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