A SUNDAY.
Notwithstanding his weariness, Donal woke early, for he had slept
thoroughly. He rose and dressed himself, drew aside the little curtain
that shrouded the window, and looked out. It was a lovely morning.
His prospect was the curious old main street of the town. The sun that
had shone into it was now shining from the other side, but not a shadow
of living creature fell upon the rough stones! Yes--there was a cat
shooting across them like the culprit he probably was! If there was a
garden to the house, he would go and read in the fresh morning air!
He stole softly through the outer room, and down the stair; found the
back-door and a water-butt; then a garden consisting of two or three
plots of flowers well cared for; and ended his discoveries with a seat
surrounded and almost canopied with honeysuckle, where doubtless the
cobbler sometimes smoked his pipe! “Why does he not work here rather
than in the archway?” thought Donal. But, dearly as he loved flowers
and light and the free air of the garden, the old cobbler loved the
faces of his kind better. His prayer for forty years had been to be
made like his master; and if that prayer was not answered, how was it
that, every year he lived, he found himself loving the faces of his
fellows more and more? Ever as they passed, instead of interfering
with his contemplations, they gave him more and more to think: were
these faces, he asked, the symbols of a celestial language in which God
talked to him?
Donal sat down, and took his Greek Testament from his pocket. But all
at once, brilliant as was the sun, the light of his life went out, and
the vision rose of the gray quarry, and the girl turning from him in
the wan moonlight. Then swift as thought followed the vision of the
women weeping about the forsaken tomb; and with his risen Lord he rose
also--into a region far “above the smoke and stir of this dim spot,” a
region where life is good even with its sorrow. The man who sees his
disappointment beneath him, is more blessed than he who rejoices in
fruition. Then prayer awoke, and in the light of that morning of peace
he drew nigh the living one, and knew him as the source of his being.
Weary with blessedness he leaned against the shadowing honeysuckle,
gave a great sigh of content, smiled, wiped his eyes, and was ready for
the day and what it should bring. But the bliss went not yet; he sat
for a while in the joy of conscious loss in the higher life. With his
meditations and feelings mingled now and then a few muffled blows of
the cobbler’s hammer: he was once more at work on his disabled shoe.
“Here is a true man!” he thought, “--a Godlike helper of his fellow!”
When the hammer ceased, the cobbler was stitching; when Donal ceased
thinking, he went on feeling. Again and again came a little roll of
the cobbler’s drum, giving glory to God by doing his will: the sweetest
and most acceptable music is that which rises from work a doing; its
incense ascends as from the river in its flowing, from the wind in its
blowing, from the grass in its growing. All at once he heard the
voices of two women in the next garden, close behind him, talking
together.
“Eh,” said one, “there’s that godless cratur, An’rew Comin, at his wark
again upo’ the Sawbath mornin’!”
“Ay, lass,” answered the other, “I hear him! Eh, but it’ll be an ill
day for him whan he has to appear afore the jeedge o’ a’! _He_ winna hae
his comman’ments broken that gait!”
“Trowth, na!” returned the former; “it’ll be a sair sattlin day for
_him_!”
Donal rose, and looking about him, saw two decent, elderly women on the
other side of the low stone wall. He was approaching them with the
request on his lips to know which of the Lord’s commandments they
supposed the cobbler to be breaking, when, seeing that he must have
overheard them, they turned their backs and walked away.
And now his hostess, having discovered he was in the garden, came to
call him to breakfast--the simplest of meals--porridge, with a cup of
tea after it because it was Sunday, and there was danger of sleepiness
at the kirk.
“Yer shune’s waitin’ ye, sir,” said the cobbler. “Ye’ll fin’ them a
better job nor ye expeckit. They’re a better job, onygait, nor _I_
expeckit!”
Donal made haste to put them on, and felt dressed for the Sunday.
“Are ye gaein’ to the kirk the day, Anerew?” asked the old woman,
adding, as she turned to their guest, “My man’s raither pecooliar aboot
gaein’ to the kirk! Some days he’ll gang three times, an’ some days he
winna gang ance!--He kens himsel’ what for!” she added with a smile,
whose sweetness confessed that, whatever was the reason, it was to her
the best in the world.
“Ay, I’m gaein’ the day: I want to gang wi’ oor new freen’,” he
answered.
“I’ll tak him gien ye dinna care to gang,” rejoined his wife.
“Ow, I’ll gang!” he persisted. “It’ll gie ’s something to talk aboot,
an’ sae ken ane anither better, an’ maybe come a bit nearer ane
anither, an’ sae a bit nearer the maister. That’s what we’re here
for--comin’ an’ gaein’.”
