Salted With Fire
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George MacDonald >> Salted With Fire
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But as she ran, she heard loud noises of infantile jubilation, and
re-entering the kitchen, was amazed to see the soutar's hands moving as
persistently if not quite so rapidly as before: the child hung at the back
of the soutar's head, in the bight of the long jack-towel from behind the
door, holding on by the gray hair of his occiput. There he tugged and
crowed, while his care-taker bent over his labour, circumspect in every
movement, nor once forgetting the precious thing on his back, who was
evidently delighted with his new style of being nursed, and only now and
then made a wry face at some movement of the human machine too abrupt for
his comfort. Evidently he took it all as intended solely for his pleasure.
Maggie burst out laughing through the tears that yet filled her eyes, and
the child, who could hear but not see her, began to cry a little, so
rousing the mother in her to a sense that he was being treated too
unceremoniously; when she bounded to liberate him, undid the towel, and
seated herself with him in her lap. The grandfather, not sorry to be
released, gave his shoulders a little writhing shake, laughed an amused
laugh, and set off boring and stitching and drawing at redoubled speed.
"Weel, Maggie?" he said, with loving interrogation, but without looking up.
"I saw ye was richt, father, and it set me greitin sae sair that I forgot
the bairn, and you, father, as weel. Gang on, please, and say what ye think
fit: it's a' true!"
"There's little left for me to say, lassie, noo ye hae begun to say't to
yersel. But, believe me, though ye can never be the bairn's ain mither,
_she_ can never be til 'im the same ye hae been a'ready, whatever mair or
better may follow. The pairt ye hae chosen is guid eneuch never to be taen
frae ye--i' this warl or the neist!"
"Thank ye, father, for that! I'll dee for him what I can, ohn forgotten
that he's no mine but anither wuman's. I maunna tak frae her what's her
ain!"
The soutar, especially while at his work, was always trying "to get," as he
said, "into his Lord's company,"--now endeavouring, perhaps, to understand
some saying of his, or now, it might be, to discover his reason for saying
it just then and there. Often, also, he would be pondering why he allowed
this or that to take place in the world, for it was his house, where he was
always present and always at work. Humble as diligent disciple, he never
doubted, when once a thing had taken place, that it was by his will it came
to pass, but he saw that evil itself, originating with man or his deceiver,
was often made to subserve the final will of the All-in-All. And he knew
in his own self that much must first be set right there, before the will of
the Father could be done in earth as it was in heaven. Therefore in any new
development of feeling in his child, he could recognize the pressure of a
guiding hand in the formation of her history; and was able to understand
St. John where he says, "Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth
not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that, when he shall appear,
we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is." For first, foremost,
and deepest of all, he positively and absolutely believed in the man whose
history he found in the Gospel: that is, he believed not only that such a
man once was, and that every word he then spoke was true, but he believed
that that man was still in the world, and that every word he then spoke,
had always been, still was, and always would be true. Therefore he also
believed--which was more both to the Master and to John MacLear, his
disciple--that the chief end of his conscious life must be to live in His
presence, and keep his affections ever, afresh and constantly, turning
toward him in hope and aspiration. Hence every day he felt afresh that he
too was living in the house of God, among the things of the father of
Jesus.
The life-influence of the soutar had already for some time, and in some
measure, been felt at Tiltowie. In a certain far-off way, men seemed to
surmise what he was about, although they were, one and all, unable to
estimate the nature or value of his pursuit. What their idea of him was,
may in a measure be gathered from the answer of the village-fool to the
passer-by who said to him: "Weel, and what's yer soutar aboot the noo?"
"Ow, as usual," answered the _natural_, "turnin up ilka muckle stane to
luik for his maister aneth it!" For in truth he believed that the Lord of
men was very often walking to and fro in the earthly kingdom of his Father,
watching what was there going on, and doing his best to bring it to its
true condition; that he was ever and always in the deepest sense present
in the same, where he could, if he pleased, at any moment or in any spot,
appear to whom he would. Never did John MacLear lift his eyes heavenward
without a vague feeling that he might that very moment, catch a sight of
the glory of his coming Lord; if ever he fixed his eyes on the far horizon,
it was never without receiving a shadowy suggestion that, like a sail
towering over the edge of the world, the first great flag of the Lord's
hitherward march might that moment be rising between earth and heaven;--for
certainly He would come unawares, and then who could tell what moment be
might not set his foot on the edge of the visible, and come out of the
dark in which he had hitherto clothed himself as with a garment--to appear
in the ancient glory of his transfiguration! Thus he was ever ready to fall
a watching--and thus, also, never did he play the false prophet, with cries
of "Lo here!" and "Lo there!" And even when deepest lost in watching, the
lowest whisper of humanity seemed always loud enough to recall him to his
"work alive"--lest he should be found asleep at His coming. His was the
same live readiness that had opened the ear of Maggie to the cry of the
little one on the hill-side. As his daily work was ministration to the
weary feet of his Master's men, so was his soul ever awake to their sorrows
and spiritual necessities.
