CHAPTER VI.
DOORY
She was a very small, spare woman, in a blue print with little white spots—straight, not bowed like her husband. Otherwise she seemed at first exactly like him. But ere the evening was over, Donal saw there was no featural resemblance between the two faces, and was puzzled to understand how the two expressions came to be so like: as they sat it seemed in the silence as if they were the same person thinking in two shapes and two places.
Following the old woman, Donal ascended a steep and narrow stair, which soon brought him to a landing where was light, coming mainly through green leaves, for the window in the little passage was filled with plants. His guide led him into what seemed to him an enchanting room—homely enough it was, but luxurious compared to what he had been accustomed to. He saw white walls and a brown-hued but clean-swept wooden floor, on which shone a keen-eyed little fire from a low grate. Two easy chairs, covered with some party-coloured striped stuff, stood one on each side of the fire. A kettle was singing on the hob. The white deal-table was set for tea—with a fat brown teapot, and cups of a gorgeous pattern in bronze, that shone in the firelight like red gold. In one of the walls was a box-bed.
"I'll lat ye see what accommodation we hae at yer service, sir," said Doory, "an' gien that'll shuit ye, ye s' be welcome."
So saying, she opened what looked like the door of a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. It disclosed a neat little parlour, with a sweet air in it. The floor was sanded, and so much the cleaner than if it had been carpeted. A small mahogany table, black with age, stood in the middle. On a side-table covered with a cloth of faded green, lay a large family bible; behind it were a few books and a tea-caddy. In the side of the wall opposite the window, was again a box-bed. To the eyes of the shepherd-born lad, it looked the most desirable shelter he had ever seen. He turned to his hostess and said,
"I'm feart it's ower guid for me. What could ye lat me hae't for by the week? I wad fain bide wi' ye, but whaur an' whan I may get wark I canna tell; sae I maunna tak it ony gait for mair nor a week."
"Mak yersel' at ease till the morn be by," said the old woman. "Ye canna du naething till that be ower. Upo' the Mononday mornin' we s' haud a cooncil thegither—you an' me an' my man: I can du naething wantin' my man; we aye pu' thegither or no at a'."
Well content, and with hearty thanks, Donal committed his present fate into the hands of the humble pair, his heaven-sent helpers; and after much washing and brushing, all that was possible to him in the way of dressing, reappeared in the kitchen. Their tea was ready, and the cobbler seated in the window with a book in his hand, leaving for Donal his easy chair.
"I canna tak yer ain cheir frae ye," said Donal.
"Hoots!" returned the cobbler, "what's onything oors for but to gie the neeper 'at stan's i' need o' 't."
"But ye hae had a sair day's wark!"
"An' you a sair day's traivel!"
"But I'm yoong!"
"An' I'm auld, an' my labour the nearer ower."
"But I'm strong!"
"There's nane the less need ye sud be hauden sae. Sit ye doon, an' wastena yer backbane. My business is to luik to the bodies o' men, an' specially to their puir feet 'at has to bide the weicht, an' get sair pressed therein. Life 's as hard upo' the feet o' a man as upo' ony pairt o' 'm! Whan they gang wrang, there isna muckle to be dune till they be set richt again. I'm sair honourt, I say to mysel' whiles, to be set ower the feet o' men. It's a fine ministration!—full better than bein' a door-keeper i' the hoose o' the Lord! For the feet 'at gang oot an' in at it 's mair nor the door!"
"The Lord be praist!" said Donal to himself; "there's mair i' the warl' like my father an' mither!"
He took the seat appointed him.
"Come to the table, Anerew," said the old woman, "gien sae be ye can pairt wi' that buik o' yours, an' lat yer sowl gie place to yer boady's richts.—I doobt, sir, gien he wad ait or drink gien I wasna at his elbuck."
"Doory," returned her husband, "ye canna deny I gie ye a bit noo an' than, specially whan I come upo' onything by ord'nar' tasty!"
"That ye du, Anerew, or I dinna ken what wud come o' my sowl ony mair nor o' your boady! Sae ye see, sir, we're like John Sprat an' his wife:—ye'll ken the bairns' say aboot them?"
