Donal Grant

CHAPTER III.
THE MOOR

The night began to descend and he to be weary, and look about him for a place of repose. But there was a long twilight before him, and it was warm.

For some time the road had been ascending, and by and by he found himself on a bare moor, among heather not yet in bloom, and a forest of bracken. Here was a great, beautiful chamber for him! and what better bed than God's heather! what better canopy than God's high, star-studded night, with its airy curtains of dusky darkness! Was it not in this very chamber that Jacob had his vision of the mighty stair leading up to the gate of heaven! Was it not under such a roof Jesus spent his last nights on the earth! For comfort and protection he sought no human shelter, but went out into his Father's house—out under his Father's heaven! The small and narrow were not to him the safe, but the wide and open. Thick walls cover men from the enemies they fear; the Lord sought space. There the angels come and go more freely than where roofs gather distrust. If ever we hear a far-off rumour of angel-visit, it is not from some solitary plain with lonely children?

Donal walked along the high table-land till he was weary, and rest looked blissful. Then he turned aside from the rough track into the heather and bracken. When he came to a little dry hollow, with a yet thicker growth of heather, its tops almost close as those of his bed at his father's cottage, he sought no further. Taking his knife, he cut a quantity of heather and ferns, and heaped it on the top of the thickest bush; then creeping in between the cut and the growing, he cleared the former from his face that he might see the worlds over him, and putting his knapsack under his head, fell fast asleep.

When he woke not even the shadow of a dream lingered to let him know what he had been dreaming. He woke with such a clear mind, such an immediate uplifting of the soul, that it seemed to him no less than to Jacob that he must have slept at the foot of the heavenly stair. The wind came round him like the stuff of thought unshaped, and every breath he drew seemed like God breathing afresh into his nostrils the breath of life. Who knows what the thing we call air is? We know about it, but it we do not know. The sun shone as if smiling at the self-importance of the sulky darkness he had driven away, and the world seemed content with a heavenly content. So fresh was Donal's sense that he felt as if his sleep within and the wind without had been washing him all the night. So peaceful, so blissful was his heart that it longed to share its bliss; but there was no one within sight, and he set out again on his journey.

He had not gone far when he came to a dip in the moorland—a round hollow, with a cottage of turf in the middle of it, from whose chimney came a little smoke: there too the day was begun! He was glad he had not seen it before, for then he might have missed the repose of the open night. At the door stood a little girl in a blue frock. She saw him, and ran in. He went down and drew near to the door. It stood wide open, and he could not help seeing in.

A man sat at the table in the middle of the floor, his forehead on his hand. Donal did not see his face. He seemed waiting, like his father for the Book, while his mother got it from the top of the wall. He stepped over the threshold, and in the simplicity of his heart, said:—

"Ye'll be gaein' to hae worship!"

"Na, na!" returned the man, raising his head, and taking a brief, hard stare at his visitor; "we dinna set up for prayin' fowk i' this hoose. We ley that to them 'at kens what they hae to be thankfu' for."

"I made a mistak," said Donal. "I thoucht ye micht hae been gaein' to say gude mornin' to yer makker, an' wad hae likit to j'in wi' ye; for I kenna what I haena to be thankfu' for. Guid day to ye."

"Ye can bide an' tak yer parritch gien ye like."

"Ow, na, I thank ye. Ye micht think I cam for the parritch, an' no for the prayers. I like as ill to be coontit a hypocrite as gien I war ane."

"Ye can bide an' hae worship wi' 's, gien ye tak the buik yersel'."

"I canna lead whaur 's nane to follow. Na; I'll du better on the muir my lane."

But the gudewife was a religions woman after her fashion—who can be after any one else's? She came with a bible in her hand, and silently laid it on the table. Donal had never yet prayed aloud except in a murmur by himself on the hill, but, thus invited, could not refuse. He read a psalm of trouble, breaking into hope at the close, then spoke as follows:—

"Freens, I'm but yoong, as ye see, an' never afore daured open my moo i' sic fashion, but it comes to me to speyk, an' wi' yer leave speyk I wull. I canna help thinkin' the gudeman 's i' some trible—siclike, maybe, as King Dawvid whan he made the psalm I hae been readin' i' yer hearin'. Ye observt hoo it began like a stormy mornin', but ye h'ard hoo it changed or a' was dune. The sun comes oot bonny i' the en', an' ye hear the birds beginnin' to sing, tellin' Natur' to gie ower her greitin'. An' what brings the guid man til's senses, div ye think? What but jist the thoucht o' him 'at made him, him 'at cares aboot him, him 'at maun come to ill himsel' 'afore he lat onything he made come to ill. Sir, lat's gang doon upo' oor knees, an' commit the keepin' o' oor sowls to him as til a faithfu' creator, wha winna miss his pairt 'atween him an' hiz."

