known since his sin, +and with that sigh he left the room. Passing his mother, who still wept +in the now deeper dusk of the parlour, with the observation that there +was no moon, and it would be quite dark before he reached the manse, he +bade her good-night, and went out. + +When Peter, who unable to sit longer inactive had gone to the stable, +re-entered, foiled in the attempt to occupy himself, and sat down by his +wife, she began to talk about the funeral preparations, and the persons +to be invited. But such sorrow overtook him afresh, that even his wife, +herself inconsolable over her loss, was surprised at the depth of his +grief for one who was no relative. It seemed to him indelicate, almost +heartless of her to talk so soon of burying the dear one but just gone +from their sight: it was unnecessary dispatch, and suggested a lack of +reverence! + +“What for sic a hurry?” he expostulated. “Isna there time eneuch to put +oot o' yer sicht what ye ance lo'ed sae weel? Lat me be the nicht; the +morn 'ill be here sene eneuch! Lat my sowl rest a moment wi' deith, and +haud awa wi yer funeral. 'Sufficient til the day,' ye ken!” + +“Eh dear, but I'm no like you, Peter! Whan the sowl's gane, I tak no +content i' the presence o' the puir worthless body, luikin what it never +mair can be! Na, I wad be rid o' 't, I confess!--But be it as ye wull, +my ain man! It's a sair hert ye hae as weel as me i' yer body this +nicht; and we maun beir ane anither's burdens! The dauty may lie as we +hae laid her, the nicht throuw, and naething said: there's little to be +dene for her; she's a bonny clean corp as ever was, and may weel lie a +week afore we put her awa'!--There's no need for ony to watch her; tyke +nor baudrins 'ill never come near her.--I hae aye won'ert what for fowk +wad sit up wi the deid: yet I min' me weel they aye did i' the auld +time.” + +In this she showed, however, and in this alone, that the girl she +lamented was not her own daughter; for when the other Isy died, her body +was never for a moment left with the eternal spaces, as if she might +wake, and be terrified to find herself alone. Then, as if God had +forgotten them, they went to bed without saying their usual prayers +together: I fancy the visit of her son had been to Marion like the chill +of a wandering iceberg. + +In the morning the farmer, up first as usual, went into the +death-chamber and sat down by the side of the bed, reproaching himself +that he had forgotten “worship” the night before. + +And as he sat looking at the white face, he became aware of what might +be a little tinge of colour--the faintest possible--upon the lips. +He knew it must be a fancy, or at best an accident without +significance--for he had heard of such a thing! Still, even if his eyes +were deceiving him, he must shrink from hiding away such death out of +sight! The merest counterfeit of life was too sacred for burial! Just +such might the little daughter of Jairus have looked when the Lord took +her by the hand ere she arose! + +Thus feeling, and thus seeming to see on the lips of the girl a doubtful +tinge of the light of life, it was no wonder that Peter could not +entertain the thought of her immediate burial. They must at least wait +some sign, some unmistakable proof even, of change begun! + +Instead, therefore, of going into the yard to set in motion the needful +preparations for the harvest at hand, he sat on with the dead: he could +not leave her until his wife should come to take his place and keep +her company! He brought a bible from the next room, sat down again, and +waited beside her. In doubtful, timid, tremulous hope, not worthy of the +name of hope--a mere sense of a scarcely possible possibility, he waited +what he would not consent to believe he waited for. He would not deceive +himself; he would give his wife no hint, but wait to see how she saw! +He would put to her no leading question even, but watch for any start or +touch of surprise she might betray! + +By and by Marion appeared, gazed a moment on the dead, looked pitifully +in her husband's face, and went out again. + +“She sees naething!” said Peter to himself. “I s' awa' to my +wark!--Still I winna hae her laid aside afore I'm a wheen surer o' what +she is--leevin sowl or deid clod!” + +With a sad sense of vanished self-delusion, he rose and went out. As he +passed through the kitchen, his wife followed him to the door. “Ye'll +see and sen' a message to the vricht _(carpenter)_ the day?” she +whispered. + +“I'm no likly to forget!” he answered; “but there's nae hurry, seem +there's no life concernt!” + +“Na, nane; the mair's the pity!” she answered; and Peter knew, with a +glad relief, that his wife was coming to herself from the terrible blow. + +She sent the cowboy to the Cormacks' cottage, to tell Eppie to come to +her. + +The old woman came, heard what details there were to the sad story, +shook her head mournfully, and found nothing to say; but together they +set about preparing the body for burial. That done, the mind of +Mrs. Blatherwick was at ease, and she sat expecting the visit of the +carpenter. But the carpenter did not come. + +On the Thursday morning the soutar came to inquire after his friends at +Stanecross, and the gudewife gave him a message to Willie Wabster, the +_vricht_, to see about the coffin. + +But the soutar, catching sight of the farmer in the yard, went and had +a talk with him; and the result was that he took no message to the +carpenter; and when Peter went in to his dinner, he still said there was +no hurry: why should she be so anxious to heap earth over the dead? +For still he saw, or fancied he saw, the same possible colour on Isy's +cheek--like the faintest sunset-red, or that in the heart of the palest +blush-rose, which is either glow or pallor as you choose to think it. So +the first week of Isy's death passed, and still she lay in state, ready +for the grave, but unburied. + +Not a few of the neighbours came to see her, and were admitted where she +lay; and some of them warned Marion that, when the change came, it would +come suddenly; but still Peter would not hear of her being buried “with +that colour on her cheek!” And Marion had come to see, or to imagine +with her husband that she saw the colour. So, each in turn, they kept +watching her: who could tell but the Lord might be going to work a +miracle for them, and was not in the meantime only trying them, to see +how long their patience and hope would endure! + +The report spread through the neighbourhood, and reached Tiltowie, where +it speedily pervaded street and lane:--“The lass at Stanecross, she's +lyin deid, and luikin as alive as ever she was!” From street and lane +the people went crowding to see the strange sight, and would have +overrun the house, but had a reception by no means cordial: the farmer +set men at every door, and would admit no one. Angry and ashamed, they +all turned and went--except a few of the more inquisitive, who continued +lurking about in the hope of hearing something to carry home and enlarge +upon. + +As to the minister, he insisted upon disbelieving the whole thing, and +yet was made not a little uncomfortable by the rumour. Such a foe to +superstition that in his mind he silently questioned the truth of all +records of miracles, to whomsoever attributed, he was yet haunted by a +fear which he dared not formulate. Of course, whatever might take place, +it could be no miracle, but the mere natural effect of natural causes! +none the less, however, did he dread what might happen: he feared Isy +herself, and what she might disclose! For a time he did not dare again +go near the place. The girl might be in a trance! she might revive +suddenly, and call out his name! She might even reveal all! She had +always been a strange girl! What if, indeed, she were even being now +kept alive to tell the truth, and disgrace him before all the world! +Horrible as was the thought, might it not be well, in view of the +possibility of her revival, that he should be present to hear anything +she might say, and take precaution against it? He resolved, therefore, +to go to Stonecross, and make inquiry after her, heartily hoping to find +her undoubtedly and irrecoverably dead. + +In the meantime, Peter had been growing more and more expectant, and had +nearly forgotten all about the coffin, when a fresh rumour came to +the ears of William Webster, the coffin-maker, that the young woman at +Stonecross was indeed and unmistakably gone; whereupon he, having lost +patience over the uncertainty that had been crippling his operations, +questioned no more what he had so long expected, set himself at once +to his supposed task, and finished what he had already begun and indeed +half ended. The same night that the minister was on his way to the +farm, he passed Webster and his man carrying the coffin home through +the darkness: he descried what it was, and his heart gave a throb of +satisfaction. The men reaching Stonecross in the pitch-blackness of a +gathering storm, they stupidly set up their burden on end by the first +door, and went on to the other, where they made a vain effort to convey +to the deaf Eppie a knowledge of what they had done. She making them no +intelligible reply, there they left the coffin leaning up against the +wall; and, eager to get home ere the storm broke upon them, set off at +what speed was possible to them on the rough and dark road to Tiltowie, +now in their turn meeting and passing the minister on his way. + +By the time James arrived at Stonecross, it was too dark for him to see +the ghastly sentinel standing at the nearer door. He walked into the +parlour; and there met his father coming from the little chamber where +his wife was seated. + +“Isna this a most amazin thing, and houpfu' as it's amazing?” cried his +father. “What _can_ there be to come oot o' 't? Eh, but the w'ys o' +the Almichty are truly no to be mizzered by mortal line! The lass maun +surely be intendit for marvellous things, to be dealt wi' efter sic an +extra-ordnar fashion! Nicht efter nicht has the tane or the tither o' +hiz twa been sittin here aside her, lattin the hairst tak its chance, +and i' the daytime lea'in 'maist a' to the men, me sleepin and they at +their wark; and here the bonny cratur lyin, as quaiet as gien she had +never seen tribble, for thirteen days, and no change past upon her, no +more than on the three holy bairns i' the fiery furnace! I'm jist in a +trimle to think what's to come oot o' 't a'! God only kens! we can but +sit still and wait his appearance! What think ye, Jeemie?--Whan the Lord +was deid upo' the cross, they waitit but twa nichts, and there he was up +afore them! here we hae waitit, close on a haill fortnicht--and naething +even to pruv that she's deid! still less ony sign that ever she'll speyk +word til's again!--What think ye o' 't, man?” + +“Gien ever she returns to life, I greatly doobt she'll ever bring +back her senses wi' her!” said the mother, joining them from the inner +chamber. + +“Hoot, ye min' the tale o' the lady--Lady Fanshawe, I believe they ca'd +her? She cam til hersel a' richt i' the en'!” said Peter. + +“I don't remember the story,” said James. “Such old world tales are +little to be heeded.” + +“I min' naething aboot it but jist that muckle,” said his father. “And I +can think o' naething but that bonny lassie lyin there afore me naither +deid nor alive! I jist won'er, Jeames, that ye're no as concernt, and as +fillt wi' doobt and even dreid anent it as I am mysel!” + +“We're all in the hands of the God who created life and death,” returned +James, in a pious tone. + +The father held his peace. + +“And He'll bring licht oot o' the vera dark o' the grave!” said the +mother. + +Her faith, or at least her hope, once set agoing, went farther than her +husband's, and she had a greater power of waiting than he. James had +sorely tried both her patience and her hope, and not even now had she +given him up. + +“Ye'll bide and share oor watch this ae nicht, Jeames?” said Peter. +“It's an elrische kin o' a thing to wauk up i' the mirk mids, wi' a deid +corp aside ye!--No 'at even yet I gie her up for deid! but I canna help +feelin some eerie like--no to say fleyt! Bide, man, and see the nicht +oot wi' 's, and gie yer mither and me some hert o' grace.” + +James had little inclination to add another to the party, and began to +murmur something about his housekeeper. But his mother cut him short +with the indignant remark-- + +“Hoot, what's _she_?--Naething to you or ony o' 's! Lat her sit up for +ye, gien she likes! Lat her sit, I say, and never waste thoucht upo' the +queyn!” + +James had not a word to answer. Greatly as he shrank from the ordeal, he +must encounter it without show of reluctance! He dared not even propose +to sit in the kitchen and smoke. With better courage than will, he +consented to share their vigil. “And then,” he reflected, “if she should +come to herself, there would be the advantage he had foreseen and even +half desired!” + +His mother went to prepare supper for them. His father rose, and saying +he would have a look at the night, went toward the door; for even +his strange situation could not entirely smother the anxiety of the +husbandman. But James glided past him to the door, determined not to be +left alone with that thing in the chamber. + +But in the meantime the wind had been rising, and the coffin had been +tilting and resettling on its narrower end. At last, James opening the +door, the gruesome thing fell forward just as he crossed the threshold, +knocked him down, and settled on the top of him. His father, close +behind him, tumbled over the obstruction, divined, in the light of a +lamp in the passage, what the prostrate thing was, and scrambling to his +feet with the only oath he had, I fully believe, ever uttered, cried: +“Damn that fule, Willie Wabster! Had he naething better to dee nor +sen' to the hoose coffins naebody wantit--and syne set them doon like +rotten-traps _(rat-traps)_ to whomel puir Jeemie!” He lifted the thing +from off the minister, who rose not much hurt, but both amazed and +offended at the mishap, and went to his mother in the kitchen. + +“Dinna say muckle to yer mither, Jeames laad,” said his father as +he went; “that is, dinna explain preceesely hoo the ill-faured thing +happent. _I'll_ hae amen's _(amends, vengeance)_ upon him!” So saying, +he took the offensive vehicle, awkward burden as it was, in his two +arms, and carrying it to the back of the cornyard, shoved it over the +low wall into the dry ditch at its foot, where he heaped dirty straw +from the stable over it. + +“It'll be lang,” he vowed to himsel, “or Willie Wabster hear the last +o' this!--and langer yet or he see the glint o' the siller he thoucht +he was yirnin by 't!--It's come and cairry 't hame himsel he sall, the +muckle idiot! He may turn 't intil a breid-kist, or what he likes, the +gomf!” + +“Fain wud I screw the reid heid o' 'im intil that same kist, and +hand him there, short o' smorin!” he muttered as he went back to the +house.--“Faith, I could 'maist beery him ootricht!” he concluded, with a +grim smile. + +Ere he re-entered the house, however, he walked a little way up the +hill, to cast over the vault above him a farmer's look of inquiry as to +the coming night, and then went in, shaking his head at what the clouds +boded. + +Marion had brought their simple supper into the parlour, and was sitting +there with James, waiting for him. When they had ended their meal, +and Eppie had removed the remnants, the husband and wife went into the +adjoining chamber and sat down by the bedside, where James presently +joined them with a book in his hand. Eppie, having _rested_ the fire in +the kitchen, came into the parlour, and sat on the edge of a chair just +inside the door. + +Peter had said nothing about the night, and indeed, in his wrath with +the carpenter, had hardly noted how imminent was the storm; but the air +had grown very sultry, and the night was black as pitch, for a solid +mass of cloud had blotted out the stars: it was plain that, long before +morning, a terrible storm must break. But midnight came and went, and +all was very still. + +Suddenly the storm was upon them, with a forked, vibrating flash of +angry light that seemed to sting their eyeballs, and was replaced by a +darkness that seemed to crush them like a ponderous weight. Then all at +once the weight itself seemed torn and shattered into sound--into heaps +of bursting, roaring, tumultuous billows. Another flash, yet another and +another followed, each with its crashing uproar of celestial avalanches. +At the first flash Peter had risen and gone to the larger window of +the parlour, to discover, if possible, in what direction the storm was +travelling. Marion, feeling as if suddenly unroofed, followed him, and +James was left alone with the dead. He sat, not daring to move; but when +the third flash came, it flickered and played so long about the dead +face, that it seemed for minutes vividly visible, and his gaze was +fixed on it, fascinated. The same moment, without a single preparatory +movement, Isy was on her feet, erect on the bed. + +A great cry reached the ears of the father and mother. They hurried into +the chamber: James lay motionless and senseless on the floor: a man's +nerve is not necessarily proportioned to the hardness of his heart! The +verity of the thing had overwhelmed him. + +Isobel had fallen, and lay gasping and sighing on the bed. She knew +nothing of what had happened to her; she did not yet know herself--did +not know that her faithless lover lay on the floor by her bedside. + +When the mother entered, she saw nothing--only heard Isy's breathing. +But when her husband came with a candle, and she saw her son on the +floor, she forgot Isy; all her care was for James. She dropped on her +knees beside him, raised his head, held it to her bosom, and lamented +over him as if he were dead. She even felt annoyed with the poor girl's +moaning, as she struggled to get back to life. Why should she whose +history was such, be the cause of mishap to her reverend and honoured +son? Was she worth one of his little fingers! Let her moan and groan and +sigh away there--what did it matter! she could well enough wait a bit! +She would see to her presently, when her precious son was better! + +Very different was the effect upon Peter when he saw Isy coming to +herself. It was a miracle indeed! It could be nothing less! White as was +her face, there was in it an unmistakable look of reviving life! When +she opened her eyes and saw her master bending over her, she greeted +him with a faint smile, closed her eyes again, and lay still. James also +soon began to show signs of recovery, and his father turned to him. + +With the old sullen look of his boyhood, he glanced up at his mother, +still overwhelming him with caresses and tears. + +“Let me up,” he said querulously, and began to wipe his face. “I feel so +strange! What can have made me turn so sick all at once?” + +“Isy's come to life again!” said his mother, with modified show of +pleasure. + +“Oh!” he returned. + +“Ye're surely no sorry for that!” rejoined his mother, with a reaction +of disappointment at his lack of sympathy, and rose as she said it. + +“I'm pleased to hear it--why not?” he answered. “But she gave me a +terrible start! You see, I never expected it, as you did!” + +“Weel, ye _are_ hertless, Jeernie!” exclaimed his father. “Hae ye nae +spark o' fellow-feelin wi' yer ain mither, whan the lass comes to +life 'at she's been fourteen days murnin for deid? But losh! she's aff +again!--deid or in a dwaum, I kenna!--Is't possible she's gaein to slip +frae oor hand yet?” + +James turned his head aside, and murmured something inaudibly. + +But Isy had only fainted. After some eager ministrations on the part of +Peter, she came to herself once more, and lay panting, her forehead wet +as with the dew of death. + +The farmer ran out to a loft in the yard, and calling the herd-boy, a +clever lad, told him to rise and ride for the doctor as fast as the mare +could lay feet to the road. + +“Tell him,” he said, “that Isy has come to life, and he maun munt and +ride like the vera mischeef, or she'll be deid again afore he wins til +her. Gien ye canna get the tae doctor, awa wi' ye to the tither, and +dinna ley him till ye see him i' the saiddle and startit. Syne ye can +ease the mere, and come hame at yer leisur; he'll be here lang afore +ye!--Tell him I'll pey him ony fee he likes, be't what it may, and never +compleen!--Awa' wi' ye like the vera deevil!” + +“I didna think ye kenned hoo _he_ rade,” answered the boy pawkily, as +he shot to the stable. “Weel,” he added, “ye maunna gley asklent at the +mere whan she comes hame some saipy-like!” + +When he returned on the mare's back, the farmer was waiting for him with +the whisky-bottle in his hand. + +“Na, na!” he said, seeing the lad eye the bottle, “it's no for you! ye +want a' the sma' wit ye ever hed: it's no _you_ 'at has to gallop; ye +hae but to stick on!--Hae, Susy!” + +He poured half a tumblerful into a soup-plate, and held it out to the +mare, who, never snuffing at it, licked it up greedily, and immediately +started of herself at a good pace. + +Peter carried the bottle to the chamber, and got Isy to swallow a +little, after which she began to recover again. Nor did Marion forget to +administer a share to James, who was not a little in want of it. + +When, within an hour, the doctor arrived full of amazed incredulity, he +found Isy in a troubled sleep, and James gone to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +The next day, Isy, although very weak, was greatly better. She was, +however, too ill to get up; and Marion seemed now in her element, with +two invalids, both dear to her, to look after. She hardly knew for which +to be more grateful--her son, given helpless into her hands, unable to +repel the love she lavished upon him; or the girl whom God had taken +from the very throat of the swallowing grave. But her heart, at first +bubbling over with gladness, soon grew calmer, when she came to perceive +how very ill James was. And before long she began to fear she must +part with her child, whose lack of love hitherto made the threatened +separation the more frightful to her. She turned even from the thought +of Isy's restoration, as if that were itself an added wrong. From the +occasional involuntary association of the two in her thought, she would +turn away with a sort of meek loathing. To hold her James for one moment +in the same thought with any girl less spotless than he, was to disgrace +herself! + +James was indeed not only very ill, but growing slowly worse; for he +lay struggling at last in the Backbite of Conscience, who had him in her +unrelaxing jaws, and was worrying him well. Whence the holy dog came +we know, but how he got a hold of him to begin his saving torment, who +shall understand but the maker of men and of their secret, inexorable +friend! Every beginning is infinitesimal, and wrapt in the mystery of +creation. + +Its results only, not its modes of operation or their stages, I may +venture attempting to convey. It was the wind blowing where it listed, +doing everything and explaining nothing. That wind from the timeless and +spaceless and formless region of God's feeling and God's thought, blew +open the eyes of this man's mind so that he saw, and became aware that +he saw. It blew away the long-gathered vapours of his self-satisfaction +and conceit; it blew wide the windows of his soul, that the sweet odour +of his father's and mother's thoughts concerning him might enter; and +when it entered, he knew it for what it was; it blew back to him his own +judgments of them and their doings, and he saw those judgments side by +side with his new insights into their real thoughts and feelings; it +blew away the desert sands of his own moral dulness, indifference, and +selfishness, that had so long hidden beneath them the watersprings of +his own heart, existent by and for love and its gladness; it cleared +all his conscious being, made him understand that he had never hitherto +loved his mother or his father, or any neighbour; that he had never +loved God one genuine atom, never loved the Lord Christ, his Master, +or cared in the least that he had died for him; had never at any moment +loved Isy--least of all when to himself he pleaded in his own excuse +that he had loved her. That blowing wind, which he could not see, +neither knew whence it came, and yet less whither it was going, began to +blow together his soul and those of his parents; the love in his father +and in his mother drew him; the memories of his childhood drew him; for +the heart of God himself was drawing him, as it had been from the first, +only now first he began to feel its drawing; and as he yielded to that +drawing and went nearer, God drew ever more and more strongly; until at +last--I know not, I say, how God did it, or whereby he made the soul of +James Blatherwick different from what it had been--but at last it grew +capable of loving, and did love: first, he yielded to love because he +could not help it; then he willed to love because he could love; then, +become conscious of the power, he loved the more, and so went on to +love more and more. And thus did James become what he had to become--or +perish. + +But for this liberty, he had to pass through wild regions of torment +and horror; he had to become all but mad, and know it; his body, and his +soul as well, had to be parched with fever, thirst, and fear; he had to +sleep and dream lovely dreams of coolness and peace and courage; then +wake and know that all his life he had been dead, and now first was +alive; that love, new-born, was driving out the gibbering phantoms; that +now indeed it was good to be, and know others alive about him; that now +life was possible, because life was to love, and love was to live. What +love was, or how it was, he could not tell; he knew only that it was the +will and the joy of the Father and the Son. + +Long ere he arrived at this, however, the falsehood and utter meanness +of his behaviour to Isy had become plain to him, bringing with it such +an overpowering self-contempt and self-loathing, that he was tempted +even to self-destruction to escape the knowledge that he was himself the +very man who had been such, and had done such things. “To know my deed, +'twere best not know myself!” he might have said with Macbeth. But he +must live on, for how otherwise could he make any atonement? And with +the thought of reparation, and possible forgiveness and reconcilement, +his old love for Isy rushed in like a flood, grown infinitely nobler, +and was uplifted at last into a genuine self-abandoning devotion. But +until this final change arrived, his occasional paroxysms of remorse +touched almost on madness, and for some time it seemed doubtful whether +his mind must not retain a permanent tinge of insanity. He conceived +a huge disgust of his office and all its requirements; and sometimes +bitterly blamed his parents for not interfering with his choice of a +profession that was certain to be his ruin. + +One day, having had no delirium for some hours, he suddenly called out +as they stood by his bed-- + +“Oh, mother! oh, father! _why_ did you tempt me to such hypocrisy? _Why_ +did you not bring me up to walk at the plough-tail? _Then_ I should +never have had to encounter the damnable snares of the pulpit! It was +that which ruined me--the notion that I must take the minister for my +pattern, and live up to my idea of _him_, before even I had begun to +cherish anything real in me! It was the road royal to hypocrisy! Without +that rootless, worthless, devilish fancy, I might have been no worse +than other people! Now I am lost! Now I shall never get back to bare +honesty, not to say innocence! They are both gone for ever!” + +The poor mother could only imagine it his humility that made him accuse +himself of hypocrisy, and that because he had not fulfilled to the +uttermost the smallest duty of his great office. + +“Jamie, dear,” she cried, laying her cheek to his, “ye maun cast yer +care upo' Him that careth for ye! He kens ye hae dene yer best--or if +no yer vera best--for wha daur say that?--ye hae at least dene what ye +could!” + +“Na, na!” he answered, resuming the speech of his boyhood--a far better +sign of him than his mother understood, “I ken ower muckle, and that +muckle ower weel, to lay sic a flattering unction to my sowl! It's jist +as black as the fell mirk! 'Ah, limed soul, that, struggling to be free, +art more engaged!'” + +“Hoots, ye're dreamin, laddie! Ye never was engaged to onybody--at least +that ever I h'ard tell o'! But, ony gait, fash na ye aboot that! Gien it +be onything o' sic a natur that's troublin ye, yer father and me we s' +get ye clear o' 't!” + +“Ay, there ye're at it again! It was _you_ 'at laid the bird-lime! Ye +aye tuik pairt, mither, wi' the muckle deil that wad na rist till he had +my sowl in his deepest pit!” + +“The Lord kens his ain: he'll see that they come throuw unscaumit!” + +“The Lord disna mak ony hypocreet o' purpose doobtless; but gien a +man sin efter he has ance come to the knowledge o' the trowth, there +remaineth for him--ye ken the lave o' 't as weel as I dee mysel, mother! +My only houp lies in a doobt--a doobt, that is, whether I _had_ ever +come til a knowledge o' the trowth--or hae yet!--Maybe no!” + +“Laddie, ye're no i' yer richt min'. It's fearsome to hearken til ye!” + +“It'll be waur to hear me roarin wi' the rich man i' the lowes o' hell!” + +“Peter! Peter!” cried Marion, driven almost to distraction, “here's yer +ain son, puir fallow, blasphemin like ane o' the condemned! He jist gars +me creep!” + +Receiving no answer, for her husband was nowhere near at the moment, she +called aloud in her desperation-- + +“Isy! Isy! come and see gien ye can dee onything to quaiet this ill +bairn.” + +Isy heard, and sprang from her bed. + +“Comin, mistress!” she answered; “comin this moment.” + +They had not met since her resurrection, as Peter always called it. + +“Isy! Isy!” cried James, the moment he heard her approaching, “come and +hand the deil aff o' me!” + +He had risen to his elbow, and was looking eagerly toward the door. + +She entered. James threw wide his arms, and with glowing eyes clasped +her to his bosom. She made no resistance: his mother would lay it all to +the fever! He broke into wild words of love, repentance, and devotion. + +“Never heed him a hair, mem; he's clean aff o' his heid!” she said in +a low voice, making no attempt to free herself from his embrace, but +treating him like a delirious child. “There maun be something aboot me, +mem, that quaiets him a bit! It's the brain, ye ken, mem! it's the het +brain! We maunna contre him! he maun hae his ain w'y for a wee!” + +But such was James's behaviour to Isy that it was impossible for the +mother not to perceive that, incredible as it might seem, this must +be far from the first time they had met; and presently she fell to +examining her memory whether she herself might not have seen Isy +before ever she came to Stonecross; but she could find no answer to her +inquiry, press the question as she might. By and by, her husband came +in to have his dinner, and finding herself compelled, much against her +will, to leave the two together, she sent up Eppie to take Isy's place, +with the message that she was to go down at once. Isy obeyed, and went +to the kitchen; but, perturbed and trembling, dropped on the first chair +she came to. The farmer, already seated at the table, looked up, and +anxiously regarding her, said-- + +“Bairn, ye're no fit to be aboot! Ye maun caw canny, or ye'll be ower +the burn yet or ever ye're safe upo' this side o' 't! Preserve's a'! ir +we to lowse ye twise in ae month?” + +“Jist answer me ae queston, Isy, and I'll speir nae mair,” said Marion. + +“Na, na, never a queston!” interposed Peter;--“no ane afore even the +shaidow o' deith has left the hoose!--Draw ye up to the table, my bonny +bairn: this isna a time for ceremony, and there's sma' room for that ony +day!” + +Finding, however, that she sat motionless, and looked far more +death-like than while in her trance, he got up, and insisted on her +swallowing a little whisky; when she revived, and glad to put herself +under his nearer protection, took the chair he had placed for her beside +him, and made a futile attempt at eating. “It's sma' won'er the puir +thing hasna muckle eppiteet,” remarked Mrs. Blatherwick, “considerin the +w'y yon ravin laddie up the stair has been cairryin on til her!” + +“What! Hoo's that?” questioned her husband with a start. + +“But ye're no to mak onything o' that, Isy!” added her mistress. + +“Never a particle, mem!” returned Isy. “I ken weel it stan's for +naething but the heat o' the burnin brain! I'm richt glaid though, that +the sicht o' me did seem to comfort him a wee!” + +“Weel, I'm no sae sure!” answered Marion. “But we'll say nae mair anent +that the noo! The guidman says no; and his word's law i' this hoose.” + +Isy resumed her pretence of breakfast. Presently Eppie came down, and +going to her master, said-- + +“Here's An'ra, sir, come to speir efter the yoong minister and Isy: am I +to gar him come in?” + +“Ay, and gie him his brakfast,” shouted the farmer. + +The old woman set a chair for her son by the door, and proceeded to +attend to him. James was left alone. + +Silence again fell, and the appearance of eating was resumed, Peter +being the only one that made a reality of it. Marion was occupied with +many thinkings, specially a growing doubt and soreness about Isy. The +hussy had a secret! She had known something all the time, and had been +taking advantage of her unsuspiciousness! It would be a fine thing for +her, indeed, to get hold of the minister! but she would see him dead +first! It was too bad of the Robertsons, whom she had known so long and +trusted so much! They knew what they were doing when they passed their +trash upon her! She began to distrust ministers! What right had they to +pluck brands from the burning at the expense o' dacent fowk! It was to +do evil that good might come! She would say that to their faces! Thus +she sat thinking and glooming. + +A cry of misery came from the room above. Isy started to her feet. But +Marion was up before her. + +“Sit doon this minute,” she commanded. + +Isy hesitated. + +“Sit doon this moment, I tell ye!” repeated Marion imperiously. “Ye hae +no business there! I'm gaein til 'im mysel!” And with the word she left +the room. + +Peter laid down his spoon, then half rose, staring bewildered, and +followed his wife from the room. + +“Oh my baby! my baby!” cried Isy, finding herself alone. “If only I had +you to take my part! It was God gave you to me, or how could I love you +so? And the mistress winna believe that even I had a bairnie! Noo she'll +be sayin I killt my bonny wee man! And yet, even for _his_ sake, I never +ance wisht ye hadna been born! And noo, whan the father o' 'im's ill, +and cryin oot for me, they winna lat me near 'im!” + +The last words left her lips in a wailing shriek. + +Then first she saw that her master had reentered. Wiping her eyes +hurriedly, she turned to him with a pitiful, apologetic smile. + +“Dinna be sair vext wi' me, sir: I canna help bein glaid that I had him, +and to tyne him has gien me an unco sair hert!” + +She stopped, terrified: how much had he heard? she could not tell what +she might not have said! But the farmer had resumed his breakfast, and +went on eating as if she had not spoken. He had heard nearly all she +said, and now sat brooding on her words. + +Isy was silent, saying in her heart--“If only he loved me, I should be +content, and desire no more! I would never even want him to say it! I +would be so good to him, and so silent, that he could not help loving me +a little!” + +I wonder whether she would have been as hopeful had she known how his +mother had loved him, and how vainly she had looked for any love in +return! And when Isy vowed in her heart never to let James know that she +had borne him a son, she did not perceive that thus she would withhold +the most potent of influences for his repentance and restoration to God +and his parents. She did not see James again that night; and before she +fell asleep at last in the small hours of the morning, she had made up +her mind that, ere the same morning grew clear upon the moor, she would, +as the only thing left her to do for him, be far away from Stonecross. +She would go back to Deemouth, and again seek work at the paper-mills! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +She woke in the first of the gray dawn, while the house was in utter +stillness, and rising at once, rose and dressed herself with soundless +haste. It was hard indeed to go and leave James thus in danger, but she +had no choice! She held her breath and listened, but all was still. She +opened her door softly; not a sound reached her ear as she crept down +the stair. She had neither to unlock nor unbolt the door to leave the +house, for it was never made fast. A dread sense of the old wandering +desolation came back upon her as she stepped across the threshold, and +now she had no baby to comfort her! She was leaving a mouldy peace and +a withered love behind her, and had once more to encounter the rough +coarse world! She feared the moor she had to cross, and the old dreams +she must there encounter; and as she held on her way through them, she +felt, in her new loneliness, and the slow-breaking dawn, as if she were +lying again in her trance, partly conscious, but quite unable to move, +thinking she was dead, and waiting to be buried. Then suddenly she knew +where she was, and that God was not gone, but her own Maker was with +her, and would not forsake her. + +Of the roads that led from the farm she knew only that by which Mr. +Robertson had brought her, and that would guide her to the village +where they had left the coach: there she was sure to find some way of +returning to Deemouth! Feeble after her prolonged inaction, and the +crowd of emotions succeeding her recovery, she found the road very +weary, and long ere she reached Tiltowie, she felt all but worn out. +At the only house she had come to on the way, she stopped and asked for +some water. The woman, the only person she had seen, for it was still +early morning, and the road was a lonely one, perceived that she looked +ill, and gave her milk instead. In the strength of that milk she reached +the end of her first day's journey; and for many days she had not to +take a second. + +Now Isy had once seen the soutar at the farm, and going about her work +had heard scraps of his conversation with the mistress, when she had +been greatly struck by certain things he said, and had often since +wished for the opportunity of a talk with him. That same morning then, +going along a narrow lane, and hearing a cobbler's hammer, she glanced +through a window close to the path, and at once recognized the soutar. +He looked up as she obscured his light, and could scarce believe his +eyes when, so early in the day, he saw before him Mistress Blatherwick's +maid, concerning whom there had been such a talk and such a marvelling +for weeks. She looked ill, and he was amazed to see her about so soon, +and so far from home. She smiled to him feebly, and passed from his +range with a respectful nod. He sprang to his feet, bolted out, and +overtook her at once. + +“I'm jist gaein to drop my wark, mem, and hae my brakfast: wull ye no +come in and share wi' an auld man and a yoong lass? Ye hae come a gey +bit, and luik some fatiguit!” + +“Thank ye kindly, sir,” returned Isy. “I _am_ a bit tired!--But I won'er +ye kenned me!” + +“Weel, I canna jist say I ken ye by the name fowk ca' ye; and still less +div I ken ye by the name the Lord ca's ye; but nowther maitters muckle +to her that kens He has a name growin for her--or raither, a name she's +growin til! Eh, what a day will that be whan ilk habitant o' the holy +city 'ill tramp the streets o' 't weel kenned and weel kennin!” + +“Ay, sir! I 'maist un'erstan' ye ootricht, for I h'ard ye ance sayin +something like that to the mistress, the nicht ye broucht hame the +maister's shune to Stanecross. And, eh, I'm richt glaid to see ye +again!” + +They were already in the house, for she had followed him in almost +mechanically; and the soutar was setting for her the only chair there +was, when the cry of a child reached their ears. The girl started to +her feet. A rosy flush of delight overspread her countenance; she fell +a-trembling from head to foot, and it seemed uncertain whether she would +succeed in running to the cry, or must fall to the floor. + +“Ay,” exclaimed the soutar, with one of his sudden flashes of +unquestioning insight, “by the luik o' ye, ye ken that for the cry +o' yer ain bairn, my bonny lass! Ye'll hae been missin him, sair, I +doobt!--There! sit ye doon, and I'll hae him i' yer airms afore ae +meenut!” + +She obeyed him and sat down, but kept her eyes fixed on the door, wildly +expectant. The soutar made haste, and ran to fetch the child. When he +returned with him in his arms, he found her sitting bolt upright, with +her hands already apart, held out to receive him, and her eyes alive as +he had never seen eyes before. + +“My Jamie! my ain bairn!” she cried, seizing him to her bosom with a +grasp that, trembling, yet seemed to cling to him desperately, and a +look almost of defiance, as if she dared the world to take him from her +again. “O my God!” she cried, in an agony of thankfulness, “I ken +ye noo! I ken ye noo! Never mair wull I doobt ye, my God!--Lost and +found!--Lost for a wee, and found again for ever!” + +Then she caught sight of Maggie, who had entered behind her father, and +stood staring at her motionless,--with a look of gladness indeed, but +not all of gladness. + +“I ken fine,” Isy broke out, with a trembling, yet eager, apologetic +voice, “ye're grudgin me ilka luik at him! I ken't by mysel! Ye're +thinkin him mair yours nor mine! And weel ye may, for it's you that's +been motherin him ever since I lost my wits! It's true I ran awa' and +left him; but ever sin' syne, I hae soucht him carefully wi' tears! And +ye maunna beir me ony ill will--for there!” she added, holding him out +to Maggie! “I haena kissed him yet!--no ance!--But ye wull lat me kiss +him afore ye tak him awa'?--my ain bairnie, whause vera comin I had +prepared shame for!--Oh my God!--But he kens naething aboot it, and +winna ken for years to come! And nane but his ain mammie maun brak the +dreid trowth til him!--and by that time he'll lo'e her weel eneuch to be +able to bide it! I thank God that I haena had to shue the birds and the +beasts aff o' his bonny wee body! It micht hae been, but for you, my +bonnie lass!--and for you, sir!” she went on, turning to the soutar. + +Maggie caught the child from her offering arms, and held up his little +face for his mother to kiss; and so held him until, for the moment, +Isy's mother-greed was satisfied. Then she sat down with him in her lap, +and Isy stood absorbed in regarding him. At last she said, with a deep +sigh-- + +“Noo I maun awa', and I dinna ken hoo I'm to gang! I hae found him and +maun leave him!--but I houp no for vera lang!--Maybe ye'll keep him yet +a whilie--say for a week mair? He's been sae lang disused til a wan'erin +life, that I doobt it mayna weel agree wi' him; and I maun awa' back to +Deemooth, gien I can get onybody to gie me a lift.” + +“Na, na; that'll never dee,” returned Maggie, with a sob. “My father'll +be glaid eneuch to keep him; only we hae nae richt ower him, and ye maun +hae him again whan ye wull.” + +“Ye see I hae nae place to tak him til!” pleaded Isy. + +“Gien ye dinna want him, gie him to me: I want him!” said Maggie +eagerly. + +“Want him!” returned Isy, bursting into tears; “I hae lived but upo the +bare houp o' gettin him again! I hae grutten my een sair for the sicht +o' 'im! Aften hae I waukent greetin ohn kenned for what!--and noo ye +tell me I dinna want him, 'cause I hae nae spot but my breist to lay his +heid upo! Eh, guid fowk, keep him till I get a place to tak him til, and +syne haudna him a meenute frae me!” + +All this time the soutar had been watching the two girls with a divine +look in his black eyes and rugged face; now at last he opened his mouth +and said: + +“Them 'at haps the bairn, are aye sib _(related)_ to the mither!--Gang +ben the hoose wi' Maggie, my dear; and lay ye doon on her bed, and +she'll lay the bairnie aside ye, and fess yer brakfast there til ye. Ye +winna be easy to sair _(satisfy)_, haein had sae little o' 'im for +sae lang!--Lea' them there thegither, Maggie, my doo,” he went on with +infinite tenderness, “and come and gie me a han' as sune as ye hae +maskit the tay, and gotten a lof o' white breid. I s' hae my parritch a +bit later.” + +Maggie obeyed at once, and took Isy to the other end of the house, where +the soutar had long ago given up his bed to her and the baby. + +When they had all breakfasted, the soutar and Maggie in the kitchen, and +Isy and the bairnie in the ben en', Maggie took her old place beside her +father, and for a long time they worked without word spoken. + +“I doobt, father,” said Maggie at length, “I haena been atten'in til ye +properly! I fear the bairnie 's been garrin me forget ye!” + +“No a hair, dautie!” returned the soutar. “The needs o' the little are +stude aye far afore mine, and _had_ to be seen til first! And noo that +we hae the mither o' 'im, we'll get on faumous!--Isna she a fine cratur, +and richt mitherlike wi' the bairn? That was a' I was concernt aboot! +We'll get her story frae her or lang, and syne we'll ken a hantle better +hoo to help her on! And there can be nae fear but, atween you and +me, and the Michty at the back o' 's, we s' get breid eneuch for the +quaternion o' 's!” + +He laughed at the odd word as it fell from his mouth and the Acts of +Apostles. Maggie laughed too, and wiped her eyes. + +Before long, Maggie recognized that she had never been so happy in her +life. Isy told them as much as she could without breaking her resolve +to keep secret a certain name; and wrote to Mr. Robertson, telling him +where she was, and that she had found her baby. He came with his wife to +see her, and so a friendship began between the soutar and him, which Mr. +Robertson always declared one of the most fortunate things that had ever +befallen him. + +“That soutar-body,” he would say, “kens mair aboot God and his kingdom, +the hert o' 't and the w'ys o' 't, than ony man I ever h'ard tell +o'--and _that_ heumble!--jist like the son o' God himsel!” + +Before many days passed, however, a great anxiety laid hold of the +little household: wee Jamie was taken so ill that the doctor had to be +summoned. For eight days he had much fever, and his appealing looks +were pitiful to see. When first he ceased to run about, and wanted to be +nursed, no one could please him but the soutar himself, and he, at once +discarding his work, gave himself up to the child's service. Before +long, however, he required defter handling, and then no one would do but +Maggie, to whom he had been more accustomed; nor could Isy get any share +in the labour of love except when he was asleep: as soon as he woke, she +had to encounter the pain of hearing him cry out for Maggie, and seeing +him stretch forth his hands, even from his mother's lap, to one whom he +knew better than her. But Maggie was very careful over the poor mother, +and would always, the minute he was securely asleep, lay him softly upon +her lap. And Maggie soon got so high above her jealousy, that one of the +happiest moments in her life was when first the child consented to leave +her arms for those of his mother. And when he was once more able to run +about, Isy took her part with Maggie in putting hand and needle to the +lining of the more delicate of the soutar's shoes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +There was great concern, and not a little alarm at Stonecross because of +the disappearance of Isy. But James continued so ill, that his parents +were unable to take much thought about anybody else. At last, however, +the fever left him, and he began to recover, but lay still and silent, +seeming to take no interest in anything, and remembered nothing he +had said, or even that he had seen Isy. At the same time his wakened +conscience was still at work in him, and had more to do with his +enfeebled condition than the prolonged fever. At length his parents were +convinced that he had something on his mind that interfered with his +recovery, and his mother was confident that it had to do with “that +deceitful creature, Isy.” To learn that she was safe, might have given +Marion some satisfaction, had she not known her refuge so near the +manse; and having once heard where she was, she had never asked another +question about her. Her husband, however, having overheard certain +of the words that fell from Isy when she thought herself alone, was +intently though quietly waiting for what must follow. + +“I'm misdoobtin sair, Peter,” began Marion one morning, after a long +talk with the cottar's wife, who had been telling her of Isy's having +taken up her abode with the soutar, “I'm sair misdoobtin whether that +hizzie hadna mair to dee nor we hae been jaloosin, wi Jamie's attack, +than the mere scare he got. It seems to me he's lang been broodin ower +something we ken noucht aboot.” + +“That would be nae ferlie, woman! Whan was it ever we kent onything +gaein on i' that mysterious laddie! Na, but his had need be a guid +conscience, for did ever onybody ken eneuch aboot it or him to say +richt or wrang til 'im! But gien ye hae a thoucht he's ever wranged that +lassie, I s' hae the trowth o' 't, gien it cost him a greitin! He'll +never come to health o' body or min' till he's confest, and God has +forgien him. He maun confess! He maun confess!” + +“Hoot, Peter, dinna be sae suspicious o' yer ain. It's no like ye to +be sae maisterfu' and owerbeirin. I wad na lat ae ill thoucht o' puir +Jeemie inside this auld heid o' mine! It's the lassie, I'll tak my aith, +it's that Isy's at the bothom o' 't!” + +“Ye're some ready wi' yer aith, Mirran, to what ye ken naething aboot! I +say again, gien he's dene ony wrang to that bonnie cratur--and it wudna +tak ower muckle proof to convince me o' the same, he s' tak his stan', +minister or no minister, upo the stele o' repentance!” + +“Daur ye to speyk that gait aboot yer ain son--ay, and mine the mair +gien _ye_ disown him, Peter Bletherwick!--and the Lord's ain ordeent +minister forbye!” cried Marion, driven almost to her wits' end, but more +by the persistent haunting of her own suspicion, which she could not +repress, than the terror of her husband's threat. “Besides, dinna ye +see,” she added cunningly, “that that would be to affront the lass as +weel?--_He_ wadna be the first to fa' intil the snare o' a designin +wuman, and wad it be for his ain father to expose him to public contemp? +_Your_ pairt sud be to cover up his sin--gien it were a multitude, and +no ae solitary bit faut!” + +“Daur _ye_ speyk o' a thing like that as a bit faut?--Ca' ye leein and +hypocrisy a bit faut? I alloo the sin itsel mayna be jist damnable, +but to what bouk mayna it come wi ither and waur sins upo the back o' +'t?--Wi leein, and haudin aff o' himsel, a man may grow a cratur no fit +to be taen up wi the taings! Eh me, but my pride i' the laddie! It 'ill +be sma' pride for me gien this fearsome thing turn oot to be true!” + +“And wha daur say it's true?” rejoined Marion almost fiercely. + +“Nane but himsel; and gien it be sae, and he disna confess, the rod +laid upon him 'ill be the rod o' iron, 'at smashes a man like a muckle +crock.--I maun tak Jamie throuw han' _(to task)_!” + +“Noo jist tak ye care, Peter, 'at ye dinna quench the smokin flax.” + +“I'm mair likly to get the bruised reed intil my nakit loof _(palm)_!” + returned Peter. “But I s' say naething till he's a wee better, for we +maunna drive him to despair!--Eh gien he would only repent! What is +there I wadna dee to clear him--that is, to ken him innocent o' ony +wrang til her! I wad dee wi thanksgivin!” + +“Weel, I kenna that we're jist called upon sae far as that!” said +Marion. “A lass is aye able to tak care o' hersel!” + +“I wud! I wud!--God hae mercy upo' the twa o' them!” + +In the afternoon James was a good deal better. When his father went in +to see him, his first words were-- + +“I doobt, father, I'm no likly to preach ony mair: I've come to see 'at +I never was fit for the wark, neither had I ever ony ca' til't.” + +“It may be sae, Jeemie,” answered his father; “but we'll haud awa frae +conclusions till ye're better, and able to jeedge wi'oot the bias o' ony +thrawin distemper.” + +“Oh father,” James went on, and to his delight Peter saw, for the first +time since he was the merest child, tears running down his cheeks, now +thin and wan; “Oh father, I hae been a terrible hypocreet! But my een's +come open at last! I see mysel as I am!” + +“Weel, there's God hard by, to tak ye by the han' like Enoch! Tell me,” + Peter went on, “hae ye onything upo yer min', laddie, 'at ye wud like +to confess and be eased o'? There's nae papistry in confessin to yer ain +auld father!” + +James lay still for a few moments; then he said, almost inaudibly-- + +“I think I could tell my mother better nor you, father.” + +“It'll be a' ane whilk o' 's ye tell. The forgiein and the forgettin +'ill be ae deed--by the twa o' 's at ance! I s' gang and cry doon +the stair til yer mother to come up and hear ye.” For Peter knew by +experience that good motions must be taken advantage of in their first +ripeness. “We maunna try the speerit wi ony delays!” he added, as he +went to the head of the stair, where he called aloud to his wife. Then +returning to the bedside, he resumed his seat, saying, “I'll jist bide a +minute till she comes.” + +He was loath to let in any risk between his going and her coming, for he +knew how quickly minds may change; but the moment she appeared, he left +the room, gently closing the door behind him. + +Then the trembling, convicted soul plucked up what courage his so long +stubborn and yet cringing heart was capable of, and began. + +“Mother, there was a lass I cam to ken in Edinburgh, whan I was a +divinity student there, and--” + +“Ay, ay, I ken a' aboot it!” interrupted his mother, eager to spare him; +“--an ill-faured, designin limmer, 'at micht ha kent better nor come +ower the son o' a respectable wuman that gait!--Sic like, I doobtna, wad +deceive the vera elec'!” + +“Na, na, mother, she was nane o' that sort! She was baith bonny and +guid, and pleasant to the hert as to the sicht: she wad hae saved me +gien I had been true til her! She was ane o' the Lord's makin, as he has +made but feow!” + +“Whatfor didna she haud frae ye till ye had merried her than? Dinna tell +me she didna lay hersel oot to mak a prey o' ye!” + +“Mother, i' that sayin ye hae sclandert yersel!--I'll no say a word +mair!” + +“I'm sure neither yer father nor mysel wud hae stede i' yer gait!” said +Marion, retreating from the false position she had taken. + +She did not know herself, or how bitter would have been her opposition; +for she had set her mind on a distinguished match for her Jamie! + +“God knows how I wish I had keepit a haud o' mysel! Syne I micht hae +steppit oot o' the dirt o' my hypocrisy, i'stead o' gaein ower the heid +intil't! I was aye a hypocrite, but she would maybe hae fun' me oot, and +garred me luik at mysel!” + +He did not know the probability that, if he had not fallen, he would +have but sunk the deeper in the worst bog of all, self-satisfaction, and +none the less have played her false, and left her to break her heart. + +If any reader of this tale should argue it better then to do wrong and +repent, than to resist the devil, I warn him, that in such case he will +not repent until the sorrows of death and the pains of hell itself lay +hold upon him. An overtaking fault may be beaten with few stripes, but +a wilful wrong shall be beaten with many stripes. The door of the latter +must share, not with Judas, for he did repent, although too late, but +with such as have taken from themselves the power of repentance. + +“Was there no mark left o' her disgrace?” asked his mother. “Wasna there +a bairn to mak it manifest?” + +“Nane I ever heard tell o'.” + +“In that case she's no muckle the waur, and ye needna gang lamentin: +_she_ 'll no be the ane to tell! and _ye_ maunna, for her sake! Sae +tak ye comfort ower what's gane and dune wi', and canna come back, and +maunna happen again.--Eh, but it's a' God's-mercy there was nae bairn!” + +Thus had the mother herself become an evil councillor, crying Peace! +peace! when there was no peace, and tempting her son to go on and +become a devil! But one thing yet rose up for the truth in his miserable +heart--his reviving and growing love for Isy. It had seemed smothered in +selfishness, but was alive and operative: God knows how--perhaps through +feverish, incoherent, forgotten dreams. + +He had expected his mother to aid his repentance, and uphold his walk +in the way of righteousness, even should the way be that of social +disgrace. He knew well that reparation must go hand in hand with +repentance where the All-wise was judge, and selfish Society dared not +urge one despicable pretence for painting hidden shame in the hues of +honour. James had been the cowering slave of a false reputation; but +his illness and the assaults of his conscience had roused him, set +repentance before him, brought confession within sight, and purity +within reach of prayer. + +“I maun gang til her,” he cried, “the meenute I'm able to be up!--Whaur +is she, mother?” + +“Upo nae accoont see her, Jamie! It wad be but to fa' again intil her +snare!” answered his mother, with decision in her look and tone. “We're +to abstain frae a' appearance o' evil--as ye ken better nor I can tell +ye.” + +“But Isy's no an appearance o' evil, mother!” + +“Ye say weel there, I confess! Na, she's no an appearance; she's the +vera thing! Haud frae her, as ye wad frae the ill ane himsel.” + +“Did she never lat on what there had been atween 's?” + +“Na, never. She kenned weel what would come o' that!” + +“What, mother?” + +“The ootside o' the door.” + +“Think ye she ever tauld onybody?” + +“Mony ane, I doobtna.” + +“Weel, I dinna believe 't, I hae nae fear but she's been dumb as deith!” + +“Hoo ken ye that?--What for said she never ae word aboot ye til yer ain +mither?” + +“'Cause she was set on haudin her tongue. Was she to bring an owre true +tale o' me to the vera hoose I was born in? As lang as I haud til my +tongue, she'll never wag hers!--Eh, but she's a true ane! _She's_ ane to +lippen til!” + +“Weel, I alloo, she's deen as a wuman sud--the faut bein a' her ain!” + +“The faut bein' a' mine, mother, she wouldna tell what would disgrace +me!” + +“She micht hae kenned her secret would be safe wi' me!” + +“_I_ micht hae said the same, but for the w'y ye spak o' her this vera +meenut!--Whaur is she, mother? Whaur's Isy?” + +“'Deed, she's made a munelicht flittin o' 't!” + +“I telled ye she would never tell upo me!--Hed she ony siller?” + +“Hoo can _I_ tell?” + +“Did ye pey her ony wages?” + +“She gae me no time!--But she's no likly to tell noo; for, hearin her +tale, wha wad tak her in?” + +“Eh, mother, but ye _are_ hard-hertit!” + +“I ken a harder, Jamie!” + +“That's me!--and ye're richt, mother! But, eh, gien ye wad hae me loe +ye frae this meenut to the end o' my days, be but a wee fair to Isy: _I_ +hae been a damnt scoon'rel til her!” + +“Jamie; Jamie! ye're provokin the Lord to anger--sweirin like that in +his vera face--and you a minister!” + +“I provokit him a heap waur whan I left Isy to dree her shame! Divna ye +min' hoo the apostle Peter cursed, whan he said to Simon, 'Gang to hell +wi' yer siller!'” + +“She's telt the soutar, onygait!” + +“What! has _he_ gotten a hand o' her?” + +“Ay, has he!--And dinna ye think it'll be a' ower the toon lang or +this!” + +“And hoo will ye meet it, mother?” + +“We maun tell yer father, and get him to quaiet the soutar!--For _her_, +we maun jist stap her mou wi' a bunch o' bank-notts!” + +“That wad jist mak it 'maist impossible for even her to forgie you or me +aither ony langer!” + +“And wha's she to speyk o' forgivin!” + +The door opened, and Peter entered. He strode up to his wife, and stood +over her like an angel of vengeance. His very lips were white with +wrath. + +“Efter thirty years o' merried life, noo first to ken the wife o' my +boasom for a messenger o' Sawtan!” he panted. “Gang oot o' my sicht, +wuman!” + +She fell on her knees, and held up her two hands to him. + +“Think o' Jamie, Peter!” she pleaded. “I wad tyne my sowl for Jamie!” + +“Ay, and tyne his as weel!” he returned. “Tyne what's yer ain to tyne, +wuman--and that's no your sowl, nor yet Jamie's! He's no yours to save, +but ye're deein a' ye can to destroy him--and aiblins ye'll succeed! for +ye wad sen' him straucht awa to hell for the sake o' a guid name--a lee! +a hypocrisy!