"Ay, fine that," replied Donal. "Ye couldna weel be better fittit."
"God grant it!" she said. "But we wad fit better yet gien I had but a wheen mair brains."
"The Lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht ye thegither," said Donal.
"Ye never uttert a truer word," replied the cobbler. "Gien the Lord be content wi' the brains he's gien ye, an' I be content wi' the brains ye gie me, what richt hae ye to be discontentit wi' the brains ye hae, Doory?—answer me that. But I s' come to the table.—Wud ye alloo me to speir efter yer name, sir?"
"My name 's Donal Grant," replied Donal.
"I thank ye, sir, an' I'll haud it in respec'," returned the cobbler. "Maister Grant, wull ye ask a blessin'?"
"I wad raither j'in i' your askin'," replied Donal.
The cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to eat—first of oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of loaf-breid, as they called it.
"I'm sorry I hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir," said Doory, "we're but semple fowk, ye see—content to haud oor earthly taibernacles in a haibitable condition till we hae notice to quit."
"It's a fine thing to ken," said the cobbler, with a queer look, "'at whan ye lea' 't, yer hoose fa's doon, an' ye haena to think o' ony damages to pey—forby 'at gien it laistit ony time efter ye was oot o' 't, there micht be a wheen deevils takin' up their abode intil 't."
"Hoot, Anerew!" interposed his wife, "there's naething like that i' scriptur'!"
"Hoot, Doory!" returned Andrew, "what ken ye aboot what's no i' scriptur'? Ye ken a heap, I alloo, aboot what's in scriptur', but ye ken little aboot what's no intil 't!"
"Weel, isna 't best to ken what's intil 't?"
"'Ayont a doobt."
"Weel!" she returned in playful triumph.
Donal saw that he had got hold of a pair of originals: it was a joy to his heart: he was himself an original—one, namely, that lived close to the simplicities of existence!
Andrew Comin, before offering him house-room, would never have asked anyone what he was; but he would have thought it an equal lapse in breeding not to show interest in the history as well as the person of a guest. After a little more talk, so far from commonplace that the common would have found it mirth-provoking, the cobbler said:
"An' what office may ye haud yersel', sir, i' the ministry o' the temple?"
"I think I un'erstan' ye," replied Donal; "my mother says curious things like you."
"Curious things is whiles no that curious," remarked Andrew.
A pause following, he resumed:
"Gien onything gie ye reason to prefar waitin' till ye ken Doory an' me a bit better, sir," he said, "coont my ill-mainnert queston no speirt."
"There's naething," answered Donal. "I'll tell ye onything or a'thing aboot mysel'."
"Tell what ye wull, sir, an' keep what ye wull," said the cobbler.
"I was broucht up a herd-laddie," proceeded Donal, "an' whiles a shepherd ane. For mony a year I kent mair aboot the hill-side nor the ingle-neuk. But it's the same God an' Father upo' the hill-side an' i' the king's pailace."
"An' ye'll ken a' aboot the win', an' the cloods, an' the w'ys o' God ootside the hoose! I ken something hoo he hauds things gaein' inside the hoose—in a body's hert, I mean—in mine an' Doory's there, but I ken little aboot the w'y he gars things work 'at he's no sae far ben in."
"Ye dinna surely think God fillsna a'thing?" exclaimed Donal.
"Na, na; I ken better nor that," answered the cobbler; "but ye maun alloo a tod's hole 's no sae deep as the thro't o' a burnin' m'untain! God himsel' canna win sae far ben in a shallow place as in a deep place; he canna be sae far ben i' the win's, though he gars them du as he likes, as he is, or sud be, i' your hert an' mine, sir!"
"I see!" responded Donal. "Could that hae been hoo the Lord had to rebuke the win's an' the wawves, as gien they had been gaein' at their ain free wull, i'stead o' the wull o' him 'at made them an' set them gaein'?"
"Maybe; but I wud hae to think aboot it 'afore I answert," replied the cobbler.
A silence intervened. Then said Andrew, thoughtfully,
"I thoucht, when I saw ye first, ye was maybe a lad frae a shop i' the muckle toon—or a clerk, as they ca' them, 'at sits makin' up accoonts."
"Na, I'm no that, I thank God," said Donal.