They went down on their knees, and Donal said,

"O Lord, oor ain father an' saviour, the day ye hae sent 's has arrived bonny an' gran', an' we bless ye for sen'in' 't; but eh, oor father, we need mair the licht that shines i' the darker place. We need the dawn o' a spiritual day inside 's, or the bonny day ootside winna gang for muckle. Lord, oor micht, speyk a word o' peacefu' recall to ony dog o' thine 'at may be worryin' at the hert o' ony sheep o' thine 'at's run awa; but dinna ca' him back sae as to lea' the puir sheep 'ahint him; fess back dog an' lamb thegither, O Lord. Haud 's a' frae ill, an' guide 's a' to guid, an' oor mornin' prayer 's ower. Amen."

They rose from their knees, and sat silent for a moment. Then the guidwife put the pot on the fire with the water for the porridge. But Donal rose, and walked out of the cottage, half wondering at himself that he had dared as he had, yet feeling he had done but the most natural thing in the world.

"Hoo a body 's to win throuw the day wantin' the lord o' the day an' the hoor an' the minute, 's 'ayont me!" he said to himself, and hastened away.

Ere noon the blue line of the far ocean rose on the horizon.

CHAPTER IV.
THE TOWN

Donal was queer, some of my readers will think, and I admit it; for the man who regards the affairs of life from any other point than his own greedy self, must be queer indeed in the eyes of all who are slaves to their imagined necessities and undisputed desires.

It was evening when he drew nigh the place whither he had directed his steps—a little country town, not far from a famous seat of learning: there he would make inquiry before going further. The minister of his parish knew the minister of Auchars, and had given him a letter of introduction. The country around had not a few dwellings of distinction, and at one or another of these might be children in want of a tutor.

The sun was setting over the hills behind him as he entered the little town. At first it looked but a village, for on the outskirts, through which the king's highway led, were chiefly thatched cottages, with here and there a slated house of one story and an attic; but presently began to appear houses of larger size—few of them, however, of more than two stories. Most of them looked as if they had a long and not very happy history. All at once he found himself in a street, partly of quaint gables with corbel steps; they called them here corbie-steps, in allusion, perhaps, to the raven sent out by Noah, for which lazy bird the children regarded these as places to rest. There were two or three curious gateways in it with some attempt at decoration, and one house with the pepperpot turrets which Scotish architecture has borrowed from the French chateau. The heart of the town was a yet narrower, close-built street, with several short closes and wynds opening out of it—all of which had ancient looking houses. There were shops not a few, but their windows were those of dwellings, as the upper parts of their buildings mostly were. In those shops was as good a supply of the necessities of life as in a great town, and cheaper. You could not get a coat so well cut, nor a pair of shoes to fit you so tight without hurting, but you could get first-rate work. The streets were unevenly paved with round, water-worn stones: Donal was not sorry that he had not to walk far upon them.

The setting sun sent his shadow before him as he entered the place. He kept the middle of the street, looking on this side and that for the hostelry whither he had despatched his chest before leaving home. A gloomy building, apparently uninhabited, drew his attention, and sent a strange thrill through him as his eyes fell upon it. It was of three low stories, the windows defended by iron stanchions, the door studded with great knobs of iron. A little way beyond he caught sight of the sign he was in search of. It swung in front of an old-fashioned, dingy building, with much of the old-world look that pervaded the town. The last red rays of the sun were upon it, lighting up a sorely faded coat of arms. The supporters, two red horses on their hind legs, were all of it he could make out. The crest above suggested a skate, but could hardly have been intended for one. A greedy-eyed man stood in the doorway, his hands in his trouser-pockets. He looked with contemptuous scrutiny at the bare-footed lad approaching him. He had black hair and black eyes; his nose looked as if a heavy finger had settled upon its point, and pressed it downwards: its nostrils swelled wide beyond their base; underneath was a big mouth with a good set of teeth, and a strong upturning chin—an ambitious and greedy face. But ambition is a form of greed.

"A fine day, landlord!" said Donal.