--Oot upo ye for a Christian mither, Mirran!--Jamie, I'm awa +to the toon, upo my twa feet, for the mere's cripple: the vera deil's +i' the hoose and the stable and a', it would seem!--I'm awa to fess Isy +hame! And, Jamie, ye'll jist tell her afore me and yer mother, that as +sene 's ye're able to crawl to the kirk wi' her, ye'll merry her afore +the warl', and tak her hame to the manse wi' ye!” + +“Hoot, Peter! Wad ye disgrace him afore a' the beggars o' Tiltowie?” + +“Ay, and afore God, that kens a'thing ohn onybody tellt him! Han's and +hert I s' be clear o' this abomination!” + +“Merry a wuman 'at was ta'en wi' a wat finger!--a maiden that never said +_na_!--Merry a lass that's nae maiden, nor ever will be!--Hoots!” + +“And wha's to blame for that?” + +“Hersel.” + +“Jeemie! Jist Jeemie!--I'm fair scunnert at ye, Mirran!--Oot o' my +sicht, I tell ye!--Lord, I kenna hoo I'm to win ower 't!--No to a' +eternity, I doobt!” + +He turned from her with a tearing groan, and went feeling for the open +door, like one struck blind. + +“Oh, father, father!” cried James, “forgie my mither afore ye gang, +or my hert 'ill brak. It's the awfu'est thing o' ony to see you twa +striven!” + +“She's no sorry, no ae bit sorry!” said Peter. + +“I am, I am, Peter!” cried Marion, breaking down at once, and utterly. +“Dee what ye wull, and I'll dee the same--only lat it be dene quaietly, +'ithoot din or proclamation! What for sud a'body ken a'thing! Wha has +the richt to see intil ither fowk's herts and lives? The wail' could ill +gang on gien that war the gait o' 't!” + +“Father,” said James, “I thank God that noo ye ken a'! Eh, sic a weicht +as it taks aff o' me! I'll be hale and weel noo in ae day!--I think I'll +gang wi' ye to Isy, mysel!--But I'm a wee bit sorry ye cam in jist that +minute! I wuss ye had harkit a wee langer! For I wasna giein-in to my +mother; I was but thinkin hoo to say oot what was in me, ohn vext her +waur nor couldna be helpit. Believe me, father, gien ye can; though I +doobt sair ye winna be able!” + +“I believe ye, my bairn; and I thank God I hae that muckle pooer o' +belief left in me! I confess I was in ower great a hurry, and I'm sure +ye war takin the richt gait wi' yer puir mither.--Ye see she loed ye sae +weel that she could think o' nae thing or body but yersel! That's the +w'y o' mithers, Jamie, gien ye only kenned it! She was nigh sinnin an +awfu sin for your sake, man!” + +Here he turned again to his wife. “That's what comes o' lovin the praise +o' men, Mirran! Easy it passes intil the fear o' men, and disregaird o' +the Holy!--I s' awa doon to the soutar, and tell him the cheenge that's +come ower us a': he'll no be a hair surprised!” + +“I'm ready, father--or will be in ae minute!” said James, making as if +to spring out of bed. + +“Na, na; ye're no fit!” interposed his father. “I would hae to be takin +ye upo my back afore we wis at the fut o' the brae!--Bide ye at hame, +and keep yer mither company.” + +“Ay, bide, Jamie; and I winna come near ye,” sobbed his mother. + +“Onything to please ye, mother!--but I'm fitter nor my father thinks,” + said James as he settled down again in bed. + +So Peter went, leaving mother and son silent together. + +At last the mother spoke. + +“It's the shame o' 't, Jamie!” she said. + +“The shame was i' the thing itsel, mother, and in hidin frae that +shame!” he answered. “Noo, I hae but the dregs to drink, and them I maun +glog ower wi' patience, for I hae weel deserved to drink them!--But, eh, +my bonnie Isy, she maun hae suffert sair!--I daur hardly think what she +maun hae come throuw!” + +“Her mither couldna hae broucht her up richt! The first o' the faut lay +i' the upbringin!” + +“There's anither whause upbringin wasna to blame: _my_ upbringin was a' +it oucht to hae been--and see hoo ill _I_ turnt oot!” + +“It wasna what it oucht! I see 't a' plain the noo! I was aye ower feart +o' garrin ye hate me!--Oh, Isy, Isy, I hae dene ye wrang! I ken ye cud +never hae laid yersel oot to snare him--it wasna in ye to dee 't!” + +“Thank ye, mother! It was, railly and truly, a' my wyte! And noo my life +sail gang to mak up til her!” + +“And I maun see to the manse!” rejoined his mother. “--And first in +order o' a', that Jinse o' yours 'ill hae to gang!” + +“As ye like, mother. But for the manse, I maun clear oot o' that! I'll +speak nae mair frae that poopit! I hae hypocreesit in 't ower lang! The +vera thoucht o' 't scunners me!” + +“Speyk na like that o' the poopit, Jamie, whaur sae mony holy men hae +stede up and spoken the word o' God! It frichts me to hear ye! Ye'll +be a burnin and a shinin licht i' that poopit for mony a lang day efter +we're deid and hame!” + +“The mair holy men that hae there witnessed, the less daur ony livin lee +stan' there braggin and blazin i' the face o' God and man! It's shame o' +mysel that gars me hate the place, mother! Ance and no more wull I stan' +there, making o' 't my stele o' repentance; and syne doon the steps and +awa, like Adam frae the gairden!” + +“And what's to come o' Eve? Are ye gaein, like him, to say, 'The wuman +thoo giedest til me--it was a' her wyte'?” + +“Ye ken weel I'm takin a' the wyte upo mysel!” + +“But hoo can ye tak it a', or even ony fair share o' 't, gien up there +ye stan' and confess? Ye maun hae some care o' the lass--that is, gien +efter and a' ye're gaein to mak o' her yer wife, as ye profess.--And +what are ye gaein to turn yer han' til neist, seem ye hae a'ready laid +it til the pleuch and turnt back?” + +“To the pleuch again, mother--the rael pleuch this time! Frae the kirk +door I'll come hame like the prodigal to my father's hoose, and say til +him, 'Set me to the pleuch, father. See gien I canna be something _like_ +a son to ye, efter a''!” + +So wrought in him that mighty power, mysterious in its origin as +marvellous in its result, which had been at work in him all the time he +lay whelmed under feverish phantasms. + +His repentance was true; he had been dead, and was alive again! God and +the man had met at last! As to _how_ God turned the man's heart, Thou +God, knowest. To understand that, we should have to go down below the +foundations themselves, underneath creation, and there see God send out +from himself man, the spirit, distinguished yet never divided from God, +the spirit, for ever dependent upon and growing in Him, never completed +and never ended, his origin, his very life being infinite; never outside +of God, because _in_ him only he lives and moves and grows, and _has_ +his being. Brothers, let us not linger to ask! let us obey, and, +obeying, ask what we will! thus only shall we become all we are capable +of being; thus only shall we learn all we are capable of knowing! The +pure in heart shall see God; and to see him is to know all things. + +Something like this was the meditation of the soutar, as he saw the +farmer stride away into the dusk of the gathering twilight, going home +with glad heart to his wife and son. + +Peter had told the soutar that his son was sorely troubled because of +a sin of his youth and its long concealment: now he was bent on all the +reparation he could make. “Mr. Robertson,” said Peter, “broucht the lass +to oor hoose, never mentionin Jamie, for he didna ken they war onything +til ane anither; and for her, she never said ae word aboot him to Mirran +or me.” + +The soutar went to the door, and called Isy. She came, and stood humbly +before her old master. + +“Weel, Isy,” said the farmer kindly, “ye gied 's a clever slip yon +morning and a gey fricht forbye! What possessed ye, lass, to dee sic a +thing?” + +She stood distressed, and made no answer. + +“Hoot, lassie, tell me!” insisted Peter; “I haena been an ill maister +til ye, have I?” + +“Sir, ye hae been like the maister o' a' til me! But I canna--that is, I +maunna--or raither, I'm determined no to explain the thing til onybody.” + +“Thoucht ye my wife was feart the minister micht fa' in love wi ye?” + +“Weel, sir, there micht hae been something like that intil 't! But I +wantit sair to win at my bairn again; for i' that trance I lay in sae +lang, I saw or h'ard something I took for an intimation that he was +alive, and no that far awa.--And--wad ye believe't, sir?--i' this vera +hoose I fand him, and here I hae him, and I'm jist as happy the noo as I +was meeserable afore! Is 't ill o' me at I _canna_ be sorry ony mair?” + +“Na, na,” interposed the soutar: “whan the Lord wad lift the burden, it +wad be baith senseless and thankless to grup at it! In His name lat it +gang, lass!” + +“And noo,” said Mr. Blatherwick, again taking up his probe, “ye hae but +ae thing left to confess--and that's wha's the father o' 'im!” + +“Na, I canna dee that, sir; it's enough that I have disgracet _myself_! +You wouldn't have me disgrace another as well! What good would that be?” + +“It wad help ye beir the disgrace.” + +“Na, no a hair, sir; _he_ cudna stan' the disgrace half sae weel 's me! +I reckon the man the waiker vessel, sir; the woman has her bairn to fend +for, and that taks her aff o' the shame!” + +“Ye dinna tell me he gies ye noucht to mainteen the cratur upo?” + +“I tell ye naething, sir. He never even kenned there _was_ a bairn!” + +“Hoot, toot! ye canna be sae semple! It's no poassible ye never loot him +ken!” + +“'Deed no; I was ower sair ashamit! Ye see it was a' my wyte!--and it +was naebody's business! My auntie said gien I wouldna tell, I micht put +the door atween 's; and I took her at her word; for I kenned weel _she_ +couldna keep a secret, and I wasna gaein to hae _his_ name mixed up wi' +a lass like mysel! And, sir, ye maunna try to gar me tell, for I hae no +richt, and surely ye canna hae the hert to gar me!--But that ye _sanna_, +ony gait!” + +“I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there's jist ae thing I'm determined +upo--and that is that the rascal sail merry ye!” + +Isy's face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her +pleasure at such a word from _his_ mouth. But the flush faded, and +presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and +getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted +across her face as she answered-- + +“Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til +ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han'!” + +“That's what he'll hae to dee though--jist merry ye aff han'! I s' _gar_ +him.” + +“I winna hae him garred! It's me that has the richt ower him, and +no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o' +me--thinkin I would tak a man 'at was garred! Na, na; there s' be nae +garrin!--And ye canna gar _him_ merry me gien _I_ winna hae him! The +day's by for that!--A garred man! My certy!--Na, I thank ye!” + +“Weel, my bonny leddy,” said Peter, “gien I had a prence to my +son,--providit he was worth yer takin--I wad say to ye, 'Hae, my +leddy!'” + +“And I would say to you, sir, 'No--gien he bena willin,'” answered Isy, +and ran from the room. + +“Weel, what think ye o' the lass by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?” said +the soutar, with a flash in his eye. + +“I think jist what I thoucht afore,” answered Peter: “she's ane amo' a +million!” + +“I'm no that sure aboot the proportion!” returned MacLear. “I doobt ye +micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!--A million's a heap +o' women!” + +“All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea' father and +mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he's +no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s' never +speyk word til 'im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o' auld +Methuselah!” + +“Tak tent what ye say, or mint at sayin, to persuaud him:--Isy 'ill +be upo ye!” said the soutar laughing. “--But hearken to me, Mr. +Bletherwick, and sayna a word to the minister aboot the bairnie.” + +“Na, na; it'll be best to lat him fin' that oot for himsel.--And noo I +maun be gaein, for I hae my wallet fu'!” + +He strode to the door, holding his head high, and with never a word +more, went out. The soutar closed the door and returned to his work, +saying aloud as he went, “Lord, lat me ever and aye see thy face, and +noucht mair will I desire--excep that the haill warl, O Lord, may behold +it likewise. The prayers o' the soutar are endit!” + +Peter Blatherwick went home joyous at heart. His son was his son, and +no villain!--only a poor creature, as is every man until he turns to +the Lord, and leaves behind him every ambition, and all care about the +judgment of men. He rejoiced that the girl he and Marion had befriended +would be a strength to his son: she whom his wife would have rejected +had proved herself indeed right noble! And he praised the father of men, +that the very backslidings of those he loved had brought about their +repentance and uplifting. + +“Here I am!” he cried as he entered the house. “I hae seen the lassie +ance mair, and she's better and bonnier nor ever!” + +“Ow ay; ye're jist like a' the men I ever cam across!” rejoined Marion +smiling; “--easy taen wi' the skin-side!” + +“Doobtless: the Makker has taen a heap o' pains wi the skin!--Ony gait, +yon lassie's ane amang ten thoosan! Jeemie sud be on his k-nees til her +this vera moment--no sitting there glowerin as gien his twa een war twa +bullets--fired aff, but never won oot o' their barrels!” + +“Hoot! wad ye hae him gang on his k-nees til ony but the Ane!” + +“Aye wad I--til ony ane that's nearer His likness nor himsel--and that +ane's oor Isy!--I wadna won'er, Jeemie, gien ye war fit for a drive the +morn! In that case, I s' caw ye doon to the toon, and lat ye say yer ain +say til her.” + +James did not sleep much that night, and nevertheless was greatly better +the next day--indeed almost well. + +Before noon they were at the soutar's door. The soutar opened it +himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, +where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him. + +“Isy,” he faltered, “can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene's +ever we can be cried?--I'm as ashamed o' mysel as even ye would hae me!” + +“Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o' as _I_ hae, sir: it was a' my +wyte!” + +“And syne no to haud my face til't!--Isy, I hae been a scoonrel til ye! +I'm that disgustit at mysel 'at I canna luik ye i' the face!” + +“Ye didna ken whaur I was! I ran awa that naebody micht ken.” + +“What rizzon was there for onybody to ken? I'm sure ye never tellt!” + +Isy went to the door and called Maggie. James stared after her, +bewildered. + +“There was this rizzon,” she said, re-entering with the child, and +laying him in James's arms. + +He gasped with astonishment, almost consternation. + +“Is this mine?” he stammered. + +“Yours and mine, sir,” she replied. “Wasna God a heap better til me nor +I deserved?--Sic a bonnie bairn! No a mark, no a spot upon him frae heid +to fut to tell that he had no business to be here!--Gie the bonnie wee +man a kiss, Mr. Blatherwick. Haud him close to ye, sir, and he'll tak +the pain oot o' yer heart: aften has he taen 't oot o' mine--only it +aye cam again!--He's yer ain son, sir! He cam to me bringin the Lord's +forgiveness, lang or ever I had the hert to speir for 't. Eh, but we +maun dee oor best to mak up til God's bairn for the wrang we did him +afore he was born! But he'll be like his great Father, and forgie us +baith!” + +As soon as Maggie had given the child to his mother, she went to her +father, and sat down beside him, crying softly. He turned on his leather +stool, and looked at her. + +“Canna ye rejice wi' them that rejice, noo that ye hae nane to greit +wi', Maggie, my doo?” he said. “Ye haena lost ane, and ye hae gaint twa! +Haudna the glaidness back that's sae fain to come to the licht i' yer +grudgin hert, Maggie! God himsel 's glaid, and the Shepherd's glaid, and +the angels are a' makin sic a flut-flutter wi' their muckle wings 'at I +can 'maist see nor hear for them!” + +Maggie rose, and stood a moment wiping her eyes. The same instant the +door opened, and James entered with the little one in his arms. He laid +him with a smile in Maggie's. + +“Thank you, sir!” said the girl humbly, and clasped the child to her +bosom; nor, after that, was ever a cloud of jealousy to be seen on her +face. I will not say she never longed or even wept after the little one, +whom she still regarded as her very own, even when he was long gone +away with his father and mother; indeed she mourned for him then like +a mother from whom death has taken away her first-born and only son; +neither did she see much difference between the two forms of loss; for +Maggie felt in her heart that life nor death could destroy the relation +that already existed between them: she could not be her father's +daughter and not understand that! Therefore, like a bereaved mother, she +only gave herself the more to her father. + +I will not dwell on the delight of James and Isobel, thus restored to +each other, the one from a sea of sadness, the other from a gulf of +perdition. The one had deserved many stripes, the other but a few: +needful measure had been measured to each; and repentance had brought +them together. + +Before James left the house, the soutar took him aside, and said-- + +“Daur I offer ye a word o' advice, sir?” + +“'Deed that ye may!” answered the young man with humility: “and I dinna +see hoo it can be possible for me to hand frae deein as ye tell me; for +you and my father and Isy atween ye, hae jist saved my vera sowl!” + +“Weel, what I wad beg o' ye is, that ye tak no further step o' ony +consequence, afore ye see Maister Robertson, and mak him acquant wi the +haill affair.” + +“I'm vera willin,” answered James; “and I doobtna Isy 'ill be content.” + +“Ye may be vera certain, sir, that she'll be naething but pleased: she +has a gran' opingon, and weel she may, o' Maister Robertson. Ye see, +sir, I want ye to put yersels i' the han's o' a man that kens ye baith, +and the half o' yer story a'ready--ane, that is, wha'll jeedge ye truly +and mercifully, and no condemn ye affhan'. Syne tak his advice what ye +oucht to dee neist.” + +“I will--and thank you, Mr. MacLear! Ae thing only I houp--that naither +you, sir, nor he will ever seek to pursuaud me to gang on preachin. Ae +thing I'm set upon, and that is, to deliver my sowl frae hypocrisy, and +walk softly a' the rest o' my days! Happy man wad I hae been, had they +set me frae the first to caw the pleuch, and cut the corn, and gether +the stooks intil the barn--i'stead o' creepin intil a leaky boat to fish +for men wi' a foul and tangled net! I'm affrontit and jist scunnert +at mysel!--Eh, the presumption o' the thing! But I hae been weel and +richteously punished! The Father drew his han' oot o' mine, and loot me +try to gang my lane; sae doon I cam, for I was fit for naething but to +fa': naething less could hae broucht me to mysel--and it took a lang +time! I houp Mr. Robertson will see the thing as I dee mysel!--Wull I +write and speir him oot to Stanecross to advise wi my father aboot Isy? +That would bring him! There never was man readier to help!--But it's +surely my pairt to gang to _him_, and mak my confession, and boo til his +judgment!--Only I maun tell Isy first!” + +Isy was not only willing, but eager that Mr. and Mrs. Robertson should +know everything. + +“But be sure,” she added, “that you let them know you come of yourself, +and I never asked you.” + +Peter said he could not let him go alone, but must himself go with him, +for he was but weakly yet--and they must not put it off a single day, +lest anything should transpire and be misrepresented. + +The news which father and son carried them, filled the Robertsons with +more than pleasure; and if their reception of him made James feel +the repentant prodigal he was, it was by its heartiness, and their +jubilation over Isy. + +The next Sunday, Mr. Robertson preached in James's pulpit, and published +the banns of marriage between James Blatherwick and Isobel Rose. The +two following Sundays he repeated his visit to Tiltowie for the same +purpose; and on the Monday married them at Stonecross. Then was also the +little one baptized, by the name of Peter, in his father's arms--amid +much gladness, not unmingled with shame. The soutar and his Maggie were +the only friends present besides the Robertsons. + +Before the gathering broke up, the farmer put the big Bible in the hands +of the soutar, with the request that he would lead their prayers; and +this was very nearly what he said:--“O God, to whom we belang, hert and +soul, body and blude and banes, hoo great art thou, and hoo close to us, +to hand the richt ower us o' sic a gran' and fair, sic a just and true +ownership! We bless thee hertily, rejicin in what thoo hast made us, +and still mair in what thoo art thysel! Tak to thy hert, and hand them +there, these thy twa repentant sinners, and thy ain little ane and +theirs, wha's innocent as thoo hast made him. Gie them sic grace to +bring him up, that he be nane the waur for the wrang they did him afore +he was born; and lat the knowledge o' his parents' faut haud him safe +frae onything siclike! and may they baith be the better for their fa', +and live a heap the mair to the glory o' their Father by cause o' that +slip! And gien ever the minister should again preach thy word, may it be +wi' the better comprehension, and the mair fervour; and to that en' +gie him to un'erstan' the hicht and deepth and breid and len'th o' thy +forgivin love. Thy name be gloryfeed! Amen!” + +“Na, na, I'll never preach again!” whispered James to the soutar, as +they rose from their knees. + +“I winna be a'thegither sure o' that!” returned the soutar. “Doobtless +ye'll dee as the Spirit shaws ye!” + +James made no answer, and neither spoke again that night. + +The next morning, James sent to the clerk of the synod his resignation +of his parish and office. + +No sooner had Marion, repentant under her husband's terrible rebuke, +set herself to resist her rampant pride, than the indwelling goodness +swelled up in her like a reviving spring, and she began to be herself +again, her old and lovely self. Little Peter, with his beauty and +his winsome ways, melted and scattered the last lingering rack of her +fog-like ambition for her son. Twenty times in a morning would she drop +her work to catch up and caress her grandchild, overwhelming him with +endearments; while over the return of his mother, her second Isy, now +her daughter indeed, she soon became jubilant. + +From the first publication of the banns, she had begun cleaning and +setting to rights the parlour, meaning to make it over entirely to +Isy and James; but the moment Isy discovered her intent, she protested +obstinately: it should not, could not, must not be! The very morning +after the wedding she was down in the kitchen, and had put the water on +the fire for the porridge before her husband was awake. Before her new +mother was down, or her father-in-law come in from his last preparations +for the harvest, it was already boiling, and the table laid for +breakfast. + +“I ken weel,” she said to her mother, “that I hae no richt to contre ye; +but ye was glaid o' my help whan first I cam to be yer servan-lass; and +what for shouldna things be jist the same noo? I ken a' the w'ys o' the +place, and that they'll lea' me plenty o' time for the bairnie: ye maun +jist lat me step again intil my ain auld place! and gien onybody comes, +it winna tak me a minute to mak mysel tidy as becomes the minister's +wife!--Only he says that's to be a' ower noo, and there'll be no need!” + +With that she broke into a little song, and went on with her work, +singing. + +At breakfast, James made request to his father that he might turn a +certain unused loft into a room for Isy and himself and little Peter. +His father making no objection, he set about the scheme at once, but was +interrupted by the speedy advent of an exceptionally plentiful harvest. + +The very day the cutting of the oats began, James appeared on the field +with the other scythe-men, prepared to do his best. When his father +came, however, he interfered, and compelled him to take the thing +easier, because, unfit by habit and recent illness, it would be even +dangerous for him to emulate the others. But what delighted his father +even more than his good-will, was the way he talked with the men and +women in the field: every show of superiority had vanished from his +bearing and speech, and he was simply himself, behaving like the others, +only with greater courtesy. + +When the hour for the noonday meal arrived, Isy appeared with her +mother-in-law and old Eppie, carrying their food for the labourers, +and leading little Peter in her hand. For a while the whole company was +enlivened by the child's merriment; after which he was laid with his +bottle in the shadow of an overarching stook, and went to sleep, his +mother watching him, while she took her first lesson in gathering and +binding the sheaves. When he woke, his grandfather sent the whole family +home for the rest of the day. + +“Hoots, Isy, my dauty,” he said, when she would fain have continued her +work, “wad ye mak a slave-driver o' me, and bring disgrace upo the name +o' father?” + +Then at once she obeyed, and went with her husband, both of them tired +indeed, but happier than ever in their lives before. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +The next morning James was in the field with the rest long before the +sun was up. Day by day he grew stronger in mind and in body, until at +length he was not only quite equal to the harvest-work, but capable of +anything required of a farm servant. + +His deliverance from the slavery of Sunday prayers and sermons, and his +consequent sense of freedom and its delight, greatly favoured his growth +in health and strength. Before the winter came, however, he had begun +to find his heart turning toward the pulpit with a waking desire after +utterance. For, almost as soon as his day's work ceased to exhaust him, +he had begun to take up the study of the sayings and doings of the +Lord of men, full of eagerness to verify the relation in which he stood +toward him, and, through him, toward that eternal atmosphere in which he +lived and moved and had his being, God himself. + +One day, with a sudden questioning hunger, he rose in haste from his +knees, and turned almost trembling to his Greek Testament, to find +whether the words of the Master, “If any man will do the will of the +Father,” meant “If any man _is willing_ to do the will of the Father;” + and finding that just what they did mean, he was thenceforward so far at +rest as to go on asking and hoping; nor was it then long before he began +to feel he had something worth telling, and must tell it to any that +would hear. And heartily he betook himself to pray for that spirit of +truth which the Lord had promised to them that asked it of their Father +in heaven. + +He talked with his wife about what he had found; he talked with his +father about it; he went to the soutar, and talked with him about it. + +Now the soutar had for many years made a certain use of his Sundays, +by which he now saw he might be of service to James: he went four miles +into the country to a farm on the other side of Stonecross, to hold +there a Sunday-school. It was the last farm for a long way in that +direction: beyond it lay an unproductive region, consisting mostly of +peat-mosses, and lone barren hills--where the waters above the firmament +were but imperfectly divided from the waters below the firmament. +For there roots of the hills coming rather close together, the waters +gathered and made marshy places, with here and there a patch of ground +on which crops could be raised. There were, however, many more houses, +such as they were, than could have been expected from the appearance +of the district. In one spot, indeed, not far from the farm I have +mentioned, there was a small, thin hamlet. A long way from church or +parish-school, and without any, nearer than several miles, to minister +to the spiritual wants of the people, it was a rather rough and ignorant +place, with a good many superstitions--none of them in their nature +specially mischievous, except indeed as they blurred the idea of divine +care and government--just the country for bogill-baes and brownie-baes, +boodies and water-kelpies to linger and disport themselves, long after +they had elsewhere disappeared! + +When, therefore, the late minister came seeking his counsel, the soutar +proposed, without giving any special reason for it, that he should +accompany him the next Sunday afternoon, to his school at Bogiescratt; +and James consenting, the soutar undertook to call for him at Stonecross +on his way. + +“Mr. MacLear,” said James, as they walked along the rough parish road +together, “I have but just arrived at a point I ought to have reached +before even entertaining a thought of opening my mouth upon anything +belonging to religion. Perhaps I knew some little things _about_ +religion; certainly I knew nothing _of_ religion; least of all had I +made any discovery for myself _in_ religion; and before that, how can a +man understand or know anything whatever concerning it? Even now I may +be presuming, but now at last, if I may dare to say so, I do seem to +have begun to recognize something of the relation between a man and the +God who made him; and with the sense of that, as I ventured to hint +when I saw you last Friday, there has risen in my mind a desire to +communicate to my fellow-men something of what I have seen and learned. +One thing I dare to hope--that, at the first temptation to show-off, I +shall be made aware of my danger, and have the grace given me to pull +up. And one thing I have resolved upon--that, if ever I preach again, I +will never again write a sermon. I know I shall make many blunders, and +do the thing very badly; but failure itself will help to save me from +conceit--will keep me, I hope, from thinking of myself at all, enabling +me to leave myself in God's hands, willing to fail if he please. Don't +you think, Mr. MacLear, we may even now look to God for what we ought to +say, as confidently as if, like the early Christians, we stood accused +before the magistrates?” + +“I div that, Maister Jeames!” answered the soutar. “Hide yersel in God, +sir, and oot o' that secret place, secret and safe, speyk--and fear +naething. And never ye mint at speykin _doon_ to your congregation. Luik +them straucht i' the een, and say what at the moment ye think and feel; +and dinna hesitate to gie them the best ye hae.” + +“Thank you, thank you, sir! I think I understand,” replied James.--“If +ever I speak again, I should like to begin in your school!” + +“Ye sall--this vera nicht, gien ye like,” rejoined the soutar. “I think +ye hae something e'en noo upo yer min' 'at ye would like to say to +them--but we'll see hoo ye feel aboot it efter I hae said a word to them +first!” + +“When you have said what you want to say, Mr. MacLear, give me a look; +and if I _have_ anything to say, I will respond to your sign. Then you +can introduce me, saying what you will. Only dinna spare me; use me +after your judgment.” + +The soutar held out his hand to his disciple, and they finished their +journey in silence. + +When they reached the farm-house, the small gathering was nearly +complete. It was mostly of farm-labourers; but a few of the congregation +worked in a quarry, where serpentine lay under the peat. In this +serpentine occurred veins of soapstone, occasionally of such a thickness +as to be itself the object of the quarrier: it was used in the making of +porcelain; and small quantities were in request for other purposes. + +When the soutar began, James was a little shocked at first to hear him +use his mother-tongue as in his ordinary conversation; but any sense of +its unsuitableness vanished presently, and James soon began to feel +that the vernacular gave his friend additional power of expression, and +therewith of persuasion. + +“My frien's, I was jist thinkin, as I cam ower the hill,” he began, +“hoo we war a' made wi' differin pooers--some o' 's able to dee ae thing +best, and some anither; and that led me to remark, that it was the same +wi' the warl we live in--some pairts o' 't fit for growin aits, and some +bere, and some wheat, or pitatas; and hoo ilk varyin rig had to be +turnt til its ain best eese. We a' ken what a lot o' eeses the bonny +green-and-reid-mottlet marble can be put til; but it wadna do weel for +biggin hooses, specially gien there war mony streaks o' saipstane intil +'t. Still it's no 'at the saipstane itsel's o' nae eese, for ye ken +there's a heap o' eeses it can be put til. For ae thing, the tailor taks +a bit o' 't to mark whaur he's to sen' the shears alang the claith, when +he's cuttin oot a pair o' breeks; and again they mix't up wi the clay +they tak for the finer kin's o' crockery. But upo' the ither han' +there's ae thing it's eesed for by some, 'at canna be considert a richt +eese to mak o' 't: there's ae wull tribe in America they tell me o', 'at +ait a hantle o' 't--and that's a thing I can_not_ un'erstan'; for it diz +them, they say, no guid at a', 'cep, maybe, it be jist to fill-in the +toom places i' their stammacks, puir reid craturs, and haud their ribs +ohn stucken thegither--and maybe that's jist what they ait it for! Eh, +but they maun be sair hungert afore they tak til the vera dirt! But +they're only savage fowk, I'm thinkin, 'at hae hardly begun to be men +ava! + +“Noo ye see what I'm drivin' at? It's this--that things hae aye to be +put to their richt eeses! But there are guid eeses and better eeses, +and things canna _aye_ be putten to their _best_ eeses; only, whaur they +can, it's a shame to put them to ony ither but their best! Noo, +what's the best eese o' a man?--what's a man made for? The carritchis +(_catechism_) says, _To glorifee God_. And hoo is he to dee that? Jist +by deein the wull o' God. For the ae perfec' man said he was born intil +the warl for that ae special purpose, to dee the wull o' him that sent +him. A man's for a heap o' eeses, but that ae eese covers them a'. Whan +he's deein' the wull o' God, he's deein jist a'thing. + +“Still there are vahrious wy's in which a man can be deein the wull o' +his Father in h'aven, and the great thing for ilk ane is to fin' oot the +best w'y _he_ can set aboot deein that wull. + +“Noo here's a man sittin aside me that I maun help set to the best eese +he's fit for--and that is, tellin ither fowk what he kens aboot the God +that made him and them, and stirrin o' them up to dee what He would hae +them dee. The fac is, that the man was ance a minister o' the Kirk o' +Scotlan'; but whan he was a yoong man, he fell intil a great faut:--a +yoong man's faut--I'm no gaein to excuse 't--dinna think it!--Only I +chairge ye, be ceevil til him i' yer vera thouchts, rememberin hoo mony +things ye hae dene yersels 'at ye hae to be ashamit o', though some +o' them may never hae come to the licht; for, be sure o' this, he has +repentit richt sair. Like the prodigal, he grew that ashamit o' what he +had dene, that he gied up his kirk, and gaed hame to the day's darg +upon his father's ferm. And that's what he's at the noo, thof he be a +scholar, and that a ripe ane! And by his repentance he's learnt a heap +that he didna ken afore, and that he couldna hae learnt ony ither +w'y than by turnin wi' shame frae the path o' the transgressor. I hae +broucht him wi' me this day, sirs, to tell ye something--he hasna said +to me what--that the Lord in his mercy has tellt him. I'll say nae mair: +Mr. Bletherwick, wull ye please tell's what the Lord has putten it intil +yer min' to say?” + +The soutar sat down; and James got up, white and trembling. For a moment +or two he was unable to speak, but overcoming his emotion, and falling +at once into the old Scots tongue, he said-- + +“My frien's, I hae little richt to stan' up afore ye and say onything; +for, as some o' ye ken, if no afore, at least noo, frae what my frien' +the soutar has jist been tellin ye, I was ance a minister o' the kirk, +but upon a time I behavet mysel that ill, that, whan I cam to my senses, +I saw it my duty to withdraw, and mak room for anither to tak up my +disgracet bishopric, as was said o' Judas the traitor. But noo I seem +to hae gotten some mair licht, and to ken some things I didna ken afore; +sae, turnin my back upo' my past sin, and believin God has forgien me, +and is willin I sud set my han' to his pleuch ance mair, I hae thoucht +to mak a new beginnin here in a quaiet heumble fashion, tellin ye +something o' what I hae begoud, i' the mercy o' God, to un'erstan' a +wee for mysel. Sae noo, gien yell turn, them o' ye that has broucht +yer buiks wi' ye, to the saeventh chapter o' John's gospel, and the +saeventeenth verse, ye'll read wi me what the Lord says there to the +fowk o Jerus'lem: _Gien ony man be wullin to dee His wull, he'll ken +whether what I tell him comes frae God, or whether I say 't only oot +o' my ain heid_. Luik at it for yersels, for that's what it says i' the +Greek, the whilk is plainer than the English to them that un'erstan' +the auld Greek tongue: Gien onybody _be wullin_ to dee the wull o' God, +he'll ken whether my teachin comes frae God, or I say 't o' mysel.” + +From that he went on to tell them that, if they kept trusting in God, +and doing what Jesus told them, any mistake they made would but help +them the better to understand what God and his son would have them do. +The Lord gave them no promise, he said, of knowing what this or that man +ought to do; but only of knowing what the man himself ought to do. And +he illustrated this by the rebuke the Lord gave Peter when, leaving +inquiry into the will of God that he might do it, he made inquiry into +the decree of God concerning his friend that he might know it; seeking +wherewithal, not to prophesy, but to foretell. Then he showed them the +difference between the meaning of the Greek word, and that of the modern +English word _prophesy_. + +The little congregation seemed to hang upon his words, and as they were +going away, thanked him heartily for thus talking to them. + +That same night as James and the soutar were going home together, they +were overtaken by an early snowstorm, and losing their way, were in the +danger, not a small one, of having to pass the night on the moor. But +happily, the farmer's wife, in whose house was their customary assembly, +had, as they were taking their leave, made the soutar a present of some +onion bulbs, of a sort for which her garden was famous: exhausted in +conflict with the freezing blast, they had lain down, apparently to die +before the morning, when the soutar bethought himself of the onions; +and obeying their nearer necessity, they ate instead of keeping them to +plant; with the result that they were so refreshed, and so heartened for +battle with the wind and snow, that at last, in the small hours of the +morning, they reached home, weary and nigh frozen. + +All through the winter, James accompanied the soutar to his +Sunday-school, sometimes on his father's old gig-horse, but oftener +on foot. His father would occasionally go also; and then the men of +Stonecross began to go, with the cottar and his wife; so that the little +company of them gradually increased to about thirty men and women, and +about half as many children. In general, the soutar gave a short +opening address; but he always made “the minister” speak; and thus James +Blatherwick, while encountering many hidden experiences, went through +his apprenticeship to extempore preaching; and, hardly knowing how, grew +capable at length of following out a train of thought in his own mind +even while he spoke, and that all the surer from the fact that, as it +rose, it found immediate utterance; and at the same time it was rendered +the more living and potent by the sight of the eager faces of his humble +friends fixed upon him, as they drank in, sometimes even anticipated, +the things he was saying. He seemed to himself at times almost to see +their thoughts taking reality and form to accompany him whither he +led them; while the stream of his thought, as it disappeared from his +consciousness and memory, seemed to settle in the minds of those who +heard him, like seed cast on open soil--some of it, at least, to grow +up in resolves, and bring forth fruit. And all the road as the friends +returned, now in moonlight, now in darkness and rain, sometimes in wind +and snow, they had such things to think of and talk about, that the +way never seemed long. Thus dwindled by degrees Blatherwick's +self-reflection and self-seeking, and, growing divinely conscious, +he grew at the same time divinely self-oblivious. Once, upon such a +home-coming, as his wife was helping him off with his wet boots, he +looked up in her face and said-- + +“To think, Isy, that here am I, a dull, selfish creature, so long +desiring only for myself knowledge and influence, now at last grown able +to feel in my heart all the way home, that I took every step, one after +the other, only by the strength of God in me, caring for me as my own +making father!--Ken ye what I'm trying to say, Isy, my dear?” + +“I canna be a'thegither certain I un'erstan',” answered his wife; “but +I'll keep thinkin aboot it, and maybe I'll come til't!” + +“I can desire no more,” answered James, “for until the Lord lat ye see +a thing, hoo can you or I or onybody see the thing that _he_ maun see +first! And what is there for us to desire, but to see things as God sees +them, and would hae us see them? I used to think the soutar a puir fule +body whan he was sayin the vera things I'm tryin to say noo! I saw nae +mair what he was efter than that puir collie there at my feet--maybe no +half sae muckle, for wha can tell what he mayna be thinkin, wi' that far +awa luik o' his!” + +“Div ye think, Jeames, that ever we'll be able to see inside thae +doggies, and ken what they're thinkin?” + +“I wouldna won'er what we mayna come til; for ye ken Paul says, 'A' +things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's!' Wha can +tell but the vera herts o' the doggies may ae day lie bare and open to +_oor_ herts, as to the hert o' Him wi' whom they and we hae to do! Eh, +but the thouchts o' a doggie maun be a won'erfu' sicht! And syne to +think o' the thouchts o' Christ aboot that doggie! We'll ken them, I +daurna weel doobt, some day! I'm surer aboot that nor aboot kennin the +thouchts o' the doggie himsel!” + +Another Sunday night, having come home through a terrible storm of +thunder and lightning, he said to Isy-- + +“I hae been feelin, a' the w'y hame, as gien, afore lang, I micht hae +to gie a wider testimony. The apostles and the first Christians, ye see, +had to beir testimony to the fac' that the man that was hangt and dee'd +upo the cross, the same was up again oot o' the grave, and gangin aboot +the warl; noo I canna beir testimony to that, for I wasna at that time +awaur o' onything; but I might weel be called upon to beir testimony to +the fac' that, whaur ance he lay deid and beeried, there he's come alive +at last--that is, i' the sepulchre o' my hert! For I hae seen him noo, +and ken him noo--the houp o' glory in my hert and my life! Whatever he +said ance, that I believe for ever.” + +The talks James Blatherwick and the soutar had together, were now, +according to Mr. Robertson, even wonderful. But it was chiefly the +soutar that spoke, while James sat and listened in silence. On one +occasion, however, James had spoken out freely, and indeed eloquently; +and Mr. Robertson, whom the soutar accompanied to his inn that night, +had said to him ere they parted-- + +“Do you see any good and cogent reason, Mr. MacLear, why this man should +not resume his pastoral office?” + +“One thing at least I am sure of,” answered the soutar, “--that he is +far fitter for it than ever he was in his life before.” + +Mr. Robertson repeated this to James the next day, adding-- + +“And I am certain every one who knows you will vote the restoration of +your licence!” + +“I must speak to Isy about it,” answered James with simplicity. + +“That is quite right, of course,” rejoined Mr. Robertson: “you know I +tell my wife everything that I am at liberty to tell.” + +“Will not some public recognition of my reinstatement be necessary?” + suggested James. + +“I will have a talk about it with some of the leaders of the synod, and +let you know what they say,” answered Mr. Robertson. + +“Of course I am ready,” returned Blatherwick, “to make any public +confession judged necessary or desirable; but that would involve my +wife; and although I know perfectly that she will be ready for anything +required of her, it remains not the less my part to do my best to shield +her!” + +“Of one thing I think you may be sure--that, with our present moderator, +your case will be handled with more than delicacy--with tenderness!” + +“I must not doubt it; but for myself I would deprecate indulgence. I +must have a talk with my wife about it! She is sure to know what will be +best!” + +“My advice is to leave it all in the hands of the moderator. We have no +right to choose, appoint, or apportion our own penalties!” + +James went home and laid the whole matter before his wife. + +Instead of looking frightened, or even anxious, Isy laid little Peter +softly in his crib, threw her arms round James's neck, and cried-- + +“Thank God, my husband, that you have come to this! Don't think to leave +me out, I beg of you. I am more than ready to accept my shame. I have +always said _I_ was to blame, and not you! It was me that should have +known better!” + +“You trusted me, and I proved quite unworthy of your confidence!--But +had ever man a wife to be so proud of as I of you!” + +Mr. Robertson brought the matter carefully before the synod; but neither +James nor Isy ever heard anything more of it--except the announcement +of the cordial renewal of James's licence. This was soon followed by the +offer of a church in the poorest and most populous parish north of the +Tweed. + +“See the loving power at the heart of things, Isy!” said James to his +wife: “out of evil He has brought good, the best good, and nothing +but good!--a good ripened through my sin and selfishness and ambition, +bringing upon you as well as me disgrace and suffering! The evil in me +had to come out and show itself, before it could be cleared away! Some +people nothing but an earthquake will rouse from their dead sleep: I was +one of such. God in His mercy brought on the earthquake: it woke me and +saved me from death. Ignorant creatures go about asking why God permits +evil: _we_ know why! It may be He could with a word cause evil to +cease--but would that be to create good? The word might make us good +like oxen or harmless sheep, but would that be a goodness worthy of him +who was made in the image of God? If a man ceased to be _capable_ of +evil, he must cease to be a man! What would the goodness be that could +not help being good--that had no choice in the matter, but must be such +because it was so made? God chooses to be good, else he would not be +God: man must choose to be good, else he cannot be the son of God! +Herein we see the grand love of the Father of men--that he gives them +a share, and that share as necessary as his own, in the making of +themselves! Thus, and thus only, that is, by willing the good, can they +become 'partakers of the divine nature!' Satan said, 'Ye shall be as +gods, knowing good and evil!' God says, 'Ye shall be as gods, knowing +good and evil, and choosing the good.' For the sake of this, that we may +come to choose the good, all the discipline of the world exists. God is +teaching us to know good and evil in some real degree _as they are_, and +not as _they seem to the incomplete_; so shall we learn to choose the +good and refuse the evil. He would make his children see the two things, +good and evil, in some measure as they are, and then say whether they +will be good children or not. If they fail, and choose the evil, he will +take yet harder measures with them. If at last it should prove possible +for a created being to see good and evil as they are, and choose the +evil, then, and only then, there would, I presume, be nothing left for +God but to set his foot upon him and crush him, as we crush a noxious +insect. But God is deeper in us than our own life; yea, God's life is +the very centre and creative cause of that life which we call _ours_; +therefore is the Life in us stronger than the Death, in as much as the +creating Good is stronger than the created Evil.” + +THE END + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Salted With Fire, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE *** + +***** This file should be named 9154-0.txt or 9154-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/5/9154/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Debra Storr and Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/old/9154-0.zip b/old/9154-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab00e61 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9154-0.zip diff --git a/old/9154.txt b/old/9154.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..65778c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9154.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7422 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Salted With Fire, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Salted With Fire + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9154] +This file was first posted on September 8, 2003 +Last Updated: April 18, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Debra Storr and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + +SALTED WITH FIRE + +By George Macdonald + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +"Whaur are ye aff til this bonny mornin', Maggie, my doo?" said the +soutar, looking up from his work, and addressing his daughter as she +stood in the doorway with her shoes in her hand. + +"Jist ower to Stanecross, wi' yer leave, father, to speir the +mistress for a goupin or twa o' chaff: yer bed aneth ye's grown unco +hungry-like." + +"Hoot, the bed's weel eneuch, lassie!" + +"Na, it's onything but weel eneuch! It's my pairt to luik efter my ain +father, and see there be nae k-nots aither in his bed or his parritch." + +"Ye're jist yer mither owre again, my lass!--Weel, I winna miss ye that +sair, for the minister 'ill be in this mornin'." + +"Hoo ken ye that, father?" + +"We didna gree vera weel last nicht." + +"I canna bide the minister--argle-barglin body!" + +"Toots, bairn! I dinna like to hear ye speyk sae scornfulike o' the gude +man that has the care o' oor sowls!" + +"It wad be mair to the purpose ye had the care o' his!" + +"Sae I hae: hasna ilkabody the care o' ilk ither's?" + +"Ay; but he preshumes upo' 't--and ye dinna; there's the differ!" + +"Weel, but ye see, lassie, the man has nae insicht--nane to speak o', +that is; and it's pleased God to mak him a wee stoopid, and some thrawn +(_twisted_). He has nae notion even o' the wark I put intil thae wee bit +sheenie (_little shoes_) o' his--that I'm this moment labourin ower!" + +"It's sair wastit upo' him 'at caana see the thoucht intil't!" + +"Is God's wark wastit upo' you and me excep' we see intil't, and +un'erstan't, Maggie?" + +The girl was silent. Her father resumed. + +"There's three concernt i' the matter o' the wark I may be at: first, +my ain duty to the wark--that's me; syne him I'm working for--that's +the minister; and syne him 'at sets me to the wark--ye ken wha that is: +whilk o' the three wad ye hae me lea' oot o' the consideration?" + +For another moment the girl continued silent; then she said-- + +"Ye maun be i' the richt, father! I believe 't, though I canna jist +_see_ 't. A body canna like a'body, and the minister's jist the ae man I +canna bide." + +"Ay could ye, gi'en ye lo'ed the _ane_ as he oucht to be lo'ed, and as +ye maun learn to lo'e him." + +"Weel I'm no come to that wi' the minister yet!" + +"It's a trowth--but a sair pity, my dautie _(daughter--darling)_." + +"He provokes me the w'y that he speaks to ye, father--him 'at's no fit +to tie the thong o' your shee!" + +"The Maister would lat him tie his, and say _thank ye_!" + +"It aye seems to me he has sic a scrimpit way o' believin'! It's no like +believin' at a'! He winna trust him for naething that he hasna his ain +word, or some ither body's for! Ca' ye that lippenin' til him?" + +It was now the father's turn to be silent for a moment. Then he said,-- + +"Lea' the judgin' o' him to his ain maister, lassie. I ha'e seen him +whiles sair concernt for ither fowk." + +"'At they wouldna hand wi' _him,_ and war condemnt in consequence--wasna +that it?" + +"I canna answer ye that, bairn." + +"Weel, I ken he doesna like you--no ae wee bit. He's aye girdin at ye to +ither fowk!" + +"May be: the mair's the need I sud lo'e him." + +"But noo _can_ ye, father?" + +"There's naething, o' late, I ha'e to be sae gratefu' for to _Him_ as +that I can. But I confess I had lang to try sair!" + +"The mair I was to try, the mair I jist couldna." + +"But ye could try; and He could help ye!" + +"I dinna ken; I only ken that sae ye say, and I maun believe ye. Nane +the mair can I see hoo it's ever to be broucht aboot." + +"No more can I, though I ken it can be. But just think, my ain Maggie, +hoo would onybody ken that ever ane o' 's was his disciple, gien we war +aye argle-barglin aboot the holiest things--at least what the minister +coonts the holiest, though may be I think I ken better? It's whan twa +o' 's strive that what's ca'd a schism begins, and I jist winna, please +God--and it does please him! He never said, Ye maun a' think the same +gait, but he did say, Ye man a' loe are anither, and no strive!" + +"Ye dinna aye gang to his kirk, father!" + +"Na, for I'm jist feared sometimes lest I should stop loein him. It +matters little about gaein to the kirk ilka Sunday, but it matters a +heap aboot aye loein are anither; and whiles he says things aboot the +mind o' God, sic that it's a' I can dee to sit still." + +"Weel, father, I dinna believe that I can lo'e him ony the day; sae, wi' +yer leave, I s' be awa to Stanecross afore he comes." + +"Gang yer wa's, lassie, and the Lord gang wi' ye, as ance he did wi' +them that gaed to Emmaus." + +With her shoes in her hand, the girl was leaving the house when her +father called after her-- + +"Hoo's folk to ken that I provide for my ain, whan my bairn gangs +unshod? Tak aff yer shune gin ye like when ye're oot o' the toon." + +"Are ye sure there's nae hypocrisy aboot sic a fause show, father?" +asked Maggie, laughing, "I maun hide them better!" + +As she spoke she put the shoes in the empty bag she carried for the +chaff. "There's a hidin' o' what I hae--no a pretendin' to hae what I +haena!--Is' be hame in guid time for yer tay, father.--I can gang a heap +better withoot them!" she added, as she threw the bag over her shoulder. +"I'll put them on whan I come to the heather," she concluded. + +"Ay, ay; gang yer wa's, and lea' me to the wark ye haena the grace to +adverteeze by weirin' o' 't." + +Maggie looked in at the window as she passed it on her way, to get a +last sight of her father. The sun was shining into the little bare room, +and her shadow fell upon him as she passed him; but his form lingered +clear in the close chamber of her mind after she had left him far. And +it was not her shadow she had seen, but the shadow, rather, of a great +peace that rested concentred upon him as he bowed over his last, his +mind fixed indeed upon his work, but far more occupied with the affairs +of quite another region. Mind and soul were each so absorbed in its +accustomed labour that never did either interfere with that of the +other. His shoemaking lost nothing when he was deepest sunk in some +one or other of the words of his Lord, which he sought eagerly to +understand--nay, I imagine his shoemaking gained thereby. In his leisure +hours, not a great, he was yet an intense reader; but it was nothing in +any book that now occupied him; it was the live good news, the man Jesus +Christ himself. In thought, in love, in imagination, that man dwelt in +him, was alive in him, and made him alive. This moment He was with him, +had come to visit him--yet was never far from him--was present always +with an individuality that never quenched but was continually developing +his own. For the soutar absolutely believed in the Lord of Life, was +always trying to do the things he said, and to keep his words abiding in +him. Therefore was he what the parson called a mystic, and was the +most practical man in the neighbourhood; therefore did he make the best +shoes, because the Word of the Lord abode in him. + +The door opened, and the minister came into the kitchen. The soutar +always worked in the kitchen, to be near his daughter, whose presence +never interrupted either his work or his thought, or even his +prayers--which often seemed as involuntary as a vital automatic impulse. + +"It's a grand day!" said the minister. "It aye seems to me that just on +such a day will the Lord come, nobody expecting him, and the folk all +following their various callings--as when the flood came and astonished +them." + +The man was but reflecting, without knowing it, what the soutar had +been saying the last time they encountered; neither did he think, at the +moment, that the Lord himself had said something like it first. + +"And I was thinkin, this vera meenute," returned the soutar, "sic a +bonny day as it was for the Lord to gang aboot amang his ain fowk. I +was thinkin maybe he was come upon Maggie, and was walkin wi' her up the +hill to Stanecross--nearer til her, maybe, nor she could hear or see or +think!" + +"Ye're a deal taen up wi' vain imaiginins, MacLear!" rejoined the +minister, tartly. "What scriptur hae ye for sic a wanderin' invention, +o' no practical value?" + +"'Deed, sir, what scriptur hed I for takin my brakwast this mornin, or +ony mornin? Yet I never luik for a judgment to fa' upon me for that! +I'm thinkin we dee mair things in faith than we ken--but no eneuch! no +eneuch! I was thankfu' for't, though, I min' that, and maybe that'll +stan' for faith. But gien I gang on this gait, we'll be beginnin as +we left aff last nicht, and maybe fa' to strife! And we hae to loe ane +anither, not accordin to what the ane thinks, or what the ither thinks, +but accordin as each kens the Maister loes the ither, for he loes the +twa o' us thegither." + +"But hoo ken ye that he's pleased wi' ye?" + +"I said naething aboot that: I said he loes you and me!" + +"For that, he maun be pleast wi' ye!" + +"I dinna think nane aboot that; I jist tak my life i' my han', and awa' +wi' 't til _Him_;--and he's never turned his face frae me yet.--Eh, sir! +think what it would be gien ever he did!" + +"But we maunna think o' him ither than he would hae us think." + +"That's hoo I'm aye hingin aboot his door, luikin for him." + +"Weel, I kenna what to mak o' ye! I maun jist lea' ye to him!" + +"Ye couldna dee a kinder thing! I desire naething better frae man or +minister than be left to Him." + +"Weel, weel, see til yersel." + +"I'll see to _him_, and try to loe my neebour--that's you, Mr. Pethrie. +I'll hae yer shune ready by Setterday, sir. I trust they'll be worthy +o' the feet that God made, and that hae to be shod by me. I trust and +believe they'll nowise distress ye, sir, or interfere wi' yer comfort +in preachin. I'll fess them hame mysel, gien the Lord wull, and that +without fail." + +"Na, na; dinna dee that; lat Maggie come wi' them. Ye wad only be puttin +me oot o' humour for the Lord's wark wi' yer havers!" + +"Weel, I'll sen' Maggie--only ye wad obleege me by no seein her, for ye +micht put _her_ oot o' humour, sir, and she michtna gie yer sermon fair +play the morn!" + +The minister closed the door with some sharpness. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +In the meantime, Maggie was walking shoeless and bonnetless up the hill +to the farm she sought. It was a hot morning in June, tempered by a wind +from the north-west. The land was green with the slow-rising tide of +the young corn, among which the cool wind made little waves, showing the +brown earth between them on the somewhat arid face of the hill. A few +fleecy clouds shared the high blue realm with the keen sun. As she rose +to the top of the road, the gable of the house came suddenly in sight, +and near it a sleepy old gray horse, treading his ceaseless round at the +end of a long lever, too listless to feel the weariness of a labour +that to him must have seemed unprogressive, and, to anything young, +heart-breaking. Nor did it appear to give him any consolation to be +aware of the commotion he was causing on the other side of the wall, +where a threshing machine of an antiquated sort responded with multiform +movement to the monotony of his round-and-round. + +Near by, a peacock, as conscious of his glorious plumage as indifferent +to the ugliness of his feet, kept time with undulating neck to the +motion of those same feet, as he strode with stagey gait across the +cornyard, now and then stooping to pick up a stray grain spitefully, and +occasionally erecting his superb neck to give utterance to a hideous cry +of satisfaction at his own beauty--a cry as unlike the beauty as ever +was discord to harmony. His glory, his legs and his voice, perplexed +Maggie with an unanalyzed sense of contradiction and unfitness. + +Radiant with age and light, the old horse stood still just as the sun +touched the meridian; the hour of repose and food was come, and he knew +it; and at the same moment the girl, passing one of the green-painted +doors of the farm house, stopped at the other, the kitchen one. It stood +open, and in answer to her modest knock, a ruddy maid appeared, with +a question in her eyes, and a smile on her lips at sight of the +shoemaker's Maggie, whom she knew well. Maggie asked if She might see +the mistress. + +"Here's soutar's Maggie wanting ye, mem!" said the maid and Mistress +Blatherwick who was close at hand, came; to which Maggie humbly but +confidently making her request had it as kindly granted, and followed +her to the barn to fill her pock with the light plumy covering of the +husk of the oats, the mistress of Stonecross helping her the while +and talking to her as she did so--for the soutar and his daughter were +favourites with her and her husband, and they had not seen either of +them for some while. + +"Ye used to ken oor Maister Jeames I' the auld land-syne, Maggie!" for +the two has played together as children in the same school although +growth and difference in station had gradually put and end to +their intimacy so that it became the mother to refer to him with +circumspection, seeing that, in her eyes at least, Maister Jeames was +now far on the way to becoming a great man, being a divinity student; +for in the Scotch church, although it sets small store on apostolitic +descent, every Minister, until he has shown himself eccentic or +incapable of interesting a congregation, is regarded with quite as +much respect as in England is accorded to the claimant of a +phantom-priesthood; and therefore, prospectively, Jeames was to his +mother a man of no little note. Maggie remembered how, when a boy, he +had liked to talk with her father; and how her father would listen to +him with a curious look on his rugged face, while the boy set forth +the commonplaces of a lifeless theology with an occasional freshness +of logical presentation that at least interested himself. But she +remembered also that she had never heard the soutar on his side make +any attempt to lay open to the boy his stores of what one or two in the +place, one or two only, counted wisdom and knowledge. + +"He's a gey clever laddie," he had said once to Maggie, "and gien he +gets his een open i' the coorse o' the life he's hardly yet ta'en hand +o', he'll doobtless see something; but he disna ken yet that there's +onything rael to be seen, ootside or inside o' him!" When he heard that +he was going to study divinity, he shook his head, and was silent. + +"I'm jist hame frae peyin him a short veesit," Mrs. Blatherwick went on. +"I cam hame but twa nichts ago. He's lodged wi' a dacent widow in Arthur +Street, in a flat up a lang stane stair that gangs roun and roun till ye +come there, and syne gangs past the door and up again. She taks in han' +to luik efter his claes, and sees to the washin o' them, and does her +best to hand him tidy; but Jeamie was aye that partic'lar aboot his +appearance! And that's a guid thing, special in a minister, wha has to +set an example! I was sair pleased wi' the auld body." + +There was one in the Edinburgh lodging, however, of whom Mrs. +Blatherwick had but a glimpse, and of whom, therefore, she had made no +mention to her husband any more than now to Maggie MacLear; indeed, she +had taken so little notice of her that she could hardly be said to +have seen her at all--a girl of about sixteen, who did far more for the +comfort of her aunt's two lodgers than she who reaped all the advantage. +If Mrs. Blatherwick had let her eyes rest upon her but for a moment, she +would probably have looked again; and might have discovered that she was +both a good-looking and graceful little creature, with blue eyes, and +hair as nearly black as that kind of hair, both fine and plentiful, ever +is. She might then have discovered as well a certain look of earnestness +and service that would at first have attracted her for its own sake, and +then repelled her for James's; for she would assuredly have read in it +what she would have counted dangerous for him; but seeing her poorly +dressed, and looking untidy, which at the moment she could not help, the +mother took her for an ordinary maid-of-all-work, and never for a moment +doubted that her son must see her just as she did. He was her only son; +her heart was full of ambition for him; and she brooded on the honour +he was destined to bring her and his father. The latter, however, caring +less for his good looks, had neither the same satisfaction in him nor an +equal expectation from him. Neither of his parents, indeed, had as yet +reaped much pleasure from his existence, however much one of them might +hope for in the time to come. There were two things indeed against such +satisfaction or pleasure--that James had never been open-hearted toward +them, never communicative as to his feelings, or even his doings; +and--which was worse--that he had long made them feel in him a certain +unexpressed claim to superiority. Nor would it have lessened their +uneasiness at this to have noted that the existence of such an implicit +claim was more or less evident in relation to every one with whom +he came in contact, manifested mainly by a stiff, incommunicative +reluctance, taking the form now of a pretended absorption in his books, +now of contempt for any sort of manual labour, even to the saddling of +the pony he was about to ride; and now and always by an affectation of +proper English, which, while successful as to grammar and accentuation, +did not escape the ludicrous in a certain stiltedness of tone and +inflection, from which intrusion of the would-be gentleman, his father, +a simple, old-fashioned man, shrank with more of dislike than he was +willing to be conscious of. + +Quite content that, having a better education than himself, his son +should both be and show himself superior, he could not help feeling that +these his ways of asserting himself were signs of mere foolishness, and +especially as conjoined with his wish to be a minister--in regard to +which Peter but feebly sympathized with the general ambition of Scots +parents. Full of simple paternal affection, whose utterance was quenched +by the behaviour of his son, he was continuously aware of something that +took the shape of an impassable gulf between James and his father and +mother. Profoundly religious, and readily appreciative of what was new +in the perception of truth, he was, above all, of a great and simple +righteousness--full, that is, of a loving sense of fairplay--a +very different thing indeed from that which most of those who count +themselves religious mean when they talk of the righteousness of God! +Little, however, was James able to see of this, or of certain other +great qualities in his father. I would not have my reader think that he +was consciously disrespectful to either of his parents, or knew that his +behaviour was unloving. He honoured their character, indeed, but shrank +from the simplicity of their manners; he thought of them with no +lively affection, though not without some kindly feeling and much +confidence--at the same time regarding himself with still greater +confidence. He had never been an idler, or disobedient; and had made +such efforts after theological righteousness as served to bolster +rather than buttress his conviction that he was a righteous youth, +and nourished his ignorance of the fact that he was far from being the +person of moral strength and value that he imagined himself. The person +he saw in the mirror of his self-consciousness was a very fine and +altogether trustworthy personage; the reality so twisted in its +reflection was but a decent lad, as lads go, with high but untrue +notions of personal honour, and an altogether unwarranted conviction +that such as he admiringly imagined himself, such he actually was: he +had never discovered his true and unworthy self! There were many things +in his life and ways upon which had he but fixed eyes of question, he +would at once have perceived that they were both judged and condemned; +but so far, nevertheless, his father and mother might have good hope of +his future. + +It is folly to suppose that such as follow most the fashions of this +world are more enslaved by them than multitudes who follow them only +afar off. These reverence the judgments of society in things of far +greater importance than the colour or cut of a gown; often without +knowing it, they judge life, and truth itself, by the falsest of all +measures, namely, the judgment of others falser than themselves; they do +not ask what is true or right, but what folk think and say about this +or that. James, for instance, altogether missed being a gentleman by his +habit of asking himself how, in such or such circumstances, a gentleman +would behave. As the man of honour he would fain know himself, he would +never tell a lie or break a promise; but he had not come to perceive +that there are other things as binding as the promise which alone +he regarded as obligatory. He did not, for instance, mind raising +expectations which he had not the least intention of fulfilling. + +Being a Scotch lad, it is not to be wondered at that he should turn +to Theology as a means of livelihood; neither is it surprising that +he should do so without any conscious love to God, seeing it is not in +Scotland alone that untrue men take refuge in the Church, and turn the +highest of professions into the meanest, laziest, poorest, and most +unworthy, by following it without any genuine call to the same. In +any profession, the man must be a poor common creature who follows +it without some real interest in it; but he who without a spark of +enthusiasm for it turns to the Church, is either a "blind mouth," as +Milton calls him--scornfullest of epithets, or an "old wife" ambitious +of telling her fables well; and James's ambition was of the same +contemptible sort--that, namely, of distinguishing himself in the +pulpit. This, if he had the natural gift of eloquence, he might well do +by its misuse to his own glory; or if he had it not, he might acquire a +spurious facility resembling it, and so be every way a mere windbag. + +Mr. Petrie, whom it cost the soutar so much care and effort to love, and +who, although intellectually small, was yet a good man, and by no means +a coward where he judged people's souls in danger, thought to save +the world by preaching a God, eminently respectable to those who could +believe in such a God, but to those who could not, a God far from lovely +because far from righteous. His life, nevertheless, showed him in many +ways a believer in Him who revealed a very different God indeed from the +God he set forth. His faith, therefore, did not prevent him from looking +upon the soutar, who believed only in the God he saw in Jesus Christ, +as one in a state of rebellion against him whom Jesus claimed as his +father. + +Young Blatherwick had already begun to turn his back upon several of the +special tenets of Calvinism, without, however, being either a better or +a worse man because of the change in his opinions. He had cast aside, +for instance, the doctrine of an everlasting hell for the unbeliever; +but in doing so he became aware that he was thus leaving fallow a great +field for the cultivation of eloquence; and not having yet discovered +any other equally productive of the precious crop, without which so +little was to be gained for the end he desired--namely, the praise of +men, he therefore kept on, "for the meantime," sowing and preparing to +reap that same field. Mr. Petrie, on the other hand, held the doctrine +as absolutely fundamental to Christianity, and preached it with power; +while the soutar, who had discarded it from his childhood, positively +refused, jealous of strife, to enter into any argument upon it with the +disputatious little man. + +As yet, then, James was reading Scotch metaphysics, and reconciling +himself to the concealment of his freer opinions, upon which concealment +depended the success of his probation, and his license. But the close of +his studies in divinity was now near at hand. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Upon a certain stormy day in the great northern city, preparing for +what he regarded as his career, James sat in the same large, shabbily +furnished room where his mother had once visited him--half-way up the +hideously long spiral stair of an ancient house, whose entrance was in a +narrow close. The great clock of a church in the neighbouring street had +just begun to strike five of a wintry afternoon, dark with snow, falling +and yet to fall: how often in after years was he not to hear the ghostly +call of that clock, and see that falling snow!--when a gentle tap came +to his door, and the girl I have already mentioned came in with a tray +and the materials for his most welcomed meal, coffee with bread and +butter. She set it down in a silence which was plainly that of deepest +respect, gave him one glance of devotion, and was turning to leave the +room, when he looked up from the paper he was writing, and said-- + +"Don't be in such a hurry, Isy. Haven't you time to pour out my coffee +for me?" + +Isy was a small, dark, neat little thing, with finely formed features, +and a look of child-like simplicity, not altogether removed from +childishness. She answered him first with her very blue eyes full of +love and trust, then said-- + +"Plenty o' time, sir. What other have I to do than see that you be at +your ease?" + +He shoved aside his work, and looking up with some concentration in his +regard, pushed his chair back a little from the table, and rejoined-- + +"What's the matter with you this last day or two, Isy? You're not +altogether like yourself!" + +She hesitated a moment, then answered-- + +"It can be naething, I suppose, sir, but just that I'm growin older and +beginnin to think aboot things." + +She stood near him. He put his arm round her little waist, and would +have drawn her down upon his knees, but she resisted. + +"I don't see what difference that can make in you all at once, Isy! +We've known each other so long that there can be no misunderstanding of +any sort between us. You have always behaved like the good and modest +girl you are; and I'm sure you have been most attentive to me all the +time I have been in your aunt's house." + +He spoke in a tone of superior approval. + +"It was my bare duty, and ye hae aye been kinder to me than I could hae +had ony richt to expec'. But it's nearhan' ower noo!" she concluded with +a sigh that indicated approaching tears, as she yielded a little to the +increased pressure of his arm. + +"What makes you say that?" he returned, giving her a warm kiss, plainly +neither unwelcome nor the first. + +"Dinna ye think it would be better to drop that kin' o' thing the noo, +sir?" she said, and would have stood erect, but he held her fast. + +"Why now, more than any time--I don't know for how long? Where does a +difference come in? What puts the notion in your pretty little head?" + +"It maun come some day, and the langer the harder it'll be!" + +"But tell me what has set you thinking about it all at once?" + +She burst into tears. He tried to soothe and comfort her, but in +struggling not to cry she only sobbed the worse. At last, however, she +succeeded in faltering out an explanation. + +"Auntie's been tellin me that I maun luik to my hert, so as no to tyne't +to ye a'thegither! But it's awa a'ready," she went on, with a fresh +outburst, "and it's no manner o' use cryin til't to come back to me. I +micht as weel cry upo' the win' as it blaws by me! I canna understan' +'t! I ken weel ye'll soon be a great man, and a' the toon crushin to +hear ye; and I ken jist as weel that I'll hae to sit still in my seat +and luik up to ye whaur ye stan', no daurin to say a word--no daurin +even to think a thoucht lest somebody sittin aside me should hear't ohn +me spoken. For what would it be but clean impidence o' me to think 'at +there was a time when I was sittin whaur I'm sittin the noo--and thinkin +'t i' the vera kirk! I would be nearhan' deein for shame!" + +"Didn't you ever think, Isy, that maybe I might marry you some day?" +said James jokingly, confident in the gulf between them. + +"Na, no ance. I kenned better nor that! I never even wusst it, for that +would be nae freen's wuss: ye would never get ony farther gien ye did! +I'm nane fit for a minister's wife--nor worthy o' bein ane! I micht +do no that ill, and pass middlin weel, in a sma' clachan wi' a wee bit +kirkie--but amang gran' fowk, in a muckle toon--for that's whaur ye're +sure to be! Eh me, me! A' the last week or twa I hae seen ye driftin +awa frae me, oot and oot to the great sea, whaur never a thoucht o' Isy +would come nigh ye again;--and what for should there? Ye camna into the +warl' to think aboot me or the likes o' me, but to be a great preacher, +and lea' me ahin ye, like a sheaf o' corn ye had jist cuttit and left +unbun'!" + +Here came another burst of bitter weeping, followed by words whose very +articulation was a succession of sobs. + +"Eh, me, me! I doobt I hae clean disgraced mysel!" she cried at last, +and ended, wiping her eyes--in vain, for the tears would keep flowing. + +As to young Blatherwick, I venture to assert that nothing vulgar or +low, still less of evil intent, was passing through his mind during this +confession; and yet what but evil was his unpitying, selfish exultation +in the fact that this simple-hearted and very pretty girl should love +him unsought, and had told him so unasked? A true-hearted man would +at once have perceived and shrunk from what he was bringing upon her: +James's vanity only made him think it very natural, and more than +excusable in her; and while his ambition made him imagine himself so +much her superior as to exclude the least thought of marrying her, it +did not prevent him from yielding to the delight her confession caused +him, or from persuading her that there was no harm in loving one to whom +she must always be dear, whatever his future might bring with it. Isy +left the room not a little consoled, and with a new hope in possession +of her innocent imagination; leaving James exultant over his conquest, +and indulging a more definite pleasure than hitherto in the person and +devotion of the girl. As to any consciousness in him of danger to either +of them, it was no more than, on the shore, the uneasy stir of a storm +far out at sea. Had the least thought of wronging her invaded his mind, +he would have turned from it with abhorrence; yet was he endangering all +her peace without giving it one reasonable thought. He was acting with a +selfishness too much ingrained to manifest its own unlovely shape; while +in his mind lay all the time a half-conscious care to avoid making the +girl any promise. + +As to her fitness for a minister's wife, he had never asked himself a +question concerning it; but in truth she might very soon have grown far +fitter for the position than he was for that of a minister. In character +she was much beyond him; and in breeding and consciousness far more of +a lady than he of a gentleman--fine gentleman as he would fain know +himself. Her manners were immeasurably better than his, because they +were simple and aimed at nothing. Instinctively she avoided whatever, +had she done it, she would at once have recognized as uncomely. She did +not know that simplicity was the purest breeding, yet from mere truth of +nature practised it unknowing. If her words were older-fashioned, that +is more provincial than his, at least her tone was less so, and her +utterance was prettier than if, like him, she had aped an Anglicized +mode of speech. James would, I am sure, have admired her more if she +had been dressed on Sundays in something more showy than a simple cotton +gown; and I fear that her poverty had its influence in the freedoms he +allowed himself with her. + +Her aunt was a weak as well as unsuspicious woman, who had known better +days, and pitied herself because they were past and gone. She gave +herself no anxiety as to her niece's prudence, but continued well +assured of it even while her very goodness was conspiring against her +safety. It would have required a man, not merely of greater goodness +than James, but of greater insight into the realities of life as well, +to perceive the worth and superiority of the girl who waited upon him +with a devotion far more angelic than servile; for whatever might +have seemed to savour of the latter, had love, hopeless of personal +advantage, at the root of it. + +Thus things went on for a while, with a continuous strengthening of the +pleasant yet not altogether easy bonds in which Isobel walked, and +a constant increase of the attraction that drew the student to the +self-yielding girl; until the appearance of another lodger in the house +was the means of opening Blatherwick's eyes to the state of his own +feelings, by occasioning the birth and recognition of a not unnatural +jealousy, which "gave him pause." On Isy's side there was not the least +occasion for this jealousy, and he knew it; but not the less he saw +that, if he did not mean to go further, here he must stop--the immediate +result of which was that he began to change a little in his behaviour +toward her, when at any time she had to enter his room in ministration +to his wants. + +Of this change the poor girl was at once aware, but she attributed it +to a temporary absorption in his studies. Soon, however, she could not +doubt that not merely was his voice or his countenance changed toward +her, but that his heart had grown cold, and that he was no longer +"friends with her." For there was another and viler element than mere +jealousy concerned in his alteration: he had become aware of a more +real danger into which he was rapidly drifting--that of irrecoverably +blasting the very dawn of his prospects by an imprudent marriage. "To +saddle himself with a wife," as he vulgarily expressed it, before he had +gained his license--before even he had had the poorest opportunity of +distinguishing himself in that wherein lay his every hope and +ambition of proving his excellence, was a thing not for a moment to +be contemplated! And now, when Isobel asked him in sorrowful mood some +indifferent question, the uneasy knowledge that he was about to increase +her sadness made him answer her roughly--a form not unnatural to +incipient compunction: white as a ghost she stood a moment silently +staring at him, then sank on the floor senseless. + +Seized with an overmastering repentance that brought back with a rush +all his tenderness, James sprang to her, lifted her in his arms, laid +her on the sofa, and lavished caresses upon her, until at length she +recovered sufficiently to know where she lay--in the false paradise of +his arms, with him kneeling over her in a passion of regret, the first +passion he had ever felt or manifested toward her, pouring into her ear +words of incoherent dismay--which, taking shape as she revived, soon +became promises and vows. Thereupon the knowledge that he had committed +himself, and the conviction that he was henceforth bound to one course +in regard to her, wherein he seemed to himself incapable of falsehood, +unhappily freed him from the self-restraint then most imperative upon +him, and his trust in his own honour became the last loop of the snare +about to entangle his and her very life. At the moment when a genuine +love would have hastened to surround the woman with bulwarks of safety, +he ceased to regard himself as his sister's keeper. Even thus did Cain +cease to be his brother's keeper, and so slew him. + +But the vengeance on his unpremeditated treachery, for treachery, +although unpremeditated, it was none the less, came close upon its +heels. The moment that Isy left the room, weeping and pallid, conscious +that a miserable shame but waited the entrance of a reflection even now +importunate, he threw himself on the floor, writhing as in the claws of +a hundred demons. The next day but one he was to preach his first sermon +before his class, in the presence of his professor of divinity! His +immediate impulse was to rush from the house, and home hot-foot to his +mother; and it would have been well for him to have done so indeed, +confessed all, and turned his back on the church and his paltry ambition +together! But he had never been open with his mother, and he feared his +father, not knowing the tender righteousness of that father's heart, +or the springs of love which would at once have burst open to meet the +sorrowful tale of his wretched son; and instead of fleeing at once +to his one city of refuge, he fell but to pacing the room in hopeless +bewilderment; and before long he was searching every corner of his +reviving consciousness, not indeed as yet for any justification, but +for what palliation of his "fault" might there be found; for it was the +first necessity of this self-lover to think well, or at least endurably, +of himself. Nor was it long before a multitude of sneaking arguments, +imps of Satan, began to assemble at the agonized cry of his +self-dissatisfaction--for it was nothing more. + +For, in that agony of his, there was no detestation of himself because +of his humiliation of the trusting Isobel; he did not loathe his abuse +of her confidence, or his having wrapt her in the foul fire-damp of his +miserable weakness: the hour of a true and good repentance was for him +not yet come; shame only as yet possessed him, because of the failure +of his own fancied strength. If it should ever come to be known, what +contempt would not clothe him, instead of the garments of praise of +which he had dreamed all these years! The pulpit, that goal of his +ambition, that field of his imagined triumphs--the very thought of +it now for a time made him feel sick. Still, there at least lay yet a +possibility of recovery--not indeed by repentance, of which he did not +seek to lay hold, but in the chance that no one might hear a word of +what had happened! Sure he felt, that Isy would never reveal it, and +least of all to her aunt! His promise to marry Isy he would of course +keep! Neither would that be any great hardship, if only it had no +consequences. As an immediate thing, however, it was not to be thought +of! there could be at the moment no necessity for such an extreme +measure! He would wait and see! he would be guided by events! As to +the sin of the thing--how many had not fallen like him, and no one the +wiser! Never would he so offend again! and in the meantime he would let +it go, and try to forget it--in the hope that providence now, and at +length time, would bury it from all men's sight! He would go on the same +as if the untoward thing had not so cruelly happened, had cast no such +cloud over the fair future before him! Nor were his selfish regrets +unmingled with annoyance that Isy should have yielded so easily: why had +she not aided him to resist the weakness that had wrought his undoing? +She was as much to blame as he; and for her unworthiness was he to be +left to suffer? Within an hour he had returned to the sermon under his +hand, and was revising it for the twentieth time, to perfect it before +finally committing it to memory; for so should the lie of his life +be crowned with success, and seem the thing it was not--an outcome of +extemporaneous feeling! During what remained of the two days following +he spared no labour, and at last delivered it with considerable unction, +and the feeling that he had achieved his end. + +Neither of those days did Isy make her appearance in his room, her aunt +excusing her apparent neglect with the information that she was in bed +with a bad headache, while herself she supplied her place. + +The next day Isy went about her work as usual, but never once looked up. +James imagined reproach in her silence, and did not venture to address +her, having, indeed, no wish to speak to her, for what was there to be +said? A cloud was between them; a great gulf seemed to divide them! He +wondered at himself, no longer conscious of her attraction, or of his +former delight in her proximity. His resolve to marry her was not yet +wavering; he fully intended to keep his promise; but he must wait the +proper time, the right opportunity for revealing to his parents the fact +of his engagement! After a few days, however, during which there had +been no return to their former familiarity, it was with a fearful kind +of relief that he learned she was gone to pay a visit to a relation in +the country. He did not care that she had gone without taking leave of +him, only wondered if she could have said anything to incriminate him. + +The session came to an end while she was still absent; he took a formal +leave of her aunt, and went home to Stonecross. + +His father at once felt a wider division between them than before, and +his mother was now compelled, much against her will, to acknowledge to +herself its existence. At the same time he carried himself with less +arrogance, and seemed humbled rather than uplifted by his success. + +During the year that followed, he made several visits to Edinburgh, and +before long received the presentation to a living in the gift of his +father's landlord, a certain duke who had always been friendly to the +well-to-do and unassuming tenant of one of his largest farms in the +north. But during none of these visits did he inquire or hear anything +about Isy; neither now, when, without blame he might have taken steps +toward the fulfilment of the promise which he had never ceased to regard +as binding, could he persuade himself that the right time had come for +revealing it to his parents: he knew it would be a great blow to his +mother to learn that he had so handicapped his future, and he feared the +silent face of his father at the announcement of it. + +It is hardly necessary to say that he had made no attempt to establish +any correspondence with the poor girl. Indeed by this time he found +himself not unwilling to forget her, and cherished a hope that she had, +if not forgotten, at least dismissed from her mind all that had taken +place between them. Now and then in the night he would wake to a few +tender thoughts of her, but before the morning they would vanish, +and during the day he would drown any chance reminiscence of her in a +careful polishing and repolishing of his sentences, aping the style +of Chalmers or of Robert Hall, and occasionally inserting some +fine-sounding quotation; for apparent richness of composition was his +principal aim, not truth of meaning, or lucidity of utterance. + +I can hardly be presumptuous in adding that, although growing in a +certain popularity with men, he was not thus growing in favour with +God. And as he continued to hear nothing about Isy, the hope at length, +bringing with it a keen shoot of pleasure, awoke in him that he was +never to hear of her more. For the praise of men, and the love of that +praise, having now restored him to his own good graces, he regarded +himself with more interest and approbation than ever; and his continued +omission of inquiry after Isy, heedless of the predicament in which +he might have placed her, was a far worse sin against her, because +deliberate, than his primary wrong to her, and it now recoiled upon him +in increased hardness of heart and self-satisfaction. + +Thus in love with himself, and thereby shut out from the salvation of +love to another, he was specially in danger of falling in love with the +admiration of any woman; and thence now occurred a little episode in his +history not insignificant in its results. + +He had not been more than a month or two in his parish when he was +attracted by a certain young woman in his congregation of some inborn +refinement and distinction of position, to whom he speedily became +anxious to recommend himself: he must have her approval, and, if +possible, her admiration! Therefore in his preaching, if the word +used for the lofty, simple utterance of divine messengers, may without +offence be misapplied to his paltry memorizations, his main thought was +always whether the said lady was justly appreciating the eloquence and +wisdom with which he meant to impress her--while in fact he remained +incapable of understanding how deep her natural insight penetrated both +him and his pretensions. Her probing attention, however, he so entirely +misunderstood that it gave him no small encouragement; and thus becoming +only the more eager after her good opinion, he came at length to imagine +himself heartily in love with her--a thing impossible to him with +any woman--and at last, emboldened by the fancied importance of his +position, and his own fancied distinction in it, he ventured an offer +of his feeble hand and feebler heart;--but only to have them, to his +surprise, definitely and absolutely refused. He turned from the lady's +door a good deal disappointed, but severely mortified; and, judging it +impossible for any woman to keep silence concerning such a refusal, and +unable to endure the thought of the gossip to ensue, he began at once +to look about him for a refuge, and frankly told his patron the whole +story. It happened to suit his grace's plans, and he came speedily to +his assistance with the offer of his native parish--whence the soutar's +argumentative antagonist had just been removed to a place, probably not +a very distinguished one, in the kingdom of heaven; and it seemed to all +but a natural piety when James Blatherwick exchanged his parish for that +where he was born, and where his father and mother continued to occupy +the old farm. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +The soutar was still meditating on things spiritual, still reading the +gospel of St. John, still making and mending shoes, and still watching +the development of his daughter, who had begun to unfold what not a few +of the neighbours, with most of whom she was in favour, counted beauty. +The farm labourers in the vicinity were nearly all more or less her +admirers, and many a pair of shoes was carried to her father for the +sake of a possible smile from Maggie; but because of a certain awe that +seemed to pervade her presence, no one had as yet dared a word to her +beyond that of greeting or farewell: each that looked upon her became at +once aware of a certain inferiority. Her beauty seemed to suggest behind +it a beauty it was unable to reveal. + +She was rather short in stature, but altogether well proportioned, with +a face wonderfully calm and clear, and quiet but keen dark eyes. Her +complexion owed its white-rose tinge to a strong, gentle life, and its +few freckles to the pale sun of Scotland, for she courted every breeze +bonnetless on the hills, when she accompanied her father in his walks, +or carried home the work he had finished. He rejoiced especially that +she should delight in feeling the wind about her, for he held it to +indicate sympathy with that spirit whose symbol it was, and which he +loved to think of as folding her about, closer and more lovingly than +his own cherishing soul. + +Of her own impulse, and almost from the moment of her mother's death, +she had given herself to his service, first in doing all the little +duties of the house, and then, as her strength and faculty grew, in +helping him more and more in his trade. As soon as she had cleared away +the few things necessary for a breakfast of porridge and milk, Maggie +would hasten to join her father where he stooped over his last, for he +was a little shortsighted. + +When he lifted his head you might see that, notwithstanding the +ruggedness of his face, he was a good looking man, with strong, +well-proportioned features, in which, even on Sundays, when he scrubbed +his face unmercifully, there would still remain lines suggestive of +ingrained rosin and heelball. On week days he was not so careful to +remove every sign of the labour by which he earned his bread; but when +his work was over till the morning, and he was free to sit down to a +book, he would never even touch one without first carefully washing his +hands and face. In the workshop, Maggie's place was a leather-seated +stool like her father's, a yard or so away from his, to leave room for +his elbows in drawing out the lingels (_rosined threads_): there she +would at once resume the work she had left unfinished the night before; +for it was a curious trait in the father, early inherited by the +daughter, that he would never rise from a finished job, however near +might be the hour for dropping work, without having begun another to go +on with in the morning. It was wonderful how much cleaner Maggie managed +to keep her hands; but then to her fell naturally the lighter work for +women and children. She declared herself ambitious, however, of one day +making with her own hands a perfect pair of top-boots. + +The advantages she gained from this constant intercourse with her father +were incalculable. Without the least loss to her freedom of thought, +nay, on the contrary, to the far more rapid development of her truest +liberty, the soutar seemed to avoid no subject as unsuitable for the +girl's consideration, but to insist only on its being regarded from the +highest attainable point of view. Matters of indifferent import they +seldom, if ever, discussed at all; and nothing she knew her father cared +about did Maggie ever allude to with indifference. Full of an honest +hilarity ever ready to break out when occasion occurred, she was at the +same time incapable of a light word upon a sacred subject. Such jokes +as, more than elsewhere, one is in danger of hearing among the clergy of +every church, very seldom came out in her father's company; and she +very early became aware of the kind of joke he would take or refuse. +The light use, especially, of any word of the Lord would sink him in a +profound silence. If it were an ordinary man who thus offended, he might +rebuke him by asking if he remembered who said those words; once, when +it was a man specially regarded who gave the offence, I heard him say +something to this effect, "The maister doesna forget whaur and whan he +spak thae words: I houp ye do forget!" Indeed the most powerful force +in the education of Maggie was the evident attitude of her father toward +that Son of Man who was even now bringing the children of God to the +knowledge of that Father of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is +named. Mingling with her delights in the inanimate powers of Nature, in +the sun and the wind, in the rain and the growth, in the running waters +and the darkness sown with stars, was such a sense of His presence that +she felt like him, He might at any moment appear to her father, or, +should it so please Him, even to herself. + +Two or three miles away, in the heart of the hills, on the outskirts of +the farm of Stonecross, lived an old cottar and his wife, who paid a few +shillings of rent to Mr. Blatherwick for the acre or two their ancestors +had redeemed from the heather and bog, and gave, with their one son +who remained at home, occasional service on the farm. They were much +respected by the farmer and his wife, as well as the small circle to +which they were known in the neighbouring village--better known, and +more respected still in that kingdom called of heaven; for they were +such as he to whom the promise was given, that he should yet see the +angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man. They had long +and heartily loved and honoured the soutar, whom they had known before +the death of his wife, and for his sake and hers, both had always +befriended the motherless Maggie. They could not greatly pity her, +seeing she had such a father, yet old Eppie had her occasional moments +of anxiety as to how the bairn would grow up without a mother's care. +No sooner, however, did the little one begin to show character, than +Eppie's doubt began to abate; and long before the time to which my +narrative has now come, the child and the child like old woman were fast +friends. Maggie was often invited to spend a day at Bogsheuch--oftener +indeed than she felt at liberty to leave her father and their common +work, though not oftener than she would have liked to go. + +One morning, early in summer, when first the hillsides had begun to look +attractive, a small agricultural cart, such as is now but seldom seen, +with little paint except on its two red wheels, and drawn by a thin, +long-haired little horse, stopped at the door of the soutar's house, +clay-floored and straw-thatched, in a back-lane of the village. It was +a cart the cottar used in the cultivation of his little holding, and his +son who drove it, now nearly middle-aged, was likely to succeed to the +hut and acres of Bogsheuch. Man and equipage, both well known to the +soutar, had come with an invitation, more pressing than usual, that +Maggie would pay them a visit of a few days. + +Father and daughter, consulting together in the presence of Andrew +Cormack, arrived at the conclusion that, work being rather slacker than +usual, and nobody in need of any promised job which the soutar could not +finish by himself in good time, Maggie was quite at liberty to go. She +sprang up joyfully--not without a little pang at the thought of leaving +her father alone, although she knew him quite equal to anything +that could be required in the house before her return--and set about +preparing their dinner, while Andrew went to execute a few commissions +that the mistress at Stonecross and his mother at Bogsheuch had given +him. By the time he returned, Maggie was in her Sunday gown, with her +week-day wrapper and winsey petticoat in a bundle--for she reckoned on +being of some use to Eppie during her visit When they had eaten their +humble dinner, Andrew brought the cart to the door, and Maggie scrambled +into it. + +"Tak a piece wi' ye," said her father, following her to the cart: "ye +hadna muckle to yer denner, and ye may be hungry again or ye hae the +lang road ahint ye!" + +He put several pieces of oatcake in her hand, which she received with a +loving smile; and they set out at a walking pace, which Andrew made no +attempt to quicken. + +It was far from a comfortable carriage, neither was her wisp of straw in +the bottom of it altogether comfortable to sit upon; but the change from +her stool and the close attention her work required, to the open air +and the free rush of the thoughts that came crowding to her out of +the wilderness, put her at once in a blissful mood. Even the few dull +remarks that the slow-thinking Andrew made at intervals from his perch +on the front of the cart, seemed to come to her from the realm of +Faerie, the mysterious world that lay in the folds of the huddled hills. +Everything Maggie saw or heard that afternoon seemed to wear the glamour +of God's imagination, which is at once the birth and the very truth of +everything. Selfishness alone can rub away that divine gilding, without +which gold itself is poor indeed. + +Suddenly the little horse stood still. Andrew, waking up from a snooze, +jumped to the ground, and began, still half asleep, to search into the +cause of the arrest; for Jess, although she could not make haste, never +of her own accord stood still while able to keep on walking. Maggie, +on her part, had for some time noted that they were making very slow +progress. + +"She's deid cripple!" said Andrew at length, straightening his long back +from an examination of Jess's fore feet, and coming to Maggie's side of +the cart with a serious face. "I dinna believe the crater's fit to gang +ae step furder! Yet I canna see what's happent her." + +Maggie was on the road before he had done speaking. Andrew tried once +to lead Jess, but immediately desisted. "It would be fell cruelty!" he +said. "We maun jist lowse her, and tak her gien we can to the How o' the +Mains. They'll gie her a nicht's quarters there, puir thing! And we'll +see gien they can tak you in as weel, Maggie. The maister, I mak nae +doobt, 'ill len' me a horse to come for ye i' the morning." + +"I winna hear o' 't!" answered Maggie. "I can tramp the lave o' the ro'd +as weel's you, Andrew!" + +"But I hae a' thae things to cairry, and that'll no lea' me a ban' to +help ye ower the burn!" objected Andrew. + +"What o' that?" she returned. "I was sae fell tired o' sittin that my +legs are jist like to rin awa wi' me. Lat me jist dook mysel i' the +bonny win'!" she added, turning herself round and round. "--Isna it jist +like awfu' thin watter, An'rew?--Here, gie me a haud o' that loaf. I s' +cairry that, and my ain bit bundle as weel; syne, I fancy, ye can manage +the lave yersel!" + +Andrew never had much to say, and this time he had nothing. But her +readiness relieved him of some anxiety; for his mother would be very +uncomfortable if he went home without her! + +Maggie's spirits rose to lark-pitch as the darkness came on and +deepened; and the wind became to her a live gloom, in which, with no +eye-bound to the space enclosing her, she could go on imagining after +the freedom of her own wild will. As the world and everything in it +gradually disappeared, it grew easy to imagine Jesus making the darkness +light about him, and stepping from it plain before her sight. That +could be no trouble to him, she argued, as, being everywhere, he must be +there. He could appear in any form, who had created every shape on the +face of the whole world! If she were but fit to see him, then surely he +would come to her! For thus often had her father spoken to her, talking +of the varied appearances of the Lord after his resurrection, and his +promise that he would be with his disciples always to the end of the +world. Even after he had gone back to his father, had he not appeared to +the apostle Paul? and might it not be that he had shown himself to many +another through the long ages? In any case he was everywhere, and always +about them, although now, perhaps from lack of faith in the earth, he +had not been seen for a long time. And she remembered her father once +saying that nobody could even _think_ a thing if there was no possible +truth in it. The Lord went away that they might believe in him when out +of the sight of him, and so be in him, and he in them! + +"I dinna think," said Maggie aloud to herself, as she trudged along +beside the delightfully silent Andrew, "that my father would be the +least astonished--only filled wi' an awfu' glaidness--if at ony moment, +walkin at his side, the Lord was to call him by his name, and appear +til him. He would but think he had just steppit oot upon him frae some +secret door, and would say,--'I thoucht, Lord, I would see you some day! +I was aye greedy efter a sicht o' ye, Lord, and here ye are!'" + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +The same moment to her ears came the cry of an infant. Her first thought +was, "Can that be Himsel, come ance again as he cam ance afore?" + +She stopped in the dusky starlight, and listened with her very soul. + +"Andrew!" she cried, for she heard the sound of his steps as he plodded +on in front of her, and could vaguely see him, "Andrew, what was yon?" + +"I h'ard naething," answered Andrew, stopping at her cry and listening. + +There came a second cry, a feeble, sad wail, and both of them heard it. + +Maggie darted off in the direction whence it seemed to come; nor had she +far to run, for it was not one to reach any distance. + +They were at the moment climbing a dreary, desolate ridge, where the +road was a mere stony hollow, in winter a path for the rain rather +than the feet of men. On each side of it lay a wild moor, covered +with heather and low berry-bearing shrubs. Under a big bush Maggie saw +something glimmer, and, flying to it, found a child. It might be a year +old, but was so small and poorly nourished that its age was hard to +guess. "With the instinct of a mother, she caught it up, and clasping it +close to her panting bosom, was delighted to find it cease wailing the +moment it felt her arm. Andrew, who had dropped the things he carried, +and started at once after her, met her half-way, so absorbed in her +treasure trove, and so blind to aught else, that he had to catch them +both in his arms to break the imminent shock; but she slipped from them, +and, to his amazement, went on down the hill, back the way they had +come: clearly she thought of nothing but carrying the infant home to her +father; and here even the slow perception of her companion understood +her. + +"Maggie, Maggie," he cried, "ye'll baith be deid afore ye win hame wi' +'t! Come on to my mither. There never was wuman like her for bairns! +She'll ken a hantle better nor ony father what to dee wi' 't!" + +Maggie at once recovered her senses, and knew he was right--but not +before she had received an instantaneous insight that never after left +her: now she understood the heart of the Son of Man, come to find and +carry back the stray children to their Father and His. When afterward +she told her father what she had then felt, he answered her with just +the four words and no more-- + +"Lassie, ye hae 't!" + +Happily the moon was now up, so that Andrew was soon able to find the +things they had both dropped in their haste, and Maggie had soon wrapped +the baby in the winsey petticoat she had been carrying. Andrew took up +his loaf and his other packages, and they set out again for Bogsheuch, +Maggie's heart all but overwhelmed with its exultation. Had the precious +thing been twice the weight, so exuberant was her feeling of wealth in +it that she could have carried it twice the distance with ease, although +the road was so rough that she went in constant terror of stumbling. +Andrew gave now and then a queer chuckle at the ludicrousness of their +home-coming, and every second minute had to stop and pick up one or +other of his many parcels; but Maggie strode on in front, full of +possession, and with the feeling of having now at last entered upon her +heavenly inheritance; so that she was quite startled when suddenly they +came in sight of the turf cottage, and the little window in which a +small cresset-lamp was burning. Before they reached it the door opened, +and Eppie appeared with an overflow of question and anxious welcome. + +"What on earth--" she began. + +"Naething but a bonny wee bairnie, whause mither has tint it!" at once +interrupted and answered Maggie, flying up to her, and laying the child +in her arms. + +Mrs. Cormack stood and stared, now at Maggie, and now at the bundle that +lay in her own arms. Tenderly searching in the petticoat, she found at +last the little one's face, and uncovered the sleeping child. + +"Eh the puir mither!" she said, and hurriedly covered again the tiny +countenance. + +"It's mine!" cried Maggie. "I faund it honest!" + +"Its mither may ha' lost it honest, Maggie!" said Eppie. + +"Weel, its mither can come for't gien she want it! It's mine till she +dis, ony gait!" rejoined the girl. + +"Nae doobt o' that!" replied the old woman, scarcely questioning that +the infant had been left to perish by some worthless tramp. "Ye'll maybe +hae't langer nor ye'll care to keep it!" + +"That's no vera likly," answered Maggie with a smile, as she stood in +the doorway, in the wakeful night of the northern summer: "it's ane o' +the Lord's ain lammies 'at he cam to the hills to seek. He's fund this +ane!" + +"Weel, weel, my bonnie doo, it sanna be for me to contradick ye!--But +wae's upo' me for a menseless auld wife! come in; come in: the mair +welcome 'at ye're lang expeckit!--But bless me, An'rew, what hae ye dune +wi' the cairt and the beastie?" + +In a few words, for brevity was easy to him, Andrew told the story of +their disaster. + +"It maun hae been the Lord's mercy! The puir beastie bude to suffer for +the sake o' the bairnie!" + +She got them their supper, which was keeping hot by the fire; and then +sent Maggie to her bed in the ben-end, where she laid the baby beside +her, after washing him and wrapping him in a soft well-worn shift of +her own. But Maggie scarcely slept for listening lest the baby's breath +should stop; and Eppie sat in the kitchen with Andrew until the light, +slowly travelling round the north, deepened in the east, and at last +climbed the sky, leading up the sun himself; when Andrew rose, and set +his face toward Stonecross, in full but not very anxious expectation +of a stormy reception from his mistress before he should have time +to explain. When he reached home, however, he found the house not yet +astir; and had time to feed and groom his horses before any one was +about, so that, to his relief, no rendering of reasons was necessary. + +All the next day Maggie was ill at ease, in much dread of the appearance +of a mother. The baby seemed nothing the worse for his exposure, and +although thin and pale, appeared a healthy child, taking heartily the +food offered him. He was decently though poorly clad, and very clean. +The Cormacks making inquiry at every farmhouse and cottage within range +of the moor, the tale of his finding was speedily known throughout the +neighbourhood; but to the satisfaction of Maggie at least, who fretted +to carry home her treasure, without any result; so that by the time the +period of her visit arrived, she was feeling tolerably secure in her +possession, and returned with it in triumph to her father. + +The long-haired horse not yet proving equal to the journey, she had to +walk home; but Eppie herself accompanied her, bent on taking her share +in the burden of the child, which Maggie was with difficulty persuaded +to yield. Eppie indeed carried him up to the soutar's door, but Maggie +insisted on herself laying him in her father's arms. The soutar rose +from his stool, received him like Simeon taking the infant Jesus from +the arms of his mother, and held him high like a heave-offering to him +that had sent him forth from the hidden Holiest of Holies. One moment in +silence he held him, then restoring him to his daughter, sat down again, +and took up his last and shoe. Then suddenly becoming aware of a breach +in his manners, he rose again at once, saying-- + +"I crave yer pardon, Mistress Cormack: I was clean forgettin ony breedin +I ever had!--Maggie, tak oor freen ben the hoose, and gar her rest her +a bit, while ye get something for her efter her lang walk. I'll be ben +mysel' in a meenute or twa to hae a crack wi' her. I hae but a feow +stitches mair to put intil this same sole! The three o' 's maun tak some +sarious coonsel thegither anent the upbringin o' this God-sent bairn! +I doobtna but he's come wi' a blessin to this hoose! Eh, but it was a +mercifu fittin o' things that the puir bairn and Maggie sud that nicht +come thegither! Verily, He shall give his angels chairge over thee! They +maun hae been aboot the muir a' that day, that nane but Maggie sud get +a haud o' 'im--aiven as they maun hae been aboot the field and the flock +and the shepherds and the inn-stable a' that gran' nicht!" + +The same moment entered a neighbour who, having previously heard and +misinterpreted the story, had now caught sight of their arrival. + +"Eh, soutar, but ye _ir_ a man by Providence sair oppressed!" she cried. +"Wha think ye's been i' the faut here?" + +The wrath of the soutar sprang up flaming. + +"Gang oot o' my hoose, ye ill-thouchtit wuman!" he shouted. "Gang oot +o' 't this verra meenit--and comena intil 't again 'cep it be to beg my +pardon and that o' this gude wuman and my bonny lass here! The Lord God +bless her frae ill tongues!--Gang oot, I tell ye!" + +The outraged father stood towering, whom all the town knew for a man of +gentlest temper and great courtesy. The woman stood one moment dazed and +uncertain, then turned and fled. Maggie retired with Mistress Cormack; +and when the soutar joined them, he said never a word about the +discomfited gossip. Eppie having taken her tea, rose and bade them +good-night, nor crossed another threshold in the village. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +As soon as the baby was asleep, Maggie went back to the kitchen where +her father still sat at work. + +"Ye're late the night, father!" she said. + +"I am that, lassie; but ye see I canna luik for muckle help frae you for +some time: ye'll hae eneuch to dee wi' that bairn o' yours; and we hae +him to fen for noo as weel's oorsels! No 'at I hae the least concern +aboot the bonny white raven, only we maun consider _him_ like the lave!" +"It's little he'll want for a whilie, father!" answered Maggie. "--But +noo," she went on, in a tone of seriousness that was almost awe, "lat me +hear what ye're thinkin:--what kin' o' a mither could she be that left +her bairn theroot i' the wide, eerie nicht? and what for could she hae +dene 't?" + +"She maun hae been some puir lassie that hadna learnt to think first +o' His wull! She had believt the man whan he promised to merry her, no +kennin he was a leear, and no heedin the v'ice inside her that said _ye +maunna_; and sae she loot him dee what he likit wi' her, and mak himsel +the father o' a bairnie that wasna meant for him. Sic leeberties as he +took wi' her, and she ouchtna to hae permittit, made a mither o' her +afore ever she was merried. Sic fules hae an awfu' time o' 't; for fowk +hardly ever forgies them, and aye luiks doon upo' them. Doobtless the +rascal ran awa and left her to fen for hersel; naebody would help her; +and she had to beg the breid for hersel, and the drap milk for the +bairnie; sae that at last she lost hert and left it, jist as Hagar left +hers aneath the buss i' the wilderness afore God shawed her the bonny +wall o' watter." + +"I kenna whilk o' them was the warst--father or mither!" cried Maggie. + +"Nae mair do I!" said the soutar; "but I doobt the ane that lee'd to the +ither, maun hae to be coontit the warst!" + +"There canna be mony sic men!" said Maggie. + +"'Deed there's a heap o' them no a hair better!" rejoined her father; +"but wae's me for the puir lassie that believes them!" + +"She kenned what was richt a' the time, father!" + +"That's true, my dauty; but to ken is no aye to un'erstan'; and even to +un'erstan' is no aye to see richt intil't! No wuman's safe that hasna +the love o' God, the great Love, in her hert a' the time! What's best in +her, whan the vera best's awa, may turn to be her greatest danger. And +the higher ye rise ye come into the waur danger, till ance ye're fairly +intil the ae safe place, the hert o' the Father. There, and there only, +ye're safe!--safe frae earth, frae hell, and frae yer ain hert! A' the +temptations, even sic as ance made the haivenly hosts themsels fa' frae +haiven to hell, canna touch ye there! But whan man or wuman repents and +heumbles himsel, there is He to lift them up, and that higher than ever +they stede afore!" + +"Syne they're no to be despised that fa'!" + +"Nane despises them, lassie, but them that haena yet learnt the danger +they're in o' that same fa' themsels. Mony ane, I'm thinking, is keepit +frae fa'in, jist because she's no far eneuch on to get the guid o' the +shame, but would jist sink farther and farther!" + +"But Eppie tells me that maist o' them 'at trips gangs on fa'in, and +never wins up again." + +"Ou, ay; that's true as far as we, short-lived and short-sichtit +craturs, see o' them! but this warl's but the beginnin; and the glory +o' Christ, wha's the vera Love o' the Father, spreads a heap further nor +that. It's no for naething we're tellt hoo the sinner-women cam til him +frae a' sides! They needit him sair, and cam. Never ane o' them was +ower black to be latten gang close up til him; and some o' sic women +un'erstede things he said 'at mony a respectable wuman cudna get a glimp +o'! There's aye rain eneuch, as Maister Shaksper says, i' the sweet +haivens to wash the vera han' o' murder as white as snow. The creatin +hert is fu' o' sic rain. Loe _him_, lassie, and ye'll never glaur the +bonny goon ye broucht white frae his hert!" + +The soutar's face was solemn and white, and tears were running down the +furrows of his cheeks. Maggie too was weeping. At length she said-- + +"Supposin the mither o' my bairnie a wuman like that, can ye think it +fair that _her_ disgrace should stick til _him?_" + +"It sticks til him only in sic minds as never saw the lovely greatness +o' God." + +"But sic bairns come na intil the warl as God wad hae them come!" + +"But your bairnie _is_ come, and that he couldna withoot the creatin +wull o' the Father! Doobtless sic bairnies hae to suffer frae the prood +jeedgment o' their fellow-men and women, but they may get muckle guid +and little ill frae that--a guid naebody can reive them o'. It's no +a mere veesitin o' the sins o' the fathers upo' the bairns, but a +provision to haud the bairns aff o' the like, and to shame the fathers +o' them. Eh, but sic maun be sair affrontit wi' themsels, that disgrace +at ance the wife that should hae been and the bairn that shouldna! Eh, +the puir bairnie that has sic a father! But he has anither as weel--a +richt gran' father to rin til!