"What for thank ye God for that?" asked Andrew. "A' place is his. I wudna hae ye thank God ye're no a cobbler like me! Ye micht, though, for it's little ye can ken o' the guid o' the callin'!"
"I'll tell ye what for," answered Donal. "I ken weel toon-fowk think it a heap better to hae to du wi' figures nor wi' sheep, but I'm no o' their min'; an' for ae thing, the sheep's alive. I could weel fancy an angel a shepherd—an' he wad coont my father guid company! Troth, he wad want wings an' airms an' feet an' a' to luik efter the lambs whiles! But gien sic a ane was a clerk in a coontin' hoose, he wad hae to stow awa the wings; I cannot see what use he wad hae for them there. He micht be an angel a' the time, an' that no a fallen ane, but he bude to lay aside something to fit the place."
"But ye're no a shepherd the noo?" said the cobbler.
"Na," replied Donal, "—'cep' it be I'm set to luik efter anither grade o' lamb. A freen'—ye may 'a' h'ard his name—sir Gilbert Galbraith—made the beginnin' o' a scholar o' me, an' noo I hae my degree frae the auld university o' Inverdaur."
"Didna I think as muckle!" cried mistress Comin triumphant. "I hadna time to say 't to ye, Anerew, but I was sure he was frae the college, an' that was hoo his feet war sae muckle waur furnisht nor his heid."
"I hae a pair o' shune i' my kist, though—whan that comes!" said Donal, laughing.
"I only houp it winna be ower muckle to win up oor stair!"
"I dinna think it. But we'll lea' 't i' the street afore it s' come 'atween 's!" said Donal. "Gien ye'll hae me, sae lang's I'm i' the toon, I s' gang nae ither gait."
"An' ye'll doobtless read the Greek like yer mither-tongue?" said the cobbler, with a longing admiration in his tone.
"Na, no like that; but weel eneuch to get guid o' 't."
"Weel, that's jist the ae thing I grutch ye—na, no grutch—I'm glaid ye hae't—but the ae thing I wud fain be a scholar for mysel'! To think I kenna a cheep o' the word spoken by the Word himsel'!"
"But the letter o' the word he made little o' comparet wi' the speerit!" said Donal.
"Ay, that's true! an' yet it's whaur a man may weel be greedy an' want to hae a'thing: wha has the speerit wad fain hae the letter tu! But it disna maitter; I s' set to learnin' 't the first thing whan I gang up the stair—that is, gien it be the Lord's wull."
"Hoots!" said his wife, "what wad ye du wi' Greek up there! I s' warran' the fowk there, ay, an' the maister himsel', speyks plain Scotch! What for no! What wad they du there wi' Greek, 'at a body wad hae to warstle wi' frae mornin' to nicht, an' no mak oot the third pairt o' 't!"
Her husband laughed merrily, but Donal said,
"'Deed maybe ye're na sae far wrang, guidwife! I'm thinkin' there maun be a gran' mither-tongue there, 'at 'll soop up a' the lave, an' be better to un'erstan' nor a body's ain—for it'll be yet mair his ain."
"Hear til him!" cried the cobbler, with hearty approbation.
"Ye ken," Donal went on, "a' the languages o' the earth cam, or luik as gien they had come, frae ane, though we're no jist dogsure o' that. There's my mither's ain Gaelic, for enstance: it's as auld, maybe aulder nor the Greek; onygait, it has mair Greek nor Laitin words intil 't, an' ye ken the Greek 's an aulder tongue nor the Laitin. Weel, gien we could work oor w'y back to the auldest grit-gran'mither-tongue o' a', I'm thinkin' it wad come a kin o' sae easy til 's, 'at, wi' the impruvt faculties o' oor h'avenly condition, we micht be able in a feow days to haud communication wi' ane anither i' that same, ohn stammert or hummt an' hawt."
"But there's been sic a heap o' things f'un' oot sin' syne, i' the min' o' man, as weel 's i' the warl' ootside," said Andrew, "that sic a language wad be mair like a bairn's tongue nor a mither's, I'm thinkin', whan set against a' 'at wad be to speyk aboot!"