"There's a haill warl' o' bonny wark aboot me!" he would say. "I hae but to
lay my han' to what's neist me, and it's sure to be something that wants
deein! I'm clean ashamt sometimes, whan I wauk up i' the mornin, to fin'
mysel deein naething!"
Every evening while the summer lasted, he would go out alone for a walk,
generally toward a certain wood nigh the town; for there lay, although it
was of no great extent, and its trees were small, a probability of escaping
for a few moments from the eyes of men, and the chance of certain of
another breed showing themselves.
"No that," he once said to Maggie, "I ever cared vera muckle aboot the
angels: it's the man, the perfec man, wha was there wi' the Father afore
ever an angel was h'ard tell o', that sen's me upo my knees! Whan I see a
man that but minds me o' _Him_, my hert rises wi' a loup, as gien it wad
'maist lea' my body ahint it.--Love's the law o' the universe, and it jist
works amazin!"
One day a man, seeing him approach in the near distance, and knowing he had
not perceived his presence, lay down behind a great stone to watch "the mad
soutar," in the hope of hearing him say something insane. As John came
nearer, the man saw his lips moving, and heard sounds issue from them; but
as he passed, nothing was audible but the same words repeated several
times, and with the same expression of surprise and joy as if at something
for the first time discovered:--"Eh, Lord! Eh, Lord, I see! I
un'erstaun'!--Lord, I'm yer ain--to the vera deith!--a' yer ain!--Thy
father bless thee, Lord!--I ken ye care for noucht else!--Eh, but my
hert's glaid!--that glaid, I 'maist canna speyk!"
That man ever after spoke of the soutar with a respect that resembled awe.
After that talk with her father about the child and his mother, a certain
silent change appeared in Maggie. People saw in her face an expression
which they took to resemble that of one whose child was ill, and was
expected to die. But what Maggie felt was only resignation to the will of
her Lord: the child was not hers but the Lord's, lent to her for a season!
She must walk softly, doing everything for him as under the eye of the
Master, who might at any moment call to her, "Bring the child: I want him
now!" And she soon became as cheerful as before, but never after quite lost
the still, solemn look as of one in the eternal spaces, who saw beyond this
world's horizon. She talked less with her father than hitherto, but at the
same time seemed to live closer to him. Occasionally she would ask him to
help her to understand something he had said; but even then he would not
always try to make it plain; he might answer--
"I see, lassie, ye're no just ready for 't! It's true, though; and the day
maun come whan ye'll see the thing itsel, and ken what it is; and that's
the only w'y to win at the trowth o' 't! In fac', to see a thing, and ken
the thing, and be sure it's true, is a' ane and the same thing!" Such a
word from her father was always enough to still and content the girl.
Her delight in the child, instead of growing less, went on increasing
because of the _awe_, rather than _dread_ of having at last to give him up.
CHAPTER XIX.
Meanwhile the minister remained moody, apparently sunk in contemplation,
but in fact mostly brooding, and meditating neither form nor truth.
Sometimes he felt indeed as if he were losing altogether his power of
thinking--especially when, in the middle of the week, he sat down to find
something to say on the Sunday. He had greatly lost interest in the
questions that had occupied him while he was yet a student, and imagined
himself in preparation for what he called the ministry--never thinking how
one was to minister who had not yet learned to obey, and had never sought
anything but his own glorification! It was little wonder he should lose
interest in a profession, where all was but profession! What pleasure
could that man find in holy labour who, not indeed offered his stipend to
purchase the Holy Ghost, but offered all he knew of the Holy Ghost to
purchase popularity? No wonder he should find himself at length in lack of
talk to pay for his one thing needful! He had always been more or less
dependent on commentaries for the joint he provided--and even for the
cooking of it: was it any wonder that his guests should show less and less
appetite for his dinners?
The hungry sheep looked up and were not fed!