--The ae thing," the soutar went on, "that +you and me, Maggie, has to do, is never to lat the bairn ken the miss o' +father or mother, and sae lead him to the ae Father, the only real and +true ane.--There he's wailin, the bonny wee man!" + +Maggie ran to quiet her little one, but soon returned, and sitting down +again beside her father, asked him for a piece of work. + +All this time, through his own cowardly indifference, the would-be-grand +preacher, James Blatherwick, knew nothing of the fact that, somewhere in +the world, without father or mother, lived a silent witness against him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Isy had contrived to postpone her return to her aunt until James was +gone; for she dreaded being in the house with him lest anything should +lead to the discovery of the relation between them. Soon after his +departure, however, she had to encounter the appalling fact that the +dread moment was on its way when she would no longer be able to conceal +the change in her condition. Her first and last thought was then, how +to protect the good name of her lover, and avoid involving him in the +approaching ruin of her reputation. With this in view she vowed to God +and to her own soul absolute silence with regard to the past: James's +name even should never pass her lips! Nor did she find the vow hard to +keep, even when her aunt took measures to draw her secret from her; but +the dread lest in her pains she should cry out for the comfort which +James alone could give her, almost drove her to poison, from which only +the thought of his coming child restrained her. Enabled at length only +by the pure inexorability of her hour, she passed through her sorrow and +found herself still alive, with her lips locked tight on her secret. +The poor girl who was weak enough to imperil her good name for love of +a worthless man, was by that love made strong to shield him from the +consequences of her weakness. Whether in this she did well for the +world, for the truth, or for her own soul, she never wasted a thought. +In vain did her aunt ply her with questions; she felt that to answer one +of them would be to wrong him, and lose her last righteous hold upon the +man who had at least once loved her a little. Without a gleam, without +even a shadow of hope for herself, she clung, through shame and blame, +to his scathlessness as the only joy left her. He had most likely, she +thought, all but forgotten her very existence, for he had never written +to her, or made any effort to discover what had become of her. She clung +to the conviction that he could never have heard of what had befallen +her. + +By and by she grew able to reflect that to remain where she was would be +the ruin of her aunt; for who would lodge in the same house with _her_? +She must go at once! and her longing to go, with the impossibility +of even thinking where she could go, brought her to the very verge of +despair, and it was only the thought of her child that still gave her +strength enough to live on. And to add immeasurably to her misery, she +was now suddenly possessed by the idea, which for a long time remained +immovably fixed, that, agonizing as had been her effort after silence, +she had failed in her resolve, and broken the promise she imagined +she had given to James; that she had been false to him, brought him to +shame, and for ever ruined his prospects; that she had betrayed him into +the power of her aunt, and through her to the authorities of the church! +That was why she had never heard a word from him, she thought, and she +was never to see him any more! The conviction, the seeming consciousness +of all this, so grew upon her that, one morning, when her infant was +not yet a month old, she crept from the house, and wandered out into the +world, with just one shilling in a purse forgotten in the pocket of +her dress. After that, for a time, her memory lost hold of her +consciousness, and what befel her remained a blank, refusing to be +recalled. + +When she began to come to herself she had no knowledge of where she had +been, or for how long her mind had been astray; all was irretrievable +confusion, crossed with cloud-like trails of blotted dreams, and vague +survivals of gratitude for bread and pieces of money. Everything she +became aware of surprised her, except the child in her arms. Her story +had been plain to every one she met, and she had received thousands of +kindnesses which her memory could not hold. At length, intentionally or +not, she found herself in a neighbourhood to which she had heard James +Blatherwick refer. + +Here again a dead blank stopped her backward gaze--till suddenly once +more she grew aware, and knew that she was aware, of being alone on a +wide moor in a dim night, with her hungry child, to whom she had given +the last drop of nourishment he could draw from her, wailing in her +arms. Then fell upon her a hideous despair, and unable to carry him a +step farther, she dropped him from her helpless hands into a bush, and +there left him, to find, as she thought, some milk for him. She could +sometimes even remember that she went staggering about, looking under +the great stones, and into the clumps of heather, in the hope of finding +something for him to drink. At last, I presume, she sank on the ground, +and lay for a time insensible; anyhow, when she came to herself, she +searched in vain for the child, or even the place where she had left +him. + +The same evening it was that Maggie came along with Andrew, and found +the baby as I have already told. All that night, and a great part of the +next day, Isy went searching about in vain, doubtless with intervals of +repose compelled by utter exhaustion. Imagining at length that she had +discovered the very spot where she left him, and not finding him, she +came to the conclusion that some wild beast had come upon the helpless +thing and carried him off. Then a gleam of water coming to her eye, she +rushed to the peat-hag whence it was reflected, and would there have +drowned herself. But she was intercepted and turned aside by a man who +threw down his flauchter-spade, and ran between her and the frightful +hole. He thought she was out of her mind, and tried to console her with +the assurance that no child left on that moor could be in other than +luck's way. He gave her a few half-pence, and directed her to the next +town, with a threat of hanging if she made a second attempt of the +sort. A long time of wandering followed, with ceaseless inquiry, +and alternating disappointment and fresh expectation; but every day +something occurred that served just to keep the life in her, and at last +she reached the county-town, where she was taken to a place of shelter. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +James Blatherwick was proving himself not unacceptable to his native +parish, where he was thought a very rising man, inasmuch as his fluency +was far ahead of his perspicuity. He soon came to note the soutar as a +man far in advance of the rest of his parishioners; but he saw, at the +same time, that he was regarded by most as a wild fanatic if not as +a dangerous heretic; and himself imagined that he saw in him certain +indications of a mild lunacy. + +In Tiltowie he pursued the same course as elsewhere: anxious to let +nothing come between him and the success of his eloquence, he avoided +any appearance of differing in doctrine from his congregation; and until +he should be more firmly established, would show himself as much as +possible of the same mind with them, using the doctrinal phrases he had +been accustomed to in his youth, or others so like that they would be +taken to indicate unchanged opinions, while for his part he practised a +mental reservation in regard to them. + +He had noted with some degree of pleasure in the soutar, that he used +almost none of the set phrases of the good people of the village, who +devoutly followed the traditions of the elders; but he knew little as to +what the soutar did not believe, and still less of what he did believe +with all his heart and soul; for John MacLear could not even utter the +name of God without therein making a confession of faith immeasurably +beyond anything inhabiting the consciousness of the parson; and on his +part soon began to note in James a total absence of enthusiasm in regard +to such things of which his very calling implied at least an absolute +acceptance: he would allude to any or all of them as merest matters of +course! Never did his face light up when he spoke of the Son of God, +of his death, or of his resurrection; never did he make mention of the +kingdom of heaven as if it were anything more venerable than the kingdom +of Great Britain and Ireland. + +But the soul of the soutar would venture far into the twilight, +searching after the things of God, opening wider its eyes, as the +darkness widened around them. On one occasion the parson took upon him +to remonstrate with what seemed to him the audacity of his parishioner: + +"Don't you think you are just going a little too far there, Mr. +MacLear?" he said. + +"Ye mean ower far intil the dark, Mr. Blatherwick?" + +"Yes, that is what I mean. You speculate too boldly." + +"But dinna ye think, sir, that that direction it's plain the dark grows +a wee thinner, though I grant ye there's nothing yet to ca' licht? Licht +we may aye ken by its ain fair shinin, and by noucht else!" + +"But the human soul is just as apt to deceive itself as the human +eye! It is always ready to take a flash inside itself for something +objective!" said Blatherwick. + +"Nae doobt! nae doobt! but whan the true licht comes, ye aye ken the +differ! A man _may_ tak the dark for licht, but he canna take the licht +for darkness!" + +"And there must always be something for the light to shine upon, else +the man sees nothing!" said the parson. + +"There's thoucht, and possible insicht intil the man!" said the soutar +to himself.--"Maybe, like the Ephesians, ye haena yet fund oot gien +there be ony Holy Ghost, sir?" he said to him aloud. + +"No man dares deny that!" answered the minister. + +"Still a man mayna _ken't_, though he daursna deny't! Nane but them 'at +follows whaur he leads, can ken that he verily is." + +"We must beware of private interpretation!" suggested James. + +"Gien a man hearsna a word spoken til his ain sel', he has na the word +to lippen til! The Scriptur is to him but a sealed buik; he walks i' the +dark. The licht is neither pairtit nor gethered. Gien a man has licht, +he has nane the less that there's twa or three o' them thegither +present.--Gien there be twa or three prayin thegither, ilk ane o' the +three has jist what he's able to receive, and he kens 't in himsel as +licht; and the fourth may hae nane. Gien it comena to ilk ane o' them, +it comesna to a'. Ilk ane maun hae the revelation intil his ain sel', as +gien there wasna ane mair. And gien it be sae, hoo are we to win at ony +trouth no yet revealed, 'cep we gang oot intil the dark to meet it? Ye +maun caw canny, I admit, i' the mirk; but ye maun caw gien ye wad win at +onything!" + +"But suppose you know enough to keep going, and do not care to venture +into the dark?" + +"Gien a man hauds on practeesin what he kens, the hunger 'ill wauk in +him efter something mair. I'm thinkin the angels had lang to desire +afore they could luik intil certain things they sair wantit; but ye may +be sure they warna left withoot as muckle licht as would lead honest +fowk safe on!" + +"But suppose they couldn't tell whether what they seemed to see was true +light or not?" + +"Syne they would hae to fa' back upo the wull o' the great Licht: we ken +weel he wants us a' to see as he himsel sees! Gien we seek that Licht, +we'll get it; gien we carena for't, we're jist naething and naegait, and +are in sore need o' some sharp discipleen." + +"I'm afraid I can't follow you quite. The fact is, I have been so long +occupied with the Bible history, and the new discoveries that bear +testimony to it, that I have had but little time for metaphysics." + +"And what's the guid o' history, or sic metapheesics as is the vera sowl +o' history, but to help ye to see Christ? and what's the guid o' seein +Christ but sae to see God wi' hert and un'erstan'in baith as to ken that +yer seein him? Ye min' hoo the Lord said nane could ken the Father but +the man to whom the Son revealt him? Sir, it's fell time ye had a glimp +o' that! Ye ken naething till ye ken God--the only ane a man can truly +and railly ken!" + +"Well, you're a long way ahead of me, and for the present I'm afraid +there's nothing left but to say good-night to you!" + +And therewith the minister departed. + +"Lord," said the soutar, as he sat guiding his awl through sole and welt +and upper of the shoe on his last, "there's surely something at work i' +the yoong man! Surely he canna be that far frae waukin up to see and ken +that he sees and kens naething! Lord, pu' doon the dyke o' learnin and +self-richteousness that he canna see ower the tap o', and lat him see +thee upo' the ither side o' 't. Lord, sen' him the grace o' oppen e'en +to see whaur and what he is, that he may cry oot wi' the lave o' 's, +puir blin' bodies, to them that winna see. 'Wauk, thoo that sleepest, +and come oot o' thy grave, and see the licht o' the Father i' the face +o' the Son.'" + +But the minister went away intent on classifying the soutar by finding +out with what sect of the middle-age mystics to place him. At the same +time something strange seemed to hover about the man, refusing to be +handled in that way. Something which he called his own religious sense +appeared to know something of what the soutar must mean, though he could +neither isolate nor define it. + +Faithlessly as he had behaved to Isy, Blatherwick was not consciously, +that is with purpose or intent, a deceitful man. He had, on the +contrary, always cherished a strong faith in his own honour. But faith +in a thing, in an idea, in a notion, is no proof, or even sign that the +thing actually exists: in the present case it had no root except in +the man's thought of himself, in his presentation to himself of his own +reflected self. The man who thought so much of his honour was in truth a +moral unreality, a cowardly fellow, a sneak who, in the hope of escaping +consequences, carried himself as beyond reproof. How should such a one +ever have the power of spiritual vision developed in him? How should +such a one ever see God--ever exist in the same region in which the +soutar had long taken up his abode? Still there was this much reality +in him, and he had made this much progress that, holding fast by his +resolve henceforward no more to slide, he was aware also of a dim +suspicion of something he had not seen, but which he might become able +to see; and was half resolved to think and read, for the future, with +the intent to find out what this strange man seemed to know, or thought +he knew. + +Soon finding himself unable, however, try as hard as he might, to be +sure of anything, he became weary of the effort, and sank back into the +old, self-satisfied, blind sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Out of this quiescence, however, a pang from the past one morning +suddenly waked him, and almost without consciousness of a volition, he +found himself at the soutar's door. Maggie opened it with the baby in +her arms, with whom she had just been having a game. Her face was in a +glow, her hair tossed about, and her dark eyes flashing with excitement. +To Blatherwick, without any great natural interest in life, and in the +net of a haunting trouble which caused him no immediate apprehension, +the young girl, of so little account in the world, and so far below him +as he thought, affected him as beautiful; and, indeed, she was far more +beautiful than he was able to appreciate. It must be remembered too, +that it was not long since he had been refused by another; and at such +a time a man is readier to fall in love afresh. Trouble then, lack of +interest, and late repulse, had laid James's heart, such as it was, open +to assault from a new quarter whence he foresaw no danger. + +"That's a very fine baby you have!" he said. "Whose is he?" + +"Mine, sir," answered Maggie, with some triumph, for she thought every +one must know the story of her treasure. + +"Oh, indeed; I did not know!" answered the parson, bewildered. + +"At least," Maggie resumed a little hurriedly, "I have the best right to +him!" and there stopped. + +"She cannot possibly be his mother!" thought the minister, and resolved +to question his housekeeper about the child. + +"Is your father in the house?" he asked, and without waiting for an +answer, went in. "Such a big boy is too heavy for you to carry!" he +added, as he laid his hand on the latch of the kitchen door. + +"No ae bit!" rejoined Maggie, with a little contempt at his +disparagement of her strength. "And wha's to cairry him but me?" + +Huddling the boy to her bosom, she went on talking to him in childish +guise, as she lifted the latch for the minister:-- + +"Wad he hae my pet gang traivellin the warl' upo thae twa bonny wee legs +o' his ain, wantin the wings he left ahint him? Na, na! they maun grow a +heap stronger first. His ain mammie wad cairry him gien he war twice the +size! Noo, we s' gang but the hoose and see daddy." + +She bore him after the minister, and sat down with him on her own stool, +beside her father, who looked up, with his hands and knees in skilful +consort of labour. + +"Weel, minister, hoo are ye the day? Is the yerd ony lichter upo' the +tap o' ye?" he said, with a smile that was almost pauky. + +"I do not understand you, Mr. MacLear!" answered James with dignity. + +"Na, ye canna! Gien ye could, ye wouldna be sae comfortable as ye seem!" + +"I cannot think, Mr. MacLear, why you should be rude to me!" + +"Gien ye saw the hoose on fire aboot a man deid asleep, maybe ye micht +be in ower great a hurry to be polite til 'im!" remarked the soutar. + +"Dare you suggest, sir, that I have been drinking?" cried the parson. + +"Not for a single moment, sir; and I beg yer pardon for causin ye so to +mistak me: I do not believe, sir, ye war ever ance owertaen wi' drink in +a' yer life! I fear I'm jist ower ready to speyk in parables, for it's +no a'body that can or wull un'erstan' them! But the last time ye left me +upo' this same stule, it was wi' that cry o' the Apostle o' the Gentiles +i' my lug--'Wauk up, thoo that sleepest!' For even the deid wauk whan +the trumpet blatters i' their lug!" + +"It seems to me that there the Apostle makes allusion to the condition +of the Gentile nations, asleep in their sins! But it may apply, +doubtless, to the conversion of any unbelieving man from the error of +his ways." + +"Weel," said the soutar, turning half round, and looking the minister +full in the face, "are _ye_ convertit, sir? Or are ye but turnin frae +side to side i' yer coffin--seekin a sleepin assurance that ye're +waukin?" + +"You are plain-spoken anyway!" said the minister, rising. + +"Maybe I am at last, sir! And maybe I hae been ower lang in comin +to that same plainness! Maybe I was ower feart for yer coontin me +ill-fashiont--what ye ca' _rude!_" + +The parson was half-way to the door, for he was angry, which was not +surprising. But with the latch in his hand he turned, and, lo, there in +the middle of the floor, with the child in her arms, stood the beautiful +Maggie, as if in act to follow him: both were staring after him. + +"Dinna anger him, father," said Maggie; "he disna ken better!" + +"Weel ken I, my dautie, that he disna ken better; but I canna help +thinkin he's maybe no that far frae the waukin. God grant I be richt +aboot that! Eh, gien he wud but wauk up, what a man he would mak! He +kens a heap--only what's that whaur a man has no licht?" + +"I certainly do not see things as you would have me believe you see +them; and you are hardly capable of persuading me that you do, I fear!" +said Blatherwick, with the angry flush again on his face, which had for +a moment been dispelled by pallor. + +But here the baby seeming to recognize the unsympathetic tone of the +conversation, pulled down his lovely little mouth, and sent from it a +dread and potent cry. Clasping him to her bosom, Maggie ran from the +room with him, jostling James in the doorway as he let her pass. + +"I am afraid I frightened the little man!" he said. + +"'Deed, sir, it may ha' been you, or it may ha' been me 'at frichtit +him," rejoined the soutar. "It's a thing I'm sair to blame in--that, +whan I'm in richt earnest, I'm aye ready to speyk as gien I was angert. +Sir, I humbly beg yer pardon." + +"As humbly I beg yours," returned the parson; "I was in the wrong." + +The heart of the old man was drawn afresh to the youth. He laid aside +his shoe, and turning on his stool, took James's hand in both of his, +and said solemnly and lovingly-- + +"This moment I wad wullin'ly die, sir, that the licht o' that uprisin o' +which we spak micht brak throuw upon ye!" + +"I believe you, sir," answered James; "but," he went on, with an attempt +at humour, "it wouldn't be so much for you to do after all, seeing you +would straightway find yourself in a much better place!" + +"Maybe whaur the penitent thief sat, some auchteen hunner year ago, +waitin to be called up higher!" rejoined the soutar with a watery smile. + +The parson opened the door, and went home--where his knees at once found +their way to the carpet. + +From that night Blatherwick began to go often to the soutar's, and soon +went almost every other day, for at least a few minutes; and on such +occasions had generally a short interview with Maggie and the baby, in +both of whom, having heard from the soutar the story of the child, he +took a growing interest. + +"You seem to love him as if he were your own, Maggie!" he said one +morning to the girl. + +"And isna he my ain? Didna God himsel gie me the bairn intil my vera +airms--or a' but?" she rejoined. + +"Suppose he were to die!" suggested the minister. "Such children often +do!" + +"I needna think aboot that," she answered. "I would just hae to say, +as mony ane has had to say afore me: 'The Lord gave,'--ye ken the rest, +sir!" + +But day by day Maggie grew more beautiful in the minister's eyes, until +at last he was not only ready to say that he loved her, but for her sake +to disregard worldly and ambitious considerations. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +On the morning of a certain Saturday, therefore, which day of the week +he always made a holiday, he resolved to let her know without further +delay that he loved her; and the rather that on the next day he was +engaged to preach for a brother clergyman at Deemouth, and felt that, +his fate with Maggie unknown, his mind would not be cool enough for him +to do well in the pulpit. But neither disappointment nor a fresh love +had yet served to set him free from his old vanity or arrogance: he +regarded his approaching declaration as about to confer great honour +as well as favour upon the damsel of low estate, about to be invited +to share in his growing distinction. In his late disappointment he had +asked a lady to descend a little from her social pedestal, in the belief +that he offered her a greater than proportionate counter-elevation; and +now in his suit to Maggie he was almost unable to conceive a possibility +of failure. When she would have shown him into the kitchen, he took +her by the arm, and leading her to the _ben-end_, at once began his +concocted speech. Scarcely had she gathered his meaning, however, when +he was checked by her startled look. + +"And what wad ye hae me dee wi' my bairn?" she asked instantly, without +sign of perplexity, smiling on the little one as at some absurdity in +her arms rather than suggested to her mind. + +But the minister was sufficiently in love to disregard the unexpected +indication. His pride was indeed a little hurt, but he resisted any show +of offence, reflecting that her anxiety was not altogether an unnatural +one. + +"Oh, we shall easily find some experienced mother," he answered, "who +will understand better than you even how to take care of him!" + +"Na, na!" she rejoined. "I hae baith a father and a wean to luik efter; +and that's aboot as muckle as I'll ever be up til!" + +So saying, she rose and carried the little one up to the room her father +now occupied, nor cast a single glance in the direction of her would-be +lover. + +Now at last he was astonished. Could it mean that she had not understood +him? It could not be that she did not appreciate his offer! Her devotion +to the child was indeed absurdly engrossing, but that would soon come +right! He could have no fear of such a rivalry, however unpleasant at +the moment! That little vagrant to come between him and the girl he +would make his wife! + +He glanced round him: the room looked very empty! He heard her +oft-interrupted step through the thin floor: she was lavishing caresses +on the senseless little animal! He caught up his hat, and with a flushed +face went straight to the soutar where he sat at work. + +"I have come to ask you, Mr. MacLear, if you will give me your daughter +to be my wife!" he said. + +"Ow, sae that's it!" returned the soutar, without raising his eyes. + +"You have no objection, I hope?" continued the minister, finding him +silent. + +"What says she hersel? Ye comena to me first, I reckon!" + +"She said, or implied at least, that she could not leave the child. But +she cannot mean that!" + +"And what for no?--There's nae need for me to objeck!" + +"But I shall soon persuade her to withdraw that objection!" + +"Then I should _hae_ objections--mair nor ane--to put to the fore!" + +"You surprise me! Is not a woman to leave father and mother and cleave +to her husband?" + +"Ow ay--sae be the woman is his wife! Than lat nane sun'er them!--But +there's anither sayin, sir, that I doobt may hae something to dee wi' +Maggie's answer!" + +"And what, pray, may that be?" + +"That man or woman must leave father and mother, wife and child, for the +sake o' the Son o' Man." + +"You surely are not papist enough to think that means a minister is not +to marry?" + +"Not at all, sir; but I doobt that's what it'll come til atween you and +Maggie!" + +"You mean that she will not marry?" + +"I mean that she winna merry _you_, sir." + +"But just think how much more she could do for Christ as the minister's +wife!" + +"I'm 'maist convinced she wad coont merryin you as tantamount to refusin +to lea' a' for the Son o' Man." + +"Why should she think that?" + +"Because, sae far as I see, she canna think that _ye_ hae left a' for +_him_." + +"Ah, that is what you have been teaching her! She does not say that of +herself! You have not left her free to choose!" + +"The queston never came up atween's. She's perfecly free to tak her ain +gait--and she kens she is!--Ye dinna seem to think it possible she +sud tak _his_ wull raither nor yours!--that the love o' Christ should +constrain her ayont the love offert her by Jeames Bletherwick!--We _hae_ +conversed aboot ye, sir, but niver differt!" + +"But allowing us--you and me--to be of different opinions on some +points, must that be a reason why she and I should not love one +another?" + +"No reason whatever, sir--if ye can and do: _that_ point would be +already settlet. But ye winna get Maggie to merry ye sae long as she +disna believe ye loe her Lord as well as she loes him hersel. It's no +a common love that Maggie beirs to her Lord; and gien ye loed her wi' a +luve worthy o' her, ye would see that!" + +"Then you will promise me not to interfere?" + +"I'll promise ye naething, sir, excep to do my duty by her--sae far as +I understan' what that duty is. Gien I thoucht--which the God o' my life +forbid!--that Maggie didna lo'e him as weel at least as I lo'e him, I +would gang upo' my auld knees til her, to entreat her to loe him wi' a' +her heart and sowl and stren'th and min';--and whan I had done that, she +micht merry wha she wad--hangman or minister: no a word would I say! +For trouble she maun hae, and trouble she wull get--I thank my God, who +giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not!" + +"Then I am free to do my best to win her?" + +"Ye are, sir; and mair--afore the morn's mornin, I winna pass a word wi' +her upo the subjeck." + +"Thank you, sir," returned the minister, and took his leave. + +"A fine lad! a fine lad!" said the soutar aloud to himself, as +he resumed the work for a moment interrupted,"--but no clear--no +crystal-clear--no clear like the Son o' Man!" + +He looked up, and saw his daughter in the doorway. + +"No a word, lassie!" he cried. "I'm no for ye this meenute.--No a word +to me aboot onything or onybody the day, but what's absolute necessar!" + +"As ye wull! father," rejoined Maggie.--"I'm gaein oot to seek auld +Eppy; she was intil the baker's shop a meenute ago!--The bairnie's +asleep." + +"Vera weel! Gien I hear him, I s' atten' til 'im," answered the soutar. + +"Thank ye, father," returned Maggie, and left the house. + +But the minister, having to start that same afternoon for Deemouth, and +feeling it impossible, things remaining as they were, to preach at his +ease, had been watching the soutar's door: he saw it open and Maggie +appear. For a moment he flattered himself she was coming to look for +him, in order to tell him how sorry she was for her late behaviour to +him. But her start when first she became aware of his presence, did not +fail, notwithstanding his conceit, to satisfy him that such was not her +intent. He made haste to explain his presence. + +"I've been waiting all this time on the chance of seeing you, Margaret!" +he said. "I am starting within an hour or so for Deemouth, but could not +bear to go without telling you that your father has no objection to my +saying to you what I please. He means to have a talk with you to-morrow +morning, and as I cannot possibly get back from Deemouth before Monday, +I must now express the hope that he will not succeed in persuading you +to doubt the reality of my love. I admire your father more than I can +tell you, but he seems to hold the affections God has given us of small +account compared with his judgment of the strength and reality of them." + +"Did he no tell ye I was free to do or say what I liked?" rejoined +Maggie rather sharply. + +"Yes; he did say something to that effect." + +"Then, for mysel, and i' the name o' my father, I tell ye, Maister +Bletherwick, I dinna care to see ye again." + +"Do you mean what you say, Margaret?" rejoined the minister, in a voice +that betrayed not a little genuine emotion. + +"I do mean it," she answered. + +"Not if I tell you that I am both ready and willing to take the child +and bring him up as my own?" + +"He wouldna _be_ yer ain!" + +"Quite as much as yours!" + +"Hardly," she returned, with a curious little laugh. "But, as I daur say +my father tellt ye, I canna believe ye lo'e God wi' a' yer hert." + +"Dare you say that for yourself, Margaret?" + +"No; but I do want to love God wi' my whole hert. Mr. Bletherwick, are +ye a rael Christian? Or are ye sure ye're no a hypocreet? I wad like to +ken. But I dinna believe ye ken yersel!" + +"Well, perhaps I do not. But I see there is no occasion to say more!" + +"Na, nane," answered Maggie. + +He lifted his hat, and turned away to the coach-office. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It would be difficult to represent the condition of mind in which +Blatherwick sat on the box-seat of the Defiance coach that evening, +behind four gray thorough-breds, carrying him at the rate of ten miles +an hour towards Deemouth. Hurt pride, indignation, and a certain mild +revenge in contemplating Maggie's disappointment when at length she +should become aware of the distinction he had gained and she had lost, +were its main components. He never noted a feature of the rather tame +scenery that went hurrying past him, and yet the time did not seem to go +slowly, for he was astonished when the coach stopped, and he found his +journey at an end. + +He got down rather cramped and stiff, and, as it was still early, +started for a stroll about the streets to stretch his legs, and see what +was going on, glad that he had not to preach in the morning, and would +have all the afternoon to go over his sermon once more in that dreary +memory of his. The streets were brilliant with gas, for Saturday was +always a sort of market-night, and at that moment they were crowded with +girls going merrily home from the paper-mill at the close of the week's +labour. To Blatherwick, who had very little sympathy with gladness of +any sort, the sight only called up by contrast the very different scene +on which his eyes would look down the next evening from the vantage +coigne of the pulpit, in a church filled with an eminently respectable +congregation--to which he would be setting forth the results of certain +late geographical discoveries and local identifications, not knowing +that already even later discoveries had rendered all he was about to say +more than doubtful. + +But while, sunk in a not very profound reverie, he was in the act of +turning the corner of a narrow wynd, he was all but knocked down by +a girl whom another in the crowd had pushed violently against him. +Recoiling from the impact, and unable to recover her equilibrium, she +fell helplessly prostrate on the granite pavement, and lay motionless. +Annoyed and half-angry, he was on the point of walking on, heedless +of the accident, when something in the pale face among the coarse and +shapeless shoes that had already gathered thick around it, arrested him +with a strong suggestion of some one he had once known. But the same +moment the crowd hid her from his view; and, shocked even to be reminded +of Isy in such an assemblage, he turned resolutely away, and cherishing +the thought of the many chances against its being she, walked steadily +on. When he looked round again ere crossing the street, the crowd had +vanished, the pavement was nearly empty, and a policeman who just then +came up, had seen nothing of the occurrence, remarking only that the +girls at the paper-mills were a rough lot. + +A moment more and his mind was busy with a passage in his sermon which +seemed about to escape his memory: it was still as impossible for him to +talk freely about the things a minister is supposed to love best, as +it had been when he began to preach. It was not, certainly, out of the +fulness of the heart that _his_ mouth ever spoke! + +He sought the house of Mr. Robertson, the friend he had come to assist, +had supper with him and his wife, and retired early. In the morning he +went to his friend's church, in the afternoon rehearsed his sermon to +himself, and when the evening came, climbed the pulpit-stair, and soon +appeared engrossed in its rites. But as he seemed to be pouring out his +soul in the long extempore prayer, he suddenly opened his eyes as +if unconsciously compelled, and that moment saw, in the front of the +gallery before him, a face he could not doubt to be that of Isy. Her +gaze was fixed upon him; he saw her shiver, and knew that she saw and +recognized him. He felt himself grow blind. His head swam, and he felt +as if some material force was bending down his body sideways from her. +Such, nevertheless, was his self-possession, that he reclosed his eyes, +and went on with his prayer--if that could in any sense be prayer where +he knew neither word he uttered, thing he thought, nor feeling that +moved him. With Claudius in _Hamlet_ he might have said, + + My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: + Words without thoughts never to heaven go! + +But while yet speaking, and holding his eyes fast that he might not +see her again, his consciousness all at once returned--it seemed to him +through a mighty effort of the will, and upon that he immediately began +to pride himself. Instantly there-upon he was aware of his thoughts and +words, and knew himself able to control his actions and speech. All +the while, however, that he conducted the rest of the "service," he was +constantly aware, although he did not again look at her, of the figure +of Isy before him, with its gaze fixed motionless upon him, and began at +last to wonder vaguely whether she might not be dead, and come back from +the grave to his mind a mysterious thought-spectre. But at the close of +the sermon, when the people stood up to sing, she rose with them; and +the half-dazed preacher sat down, exhausted with emotion, conflict, and +effort at self-command. When he rose once more for the benediction, +she was gone; and yet again he took refuge in the doubt whether she had +indeed been present at all. + +When Mrs. Robertson had retired, and James was sitting with his host +over their tumbler of toddy, a knock came to the door. Mr. Robertson +went to open it, and James's heart sank within him. But in a moment his +host returned, saying it was a policeman to let him know that a woman +was lying drunk at the bottom of his doorsteps, and to inquire what he +wished done with her. + +"I told him," said Mr. Robertson, "to take the poor creature to the +station, and in the morning I would see her. When she's ill the next +day, you see," he added, "I may have a sort of chance with her; but it +is seldom of any use." + +A horrible suspicion that it was Isy herself had seized on Blatherwick; +and for a moment he was half inclined to follow the men to the station; +but his friend would be sure to go with him, and what might not come of +it! Seeing that she had kept silent so long, however, it seemed to him +more than probable that she had lost all care about him, and if let +alone would say nothing. Thus he reasoned, lost in his selfishness, and +shrinking from the thought of looking the disreputable creature in the +eyes. Yet the awful consciousness haunted him that, if she had fallen +into drunken habits and possibly worse, it was his fault, and the ruin +of the once lovely creature lay at his door, and his alone. + +He made haste to his room, and to bed, where for a long while he +lay unable even to think. Then all at once, with gathered force, the +frightful reality, the keen, bare truth broke upon him like a huge, cold +wave; he had a clear vision of his guilt, and the vision was +conscious of itself as _his_ guilt; he saw it rounded in a gray fog of +life-chilling dismay. What was he but a troth-breaker, a liar--and that +in strong fact, not in feeble tongue? "What am I," said Conscience, "but +a cruel, self-seeking, loveless horror--a contemptible sneak, who, in +dread of missing the praises of men, crept away unseen, and left the +woman to bear alone our common sin?" What was he but a whited sepulchre, +full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness?--a fellow posing in the +pulpit as an example to the faithful, but knowing all the time that +somewhere in the land lived a woman--once a loving, trusting woman--who +could with a word hold him up to the world a hypocrite and a dastard-- + + A fixed figure for the Time of scorn + To point his slow unmoving finger at! + +He sprang to the floor; the cold hand of an injured ghost seemed +clutching feebly at his throat. But, in or out of bed, what could he +do? Utterly helpless, he thought, but in truth not daring to look the +question as to what he could do in the face, he crept back ignominiously +into his bed; and, growing a little less uncomfortable, began to reason +with himself that things were not so bad as they had for that moment +seemed; that many another had failed in like fashion with him, but +his fault had been forgotten, and had never reappeared against him! No +culprit was ever required to bear witness against himself! He must learn +to discipline and repress his over-sensitiveness, otherwise it would one +day seize him at a disadvantage, and betray him into self-exposure! + +Thus he reasoned--and sank back once more among the all but dead; the +loud alarum of his rousing conscience ceased, and he fell asleep in the +resolve to get away from Deemouth the first thing in the morning, before +Mr. Robertson should be awake. How much better it had been for him to +hold fast his repentant mood, and awake to tell everything! but he was +very far from having even approached any such resolution. Indeed no +practical idea of his, however much brooded over at night, had ever +lived to bear fruit in the morning; not once had he ever embodied in +action an impulse toward atonement! He could welcome the thought of a +final release from sin and suffering at the dissolution of nature, +but he always did his best to forget that at that very moment he was +suffering because of wrong he had done for which he was taking no least +trouble to make amends. He had lived for himself, to the destruction of +one whom he had once loved, and to the denial of his Lord and Master! + +More than twice on his way home in the early morning, he all but turned +to go back to the police-station, but it was, as usual, only _all but_, +and he kept walking on. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Already, ere James's flight was discovered, morning saw Mr. Robertson +on his way to do what he might for the redemption of one of whom he +knew little or nothing: the policemen returning from their night's duty, +found him already at the door of the office. He was at once admitted, +for he was well known to most of them. He found the poor woman miserably +recovered from the effects of her dissipation, and looking so woebegone, +that the heart of the good man was immediately filled with profoundest +pity, recognizing before him a creature whose hope was wasted to the +verge of despair. She neither looked up nor spoke; but what he could see +of her face appeared only ashamed, neither sullen nor vengeful. When +he spoke to her, she lifted her head a little, but not her eyes to his +face, confessing apparently that she had nothing to say for herself; and +he saw her plainly at the point of taking refuge in the Dee. Tenderly, +as if to the little one he had left behind him in bed, he spoke in +her scarce listening ear child-soothing words of almost inarticulate +sympathy, which yet his tone carried where they were meant to go. She +lifted her lost eyes at length, saw his face, and burst into tears. + +"Na, na," she cried, through tearing sobs, "ye canna help me, sir! +There's naething 'at you or onybody can dee for me! But I'm near the +mou o' the pit, and God be thankit, I'll be ower the rim o' 't or I hae +grutten my last greit oot!--For God's sake gie me a drink--a drink o' +onything!" + +"I daurna gie ye onything to ca' drink," answered the minister, who +could scarcely speak for the swelling in his throat. "The thing to dee +ye guid is a cup o' het tay! Ye canna hae had a moofu' this mornin! I +hae a cab waitin me at the door, and ye'll jist get in, my puir bairn, +and come awa hame wi' me! My wife'll be doon afore we win back, and +she'll hae a cup o' tay ready for ye in a moment! You and me 'ill hae +oor brakfast thegither." + +"Ken ye what ye're sayin, sir? I daurna luik an honest wuman i' the +face. I'm sic as ye ken naething aboot." + +"I ken a heap aboot fowk o' a' kin's--mair a heap, I'm thinkin, nor ye +ken yersel!--I ken mair aboot yersel, tee, nor ye think; I hae seen ye +i' my ain kirk mair nor ance or twice. The Sunday nicht afore last I was +preachin straucht intil yer bonny face, and saw ye greitin, and maist +grat mysel. Come awa hame wi' me, my dear; my wife's anither jist like +mysel, an'll turn naething to ye but the smilin side o' her face, I s' +un'ertak! She's a fine, herty, couthy, savin kin' o' wuman, my wife! +Come ye til her, and see!" + +Isy rose to her feet. + +"Eh, but I would like to luik ance mair intil the face o' a bonny, clean +wuman!" she said. "I'll gang, sir," she went on, with sudden resolve +"--only, I pray ye, sir, mak speed, and tak me oot o' the sicht o'fowk!" + +"Ay, ay, come awa; we s' hae ye oot o' this in a moment," answered Mr. +Robertson.--"Put the fine doon to me," he whispered to the inspector as +they passed him on their way out. + +The man returned his nod, and took no further notice. + +"I thoucht that was what would come o' 't!" he murmured to himself, +looking after them with a smile. But indeed he knew little of what was +going to come of it! + +The good minister, whose heart was the teacher of his head, and who was +not ashamed either of himself or his companion, showed Isy into their +little breakfast-parlour, and running up the stair to his wife, told her +he had brought the woman home, and wanted her to come down at once. Mrs. +Robertson, who was dressing her one child, hurried her toilet, gave over +the little one to the care of her one servant, and made haste to welcome +the poor shivering night-bird, waiting with ruffled feathers below. When +she opened the door, the two women stood for a moment silently gazing +on each other--then the wife opened her arms wide, and the girl fled to +their shelter; but her strength failing her on the way, she fell to the +floor. Instantly the other was down by her side. The husband came to her +help; and between them they got her at once on the little couch. + +"Shall I get the brandy?" said Mrs. Robertson. + +"Try a cup of tea," he answered. + +His wife made haste, and soon had the tea poured out and cooling. But +Isy still lay motionless. Her hostess raised the helpless head upon her +arm, put a spoonful of the tea to her lips, and found to her joy that +she tried to swallow it. The next minute she opened her eyes, and would +have risen; but the rescuing hand held her down. + +"I want to tell ye," moaned Isy with feeble expostulation, "'at ye dinna +ken wha ye hae taen intil yer hoose! Lat me up to get my breath, or I'll +no be able to tell ye." + +"Drink your tea," answered the other, "and then say what you like. +There's no hurry. You'll have time enough." + +The poor girl opened her eyes wide, and gazed for a moment at Mrs. +Robertson. Then she took the cup and drank the tea. Her new friend went +on-- + +"You must just be content to bide where you are a day or two. Ye're no +to fash yersel aboot onything: I have clothes enough to give you all the +change you can want. Hold your tongue, please, and finish your tea." + +"Eh, mem," cried Isy, "fowk 'ill say ill o' ye, gien they see the like +o' me in yer hoose!" + +"Lat them say, and say 't again! What's fowk but muckle geese!" + +"But there's the minister and his character!" she persisted. + +"Hoots! what cares the minister?" said his wife. "Speir at him there, +what he thinks o' clash." + +"'Deed," answered her husband, "I never heedit it eneuch to tell! +There's but ae word I heed, and that's my Maister's!" + +"Eh, but ye canna lift me oot o' the pit!" groaned the poor girl. + +"God helpin, I can," returned the minister. "--But ye're no i' the pit +yet by a lang road; and oot o' that road I s' hae ye, please God, afore +anither nicht has darkent!" + +"I dinna ken what's to come o' me!" again she groaned. + +"That we'll sune see! Brakfast's to come o' ye first, and syne my wife +and me we'll sit in jeedgment upo ye, and redd things up. Min' ye're to +say what ye like, and naither ill fowk nor unco guid sail come nigh ye." + +A pitiful smile flitted across Isy's face, and with it returned the +almost babyish look that used to form part of her charm. Like an +obedient child, she set herself to eat and drink what she could; and +when she had evidently done her best-- + +"Now put up your feet again on the sofa, and tell us everything," said +the minister. + +"No," returned Isy; "I'm not at liberty to tell you _everything_." + +"Then tell us what you please--so long as it's true, and that I am sure +it will be," he rejoined. + +"I will, sir," she answered. + +For several moments she was silent, as if thinking how to begin; then, +after a gasp or two,-- + +"I'm not a good woman," she began. "Perhaps I am worse than you think +me.--Oh, my baby! my baby!" she cried, and burst into tears. + +"There's nae that mony o' 's just what ither fowk think us," said the +minister's wife. "We're in general baith better and waur nor that.--But +tell me ae thing: what took ye, last nicht, straucht frae the kirk to +the public? The twa haudna weel thegither!" + +"It was this, ma'am," she replied, resuming the more refined speech to +which, since living at Deemouth, she had been less accustomed--"I had +a shock that night from suddenly seeing one in the church whom I had +thought never to see again; and when I got into the street, I turned so +sick that some kind body gave me whisky, and that was how, not having +been used to it for some time, that I disgraced myself. But indeed, I +have a much worse trouble and shame upon me than that--one you would +hardly believe, ma'am!" + +"I understand," said Mrs. Robertson, modifying her speech also the +moment she perceived the change in that of her guest: "you saw him +in church--the man that got you into trouble! I thought that must be +it!--won't you tell me all about it?" + +"I will not tell his name. _I_ was the most in fault, for I knew +better; and I would rather die than do him any more harm!--Good morning, +ma'am!--I thank you kindly, sir! Believe me I am not ungrateful, +whatever else I may be that is bad." + +She rose as she spoke, but Mrs. Robertson got to the door first, and +standing between her and it, confronted her with a smile. + +"Don't think I blame you for holding your tongue, my dear. I don't want +you to tell. I only thought it might be a relief to you. I believe, if +I were in the same case--or, at least, I hope so--that hot pincers +wouldn't draw his name out of me. What right has any vulgar inquisitive +woman to know the thing gnawing at your heart like a live serpent? +I will never again ask you anything about him.--There! you have my +promise!--Now sit down again, and don't be afraid. Tell me what you +please, and not a word more. The minister is sure to find something to +comfort you." + +"What can anybody say or do to comfort such as me, ma'am? I am +lost--lost out of sight! Nothing can save me! The Saviour himself +wouldn't open the door to a woman that left her suckling child out in +the dark night!--That's what I did!" she cried, and ended with a wail as +from a heart whose wound eternal years could never close. + +In a while growing a little calmer-- + +"I would not have you think, ma'am," she resumed, "that I wanted to get +rid of the darling. But my wits went all of a sudden, and a terror, I +don't know of what, came upon me. Could it have been the hunger, do you +think? I laid him down in the heather, and ran from him. How far I went, +I do not know. All at once I came to myself, and knew what I had done, +and ran to take him up. But whether I lost my way back, or what I did, +or how it was, I cannot tell, only I could not find him! Then for a +while I think I must have been clean out of my mind, and was always +seeing him torn by the foxes, and the corbies picking out his eyes. Even +now, at night, every now and then, it comes back, and I cannot get the +sight out of my head! For a while it drove me to drink, but I got rid of +that until just last night, when again I was overcome.--Oh, if I could +only keep from seeing the beasts and birds at his little body when I'm +falling asleep!" + +She gave a smothered scream, and hid her face in her hands. Mrs. +Robertson, weeping herself, sought to comfort her, but it seemed in +vain. + +"The worst of it is," Isy resumed, "--for I must confess everything, +ma'am!--is that I cannot tell what I may have done in the drink. I may +even have told his name, though I remember nothing about it! It must +be months, I think, since I tasted a drop till last night; and now I've +done it again, and I'm not fit he should ever cast a look at me! My +heart's just like to break when I think I may have been false to him, +as well as false to his child! If all the devils would but come and tear +me, I would say, thank ye, sirs!" + +"My dear," came the voice of the parson from where he sat listening to +every word she uttered, "my dear, naething but the han' o' the Son o' +Man'll come nigh ye oot o' the dark, saft-strokin yer hert, and closin +up the terrible gash intil't. I' the name o' God, the saviour o' men, I +tell ye, dautie, the day 'ill come whan ye'll smile i' the vera face o' +the Lord himsel, at the thoucht o' what he has broucht ye throuw! Lord +Christ, haud a guid grup o' thy puir bairn and hers, and gie her back +her ain. Thy wull be deen!--and that thy wull's a' for redemption!--Gang +on wi' yer tale, my lassie." + +"'Deed, sir, I can say nae mair--and seem to hae nae mair to say.--I'm +some--some sick like!" + +She fell back on the sofa, white as death. + +The parson was a big man; he took her up in his arms, and carried her to +a room they had always ready on the chance of a visit from "one of the +least of these." + +At the top of the stair stood their little daughter, a child of five +or six, wanting to go down to her mother, and wondering why she was not +permitted. + +"Who is it, moder?" she whispered, as Mrs. Robertson passed her, +following her husband and Isy. "Is she very dead?" + +"No, darling," answered her mother; "it is an angel that has lost her +way, and is tired--so tired!--You must be very quiet, and not disturb +her. Her head is going to ache very much." + +The child turned and went down the stair, step by step, softly, saying-- + +"I will tell my rabbit not to make any noise--and to be as white as he +can." + +Once more they succeeded in bringing back to the light of consciousness +her beclouded spirit. She woke in a soft white bed, with two faces of +compassion bending over her, closed her eyes again with a smile of sweet +content, and was soon wrapt in a wholesome slumber. + +In the meantime, the caitiff minister had reached his manse, and found +a ghastly loneliness awaiting him--oh, how much deeper than that of the +woman he had forsaken! She had lost her repute and her baby; he had lost +his God! He had never seen his shape, and had not his word abiding in +him; and now the vision of him was closed in an unfathomable abyss of +darkness, far, far away from any point his consciousness could reach! +The signs of God were around him in the Book, around him in the world, +around him in his own existence--but the signs only! God did not +speak to him, did not manifest himself to him. God was not where James +Blatherwick had ever sought him; he was not in any place where was the +least likelihood of his ever looking for or finding him! + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +It must be remembered that Blatherwick knew nothing of the existence +of his child: such knowledge might have modified the half-conscious +satisfaction with which, on his way home, he now and then saw a +providence in the fact that he had been preserved from marrying a +woman who had now proved herself capable of disgracing him in the very +streets. But during his slow journey of forty miles, most of which he +made on foot, hounded on from within to bodily motion, he had again, as +in the night, to pass through many an alternation of thought and feeling +and purpose. To and fro in him, up and down, this way and that, went +the changing currents of self-judgment, of self-consolement, and of +fresh-gathering dread. Never for one persistent minute was his mind +clear, his purpose determined, his line set straight for honesty. He +must live up--not to the law of righteousness, but to the show of what +a minister ought to be! he must appear unto men! In a word, he must +keep up the deception he had begun in childhood, and had, until of late +years, practised unknowingly! Now he knew it, and went on, not knowing +how to get rid of it; or rather, shrinking in utter cowardice from the +confession which alone could have set him free. Now he sought only how +to conceal his deception and falseness. He had no pleasure in them, +but was consciously miserable in knowing himself not what he seemed--in +being compelled, as he fancied himself in excuse, to look like one that +had not sinned. In his heart he grumbled that God should have forsaken +him so far as to allow him to disgrace himself before his conscience. +He did not yet see that his foulness was ingrained; that the Ethiopian +could change his skin, or the leopard his spots, as soon as he; that he +had never yet looked purity in the face; that the fall which disgraced +him in his own eyes was but the necessary outcome of his character--that +it was no accident but an unavoidable result; that his true nature had +but disclosed itself, and appeared--as everything hid must be known, +everything covered must be revealed. Even _to begin_ the purification +without which his moral and spiritual being must perish eternally, +he must dare to look on himself as he was: he _would_ not recognize +himself, and thought he lay and would lie hid from all. Dante describes +certain of the redeemed as lying each concealed in his or her own cocoon +of emitted light: James lay hidden like a certain insect in its own +_gowk-spittle_. It is strange, but so it is, that many a man will never +yield to see himself until he become aware of the eyes of other men +fixed upon him; they seeing him, and he knowing that they see him, then +first, even to himself, will he be driven to confess what he has long +all but known. Blatherwick's hour was on its way, slow-coming, but no +longer to be shunned. His soul was ripening to self-declaration. The +ugly self must blossom, must show itself the flower, the perfection of +that evil thing he counted himself! What a hold has not God upon us in +this inevitable ripening of the unseen into the visible and present! The +flower is there, and must appear! + +In the meantime he suffered, and went on in silence, walking like a +servant of the Ancient of Days, and knowing himself a whited sepulchre. +Within him he felt the dead body that could not rest until it was laid +bare to the sun; but all the time he comforted himself that he had +not fallen a second time, and that the _once_ would not be remembered +against him: did not the fact that it was forgotten, most likely was +never known, indicate the forgiveness of God? And so, unrepentant, he +remained unforgiven, and continued a hypocrite and the slave of sin. + +But the hideous thing was not altogether concealed; something showed +under the covering whiteness! His mother saw that something shapeless +haunted him, and often asked herself what it could be, but always +shrank even from conjecturing. His father felt that he had gone from +him utterly, and that his son's feeding of the flock had done nothing to +bring him and his parents nearer to each other! What could be hidden, he +thought, beneath the mask of that unsmiling face? + +But there was a humble observer who saw deeper than the parents--John +MacLear, the soutar. + +One day, after about a fortnight, the minister walked into the workshop +of the soutar, and found him there as usual. His hands were working away +diligently, but his thoughts had for some time been brooding over the +blessed fact, that God is not the God of the perfect only, but of the +growing as well; not the God of the righteous only, but of such as +hunger and thirst after righteousness. + +"God blaw on the smoking flax, and tie up the bruised reed!" he was +saying to himself aloud, when in walked the minister. + +Now, as in some other mystical natures, a certain something had been +developed in the soutar not unlike a spirit of prophecy--an insight +which, seemingly without exercise of the will, sometimes laid bare to +him in a measure the thoughts and intents of hearts in which he was more +than usually interested; or perhaps it was rather a faculty, working +unconsciously, of putting signs together, and drawing from them +instantaneous conclusion of the fact at which they pointed. After their +greeting, he suddenly looked up at his visitor with a certain fixed +attention: the mere glance had shown him that he looked ill, and he now +saw that something in the man's heart was eating at it like a canker. +Therewith at once arose in his brain the question: could he be the +father of the little one crowing in the next room? But he shut it into +the darkest closet of his mind, shrinking from the secret of another +soul, as from the veil of the Holy of Holies! The next moment, however, +came the thought: what if the man stood in need of the offices of a +friend? It was one thing to pry into a man's secret; another, to help +him escape from it! As out of this thought the soutar sat looking at him +for a moment, the minister felt the hot blood rush to his cheeks. + +"Ye dinna luik that weel, minister," said the soutar: "is there onything +the maitter wi' ye, sir?" + +"Nothing worth mentioning," answered the parson. "I have sometimes a +touch of headache in the early morning, especially when I have sat later +than usual over my books the night before; but it always goes off during +the day." + +"Ow weel, sir, that's no, as ye say, a vera sairious thing! I couldna +help fancyin ye had something on yer min' by ord'nar!" + +"Naething, naething," answered James with a feeble laugh. "--But," he +went on--and something seemed to send the words to his lips without +giving him time to think--"it is curious you should say that, for I was +just thinking what was the real intent of the apostle in his injunction +to confess our faults one to another." + +The moment he uttered the words he felt as if he had proclaimed his +secret on the housetop; and he would have begun the sentence afresh, +with some notion of correcting it; but again he knew the hot blood shoot +to his face.