naegait, and are in sore need o’ some sharp discipleen.”
“I’m afraid I can’t follow you quite. The fact is, I have been so long occupied with the Bible history, and the new discoveries that bear testimony to it, that I have had but little time for metaphysics.”
“And what’s the guid o’ history, or sic metapheesics as is the vera sowl o’ history, but to help ye to see Christ? and what’s the guid o’ seein Christ but sae to see God wi’ hert and un’erstan’in baith as to ken that yer seein him? Ye min’ hoo the Lord said nane could ken the Father but the man to whom the Son revealt him? Sir, it’s fell time ye had a glimp o’ that! Ye ken naething till ye ken God—the only ane a man can truly and railly ken!”
“Well, you’re a long way ahead of me, and for the present I’m afraid there’s nothing left but to say good-night to you!”
And therewith the minister departed.
“Lord,” said the soutar, as he sat guiding his awl through sole and welt and upper of the shoe on his last, “there’s surely something at work i’ the yoong man! Surely he canna be that far frae waukin up to see and ken that he sees and kens naething! Lord, pu’ doon the dyke o’ learnin and self-richteousness that he canna see ower the tap o’, and lat him see thee upo’ the ither side o’ ‘t. Lord, sen’ him the grace o’ oppen e’en to see whaur and what he is, that he may cry oot wi’ the lave o’ ‘s, puir blin’ bodies, to them that winna see. ‘Wauk, thoo that sleepest, and come oot o’ thy grave, and see the licht o’ the Father i’ the face o’ the Son.’”
But the minister went away intent on classifying the soutar by finding out with what sect of the middle-age mystics to place him. At the same time something strange seemed to hover about the man, refusing to be handled in that way. Something which he called his own religious sense appeared to know something of what the soutar must mean, though he could neither isolate nor define it.
Faithlessly as he had behaved to Isy, Blatherwick was not consciously, that is with purpose or intent, a deceitful man. He had, on the contrary, always cherished a strong faith in his own honour. But faith in a thing, in an idea, in a notion, is no proof, or even sign that the thing actually exists: in the present case it had no root except in the man’s thought of himself, in his presentation to himself of his own reflected self. The man who thought so much of his honour was in truth a moral unreality, a cowardly fellow, a sneak who, in the hope of escaping consequences, carried himself as beyond reproof. How should such a one ever have the power of spiritual vision developed in him? How should such a one ever see God—ever exist in the same region in which the soutar had long taken up his abode? Still there was this much reality in him, and he had made this much progress that, holding fast by his resolve henceforward no more to slide, he was aware also of a dim suspicion of something he had not seen, but which he might become able to see; and was half resolved to think and read, for the future, with the intent to find out what this strange man seemed to know, or thought he knew.
Soon finding himself unable, however, try as hard as he might, to be sure of anything, he became weary of the effort, and sank back into the old, self-satisfied, blind sleep.
CHAPTER IX
Out of this quiescence, however, a pang from the past one morning suddenly waked him, and almost without consciousness of a volition, he found himself at the soutar’s door. Maggie opened it with the baby in her arms, with whom she had just been having a game. Her face was in a glow, her hair tossed about, and her dark eyes flashing with excitement. To Blatherwick, without any great natural interest in life, and in the net of a haunting trouble which caused him no immediate apprehension, the young girl, of so little account in the world, and so far below him as he thought, affected him as beautiful; and, indeed, she was far more beautiful than he was able to appreciate. It must be remembered too, that it was not long since he had been refused by another; and at such a time a man is readier to fall in love afresh. Trouble then, lack of interest, and late repulse, had laid James’s heart, such as it was, open to assault from a new quarter whence he foresaw no danger.
“That’s a very fine baby you have!” he said. “Whose is he?”
“Mine, sir,” answered Maggie, with some triumph, for she thought every one must know the story of her treasure.
“Oh, indeed; I did not know!” answered the parson, bewildered.
“At least,” Maggie resumed a little hurriedly, “I have the best right to him!” and there stopped.
“She cannot possibly be his mother!” thought the minister, and resolved to question his housekeeper about the child.
“Is your father in the house?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, went in. “Such a big boy is too heavy for you to carry!” he added, as he laid his hand on the latch of the kitchen door.
“No ae bit!” rejoined Maggie, with a little contempt at his disparagement of her strength. “And wha’s to cairry him but me?”
Huddling the boy to her bosom, she went on talking to him in childish guise, as she lifted the latch for the minister:—
“Wad he hae my pet gang traivellin the warl’ upo thae twa bonny wee legs o’ his ain, wantin the wings he left ahint him? Na, na! they maun grow a heap stronger first. His ain mammie wad cairry him gien he war twice the size! Noo, we s’ gang but the hoose and see daddy.”
She bore him after the minister, and sat down with him on her own stool, beside her father, who looked up, with his hands and knees in skilful consort of labour.
“Weel, minister, hoo are ye the day? Is the yerd ony lichter upo’ the tap o’ ye?” he said, with a smile that was almost pauky.
“I do not understand you, Mr. MacLear!” answered James with dignity.
“Na, ye canna! Gien ye could, ye wouldna be sae comfortable as ye seem!”
“I cannot think, Mr. MacLear, why you should be rude to me!”
“Gien ye saw the hoose on fire aboot a man deid asleep, maybe ye micht be in ower great a hurry to be polite til ‘im!” remarked the soutar.
“Dare you suggest, sir, that I have been drinking?” cried the parson.
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