Salted With Fire
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George MacDonald >> Salted With Fire
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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."
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