"Ye're verra richt there, I dinna doobt. But hoo easy wad it be for ilk ane to bring in the new word he wantit, haein' eneuch common afore to explain 't wi'! Afore lang the language wad hae intil 't ilka word 'at was worth haein' in ony language 'at ever was spoken sin' the toor o' Babel."
"Eh, sirs, but it's dreidfu' to think o' haein' to learn sae muckle!" said the old woman. "I'm ower auld an' dottlet!"
Her husband laughed again.
"I dinna see what ye hae to lauch at!" she said, laughing too. "Ye'll be dottlet yersel' gien ye live lang eneuch!"
"I'm thinkin'," said Andrew, "but I dinna ken—'at it maun be a man's ain wyte gien age maks him dottlet. Gien he's aye been haudin' by the trowth, I dinna think he'll fin' the trowth, hasna hauden by him.—But what I was lauchin' at was the thoucht o' onybody bein' auld up there. We'll a' be yoong there, lass!"
"It sall be as the Lord wulls," returned his wife.
"It sall. We want nae mair; an' eh, we want nae less!" responded her husband.
So the evening wore away. The talk was to the very mind of Donal, who never loved wisdom so much as when she appeared in peasant-garb. In that garb he had first known her, and in the form of his mother.
"I won'er," said Doory at length, "'at yoong Eppy 's no puttin' in her appearance! I was sure o' her the nicht: she hasna been near 's a' the week!"
The cobbler turned to Donal to explain. He would not talk of things their guest did not understand; that would be like shutting him out after taking him in!
"Yoong Eppy 's a gran'child, sir—the only ane we hae. She's a weel behavet lass, though ta'en up wi' the things o' this warl' mair nor her grannie an' me could wuss. She's in a place no far frae here—no an easy ane, maybe, to gie satisfaction in, but she's duin' no that ill."
"Hoot, Anerew! she's duin' jist as well as ony lassie o' her years could in justice be expeckit," interposed the grandmother. "It's seldom the Lord 'at sets auld heid upo' yoong shoothers."
The words were hardly spoken when a light foot was heard coming up the stair.
"—But here she comes to answer for hersel'!" she added cheerily.
The door of the room opened, and a good-looking girl of about eighteen came in.
"Weel, yoong Eppy, hoo 's a' wi' ye?" said the old man.
The grandmother's name was Elspeth, the grand-daughter's had therefore always the prefix.
"Brawly, thank ye, gran'father," she answered. "Hoo 's a' wi' yersel'?"
"Ow, weel cobblet!" he replied.
"Sit ye doon," said the grandmother, "by the spark o' fire; the nicht 's some airy like."
"Na, grannie, I want nae fire," said the girl. "I hae run a' the ro'd to get a glimp' o' ye 'afore the week was oot."
"Hoo 's things gaein' up at the castel?"
"Ow, sic-like 's usual—only the hoosekeeper 's some dowy, an' that puts mair upo' the lave o' 's: whan she's weel, she's no ane to spare hersel'—or ither fowk aither!—I wadna care, gien she wud but lippen til a body!" concluded young Eppy, with a toss of her head.
"We maunna speyk evil o' dignities, yoong Eppy!" said the cobbler, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Ca' ye mistress Brookes a dignity, gran'father!" said the girl, with a laugh that was nowise rude.
"I do," he answered. "Isna she ower ye? Haena ye to du as she tells ye? 'Atween her an' you that's eneuch: she's ane o' the dignities spoken o'."
"I winna dispute it. But, eh, it's queer wark yon'er!"
"Tak ye care, yoong Eppy! we maun haud oor tongues aboot things committit til oor trust. Ane peyt to serve in a hoose maunna tre't the affairs o' that hoose as gien they war her ain."
"It wad be weel gien a'body about the hoose was as partic'lar as ye wad hae me, gran'father!"
"Hoo's my lord, lass?"
"Ow, muckle the same—aye up the stair an' doon the stair the forepairt o' the nicht, an' maist inveesible a' day."
The girl cast a shy glance now and then at Donal, as if she claimed him on her side, though the older people must be humoured. Donal was not too simple to understand her: he gave her look no reception. Bethinking himself that they might have matters to talk about, he rose, and turning to his hostess, said,
"Wi' yer leave, gudewife, I wad gang to my bed. I hae traivelt a maitter o' thirty mile the day upo' my bare feet."
