DOORY.
She was a very small, spare woman, in a blue print with little white
spots--straight, not bowed like her husband. Otherwise she seemed at
first exactly like him. But ere the evening was over, Donal saw there
was no featural resemblance between the two faces, and was puzzled to
understand how the two expressions came to be so like: as they sat, it
seemed in the silence as if they were the same person thinking in two
shapes and two places.
Following the old woman, Donal ascended a steep and narrow stair, which
soon brought him to a landing where was light, coming mainly through
green leaves, for the window in the little passage was filled with
plants. His guide led him into what seemed to him an enchanting
room--homely enough it was, but luxurious compared to what he had been
accustomed to. He saw white walls and a brown-hued but clean-swept
wooden floor, on which shone a keen-eyed little fire from a low grate.
Two easy chairs, covered with some party-coloured striped stuff, stood
one on each side of the fire. A kettle was singing on the hob. The
white deal-table was set for tea--with a fat brown teapot, and cups of
a gorgeous pattern in bronze, that shone in the firelight like red
gold. In one of the walls was a box-bed.
“I’ll lat ye see what accommodation we hae at yer service, sir,” said
Doory, “an’ gien that’ll shuit ye, ye s’ be welcome.”
So saying, she opened what looked like the door of a cupboard at the
side of the fireplace. It disclosed a neat little parlour, with a
sweet air in it. The floor was sanded, and so much the cleaner than if
it had been carpeted. A small mahogany table, black with age, stood in
the middle. On a side-table covered with a cloth of faded green, lay a
large family Bible; behind it were a few books and a tea-caddy. In the
side of the wall opposite the window, was again a box-bed. To the eyes
of the shepherd-born lad, it looked the most desirable shelter he had
ever seen. He turned to his hostess and said,
“I’m feart it’s ower guid for me. What could ye lat me hae ’t for by
the week? I wad fain bide wi’ ye, but whaur an’ whan I may get wark I
canna tell; sae I maunna tak it ony gait for mair nor a week.”
“Mak yersel’ at ease till the morn be by,” said the old woman. “Ye
canna du naething till that be ower. Upo’ the Mononday mornin’ we s’
haud a cooncil thegither--you an’ me an’ my man: I can du naething
wantin’ my man; we aye pu’ thegither or no at a’.”
Well content, and with hearty thanks, Donal committed his present fate
into the hands of the humble pair, his heaven-sent helpers; and after
much washing and brushing, all that was possible to him in the way of
dressing, reappeared in the kitchen. Their tea was ready, and the
cobbler seated in the window with a book in his hand, leaving for Donal
his easy chair.
“I canna tak yer ain cheir frae ye,” said Donal.
“Hoots!” returned the cobbler, “what’s onything oors for but to gie the
neeper ’at stan’s i’ need o’ ’t.”
“But ye hae had a sair day’s wark!”
“An’ you a sair day’s traivel!”
“But I’m yoong!”
“An’ I’m auld, an’ my labour the nearer ower.”
“But I’m strong!”
“There’s nane the less need ye sud be hauden sae. Sit ye doon, an’
wastena yer backbane. My business is to luik to the bodies o’ men, an’
specially to their puir feet ’at has to bide the weicht, an’ get sair
pressed therein. Life ’s as hard upo’ the feet o’ a man as upo’ ony
pairt o’ ’m! Whan they gang wrang, there isna muckle to be dune till
they be set richt again. I’m sair honourt, I say to mysel’ whiles, to
be set ower the feet o’ men. It’s a fine ministration!--full better
than bein’ a door-keeper i’ the hoose o’ the Lord! For the feet ’at
gang oot an’ in at it ’s mair nor the door!”
“The Lord be praist!” said Donal to himself; “there’s mair i’ the warl’
like my father an’ mither!”
He took the seat appointed him.
“Come to the table, Anerew,” said the old woman, “gien sae be ye can
pairt wi’ that buik o’ yours, an’ lat yer sowl gie place to yer boady’s
richts.--I doobt, sir, gien he wad ait or drink gien I wasna at his
elbuck.”
“Doory,” returned her husband, “ye canna deny I gie ye a bit noo an’
than, specially whan I come upo’ onything by ord’nar tasty!”
“That ye du, Anerew, or I dinna ken what wud come o’ _my_ sowl ony mair
nor o’ _your_ boady! Sae ye see, sir, we’re like John Sprat an’ his
wife:--ye’ll ken what the bairns say aboot them?”
“Ay, fine that,” replied Donal. “Ye couldna weel be better fittit.”
“God grant it!” she said. “But we wad fit better yet gien I had but a
wheen mair brains.”
“The Lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht ye thegither,” said
Donal.