--"I _must_ go on with something!" he felt rather than said +to himself, "or those sharp eyes will see through and through me!" + +"It came into my mind," he went on, "that I should like to know what +_you_ thought about the passage: it cannot surely give the least ground +for auricular confession! I understand perfectly how a man may want +to consult a friend in any difficulty--and that friend naturally the +minister; but--" + +This was by no means a thing he had meant to say, but he seemed carried +on to say he knew not what. It was as if, without his will, the will +of God was driving the man to the brink of a pure confession--to the +cleansing of his stuffed bosom "of that perilous stuff which weighs upon +the heart." + +"Do you think, for instance," he continued, thus driven, "that a man is +bound to tell _everything_--even to the friend he loves best?" + +"I think," answered the soutar after a moment's thought, "that we must +answer the _what_, before we enter upon the _how much_. And I think, +first of all we must ask--to _whom_ are we bound to confess?--and there +surely the answer is, to him to whom we have done the wrong. If we have +been grumbling in our hearts, it is to God we must confess: who else +has to do with the matter? To _Him_ we maun flee the moment oor eyes +are opent to what we've been aboot! But, gien we hae wranged ane o' oor +fallow-craturs, wha are we to gang til wi' oor confession but that same +fallow-cratur? It seems to me we maun gang to that man first--even afore +we gang to God himsel. Not one moment must we indulge procrastination on +the plea o' prayin! From our vera knees we maun rise in haste, and say +to brother or sister, 'I've done ye this or that wrang: forgie me.' God +can wait for your prayer better nor you, or him ye've wranged, can +wait for your confession! Efter that, ye maun at ance fa' to your best +endeevour to mak up for the wrang. 'Confess your sins,' I think +it means, 'each o' ye to the ither again whom ye hae dene the +offence.'--Divna ye think that's the cowmonsense o' the maitter?" + +"Indeed, I think you must be right!" replied the minister, who sat +revolving only how best, alas, to cover his retreat! "I will go home at +once and think it all over. Indeed, I am even now all but convinced that +what you say must be what the Apostle intended!" + +With a great sigh, of which he was not aware, Blatherwick rose and +walked from the kitchen, hoping he looked--not guilty, but sunk in +thought. In truth he was unable to think. Oppressed and heavy-laden with +the sense of a duty too unpleasant for performance, he went home to his +cheerless manse, where his housekeeper was the only person he had +to speak to, a woman incapable of comforting anybody. There he went +straight to his study, but, kneeling, found he could not pray the +simplest prayer; not a word would come, and he could not pray without +words! He was dead, and in hell--so far perished that he felt nothing. +He rose, and sought the open air; it brought him no restoration. He had +not heeded his friend's advice, had not entertained the thought of the +one thing possible to him--had not moved, even in spirit, toward Isy! +The only comfort he could now find for his guilty soul was the thought +that he could do nothing, for he did not know where Isy was to be found. +When he remembered the next moment that his friend Robertson must be +able to find her, he soothed his conscience with the reflection that +there was no coach till the next morning, and in the meantime he could +write: a letter would reach him almost as soon as he could himself! + +But what then would Robertson think? He might give his wife the letter +to read! She might even read it of herself, for they concealed nothing +from each other! So he only walked the faster, tired himself, and earned +an appetite as the result of his day's work! He ate a good dinner, +although with little enjoyment, and fell fast asleep in his chair. No +letter was written to Robertson that day. No letter of such sort was +ever written. The spirit was not willing, and the flesh was weakness +itself. + +In the evening he took up a learned commentary on the Book of Job; but +he never even approached the discovery of what Job wanted, received, and +was satisfied withal. He never saw that what he himself needed, but did +not desire, was the same thing--even a sight of God! He never discovered +that, when God came to Job, Job forgot all he had intended to say to +him--did not ask him a single question--knew that all was well. The +student of Scripture remained blind to the fact that the very presence +of the Living One, of the Father of men, proved sufficient in itself to +answer every question, to still every doubt! But then James's heart was +not pure like Job's, and therefore he could never have seen God; he did +not even desire to see him, and so could see nothing as it was. He read +with the blindness of the devil in his heart. + +In Marlowe's _Faust_, the student asks Mephistopheles-- + + How comes it then that thou art out of hell? + +And the demon answers him-- + + Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it; + +and again-- + + Where we are is hell; + And where hell is there must we ever be: + ... when all the world dissolves, + And every creature shall be purified, + All places shall be hell that are not heaven; + +and yet again-- + + I tell thee I am damned, and now in hell; + +and it was thus James fared; and thus he went to bed. + +And while he lay there sleepless, or walked in his death to and fro in +the room, his father and mother, some three miles away, were talking +about him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +For some time they had lain silent, thinking about him by no means +happily. They were thinking how little had been their satisfaction in +their minister-son; and had gone back in their minds to a certain time, +long before, when conferring together about him, a boy at school. + +Even then the heart of the mother had resented his coldness, his seeming +unconsciousness of his parents as having any share or interest in his +life or prospects. Scotch parents are seldom demonstrative to each other +or to their children; but not the less in them, possibly the hotter +because of their outward coldness, burns the causal fire, the central, +the deepest--that eternal fire, without which the world would turn to a +frozen clod, the love of the parent for the child. That must burn while +_the_ Father lives! that must burn until the universe _is_ the Father +and his children, and none beside. That fire, however long held down and +crushed together by the weight of unkindled fuel, must go on to gather +heat, and, gathering, it must glow, and at last break forth in the +scorching, yea devouring flames of a righteous indignation: the Father +must and _will_ be supreme, that his children perish not! But as yet +_The Father_ endured and was silent; and the child-parents also must +endure and be still! In the meantime their son remained hidden from them +as by an impervious moral hedge; he never came out from behind it, never +stood clear before them, and they were unable to break through to him: +within his citadel of indifference there was no angelic traitor to draw +back the bolts of its iron gates, and let them in. They had gone on +hoping, and hoping in vain, for some holy, lovely change in him; but +at last had to confess it a relief when he left the house, and went to +Edinburgh. + +But the occasion to which I refer was long before that. + +The two children were in bed and asleep, and the parents were lying +then, as they lay now, sleepless. + +"Hoo's Jeemie been gettin on the day?" said his father. + +"Well enough, I suppose," answered his mother, who did not then speak +Scotch quite so broad as her husband's, although a good deal broader +than her mother, the wife of a country doctor, would have permitted when +she was a child; "he's always busy at his books. He's a good boy, and a +diligent; there's no gainsayin that! But as to hoo he's gettin on, I +can beir no testimony. He never lets a word go from him as to what he's +doin, one way or anither. 'What _can_ he be thinkin aboot?' I say whiles +to mysel--sometimes ower and ower again. When I gang intil the parlour, +where he always sits till he has done his lessons, he never lifts his +heid to show that he hears me, or cares wha's there or wha isna. And as +soon as he's learnt them, he taks a buik and gangs up til his room, or +oot aboot the hoose, or intil the cornyard or the barn, and never comes +nigh me!--I sometimes won'er gien he would ever miss me deid!" she +ended, with a great sigh. + +"Hoot awa, wuman! dinna tak on like that," returned her husband. "The +laddie's like the lave o' laddies! They're a' jist like pup-doggies till +their een comes oppen, and they ken them 'at broucht them here. He's +bun' to mak a guid man in time, and he canna dee that ohn learnt to be +a guid son to her 'at bore him!--Ye canna say 'at ever he contert ye! Ye +hae tellt me that a hunner times!" + +"I have that! But I would hae had no occasion to dwall upo' the fac', +gien he had ever gi'en me, noo or than, jist a wee bit sign o' ony +affection!" + +"Ay, doobtless! but signs are nae preefs! The affection, as ye ca' 't, +may be there, and the signs o' 't wantin!--But I ken weel hoo the hert +o' ye 's workin, my ain auld dautie!" he added, anxious to comfort her +who was dearer to him than son or daughter. + +"I dinna think it wad be weel," he resumed after a pause, "for me to say +onything til 'im aboot his behaviour til 's mither: I dinna believe he +wud ken what I was aimin at! I dinna believe he has a notion o' onything +amiss in himsel, and I fear he wad only think I was hard upon him, and +no' fair. Ye see, gien a thing disna come o' 'tsel, no cryin upo' 't 'll +gar 't lift its heid--sae lang, at least, as the man kens naething aboot +it!" + +"I dinna doobt ye're right, Peter," answered his wife; "I ken weel that +flytin 'ill never gar love spread oot his wings--excep' it be to flee +awa'! Naething but shuin can come o' flytin!" + +"It micht be even waur nor shuin!" rejoined Peter."--But we better gang +til oor sleeps, lass!--We hae ane anither, come what may!" + +"That's true, Peter; but aye the mair I hae you, the mair I want my +Jeemie!" cried the poor mother. + +The father said no more. But, after a while, he rose, and stole softly +to his son's room. His wife stole after him, and found him on his knees +by the bedside, his face buried in the blankets, where his boy lay +asleep with calm, dreamless countenance. + +She took his hand, and led him back to bed. + +"To think," she moaned as they went, "'at yon's the same bairnie I +glowert at till my sowl ran oot at my een! I min' weel hoo I leuch and +grat, baith at ance, to think I was the mother o' a man-child! and I +thought I kenned weel what was i' the hert o' Mary, whan she claspit the +blessed ane til her boasom!" + +"May that same bairnie, born for oor remeid, bring oor bairn til his +richt min' afore he's ower auld to repent!" responded the father in a +broken voice. + +"What for," moaned Marion, "was the hert o' a mither put intil me? What +for was I made a wuman, whause life is for the beirin o' bairns to the +great Father o' a' gien this same was to be my reward?--Na, na, Lord," +she went on, checking herself, "I claim naething but thy wull; and weel +I ken ye wouldna hae me think siclike thy wull!" + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +It would be too much to say that the hearts of his parents took no +pleasure in the advancement of their son, such as it was. I suspect the +mother was glad to be proud where she could find no happiness--proud +with the love that lay incorruptible in her being. But the love that is +all on one side, though it may be stronger than death, can hardly be so +strong as life! A poor, maimed, one-winged thing, such love cannot soar +into any region of conscious bliss. Even when it soars into the region +where God himself dwells, it is but to partake there of the divine +sorrow which his heartless children cause him. My reader may well +believe that father nor mother dwelt much upon what their neighbours +called James's success--or cared in the least to talk about it: that +they would have felt to be mere hypocrisy, while hearty and genuine +relations were so far from perfect between them. Never to human being, +save the one to the other, and that now but very seldom, did they allude +to the bitterness which their own hearts knew; for to speak of it would +have seemed almost equivalent to disowning their son. And alas the +daughter was gone to whom the mother had at one time been able to bemoan +herself, knowing she understood and shared in their misery! For Isobel +would gladly have laid down her life to kindle in James's heart such a +love to their parents as her own. + +We may now understand a little, into what sort of man the lad James +Blatherwick had grown. When he left Stonecross for the University, it +was with scarce a backward look; nothing was in his heart but eagerness +for the coming conflict. Having gained there one of its highest +bursaries, he never spent a thought, as he donned his red gown, on the +son of the poor widow who had competed with him, and who, failing, had +to leave ambition behind him and take a place in a shop--where, however, +he soon became able to keep, and did keep, his mother in what was to her +nothing less than happy luxury; while the successful James--well, so far +my reader already knows about him. + +As often as James returned home for the vacations, things, as between +him and his parents, showed themselves unaltered; and by his third +return, the heart of his sister had ceased to beat any faster at the +thought of his arrival: she knew that he would but shake hands limply, +let hers drop, and the same moment be set down to read. Before the time +for taking his degree arrived, Isobel was gone to the great Father. +James never missed her, and neither wished nor was asked to go home to +her funeral. To his mother he was never anything more or less than quite +civil; she never asked him to do anything for her. He came and went as +he pleased, cared for nothing done on the farm or about the house, and +seemed, in his own thoughts and studies, to have more than enough to +occupy him. He had grown a powerful as well as handsome youth, and +had dropped almost every sign of his country breeding. He hardly ever +deigned a word in his mother-dialect, but spoke good English with +a Scotch accent. Neither had he developed any of the abominable +affectations by which not a few such as he have imagined to repudiate +their origin. + +His father had not then first to discover that his son was far too fine +a gentleman to show any interest in agriculture, or put out his hand +to the least share in that oldest and most dignified of callings. His +mother continued to look forward, although with fading interest, to +the time when he should be--the messenger of a gospel which he nowise +understood; but his father did not at all share her anticipation; and +she came to know ere long that to hear him preach would but renew and +intensify a misery to which she had become a little accustomed in their +ordinary intercourse. The father felt that his boy had either left him a +long way off, or had never at any time come near him. He seemed to stand +afar upon some mountain-top of conscious or imagined superiority. + +James, as one having no choice, lived at _home_, so called by custom +and use, but lived as one come of another breed than his parents, having +with theirs but few appreciable points of contact. Most conventional +of youths, he yet wrote verses in secret, and in his treasure-closet +worshipped Byron. What he wrote he seldom showed, and then only to +one or two of his fellow-students. Possibly he wrote only to prove to +himself that he could do that also, for he never doubted his faculty +in any direction. When he went to Edinburgh--to learn theology, +forsooth!--he was already an accomplished mathematician, and a yet +better classic, with some predilections for science, and a very small +knowledge of the same: his books showed for the theology, and for the +science, an occasional attempt to set his father right on some point of +chemistry. His first aspiration was to show himself a gentleman in the +eyes of the bubblehead calling itself Society--of which in fact he knew +nothing; and the next, to have his eloquence, at present existent only +in an ambitious imagination, recognized by the public. Such were the two +devils, or rather the two forms of the one devil Vanity, that possessed +him. He looked down on his parents, and the whole circumstance of +their ordered existence, as unworthy of him, because old-fashioned and +bucolic, occupied only with God's earth and God's animals, and having +nothing to do with the shows of life. And yet to the simply honourable, +to such of gentle breeding as despised mere show, the ways of life in +their house would have seemed altogether admirable: the homely, yet not +unfastidious modes and conditions of the unassuming homestead, would +have appeared to them not a little attractive. But James took no +interest in any of them, and, if possible, yet less in the ways of the +tradesmen and craftsmen of the neighbouring village. He never felt the +common humanity that made him one with them, did not in his thoughts +associate himself at all with them. Had he turned his feeling into +thoughts and words, he would have said, "I cannot help being the son of +a farmer, but at least my mother's father was a doctor; and had I been +consulted, my father should have been at least an officer in one of his +majesty's services, not a treader of dung or artificial manure!" The +root of his folly lay in the groundless self-esteem of the fellow; +fostered, I think, by a certain literature which fed the notion, if +indeed it did not plainly inculcate the _duty_ of rising in the world. +To such as he, the praise of men may well seem the patent of their +nobility; but the man whom we call _The Saviour_, and who knew the +secret of Life, warned his followers that they must not seek that sort +of distinction if they would be the children of the Father who claimed +them. + +I have said enough, perhaps too much, of this most uninteresting of men! +How he came to be born such, is not for my speculation: had he remained +such, his story would not have been for my telling. How he became +something better, it remains my task to try to set forth. + +I now complete the talk that followed the return of the simple couple to +bed. "I was jist thinkin, Peter," said Marion, after they had again +lain silent for a while, "o' the last time we spak thegither aboot the +laddie--it maun be nigh sax year sin syne, I'm thinkin!" + +"'Deed I canna say! ye may be richt, Mirran," replied her spouse. "It's +no sic a cheery subjec' 'at we sud hae muckle to say to ane anither +anent it! He's a man noo, and weel luikit upo'; but it maks unco little +differ to his parents! He's jist as dour as ever, and as far as man +could weel be frae them he cam o'!--never a word to the ane or the ither +o' 's! Gien we war twa dowgs, he couldna hae less to say til's, and +micht weel hae mair! I s' warran' Frostie says mair in ae half-hoor to +his tyke, nor Jeemie has said to you or me sin' first he gaed to the +college!" + +"Bairns is whiles a queer kin' o' a blessin!" remarked the mother. "But, +eh, Peter! it's what may lie ahint the silence that frichts me!" + +"Lass, ye're frichtin _me_ noo! What _div_ ye mean?" + +"Ow naething!" returned Marion, bursting into tears. "But a' at ance +it was borne in upo me, that there maun be something to accoont for the +thing. At the same time I daurna speir at God himsel what that thing +can be. For there's something waur noo, and has been for some time, +than ever was there afore! He has sic a luik, as gien he saw nor heard +onything but ae thing, the whilk ae thing keeps on inside him, and winna +wheesht. It's an awfu' thing to say o' a mither's ain laddie; and to hae +said it only to my ain man, and the father o' the laddie, maks my hert +like to brak!--it's as gien I had been fause to my ain flesh and blude +but to think it o' 'im!--Eh, Peter, what _can_ it be?" + +"Ow jist maybe naething ava'! Maybe he's in love, and the lass winna +hear til 'im!" + +"Na, Peter; love gars a man luik up, no doon at his ain feet! It gars +him fling his heid back, and set his een richt afore him--no turn them +in upo his ain inside! It maks a man straucht i' the back, strong i' the +airm, and bauld i' the hert.--Didna it you, Peter?" + +"Maybe it did; I dinna min' vera weel.--But I see love can hardly be the +thing that's amiss wi' the lad. Still, even his parents maun tak tent o' +jeedgin--specially ane o' the Lord's ministers--maybe ane o' the Lord's +ain elec'!" + +"It's awfu' to think--I daurna say 't--I daurna maist think the words +o' 't, Peter, but it _wull_ cry oot i' my vera hert!--Steik the door, +Peter--and ticht, that no a stray stirk may hear me!--Was a minister o' +the gospel ever a heepocreete, Peter?--like ane o' the auld scribes +and Pharisees, Peter?--Wadna it be ower terrible, Peter, to be +permittit?--Gien our ain only son was--" + +But here she broke down; she could not finish the frightful sentence. +The farmer again left his bed, and dropt upon a chair by the side of it. +The next moment he sank on his knees, and hiding his face in his hands, +groaned, as from a thicket of torture-- + +"God in haven, hae mercy upon the haill lot o' 's." + +Then, apparently unconscious of what he did, he went wandering from the +room, down to the kitchen, and out to the barn on his bare feet, closing +the door of the house behind him. In the barn he threw himself, face +downward, on a heap of loose straw, and there lay motionless. His wife +wept alone in her bed, and hardly missed him: it required of her no +reflection to understand whither he had gone, or what he was doing. He +was crying, like King Lear from the bitterness of an outraged father's +heart, to the Father of fathers: + +"God, ye're a father yersel," he groaned; "and sae ye ken hoo it's rivin +at my hert!--Na, Lord, ye dinna ken; for ye never had a doobt aboot +_your_ son!--Na, I'm no blamin Jeemie, Lord; I'm no cryin oot upo _him_; +for ye ken weel hoo little I ken aboot him: he never opened the buik o' +his hert to _me_! Oh God, grant that he hae naething to hide; but gien +he has, Lord, pluck it oot o' 'im, and _him_ oot o' the glaur! latna him +stick there. I kenna hoo to shape my petition, for I'm a' i' the dark; +but deliver him some gait, Lord, I pray thee, for his mither's sake!--ye +ken what she is!--_I_ dinna coont for onything, but ye ken _her_!--Lord, +deliver the hert o' her frae the awfu'est o' a' her fears.--Lord, a +hypocreet! a Judas-man!" + +More of what he said, I cannot tell; somehow this much has reached my +ears. He remained there upon the straw while hour after hour passed, +pleading with the great Father for his son; his soul now lost in dull +fatigue, now uttering itself in groans for lack of words, until at +length the dawn looked in on the night-weary earth, and into the two +sorrow-laden hearts, bringing with it a comfort they did not seek to +understand. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +But it brought no solace to the mind of the weak, hard-hearted, and +guilty son. He had succeeded once more in temporarily soothing his +conscience with some narcotic of false comfort, and now slept the sleep +of the houseless, whose covering was narrower than he could wrap himself +in. Ah, those nights! Alas for the sleepless human soul out in the +eternal cold! But so heartless was James, that, if his mother had come +to him in the morning with her tear-dimmed eyes, he would never have +asked himself what could ail her; would never even have seen that she +was unhappy; least of all would have suspected himself the cause of her +red eyes and aching head, or that the best thing in him was that mental +uneasiness of which he was constantly aware. Thank God, there was no way +round the purifying fire! he could not escape it; he _must_ pass through +it! + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Little knows the world what a power among men is the man who simply and +really believes in him who is Lord of the world to save men from +their sins! He may be neither wise nor prudent; he may be narrow and +dim-sighted even in the things he loves best; they may promise him much, +and yield him but a poor fragment of the joy that might be and ought to +be his; he may present them to others clothed in no attractive hues, or +in any word of power; and yet, if he has but that love to his neighbour +which is rooted in, and springs from love to his God, he is always a +redeeming, reconciling influence among his fellows. The Robertsons were +genial of heart, loving and tender toward man or woman in need of them; +their door was always on the latch for such to enter. If the parson +insisted on the wrath of God against sin, he did not fail to give +assurance of His tenderness toward such as had fallen. Together the +godly pair at length persuaded Isobel of the eager forgiveness of the +Son of Man. They assured her that he could not drive from him the very +worst of sinners, but loved--nothing less than tenderly _loved_ any +one who, having sinned, now turned her face to the Father. She +would doubtless, they said, have to see her trespass in the eyes of +unforgiving women, but the Lord would lift her high, and welcome her to +the home of the glad-hearted. + +But poor Isy, who regarded her fault as both against God and the man who +had misled her, and was sick at the thought of being such as she judged +herself, insisted that nothing God himself could do, could ever restore +her, for nothing could ever make it that she had not fallen: such a +contradiction, such an impossibility alone could make her clean! God +might be ready to forgive her, but He could not love her! Jesus +might have made satisfaction for her sin, but how could that make any +difference in or to her? She was troubled that Jesus should have so +suffered, but that could not give her back her purity, or the peace of +mind she once possessed! That was gone for ever! The life before her +took the appearance of an unchanging gloom, a desert region whence the +gladness had withered, and whence came no purifying wind to blow from +her the odours of the grave by which she seemed haunted! Never to all +eternity could she be innocent again! Life had no interest for her! She +was, and must remain just what she was; for, alas, she could not cease +to be! + +Such thoughts had at one period ravaged her life, but they had for some +time been growing duller and deader: now once more revived by goodness +and sympathy, they had resumed their gnawing and scorching, and she +had grown yet more hateful to herself. Even the two who befriended and +comforted her, could never, she thought, cease to regard her as what +they knew she was! But, strange to say, with this revival of her +suffering, came also a requickening of her long dormant imagination, +favoured and cherished, doubtless, by the peace and love that surrounded +her. First her dreams, then her broodings began to be haunted with sweet +embodiments. As if the agonized question of the guilty Claudius were +answered to her, to assure her that there _was_ "rain enough in the +sweet heavens to wash her white as snow," she sometimes would wake from +a dream where she stood in blessed nakedness with a deluge of +cool, comforting rain pouring upon her from the sweetness of those +heavens--and fall asleep again to dream of a soft strong west wind +chasing from her the offensive emanations of the tomb, that seemed to +have long persecuted her nostrils as did the blood of Duncan those of +the wretched Lady Macbeth. And every night to her sinful bosom came back +the soft innocent hands of the child she had lost--when ever and again +her dream would change, and she would be Hagar, casting her child away, +and fleeing from the sight of his death. More than once she dreamed that +an angel came to her, and went out to look for her boy--only to return +and lay him in her arms grievously mangled by some horrid beast. + +When the first few days of her sojourn with the good Samaritans were +over, and she had gathered strength enough to feel that she ought no +longer to be burdensome to them, but look for work, they positively +refused to let her leave them before her spirit also had regained some +vital tone, and she was able to "live a little"; and to that end they +endeavoured to revive in her the hope of finding her lost child: setting +inquiry on foot in every direction, they promised to let her know the +moment when her presence should begin to cause them inconvenience. + +"Let you go, child?" her hostess had exclaimed: "God forbid! Go you +shall not until you go for your own sake: you cannot go for ours!" + +"But I'm such a burden to you--and so useless!" + +"Was the Lord a burden to Mary and Lazarus, think ye, my poor bairn?" +rejoined Mrs. Robertson. + +"Don't, ma'am, please!" sobbed Isy. + +"Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it to me!" +insisted her hostess. + +"That doesna apply, ma'am," objected Isy. "I'm nane o' his!" + +"Who is then? Who was it he came to save? Are you not one of his lost +sheep? Are you not weary and heavy-laden? Will you never let him feel at +home with you? Are _you_ to say who he is to love and who he isn't? Are +_you_ to tell him who are fit to be counted his, and who are not good +enough?" + +Isy was silent for a long time. The foundations of her coming peace were +being dug deeper, and laid wider. + +She still found it impossible, from the disordered state of her mind at +the time, to give any notion of whereabout she had been when she laid +her child down, and leaving him, could not again find him. And Maggie, +who loved him passionatately and believed him wilfully abandoned, +cherished no desire to discover one who could claim him, but was +unworthy to have him. For a long time, therefore, neither she nor +her father ever talked, or encouraged talk about him; whence certain +questing busybodies began to snuff and give tongue. It was all very +well, they said, for the cobbler and his Maggie to pose as rescuers and +benefactors: but whose was the child? His growth nevertheless went on +all the same, and however such hints might seem to concern him, happily +they never reached him. Maggie flattered herself, indeed, that never in +this world would they reach him, but would die away in the void, or like +a fallen wave against the heedless shore! And yet, all the time, in the +not so distant city, a loving woman was weeping and pining for lack +of him, whose conduct, in the eyes of the Robertsons, was not merely +blameless, but sweetly and manifestly true, constantly yielding fuel to +the love that encompassed her. But, although mentally and spiritually +she was growing rapidly, she seemed to have lost all hope. For, deeper +in her soul, and nearer the root of her misery than even the loss of her +child, lay the character and conduct of the man to whom her love seemed +inextinguishable. His apostasy from her, his neglect of her, and her +constantly gnawing sense of pollution, burned at the bands of her life; +and her friends soon began to fear that she was on the verge of a slow +downward slide, upon which there is seldom any turning. + +The parson and his wife had long been on friendliest terms with the +farmer of Stonecross and his wife; and, brooding on the condition of +their guest, it was natural that the thought of Mrs. Blatherwick should +occur to them as one who might be able to render them the help they +needed for her. Difficulties were in the way, it was true, chiefly that +of conveying a true conception of the nature and character of the woman +in whom they desired her interest; but if Mrs. Blatherwick were once to +see her, there would be no fear of the result: received at the farm, she +was certain in no way to compromise them! They were confident she would +never belie the character they were prepared to give her. Neither was +there any one at the farm for whom it was possible to dread intercourse +with her, seeing that, since the death of their only daughter, they had +not had a servant in the house. It was concluded therefore between them +that Mr. Robertson should visit their friends at Stonecross, and tell +them all they knew about Isy. + +It was a lovely morning in the decline of summer, the corn nearly full +grown, but still green, without sign of the coming gold of perfection, +when the minister mounted the top of the coach, to wait, silent and +a little anxious, for the appearance of the coachman from the office, +thrusting the waybill into the pocket of his huge greatcoat, to gather +his reins, and climb heavily to his perch. A journey of four hours, +through a not very interesting country, but along a splendid road, +would carry him to the village where the soutar lived, and where James +Blatherwick was parson! There a walk of about three miles awaited him--a +long and somewhat weary way to the town-minister--accustomed indeed to +tramping the hard pavements, but not to long walks unbroken by calls. +Climbing at last the hill on which the farmhouse stood, he caught sight +of Peter Blatherwick in a neighbouring field of barley stubble, with the +reins of a pair of powerful Clydesdales in his hands, wrestling with +the earth as it strove to wrench from his hold the stilts of the plough +whose share and coulter he was guiding through it. Peter's delight was +in the open air, and hard work in it. He was as far from the vulgar idea +that a man rose in the scale of honour when he ceased to labour with his +hands, as he was from the fancy that a man rose in the kingdom of heaven +when he was made a bishop. + +As to his higher nature, the farmer believed in God--that is, he tried +to do what God required of him, and thus was on the straight road to +know him. He talked little about religion, and was no partisan. When he +heard people advocating or opposing the claims of this or that party +in the church, he would turn away with a smile such as men yield to +the talk of children. He had no time, he would say, to spend on such +disputes: he had enough to do in trying to practise what was beyond +dispute. + +He was a reading man, who not merely drank at every open source he came +across, but thought over what he read, and was, therefore, a man of true +intelligence, who was regarded by his neighbours with more than ordinary +respect. He had been the first in the district to lay hold of the +discoveries in chemistry applicable to agriculture, and had made use of +them, with notable results, upon his own farm; setting thus an example +which his neighbours were so ready to follow, that the region, nowise +remarkable for its soil, soon became remarkable for its crops. The +note-worthiest thing in him, however, was his _humanity_, shown first +and chiefly in the width and strength of his family affections. He had +a strong drawing, not only to his immediate relations, but to all of his +blood; who were not few, for he came of an ancient family, long settled +in the neighbourhood. In his worldly affairs he was well-to-do, having +added not a little to the little his father had left him; but he was no +lover of money, being open-handed even to his wife, upon whom first your +money-grub is sure to exercise his parsimony. There was, however, at +Stonecross, little call to spend and less temptation from without, +the farm itself being equal to the supply of almost every ordinary +necessity. + +In disposition Peter Blatherwick was a good-humoured, even merry man, +with a playful answer almost always ready for a greeting neighbour. + +The minister did not however go on to join the farmer, but went to the +house, which stood close at hand, with its low gable toward him. Late +summer still lorded it in the land; only a few fleecy clouds shared the +blue of the sky with the ripening sun, and on the hot ridges the air +pulsed and trembled, like vaporized layers of mother-of-pearl. + +At the end of the idle lever, no sleepy old horse was now making his +monotonous rounds; his late radiance, born of age and sunshine, was +quenched in the dark of the noonday stall. But the peacock still +strutted among the ricks, as conscious of his glorious plumage, as +regardless of the ugliness of his feet as ever; now and then checking +the rhythmic movement of his neck, undulating green and blue, to scratch +the ground with those feet, and dart his beak, with apparently spiteful +greed, at some tiny crystal of quartz or pickle of grain they exposed; +or, from the towering steeple of his up lifted throat, to utter his +self-satisfaction in a hideous cry. + +In the gable before him, Mr. Robertson passed a low window, through +which he had a glimpse of the pretty, old-fashioned parlour within, as +he went round to the front, to knock at the nearer of two green-painted +doors. + +Mrs. Blatherwick herself came to open it, and finding who it was +that knocked--of all men the most welcome to her in her present +mood--received him with the hearty simplicity of an evident welcome. + +For was he not a minister? and was not he who caused all her trouble, a +minister also? She was not, indeed, going to lay open her heart and let +him see into its sorrow; for to confess her son a cause of the least +anxiety to her, would be faithless and treacherous; but the unexpected +appearance of Mr. Robertson brought her, nevertheless, as it were the +dawn of a winter morning after a long night of pain. + +She led him into the low-ceiled parlour, the green gloom of the big +hydrangea that filled the front window, and the ancient scent of the +withered rose-leaves in the gorgeous china basin on the gold-bordered +table-cover. There the minister, after a few kind commonplaces, sat for +a moment, silently pondering how to enter upon his communication. But he +did not ponder long, however; for his usual way was to rush headlong +at whatever seemed to harbour a lion, and come at once to the +death-grapple. + +Marion Blatherwick was a good-looking woman, with a quiet strong +expression, and sweet gray eyes. The daughter of a country surgeon, she +had been left an orphan without means; but was so generally respected, +that all said Mr. Blatherwick had never done better than when he married +her. Their living son seemed almost to have died in his infancy; their +dead daughter, gone beyond range of eye and ear, seemed never to have +left them: there was no separation, only distance between them. + +"I have taken the liberty, Mrs. Blatherwick, of coming to ask your help +in a great perplexity," began Mr. Robertson, with an embarrassment she +had never seen in him before, and which bewildered her not a little. + +"Weel, sir, it's an honour done me--a great honour, for which I hae to +thank ye, I'm sure!" she answered. + +"Bide ye, mem, till ye hear what it is," rejoined the minister. "We, +that is, my wife and mysel, hae a puir lass at hame i' the hoose. We hae +ta'en a great interest in her for some weeks past; but noo we're 'maist +at oor wits' en' what to do wi' her neist. She's sair oot o' hert, and +oot o' health, and out o' houp; and in fac' she stan's in sair, ay, +desperate need o' a cheenge." + +"Weel, that ouchtna to mak muckle o' a diffeeclety atween auld friens +like oorsels, Maister Robertson!--Ye wad hae us tak her in for a whilie, +till she luiks up a bit, puir thing?--Hoo auld may she be?" + +"She can hardly be mair nor twenty, or aboot that--sic like as your +ain bonnie lassie would hae been by this time, gien she had ripent +here i'stead o' gaein awa to the gran' finishin schuil o' the just made +perfec. Weel min' I her bonny face! And, 'deed, this ane's no' that +unlike yer ain Isy! She something favours her." + +"Eh, sir, fess her to me! My hert's waitin for her! Her mither maunna +lowse her! She couldna stan' that!" + +"She has nae mither, puir thing!--But ye maun dee naething in a hurry; I +maun tell ye aboot her first!" + +"I'm content 'at she's a frien o' yours, sir. I ken weel ye wad never +hae me tak intil my hoose are that was na fit--and a' the lads aboot the +place frae ae mornin til anither!" + +"Indeed she _is_ a frien o' mine, mem; and I hae never a dreid o' +onything happenin ye wadna like. She's in ower sair trouble to cause ony +anxiety. The fac' is, she's had a terrible misfortun!" + +The good woman started, drew herself up a little, and said hurriedly, + +"There's no a wean, is there?" + +"'Deed is there, mem!--but pairt o' the meesery is, the bairn's +disappeart; and she's brackin her heart aboot 'im. She's maist oot o' +her min', mem! No that she's onything but perfecly reasonable, and gies +never a grain o' trouble! I canna doobt she'd be a great help til ye, +and that ilka minute ye saw fit to lat her bide. But she's jist huntit +wi' the idea that she pat the bairnie doon, and left him, and kens na +whaur.--Verily, mem, she's are o' the lambs o' the Lord's ain flock!" + +"That's no the w'y the lambs o' _his_ flock are i' the w'y o' behavin +themsels!--I fear me, sir, ye're lattin yer heart rin awa wi' yer +jeedgment!" + +"I hae aye coontit Mary Magdalen are o' the Lord's ain yowies, that he +left the lave i' the wilderness to luik for: this is sic anither! Gien +ye help Him to come upon her, ye'll cairry her hame 'atween ye rej'icin! +And ye min' hoo he stude 'atween are far waur nor her, and the ill +men that would fain hae shamet her, and sent them oot like sae mony +tykes--thae gran' Pharisees--wi their tails tuckit in 'atween their +legs!--Sair affrontit they war, doobtless!--But I maun be gaein, mem, +for we're no vera like to agree! My Maister's no o' ae min' wi' you, +mem, aboot sic affairs--and sae I maun gang, and lea' ye to yer ain +opingon! But I would jist remin' ye, mem, that she's at this present i' +_my_ hoose, wi my wife; and my wee bit lassie hings aboot her as gien +she was an angel come doon to see the bonny place this warl luks frae +up there.--Eh, puir lammie, the stanes oucht to be feower upo thae +hill-sides!" + +"What for that, Maister Robertson?" + +"'Cause there's so mony o' them whaur human herts oucht to be.--Come +awa, doggie!" he added, rising. + +"Dear me, sir! haena ye hae a grain o' patience to waur (_spend_) upon +a puir menseless body?" cried Marion, wringing her hands in dismay. "To +think _I_ sud be nice whaur my Lord was sae free!" + +"Ay," returned the minister, "and he was jist as clean as ever, wi' mony +ane siclike as her inside the heart o' him!--_Gang awa, and dinna dee +the like again_, was a' he said to that ane!--and ye may weel be sure +she never did! And noo she and Mary are followin, wi' yer ain Isy, i' +the vera futsteps o' the great shepherd, throuw the gowany leys o' the +New Jerus'lem--whaur it may be they ca' her Isy yet, as they ca' this +ane I hae to gang hame til." + +"Ca' they her _that_, sir?--Eh, gar her come, gar her come! I wud fain +cry upo _Isy_ ance mair!--Sit ye doon, sir, shame upo' me!--and tak a +bite efter yer lang walk!--Will ye no bide the nicht wi' 's, and gang +back by the mornin's co'ch?" + +"I wull that, mem--and thank ye kindly! I'm a bit fatiguit wi' the hill +ro'd, and the walk a wee langer than I'm used til.--Ye maun hae peety +upo my kittle temper, mem, and no drive me to ower muckle shame o' +myself!" he concluded, wiping his forehead. + +"And to think," cried his hostess, "that my hard hert sud hae drawn sic +a word frae ane o' the Lord's servans that serve him day and nicht! I +beg yer pardon, and that richt heumbly, sir! I daurna say I'll never do +the like again, but I'm no sae likly to transgress a second time as the +first.--Lord, keep the doors o' my lips, that ill-faured words comena +thouchtless oot, and shame me and them that hear me!--I maun gang and +see aboot yer denner, sir! I s' no be lang." + +"Yer gracious words, mem, are mair nor meat and drink to me. I could, +like Elijah, go i' the stren'th o' them--maybe something less than forty +days, but it wad be by the same sort o' stren'th as that angels'-food +gied the prophet!" + +Marion hurried none the less for such a word; and soon the minister had +eaten his supper, and was seated in the cool of a sweet summer-evening, +in the garden before the house, among roses and lilies and poppy-heads +and long pink-striped grasses, enjoying a pipe with the farmer, who had +anticipated the hour for unyoking, and hurried home to have a talk with +Mr. Robertson. The minister opened wide his heart, and told them all he +knew and thought of Isy. And so prejudiced were they in her favour +by what he said of her, and the arguments he brought to show that the +judgment of the world was in her case tyrannous and false, that what +anxiety might yet remain as to the new relation into which they +were about to enter, was soon absorbed in hopeful expectation of her +appearance. + +"But," he concluded, "you will have to be wise as serpents, lest aiblins +(_possibly_) ye kep (_intercept_) a lost sheep on her w'y back to the +shepherd, and gar her lie theroot (_out of doors_), exposed to the +prowlin wouf. Afore God, I wud rether share wi' her in _that_ day, nor +wi' them that keppit her!" + +But when he reached home, the minister was startled, indeed dismayed by +the pallor that overwhelmed Isy's countenance when she heard, following +his assurance of the welcome that awaited her, the name and abode of her +new friends. + +"They'll be wantin to ken a'thing!" she sobbed. + +"Tell you them," returned the minister, "everything they have a right +to know; they are good people, and will not ask more. Beyond that, they +will respect your silence." + +"There's but ae thing, as ye ken, sir, that I canna, and winna tell. To +haud my tongue aboot that is the ae particle o' honesty left possible to +me! It's enough I should have been the cause of the poor man's sin; and +I'm not going to bring upon him any of the consequences of it as well. +God keep the doors of my lips!" + +"We will not go into the question whether you or he was the more to +blame," returned the parson; "but I heartily approve of your resolve, +and admire your firmness in holding to it. The time _may_ come when you +_ought_ to tell; but until then, I shall not even allow myself to wonder +who the faithless man may be." + +Isy burst into tears. + +"Don't call him that, sir! Don't drive me to doubt him. Don't let the +thought cross my mind that he could have helped doing nothing! Besides, +I deserve nothing! And for my bonny bairn, he maun by this time be back +hame to Him that sent him!" + +Thus assured that her secret would be respected by those to whom she +was going, she ceased to show further reluctance to accept the shelter +offered her. And, in truth, underneath the dread of encountering James +Blatherwick's parents, lay hidden in her mind the fearful joy of a +chance of some day catching, herself unseen, a glimpse of the man whom +she still loved with the forgiving tenderness of a true, therefore +strong heart. With a trembling, fluttering bosom she took her place +on the coach beside Mr. Robertson, to go with him to the refuge he had +found for her. + +Once more in the open world, with which she had had so much intercourse +that was other than joyous, that same world began at once to work the +will of its Maker upon her poor lacerated soul; and afar in its hidden +deeps the process of healing was already begun. Agony would many a time +return unbidden, would yet often rise like a crested wave, with menace +of overwhelming despair, but the Real, the True, long hidden from her +by the lying judgments of men and women, was now at length beginning to +reveal itself to her tear-blinded vision; Hope was lifting a feeble head +above the tangled weeds of the subsiding deluge; and ere long the girl +would see and understand how little cares the Father, whose judgment is +the truth of things, what at any time his child may have been or, done, +the moment that child gives herself up to be made what He would have +her! Looking down into the hearts of men, He sees differences there of +which the self-important world takes no heed; many that count themselves +of the first, He sees the last--and what He sees, alone _is_: a +gutter-child, a thief, a girl who never in this world had even a notion +of purity, may lie smiling in the arms of the Eternal, while the head +of a lordly house that still flourishes like a green bay-tree, may be +wandering about with the dogs beyond the walls of the city. + +Out in the open world, I say, the power of the present God began at once +to work upon Isobel, for there, although dimly, she yet looked into +His open face, sketched vaguely in the mighty something we call +Nature--chiefly on the great vault we call Heaven, the _Upheaved_. +Shapely but undefined; perfect in form, yet limitless in depth; blue and +persistent, yet ever evading capture by human heart in human eye; this +sphere of fashioned boundlessness, of definite shapelessness, called up +in her heart the formless children of upheavedness--grandeur, namely, +and awe; hope, namely, and desire: all rushed together toward the dawn +of the unspeakable One, who, dwelling in that heaven, is above all +heavens; mighty and unchangeable, yet childlike; inexorable, yet tender +as never was mother; devoted as never yet was child save one. Isy, +indeed, understood little of all this; yet she wept, she knew not why; +and it was not for sorrow. + +But when, the coach-journey over, she turned her back upon the house +where her child lay, and entered the desolate hill-country, a strange +feeling began to invade her consciousness. It seemed at first but an old +mood, worn shadowy; then it seemed the return of an old dream; then a +painful, confused, half-forgotten memory; but at length it cleared and +settled into a conviction that she had been in the same region before, +and had had, although a passing, yet a painful acquaintance with it; and +at the last she concluded that she must be near the very spot where she +had left and lost her baby. All that had, up to that moment, befallen +her, seemed fused in a troubled conglomerate of hunger and cold and +weariness, of help and hurt, of deliverance and returning pain: they all +mingled inextricably with the scene around her, and there condensed into +the memory of that one event--of which this must assuredly be the actual +place! She looked upon widespread wastes of heather and peat, great +stones here and there, half-buried in it, half-sticking out of it: +surely she was waiting there for something to come to pass! surely +behind this veil of the Seen, a child must be standing with outstretched +arms, hungering after his mother! In herself that very moment must +Memory be trembling into vision! At Length her heart's desire must be +drawing near to her expectant soul! + +But suddenly, alas! her certainty of recollection, her assurance of +prophetic anticipation, faded from her, and of the recollection itself +remained nothing but a ruin! And all the time it took to dawn into +brilliance and fade out into darkness, had measured but a few weary +steps by the side of her companion, lost in the meditation of a glad +sermon for the next Sunday about the lost sheep carried home with +jubilance, and forgetting how unfit was the poor sheep beside him for +such a fatiguing tramp up hill and down, along what was nothing better +than the stony bed of a winter-torrent. + +All at once Isy darted aside from the rough track, scrambled up the +steep bank, and ran like one demented into a great clump of heather, +which she began at once to search through and through. The minister +stopped bewildered, and stood to watch her, almost fearing for a moment +that she had again lost her wits. She got on the top of a stone in +the middle of the clump, turned several times round, gazed in every +direction over the moor, then descended with a hopeless look, and came +slowly back to him, saying-- + +"I beg your pardon, sir; I thought I had a glimpse of my infant through +the heather! This must be the very spot where I left him!" + +The next moment she faltered feebly-- + +"Hae we far to gang yet, sir?" and before he could make her any answer, +staggered to the bank on the roadside, fell upon it, and lay still. + +The minister immediately felt that he had been cruel in expecting her +to walk so far; he made haste to lay her comfortably on the short grass, +and waited anxiously, doing what he could to bring her to herself. He +could see no water near, but at least she had plenty of air! + +In a little while she began to recover, sat up, and would have risen to +resume her journey. But the minister, filled with compunction, took her +up in his arms. They were near the crown of the ascent, and he could +carry her as far as that! She expostulated, but was unable to resist. +Light as she was, however, he found it no easy task to bear her up the +last of the steep rise, and was glad to set her down at the top--where +a fresh breeze was waiting to revive them both. She thanked him like +a child whose father had come to her help; and they seated themselves +together on the highest point of the moor, with a large, desolate land +on every side of them. + +"Oh, sir, but ye _are_ good to me!" she murmured. "That brae just minded +me o' the Hill of Difficulty in the Pilgrim's Progress!" + +"Oh, you know that story?" said the minister. + +"My old grannie used to make me read it to her when she lay dying. I +thought it long and tiresome then, but since you took me to your house, +sir, I have remembered many things in it; I knew then that I was come to +the house of the Interpreter. You've made me understand, sir!" + +"I am glad of that, Isy! You see I know some things that make me very +glad, and so I want them to make you glad too. And the thing that makes +me gladdest of all, is just that God is what he is. To know that such +a One is God over us and in us, makes of very being a most precious +delight. His children, those of them that know him, are all glad just +because he _is_, and they are his children. Do you think a strong man +like me would read sermons and say prayers and talk to people, doing +nothing but such shamefully easy work, if he did not believe what he +said?" + +"I'm sure, sir, you have had hard enough work with me! I am a bad one +to teach! I thought I knew all that you have had such trouble to make +me see! I was in a bog of ignorance and misery, but now I am getting +my head up out of it, and seeing about me!--Please let me ask you one +thing, sir: how is it that, when the thought of God comes to me, I draw +back, afraid of him? If he be the kind of person you say he is, why +can't I go close up to him?" + +"I confess the same foolishness, my child, _at times_," answered the +minister. "It can only be because we do not yet see God as he is--and +that must be because we do not yet really understand Jesus--do not see +the glory of God in his face. God is just like Jesus--exactly like him!" + +And the parson fell a wondering how it could be that so many, gentle and +guileless as this woman-child, recoiled from the thought of the perfect +One. Why were they not always and irresistibly drawn toward the very +idea of God? Why, at least, should they not run to see and make sure +whether God was indeed such a one or not? whether he was really Love +itself--or only loved them after a fashion? It set him thinking afresh +about many things; and he soon began to discover that he had in fact +been teaching a good many things without _knowing_ them; for how could +he _know_ things that were not true, and therefore _could not_ be known? +He had indeed been _saying_ that God was Love, but he had yet been +teaching many things about him that were not lovable! + +They sat thinking and talking, with silences between; and while they +thought and talked, the day-star was all the time rising unnoted in +their hearts. At length, finding herself much stronger, Isy rose, and +they resumed their journey. + +The door stood open to receive them; but ere they reached it, a +bright-looking little woman, with delicate lines of ingrained red in a +sorrowful face, appeared in it, looking out with questioning eyes--like +a mother-bird just loosening her feet from the threshold of her nest to +fly and meet them. Through the film that blinded those expectant +eyes, Marion saw what manner of woman she was that drew nigh, and her +motherhood went out to her. For, in the love-witchery of Isy's yearning +look, humbly seeking acceptance, and in her hesitating approach +half-checked by gentle apology, Marion imagined she saw her own Isy +coming back from the gates of Death, and sprang to meet her. The +mediating love of the minister, obliterating itself, had made him linger +a step or two behind, waiting what would follow: when he saw the two +folded each in the other's arms, and the fountain of love thus break +forth at once from their encountering hearts, his soul leaped for joy of +the new-created love--new, but not the less surely eternal; for God +is Love, and Love is that which is, and was, and shall be for +evermore--boundless, unconditioned, self-existent, creative! "Truly," +he said in himself, "God is Love, and God is all and in all! He is no +abstraction; he is the one eternal Individual God! In him Love evermore +breaks forth anew into fresh personality--in every new consciousness, in +every new child of the one creating Father. In every burning heart, in +everything that hopes and fears and is, Love is the creative presence, +the centre, the source of life, yea Life itself; yea, God himself!" + +The elder woman drew herself a little back, held the poor white-faced +thing at arms'-length, and looked her through the face into the heart. + +"My bonny lamb!" she cried, and pressed her again to her bosom. "Come +hame, and be a guid bairn, and ill man sall never touch ye, or gar ye +greit ony mair! There's _my_ man waitin for ye, to tak ye, and haud ye +safe!" + +Isy looked up, and over the shoulder of her hostess saw the strong +paternal face of the farmer, full of silent welcome. For the strange +emotion that filled him he did not seek to account: he had nothing to do +with that; his will was lord over it! + +"Come ben the hoose, lassie," he said, and led the way to the parlour, +where the red sunset was shining through the low gable window, filling +the place with the glamour of departing glory. "Sit ye doon upo the sofa +there; ye maun be unco tired! Surely ye haena come a' the lang ro'd frae +Tiltowie upo yer ain twa wee feet?" + +"'Deed has she," answered the minister, who had followed them into the +room; "the mair shame to me 'at loot her dee 't!" + +Marion lingered outside, wiping away the tears that would keep flowing. +For the one question, "What can be amiss wi' Jamie?" had returned upon +her, haunting and harrying her heart; and with it had come the idea, +though vague and formless, that their goodwill to the wandering outcast +might perhaps do something to make up for whatever ill thing Jamie might +have done. At last, instead of entering the parlour after them, she +turned away to the kitchen, and made haste to get ready their supper. + +Isy sank back in the wide sofa, lost in relief; and the minister, when +he saw her look of conscious refuge and repose, said to himself-- + +"She is feeling as we shall all feel when first we know nothing near us +but the Love itself that was before all worlds!--when there is no doubt +more, and no questioning more!" + +But the heart of the farmer was full of the old uncontent, the old +longing after the heart of his boy, that had never learned to cry +"_Father!_" + +But soon they sat down to their meal. While they ate, hardly any one +spoke, and no one missed the speech or was aware of the silence, until +the bereaved Isobel thought of her child, and burst into tears. Then the +mother who sorrowed with such a different, and so much bitterer sorrow, +divining her thought and whence it came, rose, and from behind her +said-- + +"Noo ye maun jist come awa wi' me, and I s' pit ye til yer bed, and lea' +ye there!