"Eh, sir!" she answered, "I oucht to hae considert that!—Come, yoong Eppy, we maun get the gentleman's bed made up for him."
With a toss of her pretty head, Eppy followed her grandmother to the next room, casting a glance behind her that seemed to ask what she meant by calling a lad without shoes or stockings a gentleman. Not the less readily or actively, however, did she assist her grandmother in preparing the tired wayfarer's couch. In a few minutes they returned, and telling him the room was quite ready for him, Doory added a hope that he would sleep as sound as if his own mother had made the bed.
He heard them talking for a while after the door was closed, but the girl soon took her leave. He was just falling asleep in the luxury of conscious repose, when the sound of the cobbler's hammer for a moment roused him, and he knew the old man was again at work on his behalf. A moment more and he was too fast asleep for any Cyclops' hammer to wake him.
CHAPTER VII.
A SUNDAY
Notwithstanding his weariness Donal woke early, for he had slept thoroughly. He rose and dressed himself, drew aside the little curtain that shrouded the window, and looked out. It was a lovely morning. His prospect was the curious old main street of the town. The sun that had shone into it was now shining from the other side, but not a shadow of living creature fell upon the rough stones! Yes—there was a cat shooting across them like the culprit he probably was! If there was a garden to the house, he would go and read in the fresh morning air!
He stole softly through the outer room, and down the stair; found the back-door and a water-butt; then a garden consisting of two or three plots of flowers well cared for; and ended his discoveries with a seat surrounded and almost canopied with honeysuckle, where doubtless the cobbler sometimes smoked his pipe! "Why does he not work here rather than in the archway?" thought Donal. But, dearly as he loved flowers and light and the free air of the garden, the old cobbler loved the faces of his kind better. His prayer for forty years had been to be made like his master; and if that prayer was not answered, how was it that, every year he lived, he found himself loving the faces of his fellows more and more? Ever as they passed, instead of interfering with his contemplations, they gave him more and more to think: were these faces, he asked, the symbols of a celestial language in which God talked to him?
Donal sat down, and took his Greek Testament from his pocket. But all at once, brilliant as was the sun, the light of his life went out, and the vision rose of the gray quarry, and the girl turning from him in the wan moonlight. Then swift as thought followed the vision of the women weeping about the forsaken tomb; and with his risen Lord he rose also—into a region far "above the smoke and stir of this dim spot," a region where life is good even with its sorrow. The man who sees his disappointment beneath him, is more blessed than he who rejoices in fruition. Then prayer awoke, and in the light of that morning of peace he drew nigh the living one, and knew him as the source of his being. Weary with blessedness he leaned against the shadowing honeysuckle, gave a great sigh of content, smiled, wiped his eyes, and was ready for the day and what it should bring. But the bliss went not yet; he sat for a while in the joy of conscious loss in the higher life. With his meditations and feelings mingled now and then a few muffled blows of the cobbler's hammer: he was once more at work on his disabled shoe.
"Here is a true man!" he thought, "—a Godlike helper of his fellow!"
When the hammer ceased, the cobbler was stitching; when Donal ceased thinking, he went on feeling. Again and again came a little roll of the cobbler's drum, giving glory to God by doing his will: the sweetest and most acceptable music is that which rises from work a doing; its incense ascends as from the river in its flowing, from the wind in its blowing, from the grass in its growing. All at once he heard the voices of two women in the next garden, close behind him, talking together.
"Eh," said one, "there's that godless cratur, An'rew Comin, at his wark again upo' the Sawbath mornin'!"
"Ay, lass," answered the other, "I hear him! Eh, but it 'll be an ill day for him whan he has to appear afore the jeedge o' a'! He winna hae his comman'ments broken that gait!"
"Troth, na!" returned the former; "it'll be a sair sattlin day for him!"
Donal rose, and looking about him, saw two decent, elderly women on the other side of the low stone wall. He was approaching them with the request on his lips to know which of the Lord's commandments they supposed the cobbler to be breaking, when, seeing that he must have overheard them, they turned their backs and walked away.