“Ye never uttert a truer word,” replied the cobbler. “Gien the Lord be
content wi’ the brains he’s gien ye, an’ I be content wi’ the brains ye
gie me, what richt hae ye to be discontentit wi’ the brains ye hae,
Doory?--answer me that. But I s’ come to the table.--Wud ye alloo me
to speir efter yer name, sir?”
“My name’s Donal Grant,” replied Donal.
“I thank ye, sir, an’ I’ll haud it in respec’,” returned the cobbler.
“Maister Grant, wull ye ask a blessin’?”
“I wad raither j’in i’ your askin’,” replied Donal.
The cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to eat--first of
oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of _loaf-breid_, as they called
it.
“I’m sorry I hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir,” said Doory,
“we’re but semple fowk, ye see--content to haud oor earthly
taibernacles in a haibitable condition till we hae notice to quit.”
“It’s a fine thing to ken,” said the cobbler, with a queer look, “’at
whan ye lea’ ’t, yer hoose fa’s doon, an’ ye haena to think o’ ony
damages to pey--forby ’at gien it laistit ony time efter ye was oot o’
’t, there micht be a wheen deevils takin’ up their abode intil ’t.”
“Hoot, Anerew!” interposed his wife, “there’s naething like that i’
scriptur!”
“Hoot, Doory!” returned Andrew, “what ken ye aboot what’s no i’
scriptur? Ye ken a heap, I alloo, aboot what’s in scriptur, but ye
ken little aboot what’s no intil ’t!”
“Weel, isna ’t best to ken what’s intil ’t?”
“’Ayont a doobt.”
“Weel!” she returned in playful triumph.
Donal saw that he had got hold of a pair of originals: it was a joy to
his heart: he was himself an original--one, namely, that lived close to
the simplicities of existence!
Andrew Comin, before offering him house-room, would never have asked
anyone what he was; but he would have thought it an equal lapse in
breeding not to show interest in the history as well as the person of a
guest. After a little more talk, so far from commonplace that the
common would have found it mirth-provoking, the cobbler said:
“An’ what office may ye haud yersel’, sir, i’ the ministry o’ the
temple?”
“I think I un’erstan’ ye,” replied Donal; “my mother says curious
things like you.”
“Curious things is whiles no that curious,” remarked Andrew.
A pause following, he resumed:
“Gien onything gie ye reason to prefar waitin’ till ye ken Doory an’ me
a bit better, sir,” he said, “coont my ill-mainnert queston no speirt.”
“There’s naething,” answered Donal. “I’ll tell ye onything or a’thing
aboot mysel’.”
“Tell what ye wull, sir, an’ keep what ye wull,” said the cobbler.
“I was broucht up a herd-laddie,” proceeded Donal, “an’ whiles a
shepherd ane. For mony a year I kent mair aboot the hill-side nor the
ingle-neuk. But it’s the same God an’ Father upo’ the hill-side an’ i’
the king’s pailace.”
“An’ ye’ll ken a’ aboot the win’, an’ the cloods, an’ the w’ys o’ God
ootside the hoose! I ken something hoo he hauds things gaein’ inside
the hoose--in a body’s hert, I mean--in mine an’ Doory’s there, but I
ken little aboot the w’y he gars things wark ’at he’s no sae far ben
in.”
“Ye dinna surely think God fillsna a’thing?” exclaimed Donal.
“Na, na; I ken better nor that,” answered the cobbler; “but ye maun
alloo a tod’s hole ’s no sae deep as the thro’t o’ a burnin’ m’untain!
God himsel’ canna win sae far ben in a shallow place as in a deep
place; he canna be sae far ben i’ the win’s, though he gars them du as
he likes, as he is, or sud be, i’ your hert an’ mine, sir!”
“I see!” responded Donal. “Could that hae been hoo the Lord had to
rebuke the win’s an’ the wawves, as gien they had been gaein’ at their
ain free wull, i’stead o’ the wull o’ him ’at made them an’ set them
gaein’?”
“Maybe; but I wud hae to think aboot it afore I answert,” replied the
cobbler.
A silence intervened. Then said Andrew, thoughtfully,
“I thoucht, whan I saw ye first, ye was maybe a lad frae a shop i’ the
muckle toon--or a clerk, as they ca’ them, ’at sits makin’ up accoonts.”
“Na, I’m no that, I thank God,” said Donal.
“What for thank ye God for that?” asked Andrew. “A’ place is his. I
wudna hae ye thank God ye’re no a cobbler like me! Ye micht, though,
for it’s little ye can ken o’ the guid o’ the callin’!”
“I’ll tell ye what for,” answered Donal. “I ken weel toon-fowk think it
a heap better to hae to du wi’ figures nor wi’ sheep, but I’m no o’
their min’; an’ for ae thing, the sheep’s alive. I could weel fancy an
angel a shepherd--an’ he wad coont my father guid company! Trowth, he
wad want wings an’ airms an’ feet an’ a’ to luik efter the lambs
whiles! But gien sic a ane was a clerk in a coontin’ hoose, he wad hae
to stow awa’ the wings; I cannot see what use he wad hae for them there.