“As ye please, Anerew! What’s richt to you’s aye richt to me. O’ my
ain sel’ I wad be doobtfu’ o’ sic a rizzon for gaein’ to the kirk--to
get something to speyk aboot.”
“It’s a guid rizzon whaur ye haena a better,” he answered. “It’s aften
I get at the kirk naething but what angers me--lees an’ lees again’ my
Lord an’ my God. But whan there’s ane to talk it ower wi’, ane ’at has
some care for God as weel ’s for himsel’, there’s some guid sure to come
oot o’ ’t--some revelation o’ the real richteousness--no what fowk ’at
gangs by the ministers ca’s richteousness.--Is yer shune comfortable to
yer feet, sir?”
“Ay, that they are! an’ I thank ye: they’re full better nor new.”
“Weel, we winna hae worship this mornin’; whan ye gang to the kirk it’s
like aitin’ mair nor’s guid for ye.”
“Hoots, Anerew! ye dinna think a body can hae ower muckle o’ the word!”
said his wife, anxious as to the impression he might make on Donal.
“Ow na, gien a body tak it in, an’ disgeist it! But it’s no a bonnie
thing to hae the word stickin’ aboot yer moo’, an’ baggin’ oot yer
pooches, no to say lyin’ cauld upo’ yer stamack, an’ it for the life o’
men. The less ye tak abune what ye put in practice the better; an’
gien the thing said hae naething to du wi’ practice, the less ye heed
it the better.--Gien ye hae dune yer brakfast, sir, we’ll gang--no ’at
it’s freely kirk-time yet, but the Sabbath ’s ’maist the only day I get
a bit o’ a walk, an’ gien ye hae nae objection til a turn aboot the
Lord’s muckle hoose afore we gang intil his little ane--we ca’ ’t his,
but I doobt it--I’ll be ready in a meenute.”
Donal willingly agreed, and the cobbler, already clothed in part of his
Sunday best, a pair of corduroy trousers of a mouse colour, having
indued an ancient tail-coat of blue with gilt buttons, they set out
together; and for their conversation, it was just the same as it would
have been any other day: where every day is not the Lord’s, the Sunday
is his least of all.
They left the town, and were soon walking in meadows through which ran
a clear river, shining and speedy in the morning sun. Its banks were
largely used for bleaching, and the long lines of white in the lovely
green of the natural grass were pleasant both to eye and mind. All
about, the rooks were feeding in peace, knowing their freedom that day
from the persecution to which, like all other doers of good, they are
in general exposed. Beyond the stream lay a level plain stretching
towards the sea, divided into numberless fields, and dotted with
farmhouses and hamlets. On the side where the friends were walking,
the ground was more broken, rising in places into small hills, many of
them wooded. Half a mile away was one of a conical shape, on whose top
towered a castle. Old and gray and sullen, it lifted itself from the
foliage around it like a great rock from a summer sea, and stood out
against the clear blue sky of the June morning. The hill was covered
with wood, mostly rather young, but at the bottom were some ancient
firs and beeches. At the top, round the base of the castle, the trees
were chiefly delicate birches with moonlight skin, and feathery larches
not thriving over well.
“What ca’ they yon castel?” questioned Donal. “It maun be a place o’
some importance!”
“They maistly ca’ ’t jist the castel,” answered the cobbler. “Its auld
name ’s Graham’s Grip. It’s lord Morven’s place, an’ they ca’ ’t Castel
Graham: the faimily-name ’s Graham, ye ken. They ca’ themsel’s
Graeme-Graham--jist twa w’ys o’ spellin’ the name putten thegither.
The last lord, no upo’ the main brainch, they tell me, spelled his name
wi’ the diphthong, an’ wasna willin’ to gie ’t up a’thegither--sae tuik
the twa o’ them. Yon ’s whaur yoong Eppy’s at service.--An’ that
min’s me, sir, ye haena tellt me yet what kin’ o’ a place ye wad hae
yersel’. It’s no ’at a puir body like me can help, but it’s aye weel
to lat fowk ken what ye’re efter. A word gangs speirin’ lang efter
it’s oot o’ sicht--an’ the answer may come frae far. The Lord whiles
brings aboot things i’ the maist oonlikly fashion.”
“I’m ready for onything I’m fit to do,” said Donal; “but I hae had
what’s ca’d a good education--though I hae learned mair frae my ain
needs than frae a’ my buiks; sae i wad raither till the human than the
earthly soil, takin’ mair interest i’ the schoolmaister’s craps than i’
the fairmer’s.”
“Wad ye objec’ to maister ane by himsel’--or maybe twa?”
“Na, surely--gien I saw mysel’ fit.”
“Eppy mentiont last nicht ’at there was word aboot the castel o’ a
tutor for the yoongest. Hae ye ony w’y o’ approachin’ the place?”