"Ay," answered the man, without changing the posture of one taking his ease against his own door-post, or removing his hands from his pockets, but looking Donal up and down with conscious superiority, then resting his eyes on the bare feet and upturned trousers.

"This'll be the Morven Arms, I'm thinkin'?" said Donal.

"It taksna muckle thoucht to think that," returned the inn-keeper, "whan there they hing!"

"Ay," rejoined Donal, glancing up; "there is something there—an' it's airms I doobtna; but it's no a'body has the preevilege o' a knowledge o' heraldry like yersel', lan'lord! I'm b'un' to confess, for what I ken they micht be the airms o' ony ane o' ten score Scots faimilies."

There was one weapon with which John Glumm was assailable, and that was ridicule: with all his self-sufficiency he stood in terror of it—and the more covert the ridicule, so long as he suspected it, the more he resented as well as dreaded it. He stepped into the street, and taking a hand from a pocket, pointed up to the sign.

"See til't!" he said. "Dinna ye see the twa reid horse?"

"Ay," answered Donal; "I see them weel eneuch, but I'm nane the wiser nor gien they war twa reid whauls.—Man," he went on, turning sharp round upon the fellow, "ye're no cawpable o' conceivin' the extent o' my ignorance! It's as rampant as the reid horse upo' your sign! I'll yield to naebody i' the amoont o' things I dinna ken!"

The man stared at him for a moment.

"I s' warran'," he said, "ye ken mair nor ye care to lat on!"

"An' what may that be ower the heid o' them?—A crest, ca' ye 't?" said Donal.

"It's a base pearl-beset," answered the landlord.

He had not a notion of what a base meant, or pearl-beset, yet prided himself on his knowledge of the words.

"Eh," returned Donal, "I took it for a skate!"

"A skate!" repeated the landlord with offended sneer, and turned towards the house.

"I was thinkin' to put up wi' ye the nicht, gien ye could accommodate me at a rizzonable rate," said Donal.

"I dinna ken," replied Glumm, hesitating, with his back to him, between unwillingness to lose a penny, and resentment at the supposed badinage, which was indeed nothing but humour; "what wad ye ca' rizzonable?"

"I wadna grudge a saxpence for my bed; a shillin' I wad," answered Donal.

"Weel, ninepence than—for ye seemna owercome wi' siller."

"Na," answered Donal, "I'm no that. Whatever my burden, yon's no hit. The loss o' what I hae wad hardly mak me lichter for my race."

"Ye're a queer customer!" said the man.

"I'm no sae queer but I hae a kist comin' by the carrier," rejoined Donal, "direckit to the Morven Airms. It'll be here in time doobtless."

"We'll see whan it comes," remarked the landlord, implying the chest was easier invented than believed in.

"The warst o' 't is," continued Donal, "I canna weel shaw mysel' wantin' shune. I hae a pair i' my kist, an' anither upo' my back,—but nane for my feet."

"There's sutors enew," said the innkeeper.

"Weel we'll see as we gang. I want a word wi' the minister. Wad ye direc' me to the manse?"

"He's frae hame. But it's o' sma' consequence; he disna care aboot tramps, honest man! He winna waur muckle upo' the likes o' you."

The landlord was recovering himself—therefore his insolence.

Donal gave a laugh. Those who are content with what they are, have the less concern about what they seem. The ambitious like to be taken for more than they are, and may well be annoyed when they are taken for less.

"I'm thinkin' ye wadna waur muckle on a tramp aither!" he said.

"I wad not," answered Glumm. "It's the pairt o' the honest to discoontenance lawlessness."

"Ye wadna hang the puir craturs, wad ye?" asked Donal.

"I wad hang a wheen mair o' them."

"For no haein' a hoose ower their heads? That's some hard! What gien ye was ae day to be in want o' ane yersel'!"

"We'll bide till the day comes.—But what are ye stan'in' there for? Are ye comin' in, or are ye no?"

"It's a some cauld welcome!" said Donal. "I s' jist tak a luik aboot afore I mak up my min'. A tramp, ye ken, needsna stan' upo' ceremony."

He turned away and walked further along the street.

CHAPTER V.
THE COBBLER

At the end of the street he came to a low-arched gateway in the middle of a poor-looking house. Within it sat a little bowed man, cobbling diligently at a boot. The sun had left behind him in the west a heap of golden refuse, and cuttings of rose and purple, which shone right in at the archway, and let him see to work. Here was the very man for Donal! A respectable shoemaker would have disdained to patch up the shoes he carried—especially as the owner was in so much need of them.