And now his hostess, having discovered he was in the garden, came to call him to breakfast—the simplest of meals—porridge, with a cup of tea after it because it was Sunday, and there was danger of sleepiness at the kirk.
"Yer shune 's waitin' ye, sir," said the cobbler. "Ye'll fin' them a better job nor ye expeckit. They're a better job, onygait, nor I expeckit!"
Donal made haste to put them on, and felt dressed for the Sunday.
"Are ye gaein' to the kirk the day, Anerew?" asked the old woman, adding, as she turned to their guest, "My man's raither pecooliar aboot gaein' to the kirk! Some days he'll gang three times, an' some days he winna gang ance!—He kens himsel' what for!" she added with a smile, whose sweetness confessed that, whatever was the reason, it was to her the best in the world.
"Ay, I'm gaein' the day: I want to gang wi' oor new freen'," he answered.
"I'll tak him gien ye dinna care to gang," rejoined his wife.
"Ow, I'll gang!" he persisted. "It'll gie's something to talk aboot, an' sae ken ane anither better, an' maybe come a bit nearer ane anither, an' sae a bit nearer the maister. That's what we're here for—comin' an' gaein'."
"As ye please, Anerew! What's richt to you's aye richt to me. O' my ain sel' I wad be doobtfu' o' sic a rizzon for gaein' to the kirk—to get something to speyk aboot."
"It's a gude rizzon whaur ye haena a better," he answered. "It's aften I get at the kirk naething but what angers me—lees an' lees agen my Lord an' my God. But whan there's ane to talk it ower wi', ane 'at has some care for God as weel's for himsel', there's some guid sure to come oot o' 't—some revelation o' the real richteousness—no what fowk 'at gangs by the ministers ca's richteousness.—Is yer shune comfortable to yer feet, sir?"
"Ay, that they are! an' I thank ye: they're full better nor new."
"Weel, we winna hae worship this mornin'; whan ye gang to the kirk it's like aitin' mair nor's guid for ye."
"Hoots, Anerew! ye dinna think a body can hae ower muckle o' the word!" said his wife, anxious as to the impression he might make on Donal.
"Ow na, gien a body tak it in, an' disgeist it! But it's no a bonny thing to hae the word stickin' about yer moo', an' baggin' oot yer pooches, no to say lyin' cauld upo' yer stamack, an' it for the life o' men. The less ye tak abune what ye put in practice the better; an' gien the thing said hae naething to du wi' practice, the less ye heed it the better.—Gien ye hae dune yer brakfast, sir, we'll gang—no 'at it's freely kirk-time yet, but the Sabbath 's 'maist the only day I get a bit o' a walk, an' gien ye hae nae objection til a turn aboot the Lord's muckle hoose afore we gang intil his little ane—we ca' 't his, but I doobt it—I'll be ready in a meenute."
Donal willingly agreed, and the cobbler, already clothed in part of his Sunday best, a pair of corduroy trousers of a mouse colour, having indued an ancient tail-coat of blue with gilt buttons, they set out together; and for their conversation, it was just the same as it would have been any other day: where every day is not the Lord's, the Sunday is his least of all.
They left the town, and were soon walking in meadows through which ran a clear river, shining and speedy in the morning sun. Its banks were largely used for bleaching, and the long lines of white in the lovely green of the natural grass were pleasant both to eye and mind. All about, the rooks were feeding in peace, knowing their freedom that day from the persecution to which, like all other doers of good, they are in general exposed. Beyond the stream lay a level plain stretching towards the sea, divided into numberless fields, and dotted with farmhouses and hamlets. On the side where the friends were walking, the ground was more broken, rising in places into small hills, many of them wooded. Half a mile away was one of a conical shape, on whose top towered a castle. Old and gray and sullen, it lifted itself from the foliage around it like a great rock from a summer sea, and stood out against the clear blue sky of the June morning. The hill was covered with wood, mostly rather young, but at the bottom were some ancient firs and beeches. At the top, round the base of the castle, the trees were chiefly delicate birches with moonlight skin, and feathery larches not thriving over well.
"What ca' they yon castel?" questioned Donal. "It maun be a place o' some importance!"
