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CHAPTER IV
The soutar was still meditating on things spiritual, still reading the
gospel of St. John, still making and mending shoes, and still watching the
development of his daughter, who had begun to unfold what not a few of the
neighbours, with most of whom she was in favour, counted beauty. The farm
labourers in the vicinity were nearly all more or less her admirers, and
many a pair of shoes was carried to her father for the sake of a possible
smile from Maggie; but because of a certain awe that seemed to pervade her
presence, no one had as yet dared a word to her beyond that of greeting or
farewell: each that looked upon her became at once aware of a certain
inferiority. Her beauty seemed to suggest behind it a beauty it was unable
to reveal.
She was rather short in stature, but altogether well proportioned, with a
face wonderfully calm and clear, and quiet but keen dark eyes. Her
complexion owed its white-rose tinge to a strong, gentle life, and its few
freckles to the pale sun of Scotland, for she courted every breeze
bonnetless on the hills, when she accompanied her father in his walks, or
carried home the work he had finished. He rejoiced especially that she
should delight in feeling the wind about her, for he held it to indicate
sympathy with that spirit whose symbol it was, and which he loved to think
of as folding her about, closer and more lovingly than his own cherishing
soul.
Of her own impulse, and almost from the moment of her mother's death, she
had given herself to his service, first in doing all the little duties of
the house, and then, as her strength and faculty grew, in helping him more
and more in his trade. As soon as she had cleared away the few things
necessary for a breakfast of porridge and milk, Maggie would hasten to join
her father where he stooped over his last, for he was a little
shortsighted.
When he lifted his head you might see that, notwithstanding the ruggedness
of his face, he was a good looking man, with strong, well-proportioned
features, in which, even on Sundays, when he scrubbed his face
unmercifully, there would still remain lines suggestive of ingrained rosin
and heelball. On week days he was not so careful to remove every sign of
the labour by which he earned his bread; but when his work was over till
the morning, and he was free to sit down to a book, he would never even
touch one without first carefully washing his hands and face. In the
workshop, Maggie's place was a leather-seated stool like her father's, a
yard or so away from his, to leave room for his elbows in drawing out the
lingels (rosined threads): there she would at once resume the work she
had left unfinished the night before; for it was a curious trait in the
father, early inherited by the daughter, that he would never rise from a
finished job, however near might be the hour for dropping work, without
having begun another to go on with in the morning. It was wonderful how
much cleaner Maggie managed to keep her hands; but then to her fell
naturally the lighter work for women and children. She declared herself
ambitious, however, of one day making with her own hands a perfect pair of
top-boots.
The advantages she gained from this constant intercourse with her father
were incalculable. Without the least loss to her freedom of thought, nay,
on the contrary, to the far more rapid development of her truest liberty,
the soutar seemed to avoid no subject as unsuitable for the girl's
consideration, but to insist only on its being regarded from the highest
attainable point of view. Matters of indifferent import they seldom, if
ever, discussed at all; and nothing she knew her father cared about did
Maggie ever allude to with indifference. Full of an honest hilarity ever
ready to break out when occasion occurred, she was at the same time
incapable of a light word upon a sacred subject. Such jokes as, more than
elsewhere, one is in danger of hearing among the clergy of every church,
very seldom came out in her father's company; and she very early became
aware of the kind of joke he would take or refuse. The light use,
especially, of any word of the Lord would sink him in a profound silence.
If it were an ordinary man who thus offended, he might rebuke him by asking
if he remembered who said those words; once, when it was a man specially
regarded who gave the offence, I heard him say something to this effect,
"The maister doesna forget whaur and whan he spak thae words: I houp ye do
forget!" Indeed the most powerful force in the education of Maggie was the
evident attitude of her father toward that Son of Man who was even now
bringing the children of God to the knowledge of that Father of whom the
whole family in heaven and earth is named. Mingling with her delights in
the inanimate powers of Nature, in the sun and the wind, in the rain and
the growth, in the running waters and the darkness sown with stars, was
such a sense of His presence that she felt like him, He might at any moment
appear to her father, or, should it so please Him, even to herself.
Two or three miles away, in the heart of the hills, on the outskirts of the
farm of Stonecross, lived an old cottar and his wife, who paid a few
shillings of rent to Mr. Blatherwick for the acre or two their ancestors
had redeemed from the heather and bog, and gave, with their one son who
remained at home, occasional service on the farm. They were much respected
by the farmer and his wife, as well as the small circle to which they were
known in the neighbouring village--better known, and more respected still
in that kingdom called of heaven; for they were such as he to whom the
promise was given, that he should yet see the angels of God ascending and
descending on the Son of Man. They had long and heartily loved and honoured
the soutar, whom they had known before the death of his wife, and for his
sake and hers, both had always befriended the motherless Maggie. They
could not greatly pity her, seeing she had such a father, yet old Eppie
had her occasional moments of anxiety as to how the bairn would grow up
without a mother's care. No sooner, however, did the little one begin to
show character, than Eppie's doubt began to abate; and long before the time
to which my narrative has now come, the child and the child like old woman
were fast friends. Maggie was often invited to spend a day at Bogsheuch--
oftener indeed than she felt at liberty to leave her father and their
common work, though not oftener than she would have liked to go.