--Na, na; say gude nicht to naebody!--Ye'll see the minister +again i' the mornin!" + +With that she took Isy away, half-carrying her close-pressed, and +half-leading her; for Marion, although no bigger than Isy, was much +stronger, and could easily have carried her. + +That night both mothers slept well, and both dreamed of their mothers +and of their children. But in the morning nothing remained of their two +dreams except two hopes in the one Father. + +When Isy entered the little parlour, she found she had slept so long +that breakfast was over, the minister smoking his pipe in the garden, +and the farmer busy in his yard. But Marion heard her, and brought her +breakfast, beaming with ministration; then thinking she would eat it +better if left to herself, went back to her work. In about five minutes, +however, Isy joined her, and began at once to lend a helping hand. + +"Hoot, hoot, my dear!" cried her hostess, "ye haena taen time eneuch +to make a proaper brakfast o' 't! Gang awa back, and put mair intil ye. +Gien ye dinna learn to ate, we s' never get ony guid o' ye!" + +"I just can't eat for gladness," returned Isy. "Ye're that good to me, +that I dare hardly think aboot it; it'll gar me greit!--Lat me help ye, +mem, and I'll grow hungry by dennertime!" + +Mrs. Blatherwick understood, and said no more. She showed her what +she might set about; and Isy, happy as a child, came and went at +her commands, rejoicing. Probably, had she started in life with less +devotion, she might have fared better; but the end was not yet, and the +end must be known before we dare judge: result explains history. It is +enough for the present to say that, with the comparative repose of mind +she now enjoyed, with the good food she had, and the wholesome exercise, +for Mrs. Blatherwick took care she should not work too hard, with the +steady kindness shown her, and the consequent growth of her faith and +hope, Isy's light-heartedness first, and then her good looks began to +return; so that soon the dainty little creature was both prettier and +lovelier than before. At the same time her face and figure, her ways +and motions, went on mingling themselves so inextricably with Marion's +impressions of her vanished Isy, that at length she felt as if she +never could be able to part with her. Nor was it long before she assured +herself that she was equal to anything that had to be done in the house; +and that the experience of a day or two would make her capable of +the work of the dairy as well. Thus Isy and her mistress, for so Isy +insisted on regarding and calling her, speedily settled into their new +relation. + +It did sometimes cross the girl's mind, and that with a sting of doubt, +whether it was fair to hide from her new friends the full facts of her +sorrowful history; but to quiet her conscience she had only to reflect +that for the sake of the son they loved, she must keep jealous guard +over her silence. Further than James's protection, she had no design, +cherished no scheme. The idea of compelling, or even influencing him to +do her justice, never once crossed her horizon. On the contrary, she was +possessed by the notion that she had done him a great wrong, and shrank +in horror from the danger of rendering it irretrievable. She had never +thought the thing out as between her and him, never even said to herself +that he too had been to blame. Her exaggerated notion of the share she +had in the fault, had lodged and got fixed in her mind, partly from +her acquaintance with the popular judgment concerning such as she, and +partly from her humble readiness to take any blame to herself. Even had +she been capable of comparing the relative consequences, the injury she +had done his prospects as a minister, would have seemed to her revering +soul a far greater wrong than any suffering or loss he had brought upon +her. For what was she beside him? What was the ruin of her life to the +frustration of such prospects as his? The sole alleviation of her +misery was that she seemed hitherto to have escaped involving him in the +results of her lack of self-restraint, which results, she was certain, +remained concealed from him, as from every one in any way concerned +with him in them. In truth, never was man less worthy of it, or more +devotedly shielded! And never was hidden wrong to the woman turned more +eagerly and persistently into loving service to the man's parents! Many +and many a time did the heart of James's mother, as she watched Isy's +deft and dainty motions, regret, even with bitterness, that such a +capable and love-inspiring girl should have rendered herself unworthy +of her son--for, notwithstanding what she regarded as the disparity of +their positions, she would gladly have welcomed Isy as a daughter, had +she but been spotless, and fit to be loved by him. + +In the evenings, when the work of the day was done, Isy used to ramble +about the moor, in the lingering rays of the last of the sunset, and the +now quickly shortening twilight. In those hours unhasting, gentle, and +so spiritual in their tone that they seem to come straight from the +eternal spaces where is no recalling and no forgetting, where time and +space are motionless, and the spirit is at rest, Isy first began to read +with conscious understanding. For now first she fell into the company of +books--old-fashioned ones no doubt, but perhaps even therefore the more +fit for her, who was an old-fashioned, gentle, ignorant, thoughtful +child. Among the rest in the farmhouse, she came upon the two volumes +of a book called The Preceptor, which contained various treatises laying +down "the first principles of Polite Learning:" these drew her eager +attention; and with one or other of the not very handy volumes in her +hand, she would steal out of sight of the farm, and lapt in the solitude +of the moor, would sit and read until at last the light could reveal +not a word more. Even the Geometry she found in them attracted her not a +little; the Rhetoric and Poetry drew her yet more; but most of all, the +Natural History, with its engravings of beasts and birds, poor as they +were, delighted her; and from these antiquated repertories she gathered +much, and chiefly that most valuable knowledge, some acquaintance with +her own ignorance. There also, in a garret over the kitchen, she found +an English translation of Klopstock's Messiah, a poem which, in the +middle of the last and in the present century, caused a great excitement +in Germany, and did not a little, I believe, for the development of +religious feeling in that country, where the slow-subsiding ripple of +its commotion is possibly not altogether unfelt even at the present +day. She read the volume through as she strolled in those twilights, not +without risking many a fall over bush and stone ere practice taught her +to see at once both the way for her feet over the moor, and that for her +eyes over the printed page. The book both pleased and suited her, the +parts that interested her most being those about the repentant angel, +Abaddon; who, if I remember aright, haunted the steps of the Saviour, +and hovered about the cross while he was crucified. The great question +with her for a long time was, whether the Saviour must not have forgiven +him; but by slow degrees it became at last clear to her, that he who +came but to seek and to save the lost, could not have closed the door +against one that sought return to his fealty. It was not until she +knew the soutar, however, that at length she understood the tireless +redeeming of the Father, who had sent men blind and stupid and +ill-conditioned, into a world where they had to learn almost everything. + +There were some few books of a more theological sort, which happily she +neither could understand nor was able to imagine she understood, and +which therefore she instinctively refused, as affording nourishment +neither for thought nor feeling. There was, besides, Dr. Johnson's +_Rasselas_, which mildly interested her; and a book called _Dialogues of +Devils_, which she read with avidity. And thus, if indeed her ignorance +did not become rapidly less, at least her knowledge of its existence +became slowly greater. + +And all the time the conviction grew upon her, that she had been in +that region before, and that in truth she could not be far from the spot +where she laid her child down, and lost him. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +In the meantime the said child, a splendid boy, was the delight of the +humble dwelling to which Maggie had borne him in triumph. But the mind +of the soutar was not a little exercised as to how far their right in +the boy approached the paternal: were they justified in regarding him +as their love-property, before having made exhaustive inquiry as to who +could claim, and might re-appropriate him? For nothing could liberate +the finder of such a thing from the duty of restoring it upon demand, +seeing there could be no assurance that the child had been deliberately +and finally abandoned! Maggie, indeed, regarded the baby as absolutely +hers by right of rescue; but her father asked himself whether by +appropriating him she might not be depriving his mother of the one +remaining link between her and humanity, and so abandoning her helpless +to the Enemy. Surely to take and withhold from any woman her child, +must be to do what was possible toward dividing her from the unseen and +eternal! And he saw that, for the sake of his own child also, and the +truth in her, both she and he must make every possible endeavour to +restore the child to his mother. + +So the next time that Maggie brought the crowing infant to the kitchen, +her father, who sat as usual under the small window, to gather upon his +work all the light to be had, said, with one quick glance at the child-- + +"Eh, the bonny, glaid cratur! Wha can say 'at sic as he, 'at haena the +twa in ane to see til them, getna frae Himsel a mair partic'lar and +carefu' regaird, gien that war poassible, than ither bairns! I would +fain believe that same!" + +"Eh, father, but ye aye think bonny!" exclaimed Maggie. "Some hae been +dingin 't in upo me 'at sic as he maist aye turn oot onything but weel, +whan they step oot intil the warl. Eh, but we maun tak care o' 'im, +father! Whaur _would_ I be wi'oot you at my back!" + +"And God at the back o' baith, bairn!" rejoined the soutar. "It's +thinkable that the Almichty may hae special diffeeculty wi sic as he, +but nane can jeedge o' ony thing or body till they see the hin'er en' o' +'t a'. But I'm thinkin it maun aye be harder for ane that hasna his ain +mither to luik til. Ony ither body, be she as guid as she may, maun be +but a makshift!--For ae thing he winna get the same naitral disciplene +'at ilka mither cat gies its kitlins!" + +"Maybe! maybe!--I ken I couldna ever lay a finger upo' the bonny cratur +mysel!" said Maggie. + +"There 'tis!" returned her father. "And I dinna think," he went on, "we +could expec muckle frae the wisdom o' the mither o' 'm, gien she had +him. I doobt she micht turn oot to be but a makshift hersel! There's +mony aboot 'im 'at'll be sair eneuch upon 'im, but nane the wiser for +that! Mony ane'll luik upon 'im as a bairn in whause existence God has +had nae share--or jist as muckle share as gies him a grup o' 'im to gie +'im his licks! There's a heap o' mystery aboot a'thing, Maggie, and that +frae the vera beginnin to the vera en'! It may be 'at yon bairnie's i' +the waur danger jist frae haein you and me, Maggie! Eh, but I wuss his +ain mither war gien back til him! And wha can tell but she's needin him +waur nor he's needin her--though there maun aye be something he canna +get--'cause ye're no his ain mither, Maggie, and I'm no even his ain +gutcher!" + +The adoptive mother burst into a howl. + +"Father, father, ye'll brak the hert o' me!" she almost yelled, and laid +the child on the top of her father's hands in the very act of drawing +his waxed ends. + +Thus changing him perforce from cobbler to nurse, she bolted from the +kitchen, and up the little stair; and throwing herself on her knees by +the bedside, sought, instinctively and unconsciously, the presence of +him who sees in secret. But for a time she had nothing to say even +to _him_, and could only moan on in the darkness beneath her closed +eyelids. + +Suddenly she came to herself, remembering that she too had abandoned her +child: she must go back to him! + +But as she ran, she heard loud noises of infantile jubilation, and +re-entering the kitchen, was amazed to see the soutar's hands moving as +persistently if not quite so rapidly as before: the child hung at the +back of the soutar's head, in the bight of the long jack-towel from +behind the door, holding on by the gray hair of his occiput. There +he tugged and crowed, while his care-taker bent over his labour, +circumspect in every movement, nor once forgetting the precious thing +on his back, who was evidently delighted with his new style of being +nursed, and only now and then made a wry face at some movement of the +human machine too abrupt for his comfort. Evidently he took it all as +intended solely for his pleasure. + +Maggie burst out laughing through the tears that yet filled her eyes, +and the child, who could hear but not see her, began to cry a little, +so rousing the mother in her to a sense that he was being treated too +unceremoniously; when she bounded to liberate him, undid the towel, and +seated herself with him in her lap. The grandfather, not sorry to be +released, gave his shoulders a little writhing shake, laughed an amused +laugh, and set off boring and stitching and drawing at redoubled speed. + +"Weel, Maggie?" he said, with loving interrogation, but without looking +up. + +"I saw ye was richt, father, and it set me greitin sae sair that I +forgot the bairn, and you, father, as weel. Gang on, please, and say +what ye think fit: it's a' true!" + +"There's little left for me to say, lassie, noo ye hae begun to say't to +yersel. But, believe me, though ye can never be the bairn's ain mither, +_she_ can never be til 'im the same ye hae been a'ready, whatever mair +or better may follow. The pairt ye hae chosen is guid eneuch never to be +taen frae ye--i' this warl or the neist!" + +"Thank ye, father, for that! I'll dee for him what I can, ohn forgotten +that he's no mine but anither wuman's. I maunna tak frae her what's her +ain!" + +The soutar, especially while at his work, was always trying "to get," +as he said, "into his Lord's company,"--now endeavouring, perhaps, to +understand some saying of his, or now, it might be, to discover his +reason for saying it just then and there. Often, also, he would be +pondering why he allowed this or that to take place in the world, for it +was his house, where he was always present and always at work. Humble as +diligent disciple, he never doubted, when once a thing had taken place, +that it was by his will it came to pass, but he saw that evil itself, +originating with man or his deceiver, was often made to subserve the +final will of the All-in-All. And he knew in his own self that much must +first be set right there, before the will of the Father could be done in +earth as it was in heaven. Therefore in any new development of feeling +in his child, he could recognize the pressure of a guiding hand in the +formation of her history; and was able to understand St. John where he +says, "Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear +what we shall be, but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall +be like him, for we shall see him as he is." For first, foremost, and +deepest of all, he positively and absolutely believed in the man whose +history he found in the Gospel: that is, he believed not only that +such a man once was, and that every word he then spoke was true, but he +believed that that man was still in the world, and that every word +he then spoke, had always been, still was, and always would be true. +Therefore he also believed--which was more both to the Master and to +John MacLear, his disciple--that the chief end of his conscious life +must be to live in His presence, and keep his affections ever, afresh +and constantly, turning toward him in hope and aspiration. Hence every +day he felt afresh that he too was living in the house of God, among the +things of the father of Jesus. + +The life-influence of the soutar had already for some time, and in some +measure, been felt at Tiltowie. In a certain far-off way, men seemed to +surmise what he was about, although they were, one and all, unable to +estimate the nature or value of his pursuit. What their idea of him was, +may in a measure be gathered from the answer of the village-fool to the +passer-by who said to him: "Weel, and what's yer soutar aboot the noo?" +"Ow, as usual," answered the _natural_, "turnin up ilka muckle stane to +luik for his maister aneth it!" For in truth he believed that the Lord +of men was very often walking to and fro in the earthly kingdom of his +Father, watching what was there going on, and doing his best to bring it +to its true condition; that he was ever and always in the deepest sense +present in the same, where he could, if he pleased, at any moment or in +any spot, appear to whom he would. Never did John MacLear lift his eyes +heavenward without a vague feeling that he might that very moment, catch +a sight of the glory of his coming Lord; if ever he fixed his eyes on +the far horizon, it was never without receiving a shadowy suggestion +that, like a sail towering over the edge of the world, the first great +flag of the Lord's hitherward march might that moment be rising between +earth and heaven;--for certainly He would come unawares, and then who +could tell what moment He might not set his foot on the edge of the +visible, and come out of the dark in which He had hitherto clothed +himself as with a garment--to appear in the ancient glory of his +transfiguration! Thus he was ever ready to fall a watching--and thus, +also, never did he play the false prophet, with cries of "Lo here!" and +"Lo there!" And even when deepest lost in watching, the lowest whisper +of humanity seemed always loud enough to recall him to his "work +alive"--lest he should be found asleep at His coming. His was the same +live readiness that had opened the ear of Maggie to the cry of the +little one on the hill-side. As his daily work was ministration to the +weary feet of his Master's men, so was his soul ever awake to their +sorrows and spiritual necessities. + +"There's a haill warl' o' bonny wark aboot me!" he would say. "I hae but +to lay my han' to what's neist me, and it's sure to be something that +wants deein! I'm clean ashamt sometimes, whan I wauk up i' the mornin, +to fin' mysel deein naething!" + +Every evening while the summer lasted, he would go out alone for a walk, +generally toward a certain wood nigh the town; for there lay, although +it was of no great extent, and its trees were small, a probability +of escaping for a few moments from the eyes of men, and the chance of +certain of another breed showing themselves. + +"No that," he once said to Maggie, "I ever cared vera muckle aboot the +angels: it's the man, the perfec man, wha was there wi' the Father afore +ever an angel was h'ard tell o', that sen's me upo my knees! Whan I see +a man that but minds me o' _Him_, my hert rises wi' a loup, as gien it +wad 'maist lea' my body ahint it.--Love's the law o' the universe, and +it jist works amazin!" + +One day a man, seeing him approach in the near distance, and knowing he +had not perceived his presence, lay down behind a great stone to watch +"the mad soutar," in the hope of hearing him say something insane. As +John came nearer, the man saw his lips moving, and heard sounds issue +from them; but as he passed, nothing was audible but the same words +repeated several times, and with the same expression of surprise and joy +as if at something for the first time discovered:--"Eh, Lord! Eh, Lord, +I see! I un'erstaun'!--Lord, I'm yer ain--to the vera deith!--a' yer +ain!--Thy father bless thee, Lord!--I ken ye care for noucht else!--Eh, +but my hert's glaid!--that glaid, I 'maist canna speyk!" + +That man ever after spoke of the soutar with a respect that resembled +awe. + +After that talk with her father about the child and his mother, a +certain silent change appeared in Maggie. People saw in her face an +expression which they took to resemble that of one whose child was ill, +and was expected to die. But what Maggie felt was only resignation to +the will of her Lord: the child was not hers but the Lord's, lent to her +for a season! She must walk softly, doing everything for him as under +the eye of the Master, who might at any moment call to her, "Bring the +child: I want him now!" And she soon became as cheerful as before, but +never after quite lost the still, solemn look as of one in the eternal +spaces, who saw beyond this world's horizon. She talked less with her +father than hitherto, but at the same time seemed to live closer to him. +Occasionally she would ask him to help her to understand something he +had said; but even then he would not always try to make it plain; he +might answer-- + +"I see, lassie, ye're no just ready for 't! It's true, though; and the +day maun come whan ye'll see the thing itsel, and ken what it is; and +that's the only w'y to win at the trowth o' 't! In fac', to see a thing, +and ken the thing, and be sure it's true, is a' ane and the same thing!" +Such a word from her father was always enough to still and content the +girl. + +Her delight in the child, instead of growing less, went on increasing +because of the _awe_, rather than _dread_ of having at last to give him +up. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +Meanwhile the minister remained moody, apparently sunk in contemplation, +but in fact mostly brooding, and meditating neither form nor truth. +Sometimes he felt indeed as if he were losing altogether his power of +thinking--especially when, in the middle of the week, he sat down to +find something to say on the Sunday. He had greatly lost interest in the +questions that had occupied him while he was yet a student, and imagined +himself in preparation for what he called the ministry--never thinking +how one was to minister who had not yet learned to obey, and had never +sought anything but his own glorification! It was little wonder he +should lose interest in a profession, where all was but profession! What +pleasure could that man find in holy labour who, not indeed offered his +stipend to purchase the Holy Ghost, but offered all he knew of the Holy +Ghost to purchase popularity? No wonder he should find himself at length +in lack of talk to pay for his one thing needful! He had always been +more or less dependent on commentaries for the joint he provided--and +even for the cooking of it: was it any wonder that his guests should +show less and less appetite for his dinners? + + The hungry sheep looked up and were not fed! + +To have food to give them, he must think! To think, he must have peace! +to have peace, he must forget himself! to forget himself, he must +repent, and walk in the truth! to walk in the truth, he must love God +and his neighbour!--Even to have interest in the dry bone of criticism, +which was all he could find in his larder, he must broil it--and so burn +away in the slow fire of his intellect, now dull and damp enough from +lack of noble purpose, every scrap of meat left upon it! His last +relation to his work, his fondly cherished intellect, was departing from +him, to leave him lord of a dustheap! In the unsavoury mound he grubbed +and nosed and scraped dog-like, but could not uncover a single fragment +that smelt of provender. The morning of Saturday came, and he recognized +with a burst of agonizing sweat, that he dared not even imagine his +appearance before his congregation: he had not one written word to read +to them; and extempore utterance was, from conscious vacancy, impossible +to him; he could not even call up one meaningless phrase to articulate! +He flung his concordance sprawling upon the floor, snatched up his hat +and clerical cane, and, scarce knowing what he did, presently found +himself standing at the soutar's door, where he had already knocked, +without a notion of what he was come to seek. The old parson, generally +in a mood to quarrel with the soutar, had always walked straight into +his workshop, and greeted him crouched over his work; but the new parson +always waited on the doorstep for Maggie to admit him. + +She had opened the door wide ere he knew why he had come, or could think +of anything to say. And now he was in greater uneasiness than usual at +the thought of the cobbler's deep-set black eyes about to be fixed upon +him, as if to probe his very thoughts. + +"Do you think your father would have time," he asked humbly, "to measure +me for a pair of light boots?" + +Mr. Blatherwick was very particular about his foot-gear, and had +hitherto always fitted himself at Deemouth; but he had at length +learned that nothing he could there buy approached in quality, either +of material or workmanship, what the soutar supplied to his poorest +customer: he would mend anything worth mending, but would never _make_ +anything inferior. + +"Ye'll get what ye want at such and such place," he would answer, "and +I doobtna it'll be as guid as can be made at the siller; but for my ain +pairt, ye maun excuse me!" + +"'Deed, sir, he'll be baith glad and prood to mak ye as guid a pair o' +beets as he can compass," answered Maggie. "Jist step in here, sir, and +lat him ken what ye want. My bairn's greitin, and I maun gang til 'im; +it's seldom he cries oot!" + +The minister walked in at the open door of the kitchen, and met the eyes +of the soutar expectant. + +"Ye're welcome, sir!" said MacLear, and returned his eyes to what he had +for a moment interrupted. + +"I want you to make me a nice pair of boots, if you please," said the +parson, as cheerily as he could. "I am rather particular about the fit, +I fear!" + +"And what for no, sir?" answered the soutar. "I'll do what I can +onygait, I promise ye--but wi' mair readiness nor confidence as to the +fit; for I canna profess assurance o' fittin' the first time, no haein +the necessar instinc' frae the mak' o' the man to the shape o' the fut, +sir." + +"Of course I should like to have them both neat and comfortable," said +the parson. + +"In coorse ye wad, sir, and sae would I! For I confess I wad fain hae my +customers tak note o' my success in followin the paittern set afore me +i' the first oreeginal fut!" + +"But you will allow, I suppose, that a foot is seldom as perfect now +as when the divine idea of the member was first embodied by its maker?" +rejoined the minister. + +"Ow, ay; there's been mony an interferin circumstance; but whan His +kingdom's come, things 'll tak a turn for the redemption o' the feet +as weel as the lave o' the body--as the apostle Paul says i' the +twenty-third verse o' the aucht chapter o' his epistle to the +Romans;--only I'm weel aveesed, sir, 'at there's no sic a thing as +_adoption_ mintit at i' the original Greek. That can hae no pairt i' +what fowk ca's the plan o' salvation--as gien the consumin fire o' the +Love eternal was to be ca'd a _plan_! Hech, minister, it scunners me! +But for the fut, it's aye perfec' eneuch to be _my_ pattern, for it's +the only ane I hae to follow! It's Himsel sets the shape o' the shune +this or that man maun weir!" + +"That's very true--and the same applies to everything a man cannot help. +A man has both the make of his mind and of his circumstances to do the +best he can with, and sometimes they don't seem to fit each other--so +well as, I hope, your boots will fit my feet." + +"Ye're richt there, sir--only that no man's bun' to follow his +inclinations or his circumstances, ony mair than he's bun' to alter his +fut to the shape o' a ready-made beet!--But hoo wull ye hae them made, +sir?--I mean what sort o' butes wad ye hae me mak?" + +"Oh, I leave that to you, Mr. MacLear!--a sort of half Wellington, I +suppose--a neat pair of short boots." + +"I understand, sir." + +"And now tell me," said the minister, moved by a sudden impulse, coming +he knew not whence, "what you think of this new fad, if it be nothing +worse, of the English clergy--I mean about the duty of confessing to the +priest.--I see they have actually prevailed upon that wretched creature +we've all been reading about in the papers lately, to confess the murder +of her little brother! Do you think they had any right to do that? +Remember the jury had acquitted her." + +"And has she railly confessed? I _am_ glaid o' that! I only wuss they +could get a haud o' Madeline Smith as weel, and persuaud _her_ to +confess! Eh, the state o' that puir crater's conscience! It 'maist gars +me greit to think o' 't! Gien she wad but confess, houp wad spring to +life in her sin-oppressed soul! Eh, but it maun be a gran' lichtenin to +that puir thing! I'm richt glaid to hear o' 't." + +"I didn't know, Mr. MacLear, that you favoured the power and influence +of the priesthood to such an extent! We Presbyterian clergy are not in +the way of doing the business of detectives, taking upon us to act as +the agents of human justice! There is no one, guilty or not, but is safe +with us!" + +"As with any confessor, Papist or Protestant," rejoined the soutar. "If +I understand your news, sir, it means that they persuaded the poor soul +to confess her guilt, and so put herself safe in the hands of God!" + +"And is not that to come between God and the sinner?" + +"Doubtless, sir--in order to bring them together; to persuade the sinner +to the first step toward reconciliation with God, and peace in his own +mind." + +"That he could take without the intervention of the priest!" + +"Yes, but not without his own consenting will! And in this case, she +would not, and did not confess without being persuaded to it!" + +"They had no right to threaten her!" + +"Did they threaten her? If they did, they were wrong.--And yet I don't +know! In any case they did for her the very best thing that could be +done! For they did get her, you tell me, to confess--and so cast from +her the horror of carrying about in her secret heart the knowledge of an +unforgiven crime! Christians of all denominations hold, I presume, that, +to be forgiven, a sin must be confessed!" + +"Yes, to God--that is enough! No mere man has a right to know the sins +of his neighbour!" + +"Not even the man against whom the sin was committed?" + +"Suppose the sin has never come abroad, but remains hidden in the heart, +is a man bound to confess it? Is he, for instance, bound to tell his +neighbour that he used to hate him, and in his heart wish him evil?" + +"The time micht come whan to confess even that would ease a man's hert! +but in sic a case, the man's first duty, it seems to me, would be to +watch for an opportunity o' doin that neebour a kin'ness. That would +be the deid blow to his hatred! But where a man has done an act o' +injustice, a wrang to his neebour, he has no ch'ice, it seems to me, but +confess it: that neebour is the one from whom first he has to ask and +receive forgiveness; and that neebour alone can lift the burden o' 't +aff o' him! Besides, the confession may be but fair, to baud the blame +frae bein laid at the door o' some innocent man!--And the author o' nae +offence can affoord to forget," ended the soutar, "hoo the Lord said, +'There's naething happit-up, but maun come to the licht'!" + +It seems to me that nothing could have led the minister so near the +presentation of his own false position, except the will of God working +in him to set him free. He continued, driven by an impulse he neither +understood nor suspected-- + +"Suppose the thing not known, however, or likely to be known, and +that the man's confession, instead of serving any good end, would only +destroy his reputation and usefulness, bring bitter grief upon those who +loved him, and nothing but shame to the one he had wronged--what would +you say then?--You will please to remember, Mr. MacLear, that I am +putting an entirely imaginary case, for the sake of argument only!" + +"Eh, but I doobt--I doobt yer imaiginary case!" murmured the soutar to +himself, hardly daring even to think his thought clearly, lest somehow +it might reveal itself. + +"In that case," he replied, "it seems to me the offender wad hae to cast +aboot him for ane fit to be trustit, and to him reveal the haill affair, +that he may get his help to see and do what's richt: it maks an unco +differ to luik at a thing throuw anither man's een, i' the supposed +licht o' anither man's conscience! The wrang dune may hae caused mair +evil, that is, mair injustice, nor the man himsel kens! And what's the +reputation ye speak o', or what's the eesefu'ness o' sic a man? Can it +be worth onything? Isna his hoose a lee? isna it biggit upo the san'? +What kin' o' a usefulness can that be that has hypocrisy for its +fundation? Awa wi' 't! Lat him cry oot to a' the warl', 'I'm a +heepocrit! I'm a worm, and no man!' Lat him cry oot to his makker, 'I'm +a beast afore thee! Mak a man o' me'!" + +As the soutar spoke, overcome by sympathy with the sinner, whom he could +not help feeling in bodily presence before him, the minister, who had +risen when he began to talk about the English clergy and confession, +stood hearing with a face pale as death. + +"For God's sake, minister," continued the soutar, "gien ye hae ony sic +thing upo yer min', hurry and oot wi' 't! I dinna say _to me_, but to +somebody--to onybody! Mak a clean breist o' 't, afore the Adversary has +ye again by the thrapple!" + +But here started awake in the minister the pride of superiority in +station and learning: a shoemaker, from whom he had just ordered a pair +of boots, to take such a liberty, who ought naturally to have regarded +him as necessarily spotless! He drew himself up to his lanky height, and +made reply-- + +"I am not aware, Mr. MacLear, that I have given you any pretext for +addressing me in such terms! I told you, indeed, that I was putting +a case, a very possible one, it is true, but not the less a merely +imaginary one! You have shown me how unsafe it is to enter into an +argument on any supposed case with one of limited education! It is my +own fault, however; and I beg your pardon for having thoughtlessly led +you into such a pitfall!--Good morning!" + +As the door closed behind the parson, he began to felicitate himself +on having so happily turned aside the course of a conversation whose +dangerous drift he seemed now first to recognize; but he little thought +how much he had already conveyed to the wide-eyed observation of one +well schooled in the symptoms of human unrest. + +"I must set a better watch over my thoughts lest they betray me!" he +reflected; thus resolving to conceal himself yet more carefully from the +one man in the place who would have cut for him the snare of the fowler. + +"I was ower hasty wi' 'im!" concluded the soutar on his part. "But I +think the truth has some grup o' 'im. His conscience is waukin up, I +fancy, and growlin a bit; and whaur that tyke has ance taen haud, he's +no ready to lowsen or lat gang! We maun jist lie quaiet a bit, and see! +His hoor 'ill come!" + +The minister being one who turned pale when angry, walked home with a +face of such corpse-like whiteness, that a woman who met him said to +herself, "What can ail the minister, bonny laad! He's luikin as scared +as a corp! I doobt that fule body the soutar's been angerin him wi' his +havers!" + +The first thing he did when he reached the manse, was to turn, +nevertheless, to the chapter and verse in the epistle to the Romans, +which the soutar had indicated, and which, through all his irritation, +had, strangely enough, remained unsmudged in his memory; but the passage +suggested nothing, alas! out of which he could fabricate a sermon. Could +it have proved otherwise with a heart that was quite content to have God +no nearer him than a merely adoptive father? He found at the same time +that his late interview with the soutar had rendered the machinery of +his thought-factory no fitter than before for weaving a tangled wisp of +loose ends, which was all he could command, into the homogeneous web of +a sermon; and at last was driven to his old stock of carefully preserved +preordination sermons; where he was unfortunate enough to make choice +of the one least of all fitted to awake comprehension or interest in his +audience. + +His selection made, and the rest of the day thus cleared for inaction, +he sat down and wrote a letter. Ever since his fall he had been +successfully practising the art of throwing a morsel straight into +one or other of the throats of the triple-headed Cerberus, his +conscience--which was more clever in catching such sops, than they were +in choking the said howler; and one of them, the letter mentioned, was +the sole wretched result of his talk with the soutar. Addressed to a +late divinity-classmate, he asked in it incidentally whether his +old friend had ever heard anything of the little girl--he could just +remember her name and the pretty face of her--Isy, general slavey to +her aunt's lodgers in the Canongate, of whom he was one: he had often +wondered, he said, what had become of her, for he had been almost in +love with her for a whole half-year! I cannot but take the inquiry as +the merest pretence, with the sole object of deceiving himself into the +notion of having at least made one attempt to discover Isy. His friend +forgot to answer the question, and James Blatherwick never alluded to +his having put it to him. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +Never dawned Sunday upon soul more wretched. He had not indeed to climb +into his watchman's tower without the pretence of a proclamation, but on +that very morning his father had put the mare between the shafts of the +gig to drive his wife to Tiltowie and their son's church, instead of the +nearer and more accessible one in the next parish, whither they oftener +went. Arrived there, it was not wonderful they should find themselves +so dissatisfied with the spiritual food set before them, as to wish +heartily they had remained at home, or driven to the nearer church. +The moment the service was over, Mr. Blatherwick felt much inclined to +return at once, without waiting an interview with his son; for he had no +remark to make on the sermon that would be pleasant either for his son +or his wife to hear; but Marion combated the impulse with entreaties +that grew almost angry, and Peter was compelled to yield, although +sullenly. They waited in the churchyard for the minister's appearance. + +"Weel, Jeemie," said his father, shaking hands with him limply, "yon +was some steeve parritch ye gied us this mornin!--and the meal itsel was +baith auld and soor!" + +The mother gave her son a pitiful smile, as if in deprecation of her +husband's severity, but said not a word; and James, haunted by the taste +of failure the sermon had left in his own mouth, and possibly troubled +by sub-conscious motions of self-recognition, could hardly look his +father in the face, and felt as if he had been rebuked by him before all +the congregation. + +"Father," he replied in a tone of some injury, "you do not know how +difficult it is to preach a fresh sermon every Sunday!" + +"Ca' ye yon fresh, Jeemie? To me it was like the fuistit husks o' the +half-faimisht swine! Man, I wuss sic provender would drive yersel whaur +there's better and to spare! Yon was lumps o' brose in a pig-wash o' +stourum! The tane was eneuch to choke, and the tither to droon ye!" + +James made a wry face, and the sight of his annoyance broke the ice +gathering over the well-spring in his mother's heart; tears rose in her +eyes, and for one brief moment she saw the minister again her bairn. +But he gave her no filial response; ambition, and greed of the praise of +men, had blocked in him the movements of the divine, and corrupted his +wholesomest feelings, so that now he welcomed freely as a conviction the +suggestion that his parents had never cherished any sympathy with him +or his preaching; which reacted in a sudden flow of resentment, and a +thickening of the ice on his heart. Some fundamental shock must dislodge +that rooted, overmastering ice, if ever his wintered heart was to feel +the power of a reviving Spring! + +The threesum family stood in helpless silence for a few moments; then +the father said to the mother-- + +"I doobt we maun be settin oot for hame, Mirran!" + +"Will you not come into the manse, and have something before you go?" +said James, not without anxiety lest his housekeeper should be taken at +unawares, and their acceptance should annoy her: he lived in constant +dread of offending his housekeeper! + +"Na, I thank ye," returned his father: "it wad taste o' stew!" (_blown +dust_). + +It was a rude remark; but Peter was not in a kind mood; and when love +itself is unkind, it is apt to be burning and bitter and merciless. + +Marion burst into tears. James turned away, and walked home with a gait +of wounded dignity. Peter went in haste toward the churchyard gate, to +interrupt with the bit his mare's feed of oats. Marion saw his hands +tremble pitifully as he put the headstall over the creature's ears, and +reproached herself that she had given him such a cold-hearted son. She +climbed in a helpless way into the gig, and sat waiting for her husband. + +"I'm that dry 'at I could drink cauld watter!" he said, as he took his +place beside her. + +They drove from the place of tombs, but they carried death with them, +and left the sunlight behind them. + +Neither spoke a word all the way. Not until she was dismounting at their +own door, did the mother venture her sole remark, "Eh, sirs!" It meant +a world of unexpressed and inexpressible misery. She went straight up to +the little garret where she kept her Sunday bonnet, and where she said +her prayers when in especial misery. Thence she descended after a +while to her bedroom, there washed her face, and sadly prepared for +a hungerless encounter with the dinner Isy had been getting ready for +them--hoping to hear something about the sermon, perhaps even some +little word about the minister himself. But Isy too must share in the +disappointment of that vainly shining Sunday morning! Not a word passed +between her master and mistress. Their son was called the pastor of the +flock, but he was rather the porter of the sheepfold than the shepherd +of the sheep. He was very careful that the church should be properly +swept and sometimes even garnished; but about the temple of the Holy +Ghost, the hearts of his sheep, he knew nothing, and cared as little. +The gloom of his parents, their sense of failure and loss, grew and +deepened all the dull hot afternoon, until it seemed almost to pass +their endurance. At last, however, it abated, as does every pain, for +life is at its root: thereto ordained, it slew itself by exhaustion. +"But," thought the mother, "there's Monday coming, and what am I to +do then?" With the new day would return the old trouble, the gnawing, +sickening pain that she was childless: her daughter was gone, and no +son was left her! Yet the new day when it came, brought with it its new +possibility of living one day more! + +But the minister was far more to be pitied than those whose misery he +was. All night long he slept with a sense of ill-usage sublying his +consciousness, and dominating his dreams; but with the sun came a doubt +whether he had not acted in unseemly fashion, when he turned and left +his father and mother in the churchyard. Of course they had not treated +him well; but what would his congregation, some of whom might have been +lingering in the churchyard, have thought, to see him leave them as he +did? His only thought, however, was to take precautions against their +natural judgment of his behaviour. + +After his breakfast, he set out, his custom of a Monday morning, for +what he called a quiet stroll; but his thoughts kept returning, ever +with fresh resentment, to the soutar's insinuation--for such he counted +it--on the Saturday. Suddenly, uninvited, and displacing the phantasm of +her father, arose before him the face of Maggie; and with it the sudden +question, What then was the real history of the baby on whom she spent +such an irrational amount of devotion. The soutar's tale of her finding +him was too apocryphal! Might not Maggie have made a slip? Or why should +the pretensions of the soutar be absolutely trusted? Surely he had, some +time or other, heard a rumour! A certain satisfaction arose with the +suggestion that this man, so ready to believe evil of his neighbour, had +not kept his own reputation, or that of his house, perhaps, undefiled. +He tried to rebuke himself the next moment, it is true, for having +harboured a moment's satisfaction in the wrong-doing of another: it was +unbefitting the pastor of a Christian flock! But the thought came and +came again, and he took no continuous trouble to cast it out. When he +went home, he put a question or two to his housekeeper about the little +one, but she only smiled paukily, and gave him no answer. + +After his two-o'clock dinner, he thought it would be Christian-like to +forgive his parents: he would therefore call at Stonecross--which would +tend to wipe out any undesirable offence on the minds of his parents, +and also to prevent any gossip that might injure him in his sacred +profession! He had not been to see them for a long time; his visits to +them gave him no satisfaction; but he never dreamed of attributing that +to his own want of cordiality. He judged it well, however, to avoid any +appearance of evil, and therefore thought it might be his duty to pay +them in future a hurried call about once a month. For the past, he +excused himself because of the distance, and his not being a good +walker! Even now that he had made up his mind he was in no haste to set +out, but had a long snooze in his armchair first: it was evening when he +climbed the hill and came in sight of the low gable behind which he was +born. + +Isy was in the garden gathering up the linen she had spread to dry on +the bushes, when his head came in sight at the top of the brae. She knew +him at once, and stooping behind the gooseberries, fled to the back of +the house, and so away to the moor. James saw the white flutter of a +sheet, but nothing of the hands that took it. He had heard that his +mother had a nice young woman to help her in the house, but cherished so +little interest in home-affairs that the news waked in him no curiosity. + +Ever since she came to Stonecross, Isy had been on the outlook lest +James should unexpectedly surprise her, and so he himself surprised into +an involuntary disclosure of his relation to her; and not even by +the long deferring of her hope to see him yet again, had she come to +pretermit her vigilance. She did not intend to avoid him altogether, +only to take heed not to startle him into any recognition of her in the +presence of his mother. But when she saw him approaching the house, her +courage failed her, and she fled to avoid the danger of betraying +both, herself and him. She was in truth ashamed of meeting him, in her +imagination feeling guiltily exposed to his just reproaches. All the +time he remained that evening with his mother, she kept watching the +house, not once showing herself until he was gone, when she reappeared +as if just returned from the moor, where Mrs. Blatherwick imagined +her still indulging the hope of finding her baby, concerning whom her +mistress more than doubted the very existence, taking the supposed fancy +for nothing but a half-crazy survival from the time of her insanity +before the Robertsons found her. + +The minister made a comforting peace with his mother, telling her a +part of the truth, namely, that he had been much out of sorts during the +week, and quite unable to write a new sermon; and that so he had been +driven at the very last to take an old one, and that so hurriedly that +he had failed to recall correctly the subject and nature of it; that +he had actually begun to read it before finding that it was altogether +unsuitable--at which very moment, fatally for his equanimity, he +discovered his parents in the congregation, and was so dismayed that he +could not recover his self-possession, whence had ensued his apparent +lack of cordiality! It was a lame, yet somewhat plausible excuse, and +served to silence for the moment, although it was necessarily so far +from satisfying his mother's heart. His father was out of doors, and him +James did not see. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +As time went on, the terror of discovery grew rather than abated in the +mind of the minister. He could not tell whence or why it should be so, +for no news of Isy reached him, and he felt, in his quieter moments, +almost certain that she could not have passed so completely out of his +horizon, if she were still in the world. When most persuaded of this, +he felt ablest to live and forget the past, of which he was unable to +recall any portion with satisfaction. The darkness and silence left over +it by his unrepented offence, gave it, in his retrospect, a threatening +aspect--out of which at any moment might burst the hidden enemy, the +thing that might be known, and must not be known! He derived, however, +a feeble and right cowardly comfort from the reflection that he had done +nothing to hide the miserable fact, and could not now. He even persuaded +himself that if he could he _would_ not do anything now to keep it +secret; he would leave all to that Providence which seemed hitherto +to have wrought on his behalf: he would but keep a silence which no +gentleman must break!--And why should that come abroad which Providence +itself concealed? Who had any claim to know a mere passing fault, which +the partner in it must least of all desire exposed, seeing it would fall +heavier upon her than upon him? Where was any call for that confession, +about which the soutar had maundered so foolishly? If, on the other +hand, his secret should threaten to creep out, he would not, he +flattered himself, move a finger to keep it hidden! he would that moment +disappear in some trackless solitude, rejoicing that he had nothing +left to wish undisclosed! As to the charge of hypocrisy that was sure to +follow, he was innocent: he had never said anything he did not believe! +he had made no professions beyond such as were involved in his position! +he had never once posed as a man of Christian experience--like the +soutar for instance! Simply and only he had been overtaken in a fault, +which he had never repeated, never would repeat, and which he was +willing to atone for in any way he could! + +On the following Saturday, the soutar was hard at work all day long +on the new boots the minister had ordered of him, which indeed he had +almost forgotten in anxiety about the man for whom he had to make them. +For MacLear was now thoroughly convinced that the young man had "some +sick offence within his mind," and was the more anxious to finish his +boots and carry them home the same night, that he knew his words had +increased the sickness of that offence, which sickness might be the +first symptom of returning health. For nothing attracted the soutar more +than an opportunity of doing anything to lift from a human soul, were +it but a single fold of the darkness that compassed it, and so let the +light nearer to the troubled heart. As to what it might be that was +harassing the minister's soul, he sternly repressed in himself all +curiosity. The thought of Maggie's precious little foundling did indeed +once more occur to him, but he tried all he could to shut it out. He did +also desire that the minister should confess, but he had no wish that +he should unbosom himself to him: from such a possibility, indeed, he +shrank; while he did hope to persuade him to seek counsel of some one +capable of giving him true advice. He also hoped that, his displeasure +gradually passing, he would resume his friendly intercourse with +himself; for somehow there was that in the gloomy parson which +powerfully attracted the cheery and hopeful soutar, who hoped his +troubled abstraction might yet prove to be heart-hunger after a +spiritual good which he had not begun to find: he might not yet have +understood, he thought, the good news about God--that he was just +what Jesus seemed to those that saw the glory of God in his face. The +minister could not, the soutar thought, have learned much of the truth +concerning God; for it seemed to wake in him no gladness, no power of +life, no strength to _be_. For _him_ Christ had not risen, but lay wrapt +in his winding sheet! So far as James's feeling was concerned, the larks +and the angels must all be mistaken in singing as they did! + +At an hour that caused the soutar anxiety as to whether the housekeeper +might not have retired for the night, he rang the bell of the +manse-door; which in truth did bring the minister himself from his +study, to confront MacLear on the other side of the threshold, with the +new boots in his hand. + +But the minister had come to see that his behaviour in his last visit to +the soutar must have laid him open to suspicion from him; and he was now +bent on removing what he counted the unfortunate impression his words +might have made. Wishing therefore to appear to cherish no offence over +his parishioner's last words to him ere they parted, and so obliterate +any suggestion of needed confession lurking behind his own words with +which he had left him, he now addressed him with an _abandon_ which, +gloomy in spirit as he habitually was, he could yet assume in a moment +when the masking instinct was aroused in him-- + +"Oh, Mr. MacLear," he said jocularly, "I am glad you have just managed +to escape breaking the Sabbath! You have had a close shave! It wants ten +minutes, hardly more, to the awful midnight hour!" + +"I doobt, sir, it would hae broken the Sawbath waur, to fail o' my word +for the sake o' a steik or twa that maittered naething to God or man!" +returned the soutar. + +"Ah, well, we won't argue about it! but if we were inclined to be +strict, the Sabbath began some "--here he looked at his watch--"some +five hours and three-quarters ago; that is, at six of the clock, on the +evening of Saturday!" + +"Hoot, minister, ye ken ye're wrang there! for, Jew-wise, it began at +sax o' the Friday nicht! But ye hae made it plain frae the poopit that +ye hae nae supperstition aboot the first day o' the week, the whilk +alane has aucht to dee wi' hiz Christians!--We're no a' Jews, though +there's a heap o' them upo' this side the Tweed! I, for my pairt, +confess nae obligation but to drap workin, and sit doon wi' clean han's, +or as clean as I can weel mak them, to the speeritooal table o' my Lord, +whaur I aye try as weel to weir a clean and a cheerfu' face--that +is, sae far as the sermon will permit--and there's aye a pyke o' mate +somewhaur intil 't! For isna it the bonny day whan the Lord wad hae us +sit doon and ait wi himsel, wha made the h'avens and the yirth, and the +waters under the yirth that haud it up! And wilna he, upo this day, at +the last gran' merridge-feast, poor oot the bonny reid wine, and say, +'Sit ye doon, bairns, and tak o' my best'!" + +"Ay, ay, Mr. MacLear; that's a fine way to think of the Sabbath!" +rejoined the minister, "and the very way I am in the habit of thinking +of it myself!--I'm greatly obliged to you for bringing home my boots; +but indeed I could have managed very well without them!" + +"Ay, sir, maybe; I dinna doobt ye hae pairs and pairs o' beets; but ye +see _I_ couldna dee _wi'oot_ them, for I had _promised_." + +The word struck the minister to the heart. "He means something!" he said +to himself. "--But I never promised the girl anything! I _could_ not +have done it! I never thought of such a thing! I never said anything to +bind me!" + +He never saw that, whether he had promised or not, his deed had bound +him more absolutely than any words. + +All this time he was letting the soutar stand on the doorstep, with the +new boots in his hand. + +"Come in," he said at last, "and put them there in the window. It's +about time we were all going to bed, I think--especially myself, +to-morrow being sermon-day!" + +The soutar betook himself to his home and to bed, sorry that he had said +nothing, yet having said more than he knew. + +The next evening he listened to the best sermon he had yet heard from +that pulpit--a summary of the facts bearing on the resurrection of our +Lord;--with which sermon, however, a large part of the congregation was +anything but pleased; for the minister had admitted the impossibility of +reconciling, in every particular, the differing accounts of the doings +and seeings of those who bore witness to it. + +"--As gien," said the soutar, "the Lord wasna to shaw himsel till a' +that had seen he was up war agreed as to their recollection o' what fouk +had reportit!" + +He went home edified and uplifted by his fresh contemplation of the +story of his Master's victory: thank God! he thought; his pains were +over at last! and through death he was lord for ever over death and +evil, over pain and loss and fear, who was already through his father +lord of creation and life, and of all things visible and invisible! He +was Lord also of all thinking and feeling and judgment, able to give +repentance and restoration, and to set right all that selfwill had set +wrong! So greatly did the heart of his humble disciple rejoice in him, +that he scandalized the reposing sabbath-street, by breaking out, as he +went home, into a somewhat unmelodious song, "They are all gone down to +hell with the weapons of their war!" to a tune nobody knew but himself, +and which he could never have sung again. "O Faithful and True," he +broke out once more as he reached his own house; but checked +himself abruptly, saying, "Tut, tut, the fowk'll think I hae been +drinkin'!--Eh," he continued to himself as he went in, "gien I micht but +ance hear the name that no man kens but Himsel!" + +The next day he was very tired, and could get through but little +work; so, on the Tuesday he felt it would be right to take a holiday. +Therefore he put a large piece of oatcake in his pocket, and telling +Maggie he was going to the hills, "to do nae thing and a'thing, baith at +ance, a' day," disappeared with a backward look and lingering smile. + +He went brimful of expectation, and was not disappointed in those he met +by the way. + +After walking some distance in quiescent peace, and having since +noontide met no one--to use his own fashion of speech--by which he meant +that no special thought had arisen uncalled-for in his mind, always +regarding such a thought as a word direct from the First Thought, he +turned his steps toward Stonecross. He had known Peter Blatherwick for +many years, and honoured him as one in whom there was no guile; and now +the desire to see him came upon him: he wanted to share with him the +pleasure and benefit he had gathered from Sunday's sermon, and show the +better quality of the food their pastor had that day laid before his +sheep. He knocked at the door, thinking to see the mistress, and hear +from her where her husband was likely to be found; but to his surprise, +the farmer came himself to the door, where he stood in silence, with a +look that seemed to say, "I know you; but what can you be wanting with +me?" His face was troubled, and looked not only sorrowful, but scared +as well. Usually ruddy with health, and calm with content, it was now +blotted with pallid shades, and seemed, as he held the door-handle +without a word of welcome, that of one aware of something unseen behind +him. + +"What ails ye, Mr. Bletherwick?" asked the soutar, in a voice that +faltered with sympathetic anxiety. "Surely--I houp there's naething come +ower the mistress!" + +"Na, I thank ye; she's vera weel. But a dreid thing has befa'en her and +me. It's little mair nor an hoor sin syne 'at oor Isy--ye maun hae h'ard +tell o' Isy, 'at we baith had sic a fawvour for--a' at ance she jist +drappit doon deid as gien shotten wi' a gun! In fac I thoucht for a +meenut, though I h'ard nae shot, that sic had been the case. The ae +moment she steed newsin wi' her mistress i' the kitchie, and the neist +she was in a heap upo' the fleer o' 't!--But come in, come in." + +"Eh, the bonnie lassie!" cried the shoemaker, without moving to enter; +"I min' upo' her weel, though I believe I never saw her but ance!