"It's a bonny nicht," he said.

"Ye may weel mak the remark, sir!" replied the cobbler without looking up, for a critical stitch occupied him. "It's a balmy nicht."

"That's raither a bonny word to put til't!" returned Donal. "There's a kin' o' an air aboot the place I wad hardly hae thoucht balmy! But troth it's no the fau't o' the nicht!"

"Ye're richt there also," returned the cobbler—his use of the conjunction impressing Donal. "Still, the weather has to du wi' the smell—wi' the mair or less o' 't, that is. It comes frae a tanneree nearby. It's no an ill smell to them 'at's used til't; and ye wad hardly believe me, sir, but I smell the clover throuw 't. Maybe I'm preejudized, seein' but for the tan-pits I couldna weel drive my trade; but sittin' here frae mornin' to nicht, I get a kin' o' a habit o' luikin' oot for my blessin's. To recognize an auld blessin' 's 'maist better nor to get a new ane. A pair o' shune weel cobblet 's whiles full better nor a new pair."

"They are that," said Donal; "but I dinna jist see hoo yer seemile applies."

"Isna gettin' on a pair o' auld weel-kent an' weel men'it shune, 'at winna nip yer feet nor yet shochle, like waukin' up til a blessin' ye hae been haein' for years, only ye didna ken 't for ane?"

As he spoke, the cobbler lifted a little wizened face and a pair of twinkling eyes to those of the student, revealing a soul as original as his own. He was one of the inwardly inseparable, outwardly far divided company of Christian philosophers, among whom individuality as well as patience is free to work its perfect work. In that glance Donal saw a ripe soul looking out of its tent door, ready to rush into the sunshine of the new life.

He stood for a moment lost in eternal regard of the man. He seemed to have known him for ages. The cobbler looked up again.

"Ye'll be wantin' a han' frae me i' my ain line, I'm thinkin'!" he said, with a kindly nod towards Donal's shoeless feet.

"Sma' doobt!" returned Donal. "I had scarce startit, but was ower far to gang back, whan the sole o' ae shue cam aff, an' I had to tramp it wi' baith my ain."

"An' ye thankit the Lord for the auld blessin' o' bein' born an' broucht up wi' soles o' yer ain!"

"To tell the trowth," answered Donal, "I hae sae mony things to be thankfu' for, it's but sma' won'er I forget mony ane o' them. But noo, an' I thank ye for the exhortation, the Lord's name be praist 'at he gae me feet fit for gangin' upo'!"

He took his shoes from his back, and untying the string that bound them, presented the ailing one to the cobbler.

"That's what we may ca' deith!" remarked the cobbler, slowly turning the invalided shoe.

"Ay, deith it is," answered Donal; "it's a sair divorce o' sole an' body."

"It's a some auld-farrand joke," said the cobbler, "but the fun intil a thing doesna weir oot ony mair nor the poetry or the trowth intil't."

"Who will say there was no providence in the loss of my shoe-sole!" remarked Donal to himself. "Here I am with a friend already!"

The cobbler was submitting the shoes, first the sickly one, now the sound one, to a thorough scrutiny.

"Ye dinna think them worth men'in', I doobt!" said Donal, with a touch of anxiety in his tone.

"I never thoucht that whaur the leather wad haud the steik," replied the cobbler. "But whiles, I confess, I'm jist a wheen tribled to ken hoo to chairge for my wark. It's no barely to consider the time it'll tak me to cloot a pair, but what the weirer 's like to git oot o' them. I canna tak mair nor the job 'ill be worth to the weirer. An' yet the waur the shune, an' the less to be made o' them, the mair time they tak to mak them worth onything ava'!"

"Surely ye oucht to be paid in proportion to your labour."

"I' that case I wad whiles hae to say til a puir body 'at hadna anither pair i' the warl', 'at her ae pair o' shune wasna worth men'in'; an' that wad be a hertbrak, an' sair feet forby, to sic as couldna, like yersel', sir, gang upo' the Lord's ain shune."

"But hoo mak ye a livin' that w'y?" suggested Donal.

"Hoots, the maister o' the trade sees to my wauges!"

"An' wha may he be?" asked Donal, well foreseeing the answer.

"He was never cobbler himsel', but he was ance carpenter; an' noo he's liftit up to be heid o' a' the trades. An' there's ae thing he canna bide, an' that's close parin'."