To have food to give them, he must think! To think, he must have peace! to
have peace, he must forget himself! to forget himself, he must repent, and
walk in the truth! to walk in the truth, he must love God and his
neighbour!--Even to have interest in the dry bone of criticism, which was
all he could find in his larder, he must broil it--and so burn away in the
slow fire of his intellect, now dull and damp enough from lack of noble
purpose, every scrap of meat left upon it! His last relation to his work,
his fondly cherished intellect, was departing from him, to leave him lord
of a dustheap! In the unsavoury mound he grubbed and nosed and scraped
dog-like, but could not uncover a single fragment that smelt of provender.
The morning of Saturday came, and he recognized with a burst of agonizing
sweat, that he dared not even imagine his appearance before his
congregation: he had not one written word to read to them; and extempore
utterance was, from conscious vacancy, impossible to him; he could not
even call up one meaningless phrase to articulate! He flung his
concordance sprawling upon the floor, snatched up his hat and clerical
cane, and, scarce knowing what he did, presently found himself standing at
the soutar's door, where he had already knocked, without a notion of what
he was come to seek. The old parson, generally in a mood to quarrel with
the soutar, had always walked straight into his workshop, and greeted him
crouched over his work; but the new parson always waited on the doorstep
for Maggie to admit him.
She had opened the door wide ere he knew why he had come, or could think of
anything to say. And now he was in greater uneasiness than usual at the
thought of the cobbler's deep-set black eyes about to be fixed upon him, as
if to probe his very thoughts.
"Do you think your father would have time," he asked humbly, "to measure me
for a pair of light boots?"
Mr. Blatherwick was very particular about his foot-gear, and had hitherto
always fitted himself at Deemouth; but he had at length learned that
nothing he could there buy approached in quality, either of material or
workmanship, what the soutar supplied to his poorest customer: he would
mend anything worth mending, but would never _make_ anything inferior.
"Ye'll get what ye want at such and such place," he would answer, "and I
doobtna it'll be as guid as can be made at the siller; but for my ain
pairt, ye maun excuse me!"
"'Deed, sir, he'll be baith glad and prood to mak ye as guid a pair o'
beets as he can compass," answered Maggie. "Jist step in here, sir, and lat
him ken what ye want. My bairn's greitin, and I maun gang til 'im; it's
seldom he cries oot!"
The minister walked in at the open door of the kitchen, and met the eyes of
the soutar expectant.
"Ye're welcome, sir!" said MacLear, and returned his eyes to what he had
for a moment interrupted.
"I want you to make me a nice pair of boots, if you please," said the
parson, as cheerily as he could. "I am rather particular about the fit, I
fear!"
"And what for no, sir?" answered the soutar. "I'll do what I can onygait, I
promise ye--but wi' mair readiness nor confidence as to the fit; for I
canna profess assurance o' fittin' the first time, no haein the necessar
instinc' frae the mak' o' the man to the shape o' the fut, sir."
"Of course I should like to have them both neat and comfortable," said the
parson.
"In coorse ye wad, sir, and sae would I! For I confess I wad fain hae my
customers tak note o' my success in followin the paittern set afore me i'
the first oreeginal fut!"
"But you will allow, I suppose, that a foot is seldom as perfect now as
when the divine idea of the member was first embodied by its maker?"
rejoined the minister.
"Ow, ay; there's been mony an interferin circumstance; but whan His
kingdom's come, things 'll tak a turn for the redemption o' the feet as
weel as the lave o' the body--as the apostle Paul says i' the twenty-third
verse o' the aucht chapter o' his epistle to the Romans;--only I'm weel
aveesed, sir, 'at there's no sic a thing as _adoption_ mintit at i' the
original Greek. That can hae no pairt i' what fowk ca's the plan o'
salvation--as gien the consumin fire o' the Love eternal was to be ca'd a
_plan_! Hech, minister, it scunners me! But for the fut, it's aye perfec'
eneuch to be _my_ pattern, for it's the only ane I hae to follow! It's
Himsel sets the shape o' the shune this or that man maun weir!"
"That's very true--and the same applies to everything a man cannot help. A
man has both the make of his mind and of his circumstances to do the best
he can with, and sometimes they don't seem to fit each other--so well as, I
hope, your boots will fit my feet."
"Ye're richt there, sir--only that no man's bun' to follow his inclinations
or his circumstances, ony mair than he's bun' to alter his fut to the shape
o' a ready-made beet!--But hoo wull ye hae them made, sir?--I mean what
sort o' butes wad ye hae me mak?"
"Oh, I leave that to you, Mr. MacLear!--a sort of half Wellington, I
suppose--a neat pair of short boots."
"I understand, sir."