--a +fine, delicat pictur o' a lassie, that luikit up at ye as gien she made +ye kin'ly welcome to onything she could gie or get for ye!" + +"Aweel, as I'm tellin ye," said the farmer, "she's awa'; and we'll see +her no more till the earth gies up her deid! The wife's in there wi' +what's left o' her, greitin as gien she wad greit her een oot. Eh, but +she lo'ed her weel:--Doon she drappit, and no even a moment to say her +prayers!" + +"That maitters na muckle--no a hair, in fac!" returned the soutar. "It +was the Father o' her, nane ither, that took her. He wantit her hame; +and he's no are to dee onything ill, or at the wrang moment! Gien a +meenut mair had been ony guid til her, thinkna ye she wud hae had that +meenut!" + +"Willna ye come in and see her? Some fowk canna bide to luik upo the +deid, but ye're no are o' sic!" + +"Na; it's trowth I daurna be nane o' sic. I s' richt wullinly gang wi' +ye to luik upo the face o' ane 'at's won throuw!" + +"Come awa' than; and maybe the Lord 'ill gie ye a word o' comfort for +the mistress, for she taks on terrible aboot her. It braks my hert to +see her!" + +"The hert o' baith king and cobbler's i' the ae han' o' the Lord," +answered the soutar solemnly; "and gien my hert indite onything, my +tongue 'ill be ready to speyk the same." + +He followed the farmer--who trode softly, as if he feared disturbing the +sleeper--upon whom even the sudden silences of the world would break no +more. + +Mr. Blatherwick led the way to the parlour, and through it to a closet +behind, used as the guest-chamber. There, on a little white bed with +dimity curtains, lay the form of Isobel. The eyes of the soutar, in whom +had lingered yet a hope, at once revealed that he saw she was indeed +gone to return no more. Her lovely little face, although its beautiful +eyes were closed, was even lovelier than before; but her arms and hands +lay straight by her sides; their work was gone from them; no voice would +call her any more! she might sleep on, and take her rest! + +"I had but to lay them straucht," sobbed her mistress; "her een she had +closed hersel as she drappit! Eh, but she _was_ a bonny lassie--and a +guid!--hardly less nor ain bairn to me!" + +"And to me as weel!" supplemented Peter, with a choked sob. + +"And no ance had I paid her a penny wage!" cried Marion, with sudden +remorseful reminiscence. + +"She'll never think o' wages noo!" said her husband. "We'll sen' them to +the hospital, and that'll ease yer min', Mirran!" + +"Eh, she was a dacent, mensefu, richt lo'able cratur!" cried Marion. +"She never _said_ naething to jeedge by, but I hae a glimmer o' houp 'at +she _may_ ha' been ane o' the Lord's ain." + +"Is that a' ye can say, mem?" interposed the soutar. "Surely ye wadna +daur imaigine her drappit oot o' _his_ han's!" + +"Na," returned Marion; "but I wad richt fain ken her fair intil them! +Wha is there to assure 's o' her faith i' the atonement?" + +"Deed, I kenna, and I carena, mem! I houp she had faith i' naething, +thing nor thoucht, but the Lord himsel! Alive or deid, we're in his +han's wha dee'd for us, revealin his Father til 's," said the soutar; +"--and gien she didna ken Him afore, she wull noo! The holy All-in-all +be wi' her i' the dark, or whatever comes!--O God, hand up her heid, and +latna the watters gang ower her!" + +So-called Theology rose, dull, rampant, and indignant; but the solemn +face of the dead interdicted dispute, and Love was ready to hope, if not +quite to believe. Nevertheless to those guileless souls, the words of +the soutar sounded like blasphemy: was not her fate settled, and for +ever? Had not death in a moment turned her into an immortal angel, or +an equally immortal devil? Only how, at such a moment, with the peaceful +face before them, were they to argue the possibility that she, the +loving, the gentle, whose fault they knew but by her own voluntary +confession, was now as utterly indifferent to the heart of the living +God, as if He had never created her--nay even had become hateful to +him! No one spoke; and the soutar, after gazing on the dead for a +while, prayer overflowing his heart, but never reaching his lips, turned +slowly, and departed without a word. + +As he reached his own door, he met the minister, and told him of the +sorrow that had befallen his parents, adding that it was plain they were +in sore need of his sympathy. James, although marvelling at their being +so much troubled by the death of merely a servant, was roused by the +tale to the duty of his profession; and although his heart had never +yet drawn him either to the house of mourning or the house of mirth, +he judged it becoming to pay another visit to Stonecross, thinking it, +however, rather hard that he should have to go again so soon. It pleased +the soutar to see him face about at once, however, and start for the +farm with a quicker stride than, since his return to Tiltowie as its +minister, he had seen him put forth. + +James had not the slightest foreboding of whom he was about to see in +the arms of Death. But even had he had some feeling of what was +awaiting him, I dare not even conjecture the mood in which he would +have approached the house--whether one of compunction, or of relief. +But utterly unconscious of the discovery toward which he was rushing, +he hurried on, with a faint pleasure at the thought of having to +expostulate with his mother upon the waste of such an unnecessary +expenditure of feeling. Toward his father, he was aware of a more +active feeling of disapproval, if not indeed one of repugnance. James +Blatherwick was of such whose sluggish natures require, for the melting +of their stubbornness, and their remoulding into forms of strength +and beauty, such a concentration of the love of God that it becomes a +consuming fire. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +The night had fallen when he reached the farm. The place was silent; its +doors were all shut; and when he opened the nearest, seldom used but for +the reception of strangers, not a soul was to be seen; no one came to +meet him, for no one had even thought of him, and certainly no one, +except it were the dead, desired his coming. He went into the parlour, +and there, from the dim chamber beyond, whose door stood open, appeared +his mother. Her heart big with grief, she clasped him in her arms, and +laid her cheek against his bosom: higher she could not reach, and +nearer than his breast-bone she could not get to him. No endearment +was customary between them: James had never encouraged or missed any; +neither did he know how to receive such when offered. + +"I am distressed, mother," he began, "to see you so upset; and I cannot +help thinking such a display of feeling unnecessary. If I may say so, it +seems to me unreasonable. You cannot, in such a brief period as this new +maid of yours has spent with you, have developed such an affection for +her, as this--" he hesitated for a word, "--as this _bouleversement_ +would seem to indicate! The young woman can hardly be a relative, or +I should surely have heard of her existence! The suddenness of the +occurrence, of which I heard only from my shoemaker, MacLear, must have +wrought disastrously upon your nerves! Come, come, dear mother! you must +indeed compose yourself! It is quite unworthy of you, to yield to such a +paroxysm of unnatural and uncalled-for grief! Surely it is the part of a +Christian like you, to meet with calmness, especially in the case of one +you have known so little, that inevitable change which neither man +nor woman can avoid longer than a few years at most! Of course, the +appalling instantaneousness of it in the present case, goes far to +explain and excuse your emotion, but now at least, after so many hours +have elapsed, it is surely time for reason to resume her sway! Was +it not Schiller who said, 'Death cannot be an evil, for it is +universal'?--At all events, it is not an unmitigated evil!" he +added--with a sigh, as if for his part he was prepared to welcome it. + +During this prolonged and foolish speech, the gentle woman, whose +mother-heart had loved the poor girl that bore her daughter's name, had +been restraining her sobs behind her handkerchief; but now, as she heard +her son's cold commonplaces, it was, perhaps, a little wholesome anger +that roused her, and made her able to speak. + +"Ye didna ken her, laddie," she cried, "or ye wad never mint at layin +yer tongue upon her that gait!--'Deed na, ye wadna!--But I doobt gien +ever ye could hae come to ken her as she was--sic a bonny, herty sowl +as ance dwalt in yon white-faced, patient thing, lyin i' the chaumer +there--wi' the stang oot o' her hert at last, and left the sharper i' +mine! But me and yer father--eh, weel we lo'ed her! for to hiz she was +like oor ain Isy,--ay, mair a dochter nor a servan--wi'a braw lovin +kin'ness in her, no to be luikit for frae ony son, and sic as we never +had frae ony afore but oor ain Isy.--Jist gang ye intil the closet +there, gien ye wull, and ye'll see what'll maybe saften yer hert a bit, +and lat ye unerstan' what mak o' a thing's come to the twa auld fowk ye +never cared muckle aboot!" + +James felt bitterly aggrieved by this personal remark of his mother. How +unfair she was! What had _he_ ever done to offend her? Had he not always +behaved himself properly--except indeed in that matter of which neither +she, nor living soul else, knew anything, or would ever know! What +right had she then to say such things to him! Had he not fulfilled +the expectations with which his father sent him to college? had he not +gained a position whose reflected splendour crowned them the parents of +James Blatherwick? She showed him none of the consideration or respect +he had so justly earned but never demanded! He rose suddenly, and +with never a thought save to leave his mother so as to manifest his +displeasure with her, stalked heedlessly into the presence of the more +heedless dead. + +The night had indeed fallen, but, the little window of the room looking +westward, and a bar of golden light yet lying like a resurrection +stone over the spot where the sun was buried, a pale sad gleam, softly +vanishing, hovered, hardly rested, upon the lovely, still, unlooking +face, that lay white on the scarcely whiter pillow. Coming out of the +darker room, the sharp, low light blinded him a little, so that he saw +without any certainty of perception; yet he seemed to have something +before him not altogether unfamiliar, giving him a suggestion as of +something he had known once, perhaps ought now to recognize, but had +forgotten: the reality of it seemed to be obscured by the strange +autumnal light entering almost horizontally. Concluding himself oddly +affected by the sight of a room he had regarded with some awe in his +childhood, and had not set foot in it for a long time, he drew a +little nearer to the bed, to look closer at the face of this paragon +of servants, whose loss was causing his mother a sorrow so unreasonably +poignant. + +The sense of her resemblance to some one grew upon him; but not yet had +he begun to recognize the death-changed countenance; he became assured +only that he _had_ seen that still face before, and that, would she but +open those eyes, he should know at once who she was. + +Then the true suspicion flashed upon him: good God! _could it be_ the +dead Isy? Of course not! It was the merest illusion! a nonsensical +fancy, caused by the irregular mingling of the light and darkness! In +the daytime he could not have been so befooled by his imagination! He +had always known the clearness, both physical and mental, with which +he saw everything! Nevertheless, the folly had power to fix him staring +where he stood, with his face leant close to the face of the dead. It +was only like, it could not be the same! and yet he could not turn and +go from it! Why did he not, by the mere will in whose strength he took +pride, force his way out of the room? He stirred not a foot; he stared +and stood. And as he stared, the dead face seemed to come nearer him +through the darkness, growing more and more like the only girl he had +ever, though even then only in fancy, loved. If it was not she, how +could the dead look so like the living he had once known? At length +what doubt was left, changed suddenly to assurance that it must be she. +And--dare I say it?--it brought him a sense of relief! He breathed a +sigh of such false, rascally peace as he had not known since his sin, +and with that sigh he left the room. Passing his mother, who still wept +in the now deeper dusk of the parlour, with the observation that there +was no moon, and it would be quite dark before he reached the manse, he +bade her good-night, and went out. + +When Peter, who unable to sit longer inactive had gone to the stable, +re-entered, foiled in the attempt to occupy himself, and sat down by his +wife, she began to talk about the funeral preparations, and the persons +to be invited. But such sorrow overtook him afresh, that even his wife, +herself inconsolable over her loss, was surprised at the depth of his +grief for one who was no relative. It seemed to him indelicate, almost +heartless of her to talk so soon of burying the dear one but just gone +from their sight: it was unnecessary dispatch, and suggested a lack of +reverence! + +"What for sic a hurry?" he expostulated. "Isna there time eneuch to put +oot o' yer sicht what ye ance lo'ed sae weel? Lat me be the nicht; the +morn 'ill be here sene eneuch! Lat my sowl rest a moment wi' deith, and +haud awa wi yer funeral. 'Sufficient til the day,' ye ken!" + +"Eh dear, but I'm no like you, Peter! Whan the sowl's gane, I tak no +content i' the presence o' the puir worthless body, luikin what it never +mair can be! Na, I wad be rid o' 't, I confess!--But be it as ye wull, +my ain man! It's a sair hert ye hae as weel as me i' yer body this +nicht; and we maun beir ane anither's burdens! The dauty may lie as we +hae laid her, the nicht throuw, and naething said: there's little to be +dene for her; she's a bonny clean corp as ever was, and may weel lie a +week afore we put her awa'!--There's no need for ony to watch her; tyke +nor baudrins 'ill never come near her.--I hae aye won'ert what for fowk +wad sit up wi the deid: yet I min' me weel they aye did i' the auld +time." + +In this she showed, however, and in this alone, that the girl she +lamented was not her own daughter; for when the other Isy died, her body +was never for a moment left with the eternal spaces, as if she might +wake, and be terrified to find herself alone. Then, as if God had +forgotten them, they went to bed without saying their usual prayers +together: I fancy the visit of her son had been to Marion like the chill +of a wandering iceberg. + +In the morning the farmer, up first as usual, went into the +death-chamber and sat down by the side of the bed, reproaching himself +that he had forgotten "worship" the night before. + +And as he sat looking at the white face, he became aware of what might +be a little tinge of colour--the faintest possible--upon the lips. +He knew it must be a fancy, or at best an accident without +significance--for he had heard of such a thing! Still, even if his eyes +were deceiving him, he must shrink from hiding away such death out of +sight! The merest counterfeit of life was too sacred for burial! Just +such might the little daughter of Jairus have looked when the Lord took +her by the hand ere she arose! + +Thus feeling, and thus seeming to see on the lips of the girl a doubtful +tinge of the light of life, it was no wonder that Peter could not +entertain the thought of her immediate burial. They must at least wait +some sign, some unmistakable proof even, of change begun! + +Instead, therefore, of going into the yard to set in motion the needful +preparations for the harvest at hand, he sat on with the dead: he could +not leave her until his wife should come to take his place and keep +her company! He brought a bible from the next room, sat down again, and +waited beside her. In doubtful, timid, tremulous hope, not worthy of the +name of hope--a mere sense of a scarcely possible possibility, he waited +what he would not consent to believe he waited for. He would not deceive +himself; he would give his wife no hint, but wait to see how she saw! +He would put to her no leading question even, but watch for any start or +touch of surprise she might betray! + +By and by Marion appeared, gazed a moment on the dead, looked pitifully +in her husband's face, and went out again. + +"She sees naething!" said Peter to himself. "I s' awa' to my +wark!--Still I winna hae her laid aside afore I'm a wheen surer o' what +she is--leevin sowl or deid clod!" + +With a sad sense of vanished self-delusion, he rose and went out. As he +passed through the kitchen, his wife followed him to the door. "Ye'll +see and sen' a message to the vricht _(carpenter)_ the day?" she +whispered. + +"I'm no likly to forget!" he answered; "but there's nae hurry, seem +there's no life concernt!" + +"Na, nane; the mair's the pity!" she answered; and Peter knew, with a +glad relief, that his wife was coming to herself from the terrible blow. + +She sent the cowboy to the Cormacks' cottage, to tell Eppie to come to +her. + +The old woman came, heard what details there were to the sad story, +shook her head mournfully, and found nothing to say; but together they +set about preparing the body for burial. That done, the mind of +Mrs. Blatherwick was at ease, and she sat expecting the visit of the +carpenter. But the carpenter did not come. + +On the Thursday morning the soutar came to inquire after his friends at +Stanecross, and the gudewife gave him a message to Willie Wabster, the +_vricht_, to see about the coffin. + +But the soutar, catching sight of the farmer in the yard, went and had +a talk with him; and the result was that he took no message to the +carpenter; and when Peter went in to his dinner, he still said there was +no hurry: why should she be so anxious to heap earth over the dead? +For still he saw, or fancied he saw, the same possible colour on Isy's +cheek--like the faintest sunset-red, or that in the heart of the palest +blush-rose, which is either glow or pallor as you choose to think it. So +the first week of Isy's death passed, and still she lay in state, ready +for the grave, but unburied. + +Not a few of the neighbours came to see her, and were admitted where she +lay; and some of them warned Marion that, when the change came, it would +come suddenly; but still Peter would not hear of her being buried "with +that colour on her cheek!" And Marion had come to see, or to imagine +with her husband that she saw the colour. So, each in turn, they kept +watching her: who could tell but the Lord might be going to work a +miracle for them, and was not in the meantime only trying them, to see +how long their patience and hope would endure! + +The report spread through the neighbourhood, and reached Tiltowie, where +it speedily pervaded street and lane:--"The lass at Stanecross, she's +lyin deid, and luikin as alive as ever she was!" From street and lane +the people went crowding to see the strange sight, and would have +overrun the house, but had a reception by no means cordial: the farmer +set men at every door, and would admit no one. Angry and ashamed, they +all turned and went--except a few of the more inquisitive, who continued +lurking about in the hope of hearing something to carry home and enlarge +upon. + +As to the minister, he insisted upon disbelieving the whole thing, and +yet was made not a little uncomfortable by the rumour. Such a foe to +superstition that in his mind he silently questioned the truth of all +records of miracles, to whomsoever attributed, he was yet haunted by a +fear which he dared not formulate. Of course, whatever might take place, +it could be no miracle, but the mere natural effect of natural causes! +none the less, however, did he dread what might happen: he feared Isy +herself, and what she might disclose! For a time he did not dare again +go near the place. The girl might be in a trance! she might revive +suddenly, and call out his name! She might even reveal all! She had +always been a strange girl! What if, indeed, she were even being now +kept alive to tell the truth, and disgrace him before all the world! +Horrible as was the thought, might it not be well, in view of the +possibility of her revival, that he should be present to hear anything +she might say, and take precaution against it? He resolved, therefore, +to go to Stonecross, and make inquiry after her, heartily hoping to find +her undoubtedly and irrecoverably dead. + +In the meantime, Peter had been growing more and more expectant, and had +nearly forgotten all about the coffin, when a fresh rumour came to +the ears of William Webster, the coffin-maker, that the young woman at +Stonecross was indeed and unmistakably gone; whereupon he, having lost +patience over the uncertainty that had been crippling his operations, +questioned no more what he had so long expected, set himself at once +to his supposed task, and finished what he had already begun and indeed +half ended. The same night that the minister was on his way to the +farm, he passed Webster and his man carrying the coffin home through +the darkness: he descried what it was, and his heart gave a throb of +satisfaction. The men reaching Stonecross in the pitch-blackness of a +gathering storm, they stupidly set up their burden on end by the first +door, and went on to the other, where they made a vain effort to convey +to the deaf Eppie a knowledge of what they had done. She making them no +intelligible reply, there they left the coffin leaning up against the +wall; and, eager to get home ere the storm broke upon them, set off at +what speed was possible to them on the rough and dark road to Tiltowie, +now in their turn meeting and passing the minister on his way. + +By the time James arrived at Stonecross, it was too dark for him to see +the ghastly sentinel standing at the nearer door. He walked into the +parlour; and there met his father coming from the little chamber where +his wife was seated. + +"Isna this a most amazin thing, and houpfu' as it's amazing?" cried his +father. "What _can_ there be to come oot o' 't? Eh, but the w'ys o' +the Almichty are truly no to be mizzered by mortal line! The lass maun +surely be intendit for marvellous things, to be dealt wi' efter sic an +extra-ordnar fashion! Nicht efter nicht has the tane or the tither o' +hiz twa been sittin here aside her, lattin the hairst tak its chance, +and i' the daytime lea'in 'maist a' to the men, me sleepin and they at +their wark; and here the bonny cratur lyin, as quaiet as gien she had +never seen tribble, for thirteen days, and no change past upon her, no +more than on the three holy bairns i' the fiery furnace! I'm jist in a +trimle to think what's to come oot o' 't a'! God only kens! we can but +sit still and wait his appearance! What think ye, Jeemie?--Whan the Lord +was deid upo' the cross, they waitit but twa nichts, and there he was up +afore them! here we hae waitit, close on a haill fortnicht--and naething +even to pruv that she's deid! still less ony sign that ever she'll speyk +word til's again!--What think ye o' 't, man?" + +"Gien ever she returns to life, I greatly doobt she'll ever bring +back her senses wi' her!" said the mother, joining them from the inner +chamber. + +"Hoot, ye min' the tale o' the lady--Lady Fanshawe, I believe they ca'd +her? She cam til hersel a' richt i' the en'!" said Peter. + +"I don't remember the story," said James. "Such old world tales are +little to be heeded." + +"I min' naething aboot it but jist that muckle," said his father. "And I +can think o' naething but that bonny lassie lyin there afore me naither +deid nor alive! I jist won'er, Jeames, that ye're no as concernt, and as +fillt wi' doobt and even dreid anent it as I am mysel!" + +"We're all in the hands of the God who created life and death," returned +James, in a pious tone. + +The father held his peace. + +"And He'll bring licht oot o' the vera dark o' the grave!" said the +mother. + +Her faith, or at least her hope, once set agoing, went farther than her +husband's, and she had a greater power of waiting than he. James had +sorely tried both her patience and her hope, and not even now had she +given him up. + +"Ye'll bide and share oor watch this ae nicht, Jeames?" said Peter. +"It's an elrische kin o' a thing to wauk up i' the mirk mids, wi' a deid +corp aside ye!--No 'at even yet I gie her up for deid! but I canna help +feelin some eerie like--no to say fleyt! Bide, man, and see the nicht +oot wi' 's, and gie yer mither and me some hert o' grace." + +James had little inclination to add another to the party, and began to +murmur something about his housekeeper. But his mother cut him short +with the indignant remark-- + +"Hoot, what's _she_?--Naething to you or ony o' 's! Lat her sit up for +ye, gien she likes! Lat her sit, I say, and never waste thoucht upo' the +queyn!" + +James had not a word to answer. Greatly as he shrank from the ordeal, he +must encounter it without show of reluctance! He dared not even propose +to sit in the kitchen and smoke. With better courage than will, he +consented to share their vigil. "And then," he reflected, "if she should +come to herself, there would be the advantage he had foreseen and even +half desired!" + +His mother went to prepare supper for them. His father rose, and saying +he would have a look at the night, went toward the door; for even +his strange situation could not entirely smother the anxiety of the +husbandman. But James glided past him to the door, determined not to be +left alone with that thing in the chamber. + +But in the meantime the wind had been rising, and the coffin had been +tilting and resettling on its narrower end. At last, James opening the +door, the gruesome thing fell forward just as he crossed the threshold, +knocked him down, and settled on the top of him. His father, close +behind him, tumbled over the obstruction, divined, in the light of a +lamp in the passage, what the prostrate thing was, and scrambling to his +feet with the only oath he had, I fully believe, ever uttered, cried: +"Damn that fule, Willie Wabster! Had he naething better to dee nor +sen' to the hoose coffins naebody wantit--and syne set them doon like +rotten-traps _(rat-traps)_ to whomel puir Jeemie!" He lifted the thing +from off the minister, who rose not much hurt, but both amazed and +offended at the mishap, and went to his mother in the kitchen. + +"Dinna say muckle to yer mither, Jeames laad," said his father as +he went; "that is, dinna explain preceesely hoo the ill-faured thing +happent. _I'll_ hae amen's _(amends, vengeance)_ upon him!" So saying, +he took the offensive vehicle, awkward burden as it was, in his two +arms, and carrying it to the back of the cornyard, shoved it over the +low wall into the dry ditch at its foot, where he heaped dirty straw +from the stable over it. + +"It'll be lang," he vowed to himsel, "or Willie Wabster hear the last +o' this!--and langer yet or he see the glint o' the siller he thoucht +he was yirnin by 't!--It's come and cairry 't hame himsel he sall, the +muckle idiot! He may turn 't intil a breid-kist, or what he likes, the +gomf!" + +"Fain wud I screw the reid heid o' 'im intil that same kist, and +hand him there, short o' smorin!" he muttered as he went back to the +house.--"Faith, I could 'maist beery him ootricht!" he concluded, with a +grim smile. + +Ere he re-entered the house, however, he walked a little way up the +hill, to cast over the vault above him a farmer's look of inquiry as to +the coming night, and then went in, shaking his head at what the clouds +boded. + +Marion had brought their simple supper into the parlour, and was sitting +there with James, waiting for him. When they had ended their meal, +and Eppie had removed the remnants, the husband and wife went into the +adjoining chamber and sat down by the bedside, where James presently +joined them with a book in his hand. Eppie, having _rested_ the fire in +the kitchen, came into the parlour, and sat on the edge of a chair just +inside the door. + +Peter had said nothing about the night, and indeed, in his wrath with +the carpenter, had hardly noted how imminent was the storm; but the air +had grown very sultry, and the night was black as pitch, for a solid +mass of cloud had blotted out the stars: it was plain that, long before +morning, a terrible storm must break. But midnight came and went, and +all was very still. + +Suddenly the storm was upon them, with a forked, vibrating flash of +angry light that seemed to sting their eyeballs, and was replaced by a +darkness that seemed to crush them like a ponderous weight. Then all at +once the weight itself seemed torn and shattered into sound--into heaps +of bursting, roaring, tumultuous billows. Another flash, yet another and +another followed, each with its crashing uproar of celestial avalanches. +At the first flash Peter had risen and gone to the larger window of +the parlour, to discover, if possible, in what direction the storm was +travelling. Marion, feeling as if suddenly unroofed, followed him, and +James was left alone with the dead. He sat, not daring to move; but when +the third flash came, it flickered and played so long about the dead +face, that it seemed for minutes vividly visible, and his gaze was +fixed on it, fascinated. The same moment, without a single preparatory +movement, Isy was on her feet, erect on the bed. + +A great cry reached the ears of the father and mother. They hurried into +the chamber: James lay motionless and senseless on the floor: a man's +nerve is not necessarily proportioned to the hardness of his heart! The +verity of the thing had overwhelmed him. + +Isobel had fallen, and lay gasping and sighing on the bed. She knew +nothing of what had happened to her; she did not yet know herself--did +not know that her faithless lover lay on the floor by her bedside. + +When the mother entered, she saw nothing--only heard Isy's breathing. +But when her husband came with a candle, and she saw her son on the +floor, she forgot Isy; all her care was for James. She dropped on her +knees beside him, raised his head, held it to her bosom, and lamented +over him as if he were dead. She even felt annoyed with the poor girl's +moaning, as she struggled to get back to life. Why should she whose +history was such, be the cause of mishap to her reverend and honoured +son? Was she worth one of his little fingers! Let her moan and groan and +sigh away there--what did it matter! she could well enough wait a bit! +She would see to her presently, when her precious son was better! + +Very different was the effect upon Peter when he saw Isy coming to +herself. It was a miracle indeed! It could be nothing less! White as was +her face, there was in it an unmistakable look of reviving life! When +she opened her eyes and saw her master bending over her, she greeted +him with a faint smile, closed her eyes again, and lay still. James also +soon began to show signs of recovery, and his father turned to him. + +With the old sullen look of his boyhood, he glanced up at his mother, +still overwhelming him with caresses and tears. + +"Let me up," he said querulously, and began to wipe his face. "I feel so +strange! What can have made me turn so sick all at once?" + +"Isy's come to life again!" said his mother, with modified show of +pleasure. + +"Oh!" he returned. + +"Ye're surely no sorry for that!" rejoined his mother, with a reaction +of disappointment at his lack of sympathy, and rose as she said it. + +"I'm pleased to hear it--why not?" he answered. "But she gave me a +terrible start! You see, I never expected it, as you did!" + +"Weel, ye _are_ hertless, Jeernie!" exclaimed his father. "Hae ye nae +spark o' fellow-feelin wi' yer ain mither, whan the lass comes to +life 'at she's been fourteen days murnin for deid? But losh! she's aff +again!--deid or in a dwaum, I kenna!--Is't possible she's gaein to slip +frae oor hand yet?" + +James turned his head aside, and murmured something inaudibly. + +But Isy had only fainted. After some eager ministrations on the part of +Peter, she came to herself once more, and lay panting, her forehead wet +as with the dew of death. + +The farmer ran out to a loft in the yard, and calling the herd-boy, a +clever lad, told him to rise and ride for the doctor as fast as the mare +could lay feet to the road. + +"Tell him," he said, "that Isy has come to life, and he maun munt and +ride like the vera mischeef, or she'll be deid again afore he wins til +her. Gien ye canna get the tae doctor, awa wi' ye to the tither, and +dinna ley him till ye see him i' the saiddle and startit. Syne ye can +ease the mere, and come hame at yer leisur; he'll be here lang afore +ye!--Tell him I'll pey him ony fee he likes, be't what it may, and never +compleen!--Awa' wi' ye like the vera deevil!" + +"I didna think ye kenned hoo _he_ rade," answered the boy pawkily, as +he shot to the stable. "Weel," he added, "ye maunna gley asklent at the +mere whan she comes hame some saipy-like!" + +When he returned on the mare's back, the farmer was waiting for him with +the whisky-bottle in his hand. + +"Na, na!" he said, seeing the lad eye the bottle, "it's no for you! ye +want a' the sma' wit ye ever hed: it's no _you_ 'at has to gallop; ye +hae but to stick on!--Hae, Susy!" + +He poured half a tumblerful into a soup-plate, and held it out to the +mare, who, never snuffing at it, licked it up greedily, and immediately +started of herself at a good pace. + +Peter carried the bottle to the chamber, and got Isy to swallow a +little, after which she began to recover again. Nor did Marion forget to +administer a share to James, who was not a little in want of it. + +When, within an hour, the doctor arrived full of amazed incredulity, he +found Isy in a troubled sleep, and James gone to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +The next day, Isy, although very weak, was greatly better. She was, +however, too ill to get up; and Marion seemed now in her element, with +two invalids, both dear to her, to look after. She hardly knew for which +to be more grateful--her son, given helpless into her hands, unable to +repel the love she lavished upon him; or the girl whom God had taken +from the very throat of the swallowing grave. But her heart, at first +bubbling over with gladness, soon grew calmer, when she came to perceive +how very ill James was. And before long she began to fear she must +part with her child, whose lack of love hitherto made the threatened +separation the more frightful to her. She turned even from the thought +of Isy's restoration, as if that were itself an added wrong. From the +occasional involuntary association of the two in her thought, she would +turn away with a sort of meek loathing. To hold her James for one moment +in the same thought with any girl less spotless than he, was to disgrace +herself! + +James was indeed not only very ill, but growing slowly worse; for he +lay struggling at last in the Backbite of Conscience, who had him in her +unrelaxing jaws, and was worrying him well. Whence the holy dog came +we know, but how he got a hold of him to begin his saving torment, who +shall understand but the maker of men and of their secret, inexorable +friend! Every beginning is infinitesimal, and wrapt in the mystery of +creation. + +Its results only, not its modes of operation or their stages, I may +venture attempting to convey. It was the wind blowing where it listed, +doing everything and explaining nothing. That wind from the timeless and +spaceless and formless region of God's feeling and God's thought, blew +open the eyes of this man's mind so that he saw, and became aware that +he saw. It blew away the long-gathered vapours of his self-satisfaction +and conceit; it blew wide the windows of his soul, that the sweet odour +of his father's and mother's thoughts concerning him might enter; and +when it entered, he knew it for what it was; it blew back to him his own +judgments of them and their doings, and he saw those judgments side by +side with his new insights into their real thoughts and feelings; it +blew away the desert sands of his own moral dulness, indifference, and +selfishness, that had so long hidden beneath them the watersprings of +his own heart, existent by and for love and its gladness; it cleared +all his conscious being, made him understand that he had never hitherto +loved his mother or his father, or any neighbour; that he had never +loved God one genuine atom, never loved the Lord Christ, his Master, +or cared in the least that he had died for him; had never at any moment +loved Isy--least of all when to himself he pleaded in his own excuse +that he had loved her. That blowing wind, which he could not see, +neither knew whence it came, and yet less whither it was going, began to +blow together his soul and those of his parents; the love in his father +and in his mother drew him; the memories of his childhood drew him; for +the heart of God himself was drawing him, as it had been from the first, +only now first he began to feel its drawing; and as he yielded to that +drawing and went nearer, God drew ever more and more strongly; until at +last--I know not, I say, how God did it, or whereby he made the soul of +James Blatherwick different from what it had been--but at last it grew +capable of loving, and did love: first, he yielded to love because he +could not help it; then he willed to love because he could love; then, +become conscious of the power, he loved the more, and so went on to +love more and more. And thus did James become what he had to become--or +perish. + +But for this liberty, he had to pass through wild regions of torment +and horror; he had to become all but mad, and know it; his body, and his +soul as well, had to be parched with fever, thirst, and fear; he had to +sleep and dream lovely dreams of coolness and peace and courage; then +wake and know that all his life he had been dead, and now first was +alive; that love, new-born, was driving out the gibbering phantoms; that +now indeed it was good to be, and know others alive about him; that now +life was possible, because life was to love, and love was to live. What +love was, or how it was, he could not tell; he knew only that it was the +will and the joy of the Father and the Son. + +Long ere he arrived at this, however, the falsehood and utter meanness +of his behaviour to Isy had become plain to him, bringing with it such +an overpowering self-contempt and self-loathing, that he was tempted +even to self-destruction to escape the knowledge that he was himself the +very man who had been such, and had done such things. "To know my deed, +'twere best not know myself!" he might have said with Macbeth. But he +must live on, for how otherwise could he make any atonement? And with +the thought of reparation, and possible forgiveness and reconcilement, +his old love for Isy rushed in like a flood, grown infinitely nobler, +and was uplifted at last into a genuine self-abandoning devotion. But +until this final change arrived, his occasional paroxysms of remorse +touched almost on madness, and for some time it seemed doubtful whether +his mind must not retain a permanent tinge of insanity. He conceived +a huge disgust of his office and all its requirements; and sometimes +bitterly blamed his parents for not interfering with his choice of a +profession that was certain to be his ruin. + +One day, having had no delirium for some hours, he suddenly called out +as they stood by his bed-- + +"Oh, mother! oh, father! _why_ did you tempt me to such hypocrisy? _Why_ +did you not bring me up to walk at the plough-tail? _Then_ I should +never have had to encounter the damnable snares of the pulpit! It was +that which ruined me--the notion that I must take the minister for my +pattern, and live up to my idea of _him_, before even I had begun to +cherish anything real in me! It was the road royal to hypocrisy! Without +that rootless, worthless, devilish fancy, I might have been no worse +than other people! Now I am lost! Now I shall never get back to bare +honesty, not to say innocence! They are both gone for ever!" + +The poor mother could only imagine it his humility that made him accuse +himself of hypocrisy, and that because he had not fulfilled to the +uttermost the smallest duty of his great office. + +"Jamie, dear," she cried, laying her cheek to his, "ye maun cast yer +care upo' Him that careth for ye! He kens ye hae dene yer best--or if +no yer vera best--for wha daur say that?--ye hae at least dene what ye +could!" + +"Na, na!" he answered, resuming the speech of his boyhood--a far better +sign of him than his mother understood, "I ken ower muckle, and that +muckle ower weel, to lay sic a flattering unction to my sowl! It's jist +as black as the fell mirk! 'Ah, limed soul, that, struggling to be free, +art more engaged!'" + +"Hoots, ye're dreamin, laddie! Ye never was engaged to onybody--at least +that ever I h'ard tell o'! But, ony gait, fash na ye aboot that! Gien it +be onything o' sic a natur that's troublin ye, yer father and me we s' +get ye clear o' 't!" + +"Ay, there ye're at it again! It was _you_ 'at laid the bird-lime! Ye +aye tuik pairt, mither, wi' the muckle deil that wad na rist till he had +my sowl in his deepest pit!" + +"The Lord kens his ain: he'll see that they come throuw unscaumit!" + +"The Lord disna mak ony hypocreet o' purpose doobtless; but gien a +man sin efter he has ance come to the knowledge o' the trowth, there +remaineth for him--ye ken the lave o' 't as weel as I dee mysel, mother! +My only houp lies in a doobt--a doobt, that is, whether I _had_ ever +come til a knowledge o' the trowth--or hae yet!--Maybe no!" + +"Laddie, ye're no i' yer richt min'. It's fearsome to hearken til ye!" + +"It'll be waur to hear me roarin wi' the rich man i' the lowes o' hell!" + +"Peter! Peter!" cried Marion, driven almost to distraction, "here's yer +ain son, puir fallow, blasphemin like ane o' the condemned! He jist gars +me creep!" + +Receiving no answer, for her husband was nowhere near at the moment, she +called aloud in her desperation-- + +"Isy! Isy! come and see gien ye can dee onything to quaiet this ill +bairn." + +Isy heard, and sprang from her bed. + +"Comin, mistress!" she answered; "comin this moment." + +They had not met since her resurrection, as Peter always called it. + +"Isy! Isy!" cried James, the moment he heard her approaching, "come and +hand the deil aff o' me!" + +He had risen to his elbow, and was looking eagerly toward the door. + +She entered. James threw wide his arms, and with glowing eyes clasped +her to his bosom. She made no resistance: his mother would lay it all to +the fever! He broke into wild words of love, repentance, and devotion. + +"Never heed him a hair, mem; he's clean aff o' his heid!" she said in +a low voice, making no attempt to free herself from his embrace, but +treating him like a delirious child. "There maun be something aboot me, +mem, that quaiets him a bit! It's the brain, ye ken, mem! it's the het +brain! We maunna contre him! he maun hae his ain w'y for a wee!" + +But such was James's behaviour to Isy that it was impossible for the +mother not to perceive that, incredible as it might seem, this must +be far from the first time they had met; and presently she fell to +examining her memory whether she herself might not have seen Isy +before ever she came to Stonecross; but she could find no answer to her +inquiry, press the question as she might. By and by, her husband came +in to have his dinner, and finding herself compelled, much against her +will, to leave the two together, she sent up Eppie to take Isy's place, +with the message that she was to go down at once. Isy obeyed, and went +to the kitchen; but, perturbed and trembling, dropped on the first chair +she came to. The farmer, already seated at the table, looked up, and +anxiously regarding her, said-- + +"Bairn, ye're no fit to be aboot! Ye maun caw canny, or ye'll be ower +the burn yet or ever ye're safe upo' this side o' 't! Preserve's a'! ir +we to lowse ye twise in ae month?" + +"Jist answer me ae queston, Isy, and I'll speir nae mair," said Marion. + +"Na, na, never a queston!" interposed Peter;--"no ane afore even the +shaidow o' deith has left the hoose!--Draw ye up to the table, my bonny +bairn: this isna a time for ceremony, and there's sma' room for that ony +day!" + +Finding, however, that she sat motionless, and looked far more +death-like than while in her trance, he got up, and insisted on her +swallowing a little whisky; when she revived, and glad to put herself +under his nearer protection, took the chair he had placed for her beside +him, and made a futile attempt at eating. "It's sma' won'er the puir +thing hasna muckle eppiteet," remarked Mrs. Blatherwick, "considerin the +w'y yon ravin laddie up the stair has been cairryin on til her!" + +"What! Hoo's that?" questioned her husband with a start. + +"But ye're no to mak onything o' that, Isy!" added her mistress. + +"Never a particle, mem!" returned Isy. "I ken weel it stan's for +naething but the heat o' the burnin brain! I'm richt glaid though, that +the sicht o' me did seem to comfort him a wee!" + +"Weel, I'm no sae sure!" answered Marion. "But we'll say nae mair anent +that the noo! The guidman says no; and his word's law i' this hoose." + +Isy resumed her pretence of breakfast. Presently Eppie came down, and +going to her master, said-- + +"Here's An'ra, sir, come to speir efter the yoong minister and Isy: am I +to gar him come in?" + +"Ay, and gie him his brakfast," shouted the farmer. + +The old woman set a chair for her son by the door, and proceeded to +attend to him. James was left alone. + +Silence again fell, and the appearance of eating was resumed, Peter +being the only one that made a reality of it. Marion was occupied with +many thinkings, specially a growing doubt and soreness about Isy. The +hussy had a secret! She had known something all the time, and had been +taking advantage of her unsuspiciousness! It would be a fine thing for +her, indeed, to get hold of the minister! but she would see him dead +first! It was too bad of the Robertsons, whom she had known so long and +trusted so much! They knew what they were doing when they passed their +trash upon her! She began to distrust ministers! What right had they to +pluck brands from the burning at the expense o' dacent fowk! It was to +do evil that good might come! She would say that to their faces! Thus +she sat thinking and glooming. + +A cry of misery came from the room above. Isy started to her feet. But +Marion was up before her. + +"Sit doon this minute," she commanded. + +Isy hesitated. + +"Sit doon this moment, I tell ye!" repeated Marion imperiously. "Ye hae +no business there! I'm gaein til 'im mysel!" And with the word she left +the room. + +Peter laid down his spoon, then half rose, staring bewildered, and +followed his wife from the room. + +"Oh my baby! my baby!" cried Isy, finding herself alone. "If only I had +you to take my part! It was God gave you to me, or how could I love you +so? And the mistress winna believe that even I had a bairnie! Noo she'll +be sayin I killt my bonny wee man! And yet, even for _his_ sake, I never +ance wisht ye hadna been born! And noo, whan the father o' 'im's ill, +and cryin oot for me, they winna lat me near 'im!" + +The last words left her lips in a wailing shriek. + +Then first she saw that her master had reentered. Wiping her eyes +hurriedly, she turned to him with a pitiful, apologetic smile. + +"Dinna be sair vext wi' me, sir: I canna help bein glaid that I had him, +and to tyne him has gien me an unco sair hert!" + +She stopped, terrified: how much had he heard? she could not tell what +she might not have said! But the farmer had resumed his breakfast, and +went on eating as if she had not spoken. He had heard nearly all she +said, and now sat brooding on her words. + +Isy was silent, saying in her heart--"If only he loved me, I should be +content, and desire no more! I would never even want him to say it! I +would be so good to him, and so silent, that he could not help loving me +a little!" + +I wonder whether she would have been as hopeful had she known how his +mother had loved him, and how vainly she had looked for any love in +return! And when Isy vowed in her heart never to let James know that she +had borne him a son, she did not perceive that thus she would withhold +the most potent of influences for his repentance and restoration to God +and his parents. She did not see James again that night; and before she +fell asleep at last in the small hours of the morning, she had made up +her mind that, ere the same morning grew clear upon the moor, she would, +as the only thing left her to do for him, be far away from Stonecross. +She would go back to Deemouth, and again seek work at the paper-mills! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +She woke in the first of the gray dawn, while the house was in utter +stillness, and rising at once, rose and dressed herself with soundless +haste. It was hard indeed to go and leave James thus in danger, but she +had no choice! She held her breath and listened, but all was still. She +opened her door softly; not a sound reached her ear as she crept down +the stair. She had neither to unlock nor unbolt the door to leave the +house, for it was never made fast. A dread sense of the old wandering +desolation came back upon her as she stepped across the threshold, and +now she had no baby to comfort her! She was leaving a mouldy peace and +a withered love behind her, and had once more to encounter the rough +coarse world! She feared the moor she had to cross, and the old dreams +she must there encounter; and as she held on her way through them, she +felt, in her new loneliness, and the slow-breaking dawn, as if she were +lying again in her trance, partly conscious, but quite unable to move, +thinking she was dead, and waiting to be buried. Then suddenly she knew +where she was, and that God was not gone, but her own Maker was with +her, and would not forsake her. + +Of the roads that led from the farm she knew only that by which Mr. +Robertson had brought her, and that would guide her to the village +where they had left the coach: there she was sure to find some way of +returning to Deemouth! Feeble after her prolonged inaction, and the +crowd of emotions succeeding her recovery, she found the road very +weary, and long ere she reached Tiltowie, she felt all but worn out. +At the only house she had come to on the way, she stopped and asked for +some water. The woman, the only person she had seen, for it was still +early morning, and the road was a lonely one, perceived that she looked +ill, and gave her milk instead. In the strength of that milk she reached +the end of her first day's journey; and for many days she had not to +take a second. + +Now Isy had once seen the soutar at the farm, and going about her work +had heard scraps of his conversation with the mistress, when she had +been greatly struck by certain things he said, and had often since +wished for the opportunity of a talk with him. That same morning then, +going along a narrow lane, and hearing a cobbler's hammer, she glanced +through a window close to the path, and at once recognized the soutar. +He looked up as she obscured his light, and could scarce believe his +eyes when, so early in the day, he saw before him Mistress Blatherwick's +maid, concerning whom there had been such a talk and such a marvelling +for weeks. She looked ill, and he was amazed to see her about so soon, +and so far from home. She smiled to him feebly, and passed from his +range with a respectful nod. He sprang to his feet, bolted out, and +overtook her at once. + +"I'm jist gaein to drop my wark, mem, and hae my brakfast: wull ye no +come in and share wi' an auld man and a yoong lass? Ye hae come a gey +bit, and luik some fatiguit!" + +"Thank ye kindly, sir," returned Isy. "I _am_ a bit tired!--But I won'er +ye kenned me!" + +"Weel, I canna jist say I ken ye by the name fowk ca' ye; and still less +div I ken ye by the name the Lord ca's ye; but nowther maitters muckle +to her that kens He has a name growin for her--or raither, a name she's +growin til! Eh, what a day will that be whan ilk habitant o' the holy +city 'ill tramp the streets o' 't weel kenned and weel kennin!" + +"Ay, sir! I 'maist un'erstan' ye ootricht, for I h'ard ye ance sayin +something like that to the mistress, the nicht ye broucht hame the +maister's shune to Stanecross. And, eh, I'm richt glaid to see ye +again!" + +They were already in the house, for she had followed him in almost +mechanically; and the soutar was setting for her the only chair there +was, when the cry of a child reached their ears. The girl started to +her feet. A rosy flush of delight overspread her countenance; she fell +a-trembling from head to foot, and it seemed uncertain whether she would +succeed in running to the cry, or must fall to the floor. + +"Ay," exclaimed the soutar, with one of his sudden flashes of +unquestioning insight, "by the luik o' ye, ye ken that for the cry +o' yer ain bairn, my bonny lass! Ye'll hae been missin him, sair, I +doobt!--There! sit ye doon, and I'll hae him i' yer airms afore ae +meenut!" + +She obeyed him and sat down, but kept her eyes fixed on the door, wildly +expectant. The soutar made haste, and ran to fetch the child. When he +returned with him in his arms, he found her sitting bolt upright, with +her hands already apart, held out to receive him, and her eyes alive as +he had never seen eyes before. + +"My Jamie! my ain bairn!" she cried, seizing him to her bosom with a +grasp that, trembling, yet seemed to cling to him desperately, and a +look almost of defiance, as if she dared the world to take him from her +again. "O my God!" she cried, in an agony of thankfulness, "I ken +ye noo! I ken ye noo! Never mair wull I doobt ye, my God!--Lost and +found!--Lost for a wee, and found again for ever!" + +Then she caught sight of Maggie, who had entered behind her father, and +stood staring at her motionless,--with a look of gladness indeed, but +not all of gladness. + +"I ken fine," Isy broke out, with a trembling, yet eager, apologetic +voice, "ye're grudgin me ilka luik at him! I ken't by mysel! Ye're +thinkin him mair yours nor mine! And weel ye may, for it's you that's +been motherin him ever since I lost my wits! It's true I ran awa' and +left him; but ever sin' syne, I hae soucht him carefully wi' tears! And +ye maunna beir me ony ill will--for there!" she added, holding him out +to Maggie! "I haena kissed him yet!--no ance!--But ye wull lat me kiss +him afore ye tak him awa'?--my ain bairnie, whause vera comin I had +prepared shame for!--Oh my God!--But he kens naething aboot it, and +winna ken for years to come! And nane but his ain mammie maun brak the +dreid trowth til him!--and by that time he'll lo'e her weel eneuch to be +able to bide it! I thank God that I haena had to shue the birds and the +beasts aff o' his bonny wee body! It micht hae been, but for you, my +bonnie lass!--and for you, sir!" she went on, turning to the soutar. + +Maggie caught the child from her offering arms, and held up his little +face for his mother to kiss; and so held him until, for the moment, +Isy's mother-greed was satisfied. Then she sat down with him in her lap, +and Isy stood absorbed in regarding him. At last she said, with a deep +sigh-- + +"Noo I maun awa', and I dinna ken hoo I'm to gang! I hae found him and +maun leave him!--but I houp no for vera lang!--Maybe ye'll keep him yet +a whilie--say for a week mair? He's been sae lang disused til a wan'erin +life, that I doobt it mayna weel agree wi' him; and I maun awa' back to +Deemooth, gien I can get onybody to gie me a lift." + +"Na, na; that'll never dee," returned Maggie, with a sob. "My father'll +be glaid eneuch to keep him; only we hae nae richt ower him, and ye maun +hae him again whan ye wull." + +"Ye see I hae nae place to tak him til!" pleaded Isy. + +"Gien ye dinna want him, gie him to me: I want him!" said Maggie +eagerly. + +"Want him!" returned Isy, bursting into tears; "I hae lived but upo the +bare houp o' gettin him again! I hae grutten my een sair for the sicht +o' 'im! Aften hae I waukent greetin ohn kenned for what!--and noo ye +tell me I dinna want him, 'cause I hae nae spot but my breist to lay his +heid upo! Eh, guid fowk, keep him till I get a place to tak him til, and +syne haudna him a meenute frae me!" + +All this time the soutar had been watching the two girls with a divine +look in his black eyes and rugged face; now at last he opened his mouth +and said: + +"Them 'at haps the bairn, are aye sib _(related)_ to the mither!--Gang +ben the hoose wi' Maggie, my dear; and lay ye doon on her bed, and +she'll lay the bairnie aside ye, and fess yer brakfast there til ye. Ye +winna be easy to sair _(satisfy)_, haein had sae little o' 'im for +sae lang!--Lea' them there thegither, Maggie, my doo," he went on with +infinite tenderness, "and come and gie me a han' as sune as ye hae +maskit the tay, and gotten a lof o' white breid. I s' hae my parritch a +bit later." + +Maggie obeyed at once, and took Isy to the other end of the house, where +the soutar had long ago given up his bed to her and the baby. + +When they had all breakfasted, the soutar and Maggie in the kitchen, and +Isy and the bairnie in the ben en', Maggie took her old place beside her +father, and for a long time they worked without word spoken. + +"I doobt, father," said Maggie at length, "I haena been atten'in til ye +properly! I fear the bairnie 's been garrin me forget ye!" + +"No a hair, dautie!" returned the soutar. "The needs o' the little are +stude aye far afore mine, and _had_ to be seen til first! And noo that +we hae the mither o' 'im, we'll get on faumous!--Isna she a fine cratur, +and richt mitherlike wi' the bairn? That was a' I was concernt aboot! +We'll get her story frae her or lang, and syne we'll ken a hantle better +hoo to help her on! And there can be nae fear but, atween you and +me, and the Michty at the back o' 's, we s' get breid eneuch for the +quaternion o' 's!" + +He laughed at the odd word as it fell from his mouth and the Acts of +Apostles. Maggie laughed too, and wiped her eyes. + +Before long, Maggie recognized that she had never been so happy in her +life. Isy told them as much as she could without breaking her resolve +to keep secret a certain name; and wrote to Mr. Robertson, telling him +where she was, and that she had found her baby. He came with his wife to +see her, and so a friendship began between the soutar and him, which Mr. +Robertson always declared one of the most fortunate things that had ever +befallen him. + +"That soutar-body," he would say, "kens mair aboot God and his kingdom, +the hert o' 't and the w'ys o' 't, than ony man I ever h'ard tell +o'--and _that_ heumble!--jist like the son o' God himsel!" + +Before many days passed, however, a great anxiety laid hold of the +little household: wee Jamie was taken so ill that the doctor had to be +summoned. For eight days he had much fever, and his appealing looks +were pitiful to see. When first he ceased to run about, and wanted to be +nursed, no one could please him but the soutar himself, and he, at once +discarding his work, gave himself up to the child's service. Before +long, however, he required defter handling, and then no one would do but +Maggie, to whom he had been more accustomed; nor could Isy get any share +in the labour of love except when he was asleep: as soon as he woke, she +had to encounter the pain of hearing him cry out for Maggie, and seeing +him stretch forth his hands, even from his mother's lap, to one whom he +knew better than her. But Maggie was very careful over the poor mother, +and would always, the minute he was securely asleep, lay him softly upon +her lap. And Maggie soon got so high above her jealousy, that one of the +happiest moments in her life was when first the child consented to leave +her arms for those of his mother. And when he was once more able to run +about, Isy took her part with Maggie in putting hand and needle to the +lining of the more delicate of the soutar's shoes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +There was great concern, and not a little alarm at Stonecross because of +the disappearance of Isy. But James continued so ill, that his parents +were unable to take much thought about anybody else. At last, however, +the fever left him, and he began to recover, but lay still and silent, +seeming to take no interest in anything, and remembered nothing he +had said, or even that he had seen Isy. At the same time his wakened +conscience was still at work in him, and had more to do with his +enfeebled condition than the prolonged fever. At length his parents were +convinced that he had something on his mind that interfered with his +recovery, and his mother was confident that it had to do with "that +deceitful creature, Isy." To learn that she was safe, might have given +Marion some satisfaction, had she not known her refuge so near the +manse; and having once heard where she was, she had never asked another +question about her. Her husband, however, having overheard certain +of the words that fell from Isy when she thought herself alone, was +intently though quietly waiting for what must follow. + +"I'm misdoobtin sair, Peter," began Marion one morning, after a long +talk with the cottar's wife, who had been telling her of Isy's having +taken up her abode with the soutar, "I'm sair misdoobtin whether that +hizzie hadna mair to dee nor we hae been jaloosin, wi Jamie's attack, +than the mere scare he got. It seems to me he's lang been broodin ower +something we ken noucht aboot." + +"That would be nae ferlie, woman! Whan was it ever we kent onything +gaein on i' that mysterious laddie! Na, but his had need be a guid +conscience, for did ever onybody ken eneuch aboot it or him to say +richt or wrang til 'im! But gien ye hae a thoucht he's ever wranged that +lassie, I s' hae the trowth o' 't, gien it cost him a greitin! He'll +never come to health o' body or min' till he's confest, and God has +forgien him. He maun confess! He maun confess!" + +"Hoot, Peter, dinna be sae suspicious o' yer ain. It's no like ye to +be sae maisterfu' and owerbeirin. I wad na lat ae ill thoucht o' puir +Jeemie inside this auld heid o' mine! It's the lassie, I'll tak my aith, +it's that Isy's at the bothom o' 't!" + +"Ye're some ready wi' yer aith, Mirran, to what ye ken naething aboot! I +say again, gien he's dene ony wrang to that bonnie cratur--and it wudna +tak ower muckle proof to convince me o' the same, he s' tak his stan', +minister or no minister, upo the stele o' repentance!" + +"Daur ye to speyk that gait aboot yer ain son--ay, and mine the mair +gien _ye_ disown him, Peter Bletherwick!