"They maistly ca' 't jist the castel," answered the cobbler. "Its auld name 's Graham's Grip. It's lord Morven's place, an' they ca' 't Castel Graham: the faimily-name 's Graham, ye ken. They ca, themsel's Graeme-Graham—jist twa w'ys o' spellin' the name putten thegither. The last lord, no upo' the main brainch, they tell me, spelled his name wi' the diphthong, an' wasna willin' to gie't up a'thegither—sae tuik the twa o' them. You 's whaur yoong Eppy 's at service.—An' that min's me, sir, ye haena tellt me yet what kin' o' a place ye wad hae yersel.' It's no 'at a puir body like me can help, but it's aye weel to lat fowk ken what ye're efter. A word gangs speirin' lang efter it's oot o' sicht—an' the answer may come frae far. The Lord whiles brings aboot things i' the maist oonlikly fashion."
"I'm ready for onything I'm fit to do," said Donal; "but I hae had what's ca'd a good education—though I hae learned mair frae my ain needs than frae a' my buiks; sae i wad raither till the human than the earthly soil, takin' mair interest i' the schoolmaister's craps than i' the fairmer's."
"Wad ye objec' to maister ane by himsel'—or maybe twa?"
"Na, surely—gien I saw mysel' fit."
"Eppy mentiont last nicht 'at there was word aboot the castel o' a tutor for the yoongest. Hae ye ony w'y o' approachin' the place?"
"Not till the minister comes home," answered Donal. "I have a letter to him."
"He'll be back by the middle o' the week, I hear them say."
"Can you tell me anything about the people at the castle?" asked Donal.
"I could," answered Andrew; "but some things is better f'un' oot nor kenned 'afore han'. Ilka place has its ain shape, an' maist things has to hae some parin' to gar them fit. That's what I tell yoong Eppy—mony 's the time!"
Here came a pause, and when Andrew spoke again, it seemed on a new line.
"Did it ever occur to ye, sir," he said, "'at maybe deith micht be the first waukin' to some fowk?"
"It has occurrt to me," answered Donal; "but mony things come intil a body's heid 'at he's no able to think oot! They maun lie an' bide their time."
"Lat nane o' the lovers o' law an' letter perswaud ye the Lord wadna hae ye think—though nane but him 'at obeys can think wi' safety. We maun do first the thing 'at we ken, an' syne we may think aboot the thing 'at we dinna ken. I fancy 'at whiles the Lord wadna say a thing jist no to stop fowk thinkin' aboot it. He was aye at gettin' them to mak use o' the can'le o' the Lord. It's my belief the main obstacles to the growth o' the kingdom are first the oonbelief o' believers, an' syne the w'y 'at they lay doon the law. 'Afore they hae learnt the rudimen's o' the trowth themsel's, they begin to lay the grievous burden o' their dullness an' ill-conceived notions o' holy things upo' the min's an' consciences o' their neebours, fain, ye wad think, to haud them frae growin' ony mair nor themsel's. Eh, man, but the Lord 's won'erfu'! Ye may daur an' daur, an' no come i' sicht o' 'im!"
The church stood a little way out of the town, in a churchyard overgrown with grass, which the wind blew like a field of corn. Many of the stones were out of sight in it. The church, a relic of old catholic days, rose out of it like one that had taken to growing and so got the better of his ills. They walked into the musty, dingy, brown-atmosphered house. The cobbler led the way to a humble place behind a pillar; there Doory was seated waiting them. The service was not so dreary to Donal as usual; the sermon had some thought in it; and his heart was drawn to a man who would say he did not understand.
"Yon was a fine discoorse," remarked the cobbler as they went homeward.
Donal saw nothing fine in it, but his experience was not so wide as the cobbler's: to him the discourse had hinted many things which had not occurred to Donal.
Some people demand from the householder none but new things, others none but old; whereas we need in truth of all the sorts in his treasury.
"I haena a doobt it was a' richt an' as ye say, Anerew," said his wife; "but for mysel' I could mak naither heid nor tail o' 't."
"I saidna, Doory, it was a' richt," returned her husband; "that would be to say a heap for onything human! but it was a guid honest sermon."