"And now tell me," said the minister, moved by a sudden impulse, coming he
knew not whence, "what you think of this new fad, if it be nothing worse,
of the English clergy--I mean about the duty of confessing to the priest.--
I see they have actually prevailed upon that wretched creature we've all
been reading about in the papers lately, to confess the murder of her
little brother! Do you think they had any right to do that? Remember the
jury had acquitted her."
"And has she railly confessed? I _am_ glaid o' that! I only wuss they could
get a haud o' Madeline Smith as weel, and persuaud _her_ to confess! Eh,
the state o' that puir crater's conscience! It 'maist gars me greit to
think o' 't! Gien she wad but confess, houp wad spring to life in her
sin-oppressed soul! Eh, but it maun be a gran' lichtenin to that puir
thing! I'm richt glaid to hear o' 't."
"I didn't know, Mr. MacLear, that you favoured the power and influence of
the priesthood to such an extent! We Presbyterian clergy are not in the way
of doing the business of detectives, taking upon us to act as the agents of
human justice! There is no one, guilty or not, but is safe with us!"
"As with any confessor, Papist or Protestant," rejoined the soutar. "If I
understand your news, sir, it means that they persuaded the poor soul to
confess her guilt, and so put herself safe in the hands of God!"
"And is not that to come between God and the sinner?"
"Doubtless, sir--in order to bring them together; to persuade the sinner to
the first step toward reconciliation with God, and peace in his own mind."
"That he could take without the intervention of the priest!"
"Yes, but not without his own consenting will! And in this case, she would
not, and did not confess without being persuaded to it!"
"They had no right to threaten her!"
"Did they threaten her? If they did, they were wrong.--And yet I don't
know! In any case they did for her the very best thing that could be done!
For they did get her, you tell me, to confess--and so cast from her the
horror of carrying about in her secret heart the knowledge of an unforgiven
crime! Christians of all denominations hold, I presume, that, to be
forgiven, a sin must be confessed!"
"Yes, to God--that is enough! No mere man has a right to know the sins of
his neighbour!"
"Not even the man against whom the sin was committed?"
"Suppose the sin has never come abroad, but remains hidden in the heart, is
a man bound to confess it? Is he, for instance, bound to tell his neighbour
that he used to hate him, and in his heart wish him evil?"
"The time micht come whan to confess even that would ease a man's hert! but
in sic a case, the man's first duty, it seems to me, would be to watch for
an opportunity o' doin that neebour a kin'ness. That would be the deid blow
to his hatred! But where a man has done an act o' injustice, a wrang to his
neebour, he has no ch'ice, it seems to me, but confess it: that neebour is
the one from whom first he has to ask and receive forgiveness; and that
neebour alone can lift the burden o' 't aff o' him! Besides, the confession
may be but fair, to baud the blame frae bein laid at the door o' some
innocent man!--And the author o' nae offence can affoord to forget," ended
the soutar, "hoo the Lord said, 'There's naething happit-up, but maun come
to the licht'!"
It seems to me that nothing could have led the minister so near the
presentation of his own false position, except the will of God working in
him to set him free. He continued, driven by an impulse he neither
understood nor suspected--
"Suppose the thing not known, however, or likely to be known, and that the
man's confession, instead of serving any good end, would only destroy his
reputation and usefulness, bring bitter grief upon those who loved him, and
nothing but shame to the one he had wronged--what would you say then?--You
will please to remember, Mr. MacLear, that I am putting an entirely
imaginary case, for the sake of argument only!"
"Eh, but I doobt--I doobt yer imaiginary case!" murmured the soutar to
himself, hardly daring even to think his thought clearly, lest somehow it
might reveal itself.
"In that case," he replied, "it seems to me the offender wad hae to cast
aboot him for ane fit to be trustit, and to him reveal the haill affair,
that he may get his help to see and do what's richt: it maks an unco differ
to luik at a thing throuw anither man's een, i' the supposed licht o'
anither man's conscience! The wrang dune may hae caused mair evil, that is,
mair injustice, nor the man himsel kens! And what's the reputation ye speak
o', or what's the eesefu'ness o' sic a man? Can it be worth onything? Isna
his hoose a lee? isna it biggit upo the san'? What kin' o' a usefulness
can that be that has hypocrisy for its fundation? Awa wi' 't! Lat him cry
oot to a' the warl', 'I'm a heepocrit! I'm a worm, and no man!' Lat him
cry oot to his makker, 'I'm a beast afore thee! Mak a man o' me'!"
As the soutar spoke, overcome by sympathy with the sinner, whom he could
not help feeling in bodily presence before him, the minister, who had risen
when he began to talk about the English clergy and confession, stood
hearing with a face pale as death.