--and the Lord's ain ordeent +minister forbye!" cried Marion, driven almost to her wits' end, but more +by the persistent haunting of her own suspicion, which she could not +repress, than the terror of her husband's threat. "Besides, dinna ye +see," she added cunningly, "that that would be to affront the lass as +weel?--_He_ wadna be the first to fa' intil the snare o' a designin +wuman, and wad it be for his ain father to expose him to public contemp? +_Your_ pairt sud be to cover up his sin--gien it were a multitude, and +no ae solitary bit faut!" + +"Daur _ye_ speyk o' a thing like that as a bit faut?--Ca' ye leein and +hypocrisy a bit faut? I alloo the sin itsel mayna be jist damnable, +but to what bouk mayna it come wi ither and waur sins upo the back o' +'t?--Wi leein, and haudin aff o' himsel, a man may grow a cratur no fit +to be taen up wi the taings! Eh me, but my pride i' the laddie! It 'ill +be sma' pride for me gien this fearsome thing turn oot to be true!" + +"And wha daur say it's true?" rejoined Marion almost fiercely. + +"Nane but himsel; and gien it be sae, and he disna confess, the rod +laid upon him 'ill be the rod o' iron, 'at smashes a man like a muckle +crock.--I maun tak Jamie throuw han' _(to task)_!" + +"Noo jist tak ye care, Peter, 'at ye dinna quench the smokin flax." + +"I'm mair likly to get the bruised reed intil my nakit loof _(palm)_!" +returned Peter. "But I s' say naething till he's a wee better, for we +maunna drive him to despair!--Eh gien he would only repent! What is +there I wadna dee to clear him--that is, to ken him innocent o' ony +wrang til her! I wad dee wi thanksgivin!" + +"Weel, I kenna that we're jist called upon sae far as that!" said +Marion. "A lass is aye able to tak care o' hersel!" + +"I wud! I wud!--God hae mercy upo' the twa o' them!" + +In the afternoon James was a good deal better. When his father went in +to see him, his first words were-- + +"I doobt, father, I'm no likly to preach ony mair: I've come to see 'at +I never was fit for the wark, neither had I ever ony ca' til't." + +"It may be sae, Jeemie," answered his father; "but we'll haud awa frae +conclusions till ye're better, and able to jeedge wi'oot the bias o' ony +thrawin distemper." + +"Oh father," James went on, and to his delight Peter saw, for the first +time since he was the merest child, tears running down his cheeks, now +thin and wan; "Oh father, I hae been a terrible hypocreet! But my een's +come open at last! I see mysel as I am!" + +"Weel, there's God hard by, to tak ye by the han' like Enoch! Tell me," +Peter went on, "hae ye onything upo yer min', laddie, 'at ye wud like +to confess and be eased o'? There's nae papistry in confessin to yer ain +auld father!" + +James lay still for a few moments; then he said, almost inaudibly-- + +"I think I could tell my mother better nor you, father." + +"It'll be a' ane whilk o' 's ye tell. The forgiein and the forgettin +'ill be ae deed--by the twa o' 's at ance! I s' gang and cry doon +the stair til yer mother to come up and hear ye." For Peter knew by +experience that good motions must be taken advantage of in their first +ripeness. "We maunna try the speerit wi ony delays!" he added, as he +went to the head of the stair, where he called aloud to his wife. Then +returning to the bedside, he resumed his seat, saying, "I'll jist bide a +minute till she comes." + +He was loath to let in any risk between his going and her coming, for he +knew how quickly minds may change; but the moment she appeared, he left +the room, gently closing the door behind him. + +Then the trembling, convicted soul plucked up what courage his so long +stubborn and yet cringing heart was capable of, and began. + +"Mother, there was a lass I cam to ken in Edinburgh, whan I was a +divinity student there, and--" + +"Ay, ay, I ken a' aboot it!" interrupted his mother, eager to spare him; +"--an ill-faured, designin limmer, 'at micht ha kent better nor come +ower the son o' a respectable wuman that gait!--Sic like, I doobtna, wad +deceive the vera elec'!" + +"Na, na, mother, she was nane o' that sort! She was baith bonny and +guid, and pleasant to the hert as to the sicht: she wad hae saved me +gien I had been true til her! She was ane o' the Lord's makin, as he has +made but feow!" + +"Whatfor didna she haud frae ye till ye had merried her than? Dinna tell +me she didna lay hersel oot to mak a prey o' ye!" + +"Mother, i' that sayin ye hae sclandert yersel!--I'll no say a word +mair!" + +"I'm sure neither yer father nor mysel wud hae stede i' yer gait!" said +Marion, retreating from the false position she had taken. + +She did not know herself, or how bitter would have been her opposition; +for she had set her mind on a distinguished match for her Jamie! + +"God knows how I wish I had keepit a haud o' mysel! Syne I micht hae +steppit oot o' the dirt o' my hypocrisy, i'stead o' gaein ower the heid +intil't! I was aye a hypocrite, but she would maybe hae fun' me oot, and +garred me luik at mysel!" + +He did not know the probability that, if he had not fallen, he would +have but sunk the deeper in the worst bog of all, self-satisfaction, and +none the less have played her false, and left her to break her heart. + +If any reader of this tale should argue it better then to do wrong and +repent, than to resist the devil, I warn him, that in such case he will +not repent until the sorrows of death and the pains of hell itself lay +hold upon him. An overtaking fault may be beaten with few stripes, but +a wilful wrong shall be beaten with many stripes. The door of the latter +must share, not with Judas, for he did repent, although too late, but +with such as have taken from themselves the power of repentance. + +"Was there no mark left o' her disgrace?" asked his mother. "Wasna there +a bairn to mak it manifest?" + +"Nane I ever heard tell o'." + +"In that case she's no muckle the waur, and ye needna gang lamentin: +_she_ 'll no be the ane to tell! and _ye_ maunna, for her sake! Sae +tak ye comfort ower what's gane and dune wi', and canna come back, and +maunna happen again.--Eh, but it's a' God's-mercy there was nae bairn!" + +Thus had the mother herself become an evil councillor, crying Peace! +peace! when there was no peace, and tempting her son to go on and +become a devil! But one thing yet rose up for the truth in his miserable +heart--his reviving and growing love for Isy. It had seemed smothered in +selfishness, but was alive and operative: God knows how--perhaps through +feverish, incoherent, forgotten dreams. + +He had expected his mother to aid his repentance, and uphold his walk +in the way of righteousness, even should the way be that of social +disgrace. He knew well that reparation must go hand in hand with +repentance where the All-wise was judge, and selfish Society dared not +urge one despicable pretence for painting hidden shame in the hues of +honour. James had been the cowering slave of a false reputation; but +his illness and the assaults of his conscience had roused him, set +repentance before him, brought confession within sight, and purity +within reach of prayer. + +"I maun gang til her," he cried, "the meenute I'm able to be up!--Whaur +is she, mother?" + +"Upo nae accoont see her, Jamie! It wad be but to fa' again intil her +snare!" answered his mother, with decision in her look and tone. "We're +to abstain frae a' appearance o' evil--as ye ken better nor I can tell +ye." + +"But Isy's no an appearance o' evil, mother!" + +"Ye say weel there, I confess! Na, she's no an appearance; she's the +vera thing! Haud frae her, as ye wad frae the ill ane himsel." + +"Did she never lat on what there had been atween 's?" + +"Na, never. She kenned weel what would come o' that!" + +"What, mother?" + +"The ootside o' the door." + +"Think ye she ever tauld onybody?" + +"Mony ane, I doobtna." + +"Weel, I dinna believe 't, I hae nae fear but she's been dumb as deith!" + +"Hoo ken ye that?--What for said she never ae word aboot ye til yer ain +mither?" + +"'Cause she was set on haudin her tongue. Was she to bring an owre true +tale o' me to the vera hoose I was born in? As lang as I haud til my +tongue, she'll never wag hers!--Eh, but she's a true ane! _She's_ ane to +lippen til!" + +"Weel, I alloo, she's deen as a wuman sud--the faut bein a' her ain!" + +"The faut bein' a' mine, mother, she wouldna tell what would disgrace +me!" + +"She micht hae kenned her secret would be safe wi' me!" + +"_I_ micht hae said the same, but for the w'y ye spak o' her this vera +meenut!--Whaur is she, mother? Whaur's Isy?" + +"'Deed, she's made a munelicht flittin o' 't!" + +"I telled ye she would never tell upo me!--Hed she ony siller?" + +"Hoo can _I_ tell?" + +"Did ye pey her ony wages?" + +"She gae me no time!--But she's no likly to tell noo; for, hearin her +tale, wha wad tak her in?" + +"Eh, mother, but ye _are_ hard-hertit!" + +"I ken a harder, Jamie!" + +"That's me!--and ye're richt, mother! But, eh, gien ye wad hae me loe +ye frae this meenut to the end o' my days, be but a wee fair to Isy: _I_ +hae been a damnt scoon'rel til her!" + +"Jamie; Jamie! ye're provokin the Lord to anger--sweirin like that in +his vera face--and you a minister!" + +"I provokit him a heap waur whan I left Isy to dree her shame! Divna ye +min' hoo the apostle Peter cursed, whan he said to Simon, 'Gang to hell +wi' yer siller!'" + +"She's telt the soutar, onygait!" + +"What! has _he_ gotten a hand o' her?" + +"Ay, has he!--And dinna ye think it'll be a' ower the toon lang or +this!" + +"And hoo will ye meet it, mother?" + +"We maun tell yer father, and get him to quaiet the soutar!--For _her_, +we maun jist stap her mou wi' a bunch o' bank-notts!" + +"That wad jist mak it 'maist impossible for even her to forgie you or me +aither ony langer!" + +"And wha's she to speyk o' forgivin!" + +The door opened, and Peter entered. He strode up to his wife, and stood +over her like an angel of vengeance. His very lips were white with +wrath. + +"Efter thirty years o' merried life, noo first to ken the wife o' my +boasom for a messenger o' Sawtan!" he panted. "Gang oot o' my sicht, +wuman!" + +She fell on her knees, and held up her two hands to him. + +"Think o' Jamie, Peter!" she pleaded. "I wad tyne my sowl for Jamie!" + +"Ay, and tyne his as weel!" he returned. "Tyne what's yer ain to tyne, +wuman--and that's no your sowl, nor yet Jamie's! He's no yours to save, +but ye're deein a' ye can to destroy him--and aiblins ye'll succeed! for +ye wad sen' him straucht awa to hell for the sake o' a guid name--a lee! +a hypocrisy!--Oot upo ye for a Christian mither, Mirran!--Jamie, I'm awa +to the toon, upo my twa feet, for the mere's cripple: the vera deil's +i' the hoose and the stable and a', it would seem!--I'm awa to fess Isy +hame! And, Jamie, ye'll jist tell her afore me and yer mother, that as +sene 's ye're able to crawl to the kirk wi' her, ye'll merry her afore +the warl', and tak her hame to the manse wi' ye!" + +"Hoot, Peter! Wad ye disgrace him afore a' the beggars o' Tiltowie?" + +"Ay, and afore God, that kens a'thing ohn onybody tellt him! Han's and +hert I s' be clear o' this abomination!" + +"Merry a wuman 'at was ta'en wi' a wat finger!--a maiden that never said +_na_!--Merry a lass that's nae maiden, nor ever will be!--Hoots!" + +"And wha's to blame for that?" + +"Hersel." + +"Jeemie! Jist Jeemie!--I'm fair scunnert at ye, Mirran!--Oot o' my +sicht, I tell ye!--Lord, I kenna hoo I'm to win ower 't!--No to a' +eternity, I doobt!" + +He turned from her with a tearing groan, and went feeling for the open +door, like one struck blind. + +"Oh, father, father!" cried James, "forgie my mither afore ye gang, +or my hert 'ill brak. It's the awfu'est thing o' ony to see you twa +striven!" + +"She's no sorry, no ae bit sorry!" said Peter. + +"I am, I am, Peter!" cried Marion, breaking down at once, and utterly. +"Dee what ye wull, and I'll dee the same--only lat it be dene quaietly, +'ithoot din or proclamation! What for sud a'body ken a'thing! Wha has +the richt to see intil ither fowk's herts and lives? The wail' could ill +gang on gien that war the gait o' 't!" + +"Father," said James, "I thank God that noo ye ken a'! Eh, sic a weicht +as it taks aff o' me! I'll be hale and weel noo in ae day!--I think I'll +gang wi' ye to Isy, mysel!--But I'm a wee bit sorry ye cam in jist that +minute! I wuss ye had harkit a wee langer! For I wasna giein-in to my +mother; I was but thinkin hoo to say oot what was in me, ohn vext her +waur nor couldna be helpit. Believe me, father, gien ye can; though I +doobt sair ye winna be able!" + +"I believe ye, my bairn; and I thank God I hae that muckle pooer o' +belief left in me! I confess I was in ower great a hurry, and I'm sure +ye war takin the richt gait wi' yer puir mither.--Ye see she loed ye sae +weel that she could think o' nae thing or body but yersel! That's the +w'y o' mithers, Jamie, gien ye only kenned it! She was nigh sinnin an +awfu sin for your sake, man!" + +Here he turned again to his wife. "That's what comes o' lovin the praise +o' men, Mirran! Easy it passes intil the fear o' men, and disregaird o' +the Holy!--I s' awa doon to the soutar, and tell him the cheenge that's +come ower us a': he'll no be a hair surprised!" + +"I'm ready, father--or will be in ae minute!" said James, making as if +to spring out of bed. + +"Na, na; ye're no fit!" interposed his father. "I would hae to be takin +ye upo my back afore we wis at the fut o' the brae!--Bide ye at hame, +and keep yer mither company." + +"Ay, bide, Jamie; and I winna come near ye," sobbed his mother. + +"Onything to please ye, mother!--but I'm fitter nor my father thinks," +said James as he settled down again in bed. + +So Peter went, leaving mother and son silent together. + +At last the mother spoke. + +"It's the shame o' 't, Jamie!" she said. + +"The shame was i' the thing itsel, mother, and in hidin frae that +shame!" he answered. "Noo, I hae but the dregs to drink, and them I maun +glog ower wi' patience, for I hae weel deserved to drink them!--But, eh, +my bonnie Isy, she maun hae suffert sair!--I daur hardly think what she +maun hae come throuw!" + +"Her mither couldna hae broucht her up richt! The first o' the faut lay +i' the upbringin!" + +"There's anither whause upbringin wasna to blame: _my_ upbringin was a' +it oucht to hae been--and see hoo ill _I_ turnt oot!" + +"It wasna what it oucht! I see 't a' plain the noo! I was aye ower feart +o' garrin ye hate me!--Oh, Isy, Isy, I hae dene ye wrang! I ken ye cud +never hae laid yersel oot to snare him--it wasna in ye to dee 't!" + +"Thank ye, mother! It was, railly and truly, a' my wyte! And noo my life +sail gang to mak up til her!" + +"And I maun see to the manse!" rejoined his mother. "--And first in +order o' a', that Jinse o' yours 'ill hae to gang!" + +"As ye like, mother. But for the manse, I maun clear oot o' that! I'll +speak nae mair frae that poopit! I hae hypocreesit in 't ower lang! The +vera thoucht o' 't scunners me!" + +"Speyk na like that o' the poopit, Jamie, whaur sae mony holy men hae +stede up and spoken the word o' God! It frichts me to hear ye! Ye'll +be a burnin and a shinin licht i' that poopit for mony a lang day efter +we're deid and hame!" + +"The mair holy men that hae there witnessed, the less daur ony livin lee +stan' there braggin and blazin i' the face o' God and man! It's shame o' +mysel that gars me hate the place, mother! Ance and no more wull I stan' +there, making o' 't my stele o' repentance; and syne doon the steps and +awa, like Adam frae the gairden!" + +"And what's to come o' Eve? Are ye gaein, like him, to say, 'The wuman +thoo giedest til me--it was a' her wyte'?" + +"Ye ken weel I'm takin a' the wyte upo mysel!" + +"But hoo can ye tak it a', or even ony fair share o' 't, gien up there +ye stan' and confess? Ye maun hae some care o' the lass--that is, gien +efter and a' ye're gaein to mak o' her yer wife, as ye profess.--And +what are ye gaein to turn yer han' til neist, seem ye hae a'ready laid +it til the pleuch and turnt back?" + +"To the pleuch again, mother--the rael pleuch this time! Frae the kirk +door I'll come hame like the prodigal to my father's hoose, and say til +him, 'Set me to the pleuch, father. See gien I canna be something _like_ +a son to ye, efter a''!" + +So wrought in him that mighty power, mysterious in its origin as +marvellous in its result, which had been at work in him all the time he +lay whelmed under feverish phantasms. + +His repentance was true; he had been dead, and was alive again! God and +the man had met at last! As to _how_ God turned the man's heart, Thou +God, knowest. To understand that, we should have to go down below the +foundations themselves, underneath creation, and there see God send out +from himself man, the spirit, distinguished yet never divided from God, +the spirit, for ever dependent upon and growing in Him, never completed +and never ended, his origin, his very life being infinite; never outside +of God, because _in_ him only he lives and moves and grows, and _has_ +his being. Brothers, let us not linger to ask! let us obey, and, +obeying, ask what we will! thus only shall we become all we are capable +of being; thus only shall we learn all we are capable of knowing! The +pure in heart shall see God; and to see him is to know all things. + +Something like this was the meditation of the soutar, as he saw the +farmer stride away into the dusk of the gathering twilight, going home +with glad heart to his wife and son. + +Peter had told the soutar that his son was sorely troubled because of +a sin of his youth and its long concealment: now he was bent on all the +reparation he could make. "Mr. Robertson," said Peter, "broucht the lass +to oor hoose, never mentionin Jamie, for he didna ken they war onything +til ane anither; and for her, she never said ae word aboot him to Mirran +or me." + +The soutar went to the door, and called Isy. She came, and stood humbly +before her old master. + +"Weel, Isy," said the farmer kindly, "ye gied 's a clever slip yon +morning and a gey fricht forbye! What possessed ye, lass, to dee sic a +thing?" + +She stood distressed, and made no answer. + +"Hoot, lassie, tell me!" insisted Peter; "I haena been an ill maister +til ye, have I?" + +"Sir, ye hae been like the maister o' a' til me! But I canna--that is, I +maunna--or raither, I'm determined no to explain the thing til onybody." + +"Thoucht ye my wife was feart the minister micht fa' in love wi ye?" + +"Weel, sir, there micht hae been something like that intil 't! But I +wantit sair to win at my bairn again; for i' that trance I lay in sae +lang, I saw or h'ard something I took for an intimation that he was +alive, and no that far awa.--And--wad ye believe't, sir?--i' this vera +hoose I fand him, and here I hae him, and I'm jist as happy the noo as I +was meeserable afore! Is 't ill o' me at I _canna_ be sorry ony mair?" + +"Na, na," interposed the soutar: "whan the Lord wad lift the burden, it +wad be baith senseless and thankless to grup at it! In His name lat it +gang, lass!" + +"And noo," said Mr. Blatherwick, again taking up his probe, "ye hae but +ae thing left to confess--and that's wha's the father o' 'im!" + +"Na, I canna dee that, sir; it's enough that I have disgracet _myself_! +You wouldn't have me disgrace another as well! What good would that be?" + +"It wad help ye beir the disgrace." + +"Na, no a hair, sir; _he_ cudna stan' the disgrace half sae weel 's me! +I reckon the man the waiker vessel, sir; the woman has her bairn to fend +for, and that taks her aff o' the shame!" + +"Ye dinna tell me he gies ye noucht to mainteen the cratur upo?" + +"I tell ye naething, sir. He never even kenned there _was_ a bairn!" + +"Hoot, toot! ye canna be sae semple! It's no poassible ye never loot him +ken!" + +"'Deed no; I was ower sair ashamit! Ye see it was a' my wyte!--and it +was naebody's business! My auntie said gien I wouldna tell, I micht put +the door atween 's; and I took her at her word; for I kenned weel _she_ +couldna keep a secret, and I wasna gaein to hae _his_ name mixed up wi' +a lass like mysel! And, sir, ye maunna try to gar me tell, for I hae no +richt, and surely ye canna hae the hert to gar me!--But that ye _sanna_, +ony gait!" + +"I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there's jist ae thing I'm determined +upo--and that is that the rascal sail merry ye!" + +Isy's face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her +pleasure at such a word from _his_ mouth. But the flush faded, and +presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and +getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted +across her face as she answered-- + +"Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til +ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han'!" + +"That's what he'll hae to dee though--jist merry ye aff han'! I s' _gar_ +him." + +"I winna hae him garred! It's me that has the richt ower him, and +no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o' +me--thinkin I would tak a man 'at was garred! Na, na; there s' be nae +garrin!--And ye canna gar _him_ merry me gien _I_ winna hae him! The +day's by for that!--A garred man! My certy!--Na, I thank ye!" + +"Weel, my bonny leddy," said Peter, "gien I had a prence to my +son,--providit he was worth yer takin--I wad say to ye, 'Hae, my +leddy!'" + +"And I would say to you, sir, 'No--gien he bena willin,'" answered Isy, +and ran from the room. + +"Weel, what think ye o' the lass by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?" said +the soutar, with a flash in his eye. + +"I think jist what I thoucht afore," answered Peter: "she's ane amo' a +million!" + +"I'm no that sure aboot the proportion!" returned MacLear. "I doobt ye +micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!--A million's a heap +o' women!" + +"All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea' father and +mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he's +no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s' never +speyk word til 'im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o' auld +Methuselah!" + +"Tak tent what ye say, or mint at sayin, to persuaud him:--Isy 'ill +be upo ye!" said the soutar laughing. "--But hearken to me, Mr. +Bletherwick, and sayna a word to the minister aboot the bairnie." + +"Na, na; it'll be best to lat him fin' that oot for himsel.--And noo I +maun be gaein, for I hae my wallet fu'!" + +He strode to the door, holding his head high, and with never a word +more, went out. The soutar closed the door and returned to his work, +saying aloud as he went, "Lord, lat me ever and aye see thy face, and +noucht mair will I desire--excep that the haill warl, O Lord, may behold +it likewise. The prayers o' the soutar are endit!" + +Peter Blatherwick went home joyous at heart. His son was his son, and +no villain!--only a poor creature, as is every man until he turns to +the Lord, and leaves behind him every ambition, and all care about the +judgment of men. He rejoiced that the girl he and Marion had befriended +would be a strength to his son: she whom his wife would have rejected +had proved herself indeed right noble! And he praised the father of men, +that the very backslidings of those he loved had brought about their +repentance and uplifting. + +"Here I am!" he cried as he entered the house. "I hae seen the lassie +ance mair, and she's better and bonnier nor ever!" + +"Ow ay; ye're jist like a' the men I ever cam across!" rejoined Marion +smiling; "--easy taen wi' the skin-side!" + +"Doobtless: the Makker has taen a heap o' pains wi the skin!--Ony gait, +yon lassie's ane amang ten thoosan! Jeemie sud be on his k-nees til her +this vera moment--no sitting there glowerin as gien his twa een war twa +bullets--fired aff, but never won oot o' their barrels!" + +"Hoot! wad ye hae him gang on his k-nees til ony but the Ane!" + +"Aye wad I--til ony ane that's nearer His likness nor himsel--and that +ane's oor Isy!--I wadna won'er, Jeemie, gien ye war fit for a drive the +morn! In that case, I s' caw ye doon to the toon, and lat ye say yer ain +say til her." + +James did not sleep much that night, and nevertheless was greatly better +the next day--indeed almost well. + +Before noon they were at the soutar's door. The soutar opened it +himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, +where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him. + +"Isy," he faltered, "can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene's +ever we can be cried?--I'm as ashamed o' mysel as even ye would hae me!" + +"Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o' as _I_ hae, sir: it was a' my +wyte!" + +"And syne no to haud my face til't!--Isy, I hae been a scoonrel til ye! +I'm that disgustit at mysel 'at I canna luik ye i' the face!" + +"Ye didna ken whaur I was! I ran awa that naebody micht ken." + +"What rizzon was there for onybody to ken? I'm sure ye never tellt!" + +Isy went to the door and called Maggie. James stared after her, +bewildered. + +"There was this rizzon," she said, re-entering with the child, and +laying him in James's arms. + +He gasped with astonishment, almost consternation. + +"Is this mine?" he stammered. + +"Yours and mine, sir," she replied. "Wasna God a heap better til me nor +I deserved?--Sic a bonnie bairn! No a mark, no a spot upon him frae heid +to fut to tell that he had no business to be here!--Gie the bonnie wee +man a kiss, Mr. Blatherwick. Haud him close to ye, sir, and he'll tak +the pain oot o' yer heart: aften has he taen 't oot o' mine--only it +aye cam again!--He's yer ain son, sir! He cam to me bringin the Lord's +forgiveness, lang or ever I had the hert to speir for 't. Eh, but we +maun dee oor best to mak up til God's bairn for the wrang we did him +afore he was born! But he'll be like his great Father, and forgie us +baith!" + +As soon as Maggie had given the child to his mother, she went to her +father, and sat down beside him, crying softly. He turned on his leather +stool, and looked at her. + +"Canna ye rejice wi' them that rejice, noo that ye hae nane to greit +wi', Maggie, my doo?" he said. "Ye haena lost ane, and ye hae gaint twa! +Haudna the glaidness back that's sae fain to come to the licht i' yer +grudgin hert, Maggie! God himsel 's glaid, and the Shepherd's glaid, and +the angels are a' makin sic a flut-flutter wi' their muckle wings 'at I +can 'maist see nor hear for them!" + +Maggie rose, and stood a moment wiping her eyes. The same instant the +door opened, and James entered with the little one in his arms. He laid +him with a smile in Maggie's. + +"Thank you, sir!" said the girl humbly, and clasped the child to her +bosom; nor, after that, was ever a cloud of jealousy to be seen on her +face. I will not say she never longed or even wept after the little one, +whom she still regarded as her very own, even when he was long gone +away with his father and mother; indeed she mourned for him then like +a mother from whom death has taken away her first-born and only son; +neither did she see much difference between the two forms of loss; for +Maggie felt in her heart that life nor death could destroy the relation +that already existed between them: she could not be her father's +daughter and not understand that! Therefore, like a bereaved mother, she +only gave herself the more to her father. + +I will not dwell on the delight of James and Isobel, thus restored to +each other, the one from a sea of sadness, the other from a gulf of +perdition. The one had deserved many stripes, the other but a few: +needful measure had been measured to each; and repentance had brought +them together. + +Before James left the house, the soutar took him aside, and said-- + +"Daur I offer ye a word o' advice, sir?" + +"'Deed that ye may!" answered the young man with humility: "and I dinna +see hoo it can be possible for me to hand frae deein as ye tell me; for +you and my father and Isy atween ye, hae jist saved my vera sowl!" + +"Weel, what I wad beg o' ye is, that ye tak no further step o' ony +consequence, afore ye see Maister Robertson, and mak him acquant wi the +haill affair." + +"I'm vera willin," answered James; "and I doobtna Isy 'ill be content." + +"Ye may be vera certain, sir, that she'll be naething but pleased: she +has a gran' opingon, and weel she may, o' Maister Robertson. Ye see, +sir, I want ye to put yersels i' the han's o' a man that kens ye baith, +and the half o' yer story a'ready--ane, that is, wha'll jeedge ye truly +and mercifully, and no condemn ye affhan'. Syne tak his advice what ye +oucht to dee neist." + +"I will--and thank you, Mr. MacLear! Ae thing only I houp--that naither +you, sir, nor he will ever seek to pursuaud me to gang on preachin. Ae +thing I'm set upon, and that is, to deliver my sowl frae hypocrisy, and +walk softly a' the rest o' my days! Happy man wad I hae been, had they +set me frae the first to caw the pleuch, and cut the corn, and gether +the stooks intil the barn--i'stead o' creepin intil a leaky boat to fish +for men wi' a foul and tangled net! I'm affrontit and jist scunnert +at mysel!--Eh, the presumption o' the thing! But I hae been weel and +richteously punished! The Father drew his han' oot o' mine, and loot me +try to gang my lane; sae doon I cam, for I was fit for naething but to +fa': naething less could hae broucht me to mysel--and it took a lang +time! I houp Mr. Robertson will see the thing as I dee mysel!--Wull I +write and speir him oot to Stanecross to advise wi my father aboot Isy? +That would bring him! There never was man readier to help!--But it's +surely my pairt to gang to _him_, and mak my confession, and boo til his +judgment!--Only I maun tell Isy first!" + +Isy was not only willing, but eager that Mr. and Mrs. Robertson should +know everything. + +"But be sure," she added, "that you let them know you come of yourself, +and I never asked you." + +Peter said he could not let him go alone, but must himself go with him, +for he was but weakly yet--and they must not put it off a single day, +lest anything should transpire and be misrepresented. + +The news which father and son carried them, filled the Robertsons with +more than pleasure; and if their reception of him made James feel +the repentant prodigal he was, it was by its heartiness, and their +jubilation over Isy. + +The next Sunday, Mr. Robertson preached in James's pulpit, and published +the banns of marriage between James Blatherwick and Isobel Rose. The +two following Sundays he repeated his visit to Tiltowie for the same +purpose; and on the Monday married them at Stonecross. Then was also the +little one baptized, by the name of Peter, in his father's arms--amid +much gladness, not unmingled with shame. The soutar and his Maggie were +the only friends present besides the Robertsons. + +Before the gathering broke up, the farmer put the big Bible in the hands +of the soutar, with the request that he would lead their prayers; and +this was very nearly what he said:--"O God, to whom we belang, hert and +soul, body and blude and banes, hoo great art thou, and hoo close to us, +to hand the richt ower us o' sic a gran' and fair, sic a just and true +ownership! We bless thee hertily, rejicin in what thoo hast made us, +and still mair in what thoo art thysel! Tak to thy hert, and hand them +there, these thy twa repentant sinners, and thy ain little ane and +theirs, wha's innocent as thoo hast made him. Gie them sic grace to +bring him up, that he be nane the waur for the wrang they did him afore +he was born; and lat the knowledge o' his parents' faut haud him safe +frae onything siclike! and may they baith be the better for their fa', +and live a heap the mair to the glory o' their Father by cause o' that +slip! And gien ever the minister should again preach thy word, may it be +wi' the better comprehension, and the mair fervour; and to that en' +gie him to un'erstan' the hicht and deepth and breid and len'th o' thy +forgivin love. Thy name be gloryfeed! Amen!" + +"Na, na, I'll never preach again!" whispered James to the soutar, as +they rose from their knees. + +"I winna be a'thegither sure o' that!" returned the soutar. "Doobtless +ye'll dee as the Spirit shaws ye!" + +James made no answer, and neither spoke again that night. + +The next morning, James sent to the clerk of the synod his resignation +of his parish and office. + +No sooner had Marion, repentant under her husband's terrible rebuke, +set herself to resist her rampant pride, than the indwelling goodness +swelled up in her like a reviving spring, and she began to be herself +again, her old and lovely self. Little Peter, with his beauty and +his winsome ways, melted and scattered the last lingering rack of her +fog-like ambition for her son. Twenty times in a morning would she drop +her work to catch up and caress her grandchild, overwhelming him with +endearments; while over the return of his mother, her second Isy, now +her daughter indeed, she soon became jubilant. + +From the first publication of the banns, she had begun cleaning and +setting to rights the parlour, meaning to make it over entirely to +Isy and James; but the moment Isy discovered her intent, she protested +obstinately: it should not, could not, must not be! The very morning +after the wedding she was down in the kitchen, and had put the water on +the fire for the porridge before her husband was awake. Before her new +mother was down, or her father-in-law come in from his last preparations +for the harvest, it was already boiling, and the table laid for +breakfast. + +"I ken weel," she said to her mother, "that I hae no richt to contre ye; +but ye was glaid o' my help whan first I cam to be yer servan-lass; and +what for shouldna things be jist the same noo? I ken a' the w'ys o' the +place, and that they'll lea' me plenty o' time for the bairnie: ye maun +jist lat me step again intil my ain auld place! and gien onybody comes, +it winna tak me a minute to mak mysel tidy as becomes the minister's +wife!--Only he says that's to be a' ower noo, and there'll be no need!" + +With that she broke into a little song, and went on with her work, +singing. + +At breakfast, James made request to his father that he might turn a +certain unused loft into a room for Isy and himself and little Peter. +His father making no objection, he set about the scheme at once, but was +interrupted by the speedy advent of an exceptionally plentiful harvest. + +The very day the cutting of the oats began, James appeared on the field +with the other scythe-men, prepared to do his best. When his father +came, however, he interfered, and compelled him to take the thing +easier, because, unfit by habit and recent illness, it would be even +dangerous for him to emulate the others. But what delighted his father +even more than his good-will, was the way he talked with the men and +women in the field: every show of superiority had vanished from his +bearing and speech, and he was simply himself, behaving like the others, +only with greater courtesy. + +When the hour for the noonday meal arrived, Isy appeared with her +mother-in-law and old Eppie, carrying their food for the labourers, +and leading little Peter in her hand. For a while the whole company was +enlivened by the child's merriment; after which he was laid with his +bottle in the shadow of an overarching stook, and went to sleep, his +mother watching him, while she took her first lesson in gathering and +binding the sheaves. When he woke, his grandfather sent the whole family +home for the rest of the day. + +"Hoots, Isy, my dauty," he said, when she would fain have continued her +work, "wad ye mak a slave-driver o' me, and bring disgrace upo the name +o' father?" + +Then at once she obeyed, and went with her husband, both of them tired +indeed, but happier than ever in their lives before. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +The next morning James was in the field with the rest long before the +sun was up. Day by day he grew stronger in mind and in body, until at +length he was not only quite equal to the harvest-work, but capable of +anything required of a farm servant. + +His deliverance from the slavery of Sunday prayers and sermons, and his +consequent sense of freedom and its delight, greatly favoured his growth +in health and strength. Before the winter came, however, he had begun +to find his heart turning toward the pulpit with a waking desire after +utterance. For, almost as soon as his day's work ceased to exhaust him, +he had begun to take up the study of the sayings and doings of the +Lord of men, full of eagerness to verify the relation in which he stood +toward him, and, through him, toward that eternal atmosphere in which he +lived and moved and had his being, God himself. + +One day, with a sudden questioning hunger, he rose in haste from his +knees, and turned almost trembling to his Greek Testament, to find +whether the words of the Master, "If any man will do the will of the +Father," meant "If any man _is willing_ to do the will of the Father;" +and finding that just what they did mean, he was thenceforward so far at +rest as to go on asking and hoping; nor was it then long before he began +to feel he had something worth telling, and must tell it to any that +would hear. And heartily he betook himself to pray for that spirit of +truth which the Lord had promised to them that asked it of their Father +in heaven. + +He talked with his wife about what he had found; he talked with his +father about it; he went to the soutar, and talked with him about it. + +Now the soutar had for many years made a certain use of his Sundays, +by which he now saw he might be of service to James: he went four miles +into the country to a farm on the other side of Stonecross, to hold +there a Sunday-school. It was the last farm for a long way in that +direction: beyond it lay an unproductive region, consisting mostly of +peat-mosses, and lone barren hills--where the waters above the firmament +were but imperfectly divided from the waters below the firmament. +For there roots of the hills coming rather close together, the waters +gathered and made marshy places, with here and there a patch of ground +on which crops could be raised. There were, however, many more houses, +such as they were, than could have been expected from the appearance +of the district. In one spot, indeed, not far from the farm I have +mentioned, there was a small, thin hamlet. A long way from church or +parish-school, and without any, nearer than several miles, to minister +to the spiritual wants of the people, it was a rather rough and ignorant +place, with a good many superstitions--none of them in their nature +specially mischievous, except indeed as they blurred the idea of divine +care and government--just the country for bogill-baes and brownie-baes, +boodies and water-kelpies to linger and disport themselves, long after +they had elsewhere disappeared! + +When, therefore, the late minister came seeking his counsel, the soutar +proposed, without giving any special reason for it, that he should +accompany him the next Sunday afternoon, to his school at Bogiescratt; +and James consenting, the soutar undertook to call for him at Stonecross +on his way. + +"Mr. MacLear," said James, as they walked along the rough parish road +together, "I have but just arrived at a point I ought to have reached +before even entertaining a thought of opening my mouth upon anything +belonging to religion. Perhaps I knew some little things _about_ +religion; certainly I knew nothing _of_ religion; least of all had I +made any discovery for myself _in_ religion; and before that, how can a +man understand or know anything whatever concerning it? Even now I may +be presuming, but now at last, if I may dare to say so, I do seem to +have begun to recognize something of the relation between a man and the +God who made him; and with the sense of that, as I ventured to hint +when I saw you last Friday, there has risen in my mind a desire to +communicate to my fellow-men something of what I have seen and learned. +One thing I dare to hope--that, at the first temptation to show-off, I +shall be made aware of my danger, and have the grace given me to pull +up. And one thing I have resolved upon--that, if ever I preach again, I +will never again write a sermon. I know I shall make many blunders, and +do the thing very badly; but failure itself will help to save me from +conceit--will keep me, I hope, from thinking of myself at all, enabling +me to leave myself in God's hands, willing to fail if he please. Don't +you think, Mr. MacLear, we may even now look to God for what we ought to +say, as confidently as if, like the early Christians, we stood accused +before the magistrates?" + +"I div that, Maister Jeames!" answered the soutar. "Hide yersel in God, +sir, and oot o' that secret place, secret and safe, speyk--and fear +naething. And never ye mint at speykin _doon_ to your congregation. Luik +them straucht i' the een, and say what at the moment ye think and feel; +and dinna hesitate to gie them the best ye hae." + +"Thank you, thank you, sir! I think I understand," replied James.--"If +ever I speak again, I should like to begin in your school!" + +"Ye sall--this vera nicht, gien ye like," rejoined the soutar. "I think +ye hae something e'en noo upo yer min' 'at ye would like to say to +them--but we'll see hoo ye feel aboot it efter I hae said a word to them +first!" + +"When you have said what you want to say, Mr. MacLear, give me a look; +and if I _have_ anything to say, I will respond to your sign. Then you +can introduce me, saying what you will. Only dinna spare me; use me +after your judgment." + +The soutar held out his hand to his disciple, and they finished their +journey in silence. + +When they reached the farm-house, the small gathering was nearly +complete. It was mostly of farm-labourers; but a few of the congregation +worked in a quarry, where serpentine lay under the peat. In this +serpentine occurred veins of soapstone, occasionally of such a thickness +as to be itself the object of the quarrier: it was used in the making of +porcelain; and small quantities were in request for other purposes. + +When the soutar began, James was a little shocked at first to hear him +use his mother-tongue as in his ordinary conversation; but any sense of +its unsuitableness vanished presently, and James soon began to feel +that the vernacular gave his friend additional power of expression, and +therewith of persuasion. + +"My frien's, I was jist thinkin, as I cam ower the hill," he began, +"hoo we war a' made wi' differin pooers--some o' 's able to dee ae thing +best, and some anither; and that led me to remark, that it was the same +wi' the warl we live in--some pairts o' 't fit for growin aits, and some +bere, and some wheat, or pitatas; and hoo ilk varyin rig had to be +turnt til its ain best eese. We a' ken what a lot o' eeses the bonny +green-and-reid-mottlet marble can be put til; but it wadna do weel for +biggin hooses, specially gien there war mony streaks o' saipstane intil +'t. Still it's no 'at the saipstane itsel's o' nae eese, for ye ken +there's a heap o' eeses it can be put til. For ae thing, the tailor taks +a bit o' 't to mark whaur he's to sen' the shears alang the claith, when +he's cuttin oot a pair o' breeks; and again they mix't up wi the clay +they tak for the finer kin's o' crockery. But upo' the ither han' +there's ae thing it's eesed for by some, 'at canna be considert a richt +eese to mak o' 't: there's ae wull tribe in America they tell me o', 'at +ait a hantle o' 't--and that's a thing I can_not_ un'erstan'; for it diz +them, they say, no guid at a', 'cep, maybe, it be jist to fill-in the +toom places i' their stammacks, puir reid craturs, and haud their ribs +ohn stucken thegither--and maybe that's jist what they ait it for! Eh, +but they maun be sair hungert afore they tak til the vera dirt! But +they're only savage fowk, I'm thinkin, 'at hae hardly begun to be men +ava! + +"Noo ye see what I'm drivin' at? It's this--that things hae aye to be +put to their richt eeses! But there are guid eeses and better eeses, +and things canna _aye_ be putten to their _best_ eeses; only, whaur they +can, it's a shame to put them to ony ither but their best! Noo, +what's the best eese o' a man?--what's a man made for? The carritchis +(_catechism_) says, _To glorifee God_. And hoo is he to dee that? Jist +by deein the wull o' God. For the ae perfec' man said he was born intil +the warl for that ae special purpose, to dee the wull o' him that sent +him. A man's for a heap o' eeses, but that ae eese covers them a'. Whan +he's deein' the wull o' God, he's deein jist a'thing. + +"Still there are vahrious wy's in which a man can be deein the wull o' +his Father in h'aven, and the great thing for ilk ane is to fin' oot the +best w'y _he_ can set aboot deein that wull. + +"Noo here's a man sittin aside me that I maun help set to the best eese +he's fit for--and that is, tellin ither fowk what he kens aboot the God +that made him and them, and stirrin o' them up to dee what He would hae +them dee. The fac is, that the man was ance a minister o' the Kirk o' +Scotlan'; but whan he was a yoong man, he fell intil a great faut:--a +yoong man's faut--I'm no gaein to excuse 't--dinna think it!--Only I +chairge ye, be ceevil til him i' yer vera thouchts, rememberin hoo mony +things ye hae dene yersels 'at ye hae to be ashamit o', though some +o' them may never hae come to the licht; for, be sure o' this, he has +repentit richt sair. Like the prodigal, he grew that ashamit o' what he +had dene, that he gied up his kirk, and gaed hame to the day's darg +upon his father's ferm. And that's what he's at the noo, thof he be a +scholar, and that a ripe ane! And by his repentance he's learnt a heap +that he didna ken afore, and that he couldna hae learnt ony ither +w'y than by turnin wi' shame frae the path o' the transgressor. I hae +broucht him wi' me this day, sirs, to tell ye something--he hasna said +to me what--that the Lord in his mercy has tellt him. I'll say nae mair: +Mr. Bletherwick, wull ye please tell's what the Lord has putten it intil +yer min' to say?" + +The soutar sat down; and James got up, white and trembling. For a moment +or two he was unable to speak, but overcoming his emotion, and falling +at once into the old Scots tongue, he said-- + +"My frien's, I hae little richt to stan' up afore ye and say onything; +for, as some o' ye ken, if no afore, at least noo, frae what my frien' +the soutar has jist been tellin ye, I was ance a minister o' the kirk, +but upon a time I behavet mysel that ill, that, whan I cam to my senses, +I saw it my duty to withdraw, and mak room for anither to tak up my +disgracet bishopric, as was said o' Judas the traitor. But noo I seem +to hae gotten some mair licht, and to ken some things I didna ken afore; +sae, turnin my back upo' my past sin, and believin God has forgien me, +and is willin I sud set my han' to his pleuch ance mair, I hae thoucht +to mak a new beginnin here in a quaiet heumble fashion, tellin ye +something o' what I hae begoud, i' the mercy o' God, to un'erstan' a +wee for mysel. Sae noo, gien yell turn, them o' ye that has broucht +yer buiks wi' ye, to the saeventh chapter o' John's gospel, and the +saeventeenth verse, ye'll read wi me what the Lord says there to the +fowk o Jerus'lem: _Gien ony man be wullin to dee His wull, he'll ken +whether what I tell him comes frae God, or whether I say 't only oot +o' my ain heid_. Luik at it for yersels, for that's what it says i' the +Greek, the whilk is plainer than the English to them that un'erstan' +the auld Greek tongue: Gien onybody _be wullin_ to dee the wull o' God, +he'll ken whether my teachin comes frae God, or I say 't o' mysel." + +From that he went on to tell them that, if they kept trusting in God, +and doing what Jesus told them, any mistake they made would but help +them the better to understand what God and his son would have them do. +The Lord gave them no promise, he said, of knowing what this or that man +ought to do; but only of knowing what the man himself ought to do. And +he illustrated this by the rebuke the Lord gave Peter when, leaving +inquiry into the will of God that he might do it, he made inquiry into +the decree of God concerning his friend that he might know it; seeking +wherewithal, not to prophesy, but to foretell. Then he showed them the +difference between the meaning of the Greek word, and that of the modern +English word _prophesy_. + +The little congregation seemed to hang upon his words, and as they were +going away, thanked him heartily for thus talking to them. + +That same night as James and the soutar were going home together, they +were overtaken by an early snowstorm, and losing their way, were in the +danger, not a small one, of having to pass the night on the moor. But +happily, the farmer's wife, in whose house was their customary assembly, +had, as they were taking their leave, made the soutar a present of some +onion bulbs, of a sort for which her garden was famous: exhausted in +conflict with the freezing blast, they had lain down, apparently to die +before the morning, when the soutar bethought himself of the onions; +and obeying their nearer necessity, they ate instead of keeping them to +plant; with the result that they were so refreshed, and so heartened for +battle with the wind and snow, that at last, in the small hours of the +morning, they reached home, weary and nigh frozen. + +All through the winter, James accompanied the soutar to his +Sunday-school, sometimes on his father's old gig-horse, but oftener +on foot. His father would occasionally go also; and then the men of +Stonecross began to go, with the cottar and his wife; so that the little +company of them gradually increased to about thirty men and women, and +about half as many children. In general, the soutar gave a short +opening address; but he always made "the minister" speak; and thus James +Blatherwick, while encountering many hidden experiences, went through +his apprenticeship to extempore preaching; and, hardly knowing how, grew +capable at length of following out a train of thought in his own mind +even while he spoke, and that all the surer from the fact that, as it +rose, it found immediate utterance; and at the same time it was rendered +the more living and potent by the sight of the eager faces of his humble +friends fixed upon him, as they drank in, sometimes even anticipated, +the things he was saying. He seemed to himself at times almost to see +their thoughts taking reality and form to accompany him whither he +led them; while the stream of his thought, as it disappeared from his +consciousness and memory, seemed to settle in the minds of those who +heard him, like seed cast on open soil--some of it, at least, to grow +up in resolves, and bring forth fruit. And all the road as the friends +returned, now in moonlight, now in darkness and rain, sometimes in wind +and snow, they had such things to think of and talk about, that the +way never seemed long. Thus dwindled by degrees Blatherwick's +self-reflection and self-seeking, and, growing divinely conscious, +he grew at the same time divinely self-oblivious. Once, upon such a +home-coming, as his wife was helping him off with his wet boots, he +looked up in her face and said-- + +"To think, Isy, that here am I, a dull, selfish creature, so long +desiring only for myself knowledge and influence, now at last grown able +to feel in my heart all the way home, that I took every step, one after +the other, only by the strength of God in me, caring for me as my own +making father!--Ken ye what I'm trying to say, Isy, my dear?" + +"I canna be a'thegither certain I un'erstan'," answered his wife; "but +I'll keep thinkin aboot it, and maybe I'll come til't!" + +"I can desire no more," answered James, "for until the Lord lat ye see +a thing, hoo can you or I or onybody see the thing that _he_ maun see +first! And what is there for us to desire, but to see things as God sees +them, and would hae us see them? I used to think the soutar a puir fule +body whan he was sayin the vera things I'm tryin to say noo! I saw nae +mair what he was efter than that puir collie there at my feet--maybe no +half sae muckle, for wha can tell what he mayna be thinkin, wi' that far +awa luik o' his!" + +"Div ye think, Jeames, that ever we'll be able to see inside thae +doggies, and ken what they're thinkin?" + +"I wouldna won'er what we mayna come til; for ye ken Paul says, 'A' +things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's!' Wha can +tell but the vera herts o' the doggies may ae day lie bare and open to +_oor_ herts, as to the hert o' Him wi' whom they and we hae to do! Eh, +but the thouchts o' a doggie maun be a won'erfu' sicht! And syne to +think o' the thouchts o' Christ aboot that doggie! We'll ken them, I +daurna weel doobt, some day! I'm surer aboot that nor aboot kennin the +thouchts o' the doggie himsel!" + +Another Sunday night, having come home through a terrible storm of +thunder and lightning, he said to Isy-- + +"I hae been feelin, a' the w'y hame, as gien, afore lang, I micht hae +to gie a wider testimony. The apostles and the first Christians, ye see, +had to beir testimony to the fac' that the man that was hangt and dee'd +upo the cross, the same was up again oot o' the grave, and gangin aboot +the warl; noo I canna beir testimony to that, for I wasna at that time +awaur o' onything; but I might weel be called upon to beir testimony to +the fac' that, whaur ance he lay deid and beeried, there he's come alive +at last--that is, i' the sepulchre o' my hert! For I hae seen him noo, +and ken him noo--the houp o' glory in my hert and my life! Whatever he +said ance, that I believe for ever." + +The talks James Blatherwick and the soutar had together, were now, +according to Mr. Robertson, even wonderful. But it was chiefly the +soutar that spoke, while James sat and listened in silence. On one +occasion, however, James had spoken out freely, and indeed eloquently; +and Mr. Robertson, whom the soutar accompanied to his inn that night, +had said to him ere they parted-- + +"Do you see any good and cogent reason, Mr. MacLear, why this man should +not resume his pastoral office?" + +"One thing at least I am sure of," answered the soutar, "--that he is +far fitter for it than ever he was in his life before." + +Mr. Robertson repeated this to James the next day, adding-- + +"And I am certain every one who knows you will vote the restoration of +your licence!" + +"I must speak to Isy about it," answered James with simplicity. + +"That is quite right, of course," rejoined Mr. Robertson: "you know I +tell my wife everything that I am at liberty to tell." + +"Will not some public recognition of my reinstatement be necessary?" +suggested James. + +"I will have a talk about it with some of the leaders of the synod, and +let you know what they say," answered Mr. Robertson. + +"Of course I am ready," returned Blatherwick, "to make any public +confession judged necessary or desirable; but that would involve my +wife; and although I know perfectly that she will be ready for anything +required of her, it remains not the less my part to do my best to shield +her!" + +"Of one thing I think you may be sure--that, with our present moderator, +your case will be handled with more than delicacy--with tenderness!" + +"I must not doubt it; but for myself I would deprecate indulgence. I +must have a talk with my wife about it! She is sure to know what will be +best!" + +"My advice is to leave it all in the hands of the moderator. We have no +right to choose, appoint, or apportion our own penalties!" + +James went home and laid the whole matter before his wife. + +Instead of looking frightened, or even anxious, Isy laid little Peter +softly in his crib, threw her arms round James's neck, and cried-- + +"Thank God, my husband, that you have come to this! Don't think to leave +me out, I beg of you. I am more than ready to accept my shame. I have +always said _I_ was to blame, and not you! It was me that should have +known better!" + +"You trusted me, and I proved quite unworthy of your confidence!--But +had ever man a wife to be so proud of as I of you!" + +Mr. Robertson brought the matter carefully before the synod; but neither +James nor Isy ever heard anything more of it--except the announcement +of the cordial renewal of James's licence. This was soon followed by the +offer of a church in the poorest and most populous parish north of the +Tweed. + +"See the loving power at the heart of things, Isy!" said James to his +wife: "out of evil He has brought good, the best good, and nothing +but good!--a good ripened through my sin and selfishness and ambition, +bringing upon you as well as me disgrace and suffering! The evil in me +had to come out and show itself, before it could be cleared away! Some +people nothing but an earthquake will rouse from their dead sleep: I was +one of such. God in His mercy brought on the earthquake: it woke me and +saved me from death. Ignorant creatures go about asking why God permits +evil: _we_ know why! It may be He could with a word cause evil to +cease--but would that be to create good? The word might make us good +like oxen or harmless sheep, but would that be a goodness worthy of him +who was made in the image of God? If a man ceased to be _capable_ of +evil, he must cease to be a man! What would the goodness be that could +not help being good--that had no choice in the matter, but must be such +because it was so made? God chooses to be good, else he would not be +God: man must choose to be good, else he cannot be the son of God! +Herein we see the grand love of the Father of men--that he gives them +a share, and that share as necessary as his own, in the making of +themselves! Thus, and thus only, that is, by willing the good, can they +become 'partakers of the divine nature!' Satan said, 'Ye shall be as +gods, knowing good and evil!' God says, 'Ye shall be as gods, knowing +good and evil, and choosing the good.' For the sake of this, that we may +come to choose the good, all the discipline of the world exists. God is +teaching us to know good and evil in some real degree _as they are_, and +not as _they seem to the incomplete_; so shall we learn to choose the +good and refuse the evil. He would make his children see the two things, +good and evil, in some measure as they are, and then say whether they +will be good children or not. If they fail, and choose the evil, he will +take yet harder measures with them. If at last it should prove possible +for a created being to see good and evil as they are, and choose the +evil, then, and only then, there would, I presume, be nothing left for +God but to set his foot upon him and crush him, as we crush a noxious +insect. But God is deeper in us than our own life; yea, God's life is +the very centre and creative cause of that life which we call _ours_; +therefore is the Life in us stronger than the Death, in as much as the +creating Good is stronger than the created Evil." + +THE END + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Salted With Fire, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTED WITH FIRE *** + +***** This file should be named 9154.txt or 9154.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/5/9154/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Debra Storr and Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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