He stopped. But Donal held his peace, waiting; and he went on.

"To them 'at maks little, for reasons good, by their neebour, he gies the better wauges whan they gang hame. To them 'at maks a' 'at they can, he says, 'Ye helpit yersel'; help awa'; ye hae yer reward. Only comena near me, for I canna bide ye'.—But aboot thae shune o' yours, I dinna weel ken! They're weel eneuch worth duin' the best I can for them; but the morn's Sunday, an' what hae ye to put on?"

"Naething—till my kist comes; an' that, I doobt, winna be afore Monday, or maybe the day efter."

"An' ye winna be able to gang to the kirk!"

"I'm no partic'lar aboot gaein' to the kirk; but gien I wantit to gang, or gien I thoucht I was b'un' to gang, think ye I wad bide at hame 'cause I hadna shune to gang in! Wad I fancy the Lord affrontit wi' the bare feet he made himsel'!"

The cobbler caught up the worst shoe and began upon it at once.

"Ye s' hae't, sir," he said, "gien I sit a' nicht at it! The ane 'll du till Monday. Ye s' hae't afore kirk-time, but ye maun come intil the hoose to get it, for the fowk wud be scunnert to see me workin' upo' the Sabbath-day. They dinna un'erstan' 'at the Maister works Sunday an' Setterday—an' his Father as weel!"

"Ye dinna think, than, there's onything wrang in men'in' a pair o' shune on the Sabbath-day?"

"Wrang!—in obeyin' my Maister, whase is the day, as weel's a' the days? They wad fain tak it frae the Son o' Man, wha's the lord o' 't, but they canna!"

He looked up over the old shoe with eyes that flashed.

"But then—excuse me," said Donal, "—why shouldna ye haud yer face til 't, an' work openly, i' the name o' God?"

"We're telt naither to du oor gude warks afore men to be seen o' them, nor yet to cast oor pearls afore swine. I coont cobblin' your shoes, sir, a far better wark nor gaein' to the kirk, an' I wadna hae't seen o' men. Gien I war warkin' for poverty, it wad be anither thing."

This last Donal did not understand, but learned afterwards what the cobbler meant: the day being for rest, the next duty to helping another was to rest himself. To work for fear of starving would be to distrust the Father, and act as if man lived by bread alone.

"Whan I think o' 't," he resumed after a pause, "bein' Sunday, I'll tak them hame to ye. Whaur wull ye be?"

"That's what I wad fain hae ye tell me," answered Donal. "I had thoucht to put up at the Morven Airms, but there's something I dinna like aboot the lan'lord. Ken ye ony dacent, clean place, whaur they wad gie me a room to mysel', an' no seek mair nor I could pey them?"

"We hae a bit roomie oorsel's," said the cobbler, "at the service o' ony dacent wayfarin' man that can stan' the smell, an' put up wi' oor w'ys. For peyment, ye can pey what ye think it's worth. We're never varra partic'lar."

"I tak yer offer wi' thankfu'ness," answered Donal.

"Weel, gang ye in at that door jist 'afore ye, an' ye'll see the guidwife—there's nane ither til see. I wad gang wi' ye mysel', but I canna, wi' this shue o' yours to turn intil a Sunday ane!"

Donal went to the door indicated. It stood wide open; for while the cobbler sat outside at his work, his wife would never shut the door. He knocked, but there came no answer.

"She's some dull o' hearin'," said the cobbler, and called her by his own name for her.

"Doory! Doory!" he said.

"She canna be that deif gien she hears ye!" said Donal; for he spoke hardly louder than usual.

"Whan God gies you a wife, may she be ane to hear yer lichtest word!" answered the cobbler.

Sure enough, he had scarcely finished the sentence, when Doory appeared at the door.

"Did ye cry, guidman?" she said.

"Na, Doory: I canna say I cried; but I spak, an' ye, as is yer custom, hearkent til my word!—Here's a believin' lad—I'm thinkin' he maun be a gentleman, but I'm no sure; it's hard for a cobbler to ken a gentleman 'at comes til him wantin' shune; but he may be a gentleman for a' that, an' there's nae hurry to ken. He's welcome to me, gien he be welcome to you. Can ye gie him a nicht's lodgin'?"

"Weel that! an' wi' a' my hert!" said Doory. "He's welcome to what we hae."

Turning, she led the way into the house.