"For God's sake, minister," continued the soutar, "gien ye hae ony sic
thing upo yer min', hurry and oot wi' 't! I dinna say _to me_, but to
somebody--to onybody! Mak a clean breist o' 't, afore the Adversary has ye
again by the thrapple!"
But here started awake in the minister the pride of superiority in station
and learning: a shoemaker, from whom he had just ordered a pair of boots,
to take such a liberty, who ought naturally to have regarded him as
necessarily spotless! He drew himself up to his lanky height, and made
reply--
"I am not aware, Mr. MacLear, that I have given you any pretext for
addressing me in such terms! I told you, indeed, that I was putting a case,
a very possible one, it is true, but not the less a merely imaginary one!
You have shown me how unsafe it is to enter into an argument on any
supposed case with one of limited education! It is my own fault, however;
and I beg your pardon for having thoughtlessly led you into such a
pitfall!--Good morning!"
As the door closed behind the parson, he began to felicitate himself on
having so happily turned aside the course of a conversation whose dangerous
drift he seemed now first to recognize; but he little thought how much he
had already conveyed to the wide-eyed observation of one well schooled in
the symptoms of human unrest.
"I must set a better watch over my thoughts lest they betray me!" he
reflected; thus resolving to conceal himself yet more carefully from the
one man in the place who would have cut for him the snare of the fowler.
"I was ower hasty wi' 'im!" concluded the soutar on his part. "But I think
the truth has some grup o' 'im. His conscience is waukin up, I fancy, and
growlin a bit; and whaur that tyke has ance taen haud, he's no ready to
lowsen or lat gang! We maun jist lie quaiet a bit, and see! His hoor 'ill
come!"
The minister being one who turned pale when angry, walked home with a face
of such corpse-like whiteness, that a woman who met him said to herself,
"What can ail the minister, bonny laad! He's luikin as scared as a corp! I
doobt that fule body the soutar's been angerin him wi' his havers!"
The first thing he did when he reached the manse, was to turn,
nevertheless, to the chapter and verse in the epistle to the Romans, which
the soutar had indicated, and which, through all his irritation, had,
strangely enough, remained unsmudged in his memory; but the passage
suggested nothing, alas! out of which he could fabricate a sermon. Could it
have proved otherwise with a heart that was quite content to have God no
nearer him than a merely adoptive father? He found at the same time that
his late interview with the soutar had rendered the machinery of his
thought-factory no fitter than before for weaving a tangled wisp of loose
ends, which was all he could command, into the homogeneous web of a sermon;
and at last was driven to his old stock of carefully preserved
preordination sermons; where he was unfortunate enough to make choice of
the one least of all fitted to awake comprehension or interest in his
audience.
His selection made, and the rest of the day thus cleared for inaction, he
sat down and wrote a letter. Ever since his fall he had been successfully
practising the art of throwing a morsel straight into one or other of the
throats of the triple-headed Cerberus, his conscience--which was more
clever in catching such sops, than they were in choking the said howler;
and one of them, the letter mentioned, was the sole wretched result of his
talk with the soutar. Addressed to a late divinity-classmate, he asked in
it incidentally whether his old friend had ever heard anything of the
little girl--he could just remember her name and the pretty face of her--
Isy, general slavey to her aunt's lodgers in the Canongate, of whom he was
one: he had often wondered, he said, what had become of her, for he had
been almost in love with her for a whole half-year! I cannot but take the
inquiry as the merest pretence, with the sole object of deceiving himself
into the notion of having at least made one attempt to discover Isy. His
friend forgot to answer the question, and James Blatherwick never alluded
to his having put it to him.
CHAPTER XX
Never dawned Sunday upon soul more wretched. He had not indeed to climb
into his watchman's tower without the pretence of a proclamation, but on
that very morning his father had put the mare between the shafts of the
gig to drive his wife to Tiltowie and their son's church, instead of the
nearer and more accessible one in the next parish, whither they oftener
went. Arrived there, it was not wonderful they should find themselves so
dissatisfied with the spiritual food set before them, as to wish heartily
they had remained at home, or driven to the nearer church. The moment the
service was over, Mr. Blatherwick felt much inclined to return at once,
without waiting an interview with his son; for he had no remark to make on
the sermon that would be pleasant either for his son or his wife to hear;
but Marion combated the impulse with entreaties that grew almost angry, and
Peter was compelled to yield, although sullenly. They waited in the
churchyard for the minister's appearance.
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