Salted With Fire
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George MacDonald >> Salted With Fire
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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!
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