He micht be an angel a’ the time, an’ that no a fallen ane, but he bude
to lay aside something to fit the place.”
“But ye’re no a shepherd the noo?” said the cobbler.
“Na,” replied Donal, “--’cep’ it be I’m set to luik efter anither grade
o’ lamb. A freen’--ye may a’ h’ard his name--sir Gilbert
Galbraith--made the beginnin’ o’ a scholar o’ me, an’ noo I hae my
degree frae the auld university o’ Inverdaur.”
“Didna I think as muckle!” cried mistress Comin triumphant. “I hadna
time to say ’t to ye, Anerew, but I was sure he was frae the college,
an’ that was hoo his feet war sae muckle waur furnisht nor his heid.”
“I hae a pair o’ shune i’ my kist, though--whan that comes!” said
Donal, laughing.
“I only houp it winna be ower muckle to win up oor stair!”
“I dinna think it. But we’ll lea’ ’t i’ the street afore it s’ come
’atween ’s!” said Donal. “Gien ye’ll hae me, sae lang ’s I’m i’ the
toon, I s’ gang nae ither gait.”
“An’ ye’ll doobtless read the Greek like yer mither-tongue?” said the
cobbler, with a longing admiration in his tone.
“Na, no like that; but weel eneuch to get guid o’ ’t.”
“Weel, that’s jist the ae thing I grutch ye--na, no grutch--I’m glaid
ye hae ’t--but the ae thing I wud fain be a scholar for mysel’! To think
I kenna a cheep o’ the word spoken by the Word himsel’!”
“But the letter o’ the word he made little o’ comparet wi’ the
speerit!” said Donal.
“Ay, that’s true! an’ yet it’s whaur a man may weel be greedy an’ want
to hae a’thing: wha has the speerit wad fain hae the letter tu! But it
disna maitter; I s’ set to learnin’ ’t the first thing whan I gang up
the stair--that is, gien it be the Lord’s wull.”
“Hoots!” said his wife, “what wad ye du wi’ Greek up there! I s’
warran’ the fowk there, ay, an’ the maister himsel’, speyks plain
Scotch! What for no! What wad they du there wi’ Greek, ’at a body wad
hae to warstle wi’ frae mornin’ to nicht, an’ no mak oot the third
pairt o’ ’t!”
Her husband laughed merrily, but Donal said,
“’Deed maybe ye’re na sae far wrang, guidwife! I’m thinkin’ there maun
be a gran’mither-tongue there, ’at’ll soop up a’ the lave, an’ be
better to un’erstan’ nor a body’s ain--for it’ll be yet mair his ain.”
“Hear til him!” cried the cobbler, with hearty approbation.
“Ye ken,” Donal went on, “a’ the languages o’ the earth cam, or luik as
gien they had come, frae ane, though we’re no jist dogsure o’ that.
There’s my mither’s ain Gaelic, for enstance: it’s as auld, maybe
aulder nor the Greek; onygait, it has mair Greek nor Laitin words intil
’t, an’ ye ken the Greek’s an aulder tongue nor the Laitin. Weel,
gien we could wark oor w’y back to the auldest grit-gran’mither-tongue
o’ a’, I’m thinkin’ it wad come a’ kin’ o’ sae easy til ’s, ’at, wi’ the
impruvt faculties o’ oor h’avenly condition, we micht be able in a feow
days to haud communication wi’ ane anither i’ that same, ohn stammert
or hummt an’ hawt.”
“But there’s been sic a heap o’ things f’un’ oot sin’ syne, i’ the min’
o’ man, as weel ’s i’ the warl’ ootside,” said Andrew, “that sic a
language wad be mair like a bairn’s tongue nor a mither’s, I’m
thinkin’, whan set again’ a’ ’at wad be to speyk aboot!”
“Ye’re verra richt there, I dinna doobt. But hoo easy wad it be for
ilk ane to bring in the new word he wantit, haein’ eneuch common afore
to explain ’t wi’! Afore lang the language wad hae intil ’t ilka word
’at was worth haein’ in ony language ’at ever was spoken sin’ the toor
o’ Babel.”
“Eh, sirs, but it’s dreidfu’ to think o’ haein’ to learn sae muckle!”
said the old woman. “I’m ower auld an’ dottlet!”
Her husband laughed again.
“I dinna see what ye hae to lauch at!” she said, laughing too. “Ye’ll
be dottlet yersel’ gien ye live lang eneuch!”