One morning, early in summer, when first the hillsides had begun to look
attractive, a small agricultural cart, such as is now but seldom seen, with
little paint except on its two red wheels, and drawn by a thin, long-haired
little horse, stopped at the door of the soutar's house, clay-floored and
straw-thatched, in a back-lane of the village. It was a cart the cottar
used in the cultivation of his little holding, and his son who drove it,
now nearly middle-aged, was likely to succeed to the hut and acres of
Bogsheuch. Man and equipage, both well known to the soutar, had come with
an invitation, more pressing than usual, that Maggie would pay them a
visit of a few days.
Father and daughter, consulting together in the presence of Andrew Cormack,
arrived at the conclusion that, work being rather slacker than usual, and
nobody in need of any promised job which the soutar could not finish by
himself in good time, Maggie was quite at liberty to go. She sprang up
joyfully--not without a little pang at the thought of leaving her father
alone, although she knew him quite equal to anything that could be required
in the house before her return--and set about preparing their dinner, while
Andrew went to execute a few commissions that the mistress at Stonecross
and his mother at Bogsheuch had given him. By the time he returned, Maggie
was in her Sunday gown, with her week-day wrapper and winsey petticoat in a
bundle--for she reckoned on being of some use to Eppie during her visit
When they had eaten their humble dinner, Andrew brought the cart to the
door, and Maggie scrambled into it.
"Tak a piece wi' ye," said her father, following her to the cart: "ye hadna
muckle to yer denner, and ye may be hungry again or ye hae the lang road
ahint ye!"
He put several pieces of oatcake in her hand, which she received with a
loving smile; and they set out at a walking pace, which Andrew made no
attempt to quicken.
It was far from a comfortable carriage, neither was her wisp of straw in
the bottom of it altogether comfortable to sit upon; but the change from
her stool and the close attention her work required, to the open air and
the free rush of the thoughts that came crowding to her out of the
wilderness, put her at once in a blissful mood. Even the few dull remarks
that the slow-thinking Andrew made at intervals from his perch on the
front of the cart, seemed to come to her from the realm of Faerie, the
mysterious world that lay in the folds of the huddled hills. Everything
Maggie saw or heard that afternoon seemed to wear the glamour of God's
imagination, which is at once the birth and the very truth of everything.
Selfishness alone can rub away that divine gilding, without which gold
itself is poor indeed.
Suddenly the little horse stood still. Andrew, waking up from a snooze,
jumped to the ground, and began, still half asleep, to search into the
cause of the arrest; for Jess, although she could not make haste, never of
her own accord stood still while able to keep on walking. Maggie, on her
part, had for some time noted that they were making very slow progress.
"She's deid cripple!" said Andrew at length, straightening his long back
from an examination of Jess's fore feet, and coming to Maggie's side of the
cart with a serious face. "I dinna believe the crater's fit to gang ae step
furder! Yet I canna see what's happent her."
Maggie was on the road before he had done speaking. Andrew tried once to
lead Jess, but immediately desisted. "It would be fell cruelty!" he said.
"We maun jist lowse her, and tak her gien we can to the How o' the Mains.
They'll gie her a nicht's quarters there, puir thing! And we'll see gien
they can tak you in as weel, Maggie. The maister, I mak nae doobt, 'ill
len' me a horse to come for ye i' the morning."
"I winna hear o' 't!" answered Maggie. "I can tramp the lave o' the ro'd as
weel's you, Andrew!"
"But I hae a' thae things to cairry, and that'll no lea' me a ban' to help
ye ower the burn!" objected Andrew.
"What o' that?" she returned. "I was sae fell tired o' sittin that my legs
are jist like to rin awa wi' me. Lat me jist dook mysel i' the bonny win'!"
she added, turning herself round and round. "--Isna it jist like awfu' thin
watter, An'rew?--Here, gie me a haud o' that loaf. I s' cairry that, and my
ain bit bundle as weel; syne, I fancy, ye can manage the lave yersel!"
Andrew never had much to say, and this time he had nothing. But her
readiness relieved him of some anxiety; for his mother would be very
uncomfortable if he went home without her!
Maggie's spirits rose to lark-pitch as the darkness came on and deepened;
and the wind became to her a live gloom, in which, with no eye-bound to the
space enclosing her, she could go on imagining after the freedom of her own
wild will. As the world and everything in it gradually disappeared, it grew
easy to imagine Jesus making the darkness light about him, and stepping
from it plain before her sight. That could be no trouble to him, she
argued, as, being everywhere, he must be there. He could appear in any
form, who had created every shape on the face of the whole world! If she
were but fit to see him, then surely he would come to her! For thus often
had her father spoken to her, talking of the varied appearances of the Lord
after his resurrection, and his promise that he would be with his disciples
always to the end of the world. Even after he had gone back to his father,
had he not appeared to the apostle Paul? and might it not be that he had
shown himself to many another through the long ages? In any case he was
everywhere, and always about them, although now, perhaps from lack of faith
in the earth, he had not been seen for a long time. And she remembered her
father once saying that nobody could even think a thing if there was no
possible truth in it. The Lord went away that they might believe in him
when out of the sight of him, and so be in him, and he in them!
"I dinna think," said Maggie aloud to herself, as she trudged along beside
the delightfully silent Andrew, "that my father would be the least
astonished--only filled wi' an awfu' glaidness--if at ony moment, walkin at
his side, the Lord was to call him by his name, and appear til him. He
would but think he had just steppit oot upon him frae some secret door, and
would say,--'I thoucht, Lord, I would see you some day! I was aye greedy
efter a sicht o' ye, Lord, and here ye are!'"
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