THE MORVEN ARMS.
On Wednesday evening Donal went to _The Morven Arms_ to inquire for the
third time if his box was come. The landlord said, if a great heavy
tool-chest was the thing he expected, it had come.
“_Donal Grant_ wad be the name upo’ ’t,” said Donal.
“’Deed, I didna luik,” said the landlord. “It’s i’ the back yard.”
As Donal went through the house to the yard, he passed the door of a
room where some of the townsfolk sat, and heard the earl mentioned.
He had not asked Andrew anything about the young man he had spoken
with; for he understood that his host held himself not at liberty to
talk about the family in which his granddaughter was a servant. But
what was said in public he surely might hear! He requested the
landlord to let him have a bottle of ale, and went into the room and
sat down.
It was a decent parlour with a sanded floor. Those assembled were a
mixed company from town and country, having a tumbler of whisky-toddy
together after the market. One of them was a stranger who had been
receiving from the others various pieces of information concerning the
town and its neighbourhood.
“I min’ the auld man weel,” a wrinkled gray-haired man was saying as
Donal entered, “--a varra different man frae this present. He wud sit
doon as ready as no--that wud he--wi’ ony puir body like mysel’, an’
gie him his cracks, an’ hear his news, an’ drink his glaiss, an’ mak
naething o’ ’t. But this man, haith! wha ever saw him cheenge word wi’
brither man?”
“I never h’ard hoo he cam to the teetle: they say he was but some far
awa’ cousin!” remarked a farmer-looking man, florid and stout.
“Hoots! he was ain brither to the last yerl, wi’ richt to the teetle,
though nane to the property. _That_ he’s but takin’ care o’ till his
niece come o’ age. He was a heap aboot the place afore his brither
dee’d, an’ they war freen’s as weel ’s brithers. They say ’at the lady
Arctoora--h’ard ye ever sic a hathenish name for a lass!--is b’un’ to
merry the yoong lord. There ’s a sicht o’ clapper-clash aboot the
place, an’ the fowk, an’ their strange w’ys. They tell me nane can be
said to ken the yerl but his ain man. For mysel’ I never cam i’ their
coonsel--no even to the buyin’ or sellin’ o’ a lamb.”
“Weel,” said a fair-haired, pale-faced man, “we ken frae scriptur ’at
the sins o’ the fathers is veesitit upo’ the children to the third an’
fourth generation--an’ wha can tell?”
“Wha can tell,” rejoined another, who had a judicial look about him, in
spite of an unshaven beard, and a certain general disregard to
appearances, “wha can tell but the sins o’ _oor_ faithers may be lyin’
upo’ some o’ oorsel’s at this varra moment?”
“In oor case, I canna see the thing wad be fair,” said a fifth: “we
dinna even ken what they did!”
“We’re no to interfere wi’ the wull o’ the Almichty,” rejoined the
former. “It gangs its ain gait, an’ mortal canna tell what that gait
is. His justice winna be contert.”
Donal felt that to be silent now would be to decline witnessing. He
feared argument, lest he should fail and wrong the right, but he must
not therefore hang back. He drew his chair towards the table.
“Wad ye lat a stranger put in a word, freen’s?” he said.
“Ow ay, an’ welcome! We setna up for the men o’ Gotham.”
“Weel, I wad speir a queston gien I may.”
“Speir awa’. Answer I winna insure,” said the man unshaven.
“Weel, wad ye please tell me what ye ca’ the justice o’ God?”
“Onybody could tell ye that: it consists i’ the punishment o’ sin. He
gies ilka sinner what his sin deserves.”
“That seems to me an unco ae-sidit definition o’ justice.”
“Weel, what wad _ye_ mak o’ ’t?”
“I wad say justice means _fair play_; an’ the justice o’ God lies i’
this, ’at he gies ilka man, beast, an’ deevil, fair play.”
“I’m doobtfu’ aboot that!” said a drover-looking fellow. “We maun gang
by the word; an’ the word says he veesits the ineequities o’ the
fathers upo’ the children to the third an’ fourth generation: I never
could see the fair play o’ that!”
“Dinna ye meddle wi’ things, John, ’at ye dinna un’erstan’; ye may wauk
i’ the wrang box!” said the old man.
“I want to un’erstan’,” returned John. “I’m no sayin’ he disna du
richt; I’m only sayin’ I canna see the fair play o’ ’t.”
“It may weel be richt an’ you no see ’t!”
“Ay’ weel that! But what for sud I no say I dinna see ’t? Isna the
blin’ man to say he’s blin’?”
This was unanswerable, and Donal again spoke.
“It seems to me,” he said, “we need first to un’erstan’ what’s
conteened i’ the veesitin’ o’ the sins o’ the fathers upo’ the
children, afore we daur ony jeedgment concernin’ ’t.”
“Ay, that’s sense eneuch!” confessed a responsive murmur.
“I haena seen muckle o’ this warl’ yet, compared wi’ you, sirs,” Donal
went on, “but I hae been a heap my lane wi’ nowt an’ sheep, whan a heap
o’ things gaed throuw my heid; an’ I hae seen something as weel, though
no that muckle. I hae seen a man, a’ his life afore a douce honest
man, come til a heap o’ siller, an’ gang to the dogs!”
A second murmur seemed to indicate corroboration.
“He gaed a’ to the dogs, as I say,” continued Donal; “an’ the bairns he
left ’ahint him whan he dee’d o’ drink, cam upo’ the perris, or wad hae
hungert but for some ’at kenned him whan he was yet in honour an’
poverty. Noo, wad ye no say this was a veesitin’ o’ the sins o’ the
father upo’ the children?”
“Ay, doobtless!”
“Weel, whan I h’ard last aboot them, they were a’ like eneuch to turn
oot honest lads an’ lasses.”
“Ow, I daursay!”
“An’ what micht ye think the probability gien they had come intil a lot
o’ siller whan their father dee’d?”
“Maybe they micht hae gane the same gait he gaed!”
“Was there injustice than, or was there favour i’ that veesitation o’
the sins o’ their father upo’ them?”
There was no answer. The toddy went down their throats and the smoke
came out of their mouths, but no one dared acknowledge it might be a
good thing to be born poor instead of rich. So entirely was the
subject dropped that Donal feared he had failed to make himself
understood. He did not know the general objection to talking of things
on eternal principles. We set up for judges of right while our very
selves are wrong! He saw that he had cast a wet blanket over the
company, and judged it better to take his leave.
Borrowing a wheelbarrow, he trundled his chest home, and unpacking it
in the archway, carried his books and clothes to his room.