“I’m thinkin’,” said Andrew, “but I dinna ken--’at it maun be a man’s
ain wyte gien age maks him dottlet. Gien he’s aye been haudin’ by the
trowth, I dinna think he’ll fin’ the trowth hasna hauden by him.--But
what I was lauchin’ at was the thoucht o’ onybody bein’ auld up there.
We’ll a’ be yoong there, lass!”
“It sall be as the Lord wulls,” returned his wife.
“It sall. We want nae mair; an’ eh, we want nae less!” responded her
husband.
So the evening wore away. The talk was to the very mind of Donal, who
never loved wisdom so much as when she appeared in peasant-garb. In
that garb he had first known her, and in the form of his mother.
“I won’er,” said Doory at length, “’at yoong Eppy’s no puttin’ in her
appearance! I was sure o’ her the nicht: she hasna been near ’s a’ the
week!”
The cobbler turned to Donal to explain. He would not talk of things
their guest did not understand; that would be like shutting him out
after taking him in!
“Yoong Eppy’s a gran’child, sir--the only ane we hae. She’s a weel
behavet lass, though ta’en up wi’ the things o’ this warl’ mair nor her
grannie an’ me could wuss. She’s in a place no far frae here--no an
easy ane, maybe, to gie satisfaction in, but she’s duin’ no that ill.”
“Hoot, Anerew! she’s duin’ jist as weel as ony lassie o’ her years
could in justice be expeckit,” interposed the grandmother. “It’s seldom
’at the Lord sets auld heid upo’ yoong shoothers.”
The words were hardly spoken when a light foot was heard coming up the
stair.
“--But here she comes to answer for hersel’!” she added cheerily.
The door of the room opened, and a good-looking girl of about eighteen
came in.
“Weel, yoong Eppy, hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” said the old man.
The grandmother’s name was Elspeth, the grand-daughter’s had therefore
always the prefix.
“Brawly, thank ye, gran’father,” she answered. “Hoo’s a’ wi’ yersel’?”
“Ow, weel cobblet!” he replied.
“Sit ye doon,” said the grandmother, “by the spark o’ fire; the nicht
’s some airy like.”
“Na, grannie, I want nae fire,” said the girl. “I hae run a’ the ro’d
to get a glimp’ o’ ye afore the week was oot.”
“Hoo’s things gaein’ up at the castel?”
“Ow, siclike ’s usual--only the hoosekeeper’s some dowy, an’ that
puts mair upo’ the lave o’ ’s: whan she’s weel, she’s no ane to spare
hersel’--or ither fowk aither!--I wadna care, gien she wud but lippen
til a body!” concluded young Eppy, with a toss of her head.
“We maunna speyk evil o’ dignities, yoong Eppy!” said the cobbler, with
a twinkle in his eye.
“Ca’ ye mistress Brookes a dignity, gran’father!” said the girl, with a
laugh that was nowise rude.
“I do,” he answered. “Isna she ower ye? Haena ye to du as she tells
ye? ’Atween her an’ you that’s eneuch: she’s ane o’ the dignities
spoken o’.”
“I winna dispute it. But, eh, it’s queer wark yon’er!”
“Tak ye care, yoong Eppy! We maun haud oor tongues aboot things
committit til oor trust. Ane peyt to serve in a hoose maunna tre’t the
affairs o’ that hoose as gien they war her ain.”
“It wad be weel gien a’body about the hoose was as partic’lar as ye wad
hae me, gran’father!”
“Hoo’s my lord, lass?”
“Ow, muckle the same--aye up the stair an’ doon the stair the forepairt
o’ the nicht, an’ maist inveesible a’ day.”
The girl cast a shy glance now and then at Donal, as if she claimed him
on her side, though the older people must be humoured. Donal was not
too simple to understand her: he gave her look no reception. Bethinking
himself that they might have matters to talk about, he rose, and
turning to his hostess, said,
“Wi’ yer leave, guidwife, I wad gang to my bed. I hae traivelt a
maitter o’ thirty mile the day upo’ my bare feet.”
“Eh, sir!” she answered, “I oucht to hae considert that!--Come, yoong
Eppy, we maun get the gentleman’s bed made up for him.”
With a toss of her pretty head, Eppy followed her grandmother to the
next room, casting a glance behind her that seemed to ask what she
meant by calling a lad without shoes or stockings a gentleman. Not the
less readily or actively, however, did she assist her grandmother in
preparing the tired wayfarer’s couch. In a few minutes they returned,
and telling him the room was quite ready for him, Doory added a hope
that he would sleep as sound as if his own mother had made the bed.
He heard them talking for a while after the door was closed, but the
girl soon took her leave. He was just falling asleep in the luxury of
conscious repose, when the sound of the cobbler’s hammer for a moment
roused him, and he knew the old man was again at work on his behalf. A
moment more and he was too fast asleep for any Cyclops’ hammer to wake
him.