“Not till the minister comes home,” answered Donal. “I have a letter to
him.”
“He’ll be back by the middle o’ the week, I hear them say.”
“Can you tell me anything about the people at the castle?” asked Donal.
“I could,” answered Andrew; “but some things is better f’un’ oot nor
kenned aforehan’. Ilka place has its ain shape, an’ maist things has
to hae some parin’ to gar them fit. That’s what I tell yoong
Eppy--mony ’s the time!”
Here came a pause, and when Andrew spoke again, it seemed on a new line.
“Did it ever occur to ye, sir,” he said, “’at maybe deith micht be the
first waukin’ to some fowk?”
“It has occurrt to me,” answered Donal; “but mony things come intil a
body’s heid ’at he’s no able to think oot! They maun lie an’ bide
their time.”
“Lat nane o’ the lovers o’ law an’ letter perswaud ye the Lord wadna
hae ye think--though nane but him ’at obeys can think wi’ safety. We
maun do first the thing ’at we ken, an’ syne we may think aboot the
thing ’at we dinna ken. I fancy ’at whiles the Lord wadna say a thing
jist no to stop fowk thinkin’ aboot it. He was aye at gettin’ them to
mak use o’ the can’le o’ the Lord. It’s my belief the main obstacles to
the growth o’ the kingdom are first the oonbelief o’ believers, an’
syne the w’y ’at they lay doon the law. Afore they hae learnt the
rudimen’s o’ the trowth themsel’s, they begin to lay the grievous
burden o’ their dullness an’ ill-conceived notions o’ holy things upo’
the min’s an’ consciences o’ their neebours, fain, ye wad think, to
haud them frae growin’ ony mair nor themsel’s. Eh, man, but the Lord
’s won’erfu’! Ye may daur an’ daur, an’ no come i’ sicht o’ ’im!”
The church stood a little way out of the town, in a churchyard
overgrown with grass, which the wind blew like a field of corn. Many of
the stones were out of sight in it. The church, a relic of old
catholic days, rose out of it like one that had taken to growing and so
got the better of his ills. They walked into the musty, dingy,
brown-atmosphered house. The cobbler led the way to a humble place
behind a pillar; there Doory was seated waiting them. The service was
not so dreary to Donal as usual; the sermon had some thought in it; and
his heart was drawn to a man who would say he did not understand.
“Yon was a fine discoorse,” remarked the cobbler as they went homeward.
Donal saw nothing _fine_ in it, but his experience was not so wide as
the cobbler’s: to him the discourse had hinted many things which had not
occurred to Donal.
Some people demand from the householder none but new things, others none
but old; whereas we need in truth of all the sorts in his treasury.
“I haena a doobt it was a’ richt an’ as ye say, Anerew,” said his wife;
“but for mysel’ I could mak naither heid nor tail o’ ’t.”
“I saidna, Doory, it was a’ richt,” returned her husband; “that would be
to say a heap for onything human! but it was a guid honest sermon.”
“What was yon ’at he said aboot the mirracles no bein’ teeps?” asked his
wife.
“It was God’s trowth ’at,” he said.
“Gie me a share o’ the same I beg o’ ye, Anerew Comin.”
“What the man said was this--’at the sea ’at Peter gaed oot upo’ wasna
first an’ foremost to be luikit upo’ as a teep o’ the inward an’
spiritual troubles o’ the believer, still less o’ the troubles o’ the
church o’ Christ. The Lord deals wi’ fac’s nane the less ’at they canna
help bein’ teeps. Here was terrible fac’s to Peter. Here was angry
watter an’ roarin’ win’; here was danger an’ fear: the man had to trust
or gang doon. Gien the hoose be on fire we maun trust; gien the watter
gang ower oor heids we maun trust; gien the horse rin awa’, we maun
trust. Him ’at canna trust in siclike conditions, I wadna gie a plack
for ony ither kin’ o’ faith he may hae. God ’s nae a mere thoucht i’ the
warl’ o’ thoucht, but a leevin’ pooer in a’ warl’s alike. Him ’at gangs
to God wi’ a sair heid ’ill the suner gang til ’im wi’ a sair hert; an’
them ’at thinksna he cares for the pains o’ their boadies ’ill ill
believe he cares for the doobts an’ perplexities o’ their inquirin’
speerits. To my min’ he spak the best o’ sense!”
“I didna hear him say onything like that!” said Donal.
“Did ye no? Weel, I thoucht it cam frae him to me!”
“Maybe I wasna giein’ the best heed,” said Donal. “But what ye say is
as true as the sun. It stan’s to rizzon.”
The day passed in pleasure and quiet. Donal had found another father
and mother.