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CHAPTER XVIII
In the meantime the said child, a splendid boy, was the delight of the
humble dwelling to which Maggie had borne him in triumph. But the mind of
the soutar was not a little exercised as to how far their right in the boy
approached the paternal: were they justified in regarding him as their
love-property, before having made exhaustive inquiry as to who could claim,
and might re-appropriate him? For nothing could liberate the finder of
such a thing from the duty of restoring it upon demand, seeing there could
be no assurance that the child had been deliberately and finally
abandoned! Maggie, indeed, regarded the baby as absolutely hers by right of
rescue; but her father asked himself whether by appropriating him she
might not be depriving his mother of the one remaining link between her
and humanity, and so abandoning her helpless to the Enemy. Surely to take
and withhold from any woman her child, must be to do what was possible
toward dividing her from the unseen and eternal! And he saw that, for the
sake of his own child also, and the truth in her, both she and he must make
every possible endeavour to restore the child to his mother.
So the next time that Maggie brought the crowing infant to the kitchen, her
father, who sat as usual under the small window, to gather upon his work
all the light to be had, said, with one quick glance at the child--
"Eh, the bonny, glaid cratur! Wha can say 'at sic as he, 'at haena the twa
in ane to see til them, getna frae Himsel a mair partic'lar and carefu'
regaird, gien that war poassible, than ither bairns! I would fain believe
that same!"
"Eh, father, but ye aye think bonny!" exclaimed Maggie. "Some hae been
dingin 't in upo me 'at sic as he maist aye turn oot onything but weel,
whan they step oot intil the warl. Eh, but we maun tak care o' 'im, father!
Whaur would I be wi'oot you at my back!"
"And God at the back o' baith, bairn!" rejoined the soutar. "It's thinkable
that the Almichty may hae special diffeeculty wi sic as he, but nane can
jeedge o' ony thing or body till they see the hin'er en' o' 't a'. But I'm
thinkin it maun aye be harder for ane that hasna his ain mither to luik
til. Ony ither body, be she as guid as she may, maun be but a makshift!--
For ae thing he winna get the same naitral disciplene 'at ilka mither cat
gies its kitlins!"
"Maybe! maybe!--I ken I couldna ever lay a finger upo' the bonny cratur
mysel!" said Maggie.
"There 'tis!" returned her father. "And I dinna think," he went on, "we
could expec muckle frae the wisdom o' the mither o' 'm, gien she had him. I
doobt she micht turn oot to be but a makshift hersel! There's mony aboot
'im 'at'll be sair eneuch upon 'im, but nane the wiser for that! Mony
ane'll luik upon 'im as a bairn in whause existence God has had nae share--
or jist as muckle share as gies him a grup o' 'im to gie 'im his licks!
There's a heap o' mystery aboot a'thing, Maggie, and that frae the vera
beginnin to the vera en'! It may be 'at yon bairnie's i' the waur danger
jist frae haein you and me, Maggie! Eh, but I wuss his ain mither war gien
back til him! And wha can tell but she's needin him waur nor he's needin
her--though there maun aye be something he canna get--'cause ye're no his
ain mither, Maggie, and I'm no even his ain gutcher!"
The adoptive mother burst into a howl.
"Father, father, ye'll brak the hert o' me!" she almost yelled, and laid
the child on the top of her father's hands in the very act of drawing his
waxed ends.
Thus changing him perforce from cobbler to nurse, she bolted from the
kitchen, and up the little stair; and throwing herself on her knees by the
bedside, sought, instinctively and unconsciously, the presence of him who
sees in secret. But for a time she had nothing to say even to him, and
could only moan on in the darkness beneath her closed eyelids.
Suddenly she came to herself, remembering that she too had abandoned her
child: she must go back to him!
But as she ran, she heard loud noises of infantile jubilation, and
re-entering the kitchen, was amazed to see the soutar's hands moving as
persistently if not quite so rapidly as before: the child hung at the back
of the soutar's head, in the bight of the long jack-towel from behind the
door, holding on by the gray hair of his occiput. There he tugged and
crowed, while his care-taker bent over his labour, circumspect in every
movement, nor once forgetting the precious thing on his back, who was
evidently delighted with his new style of being nursed, and only now and
then made a wry face at some movement of the human machine too abrupt for
his comfort. Evidently he took it all as intended solely for his pleasure.
Maggie burst out laughing through the tears that yet filled her eyes, and
the child, who could hear but not see her, began to cry a little, so
rousing the mother in her to a sense that he was being treated too
unceremoniously; when she bounded to liberate him, undid the towel, and
seated herself with him in her lap. The grandfather, not sorry to be
released, gave his shoulders a little writhing shake, laughed an amused
laugh, and set off boring and stitching and drawing at redoubled speed.
"Weel, Maggie?" he said, with loving interrogation, but without looking up.
"I saw ye was richt, father, and it set me greitin sae sair that I forgot
the bairn, and you, father, as weel. Gang on, please, and say what ye think
fit: it's a' true!"
"There's little left for me to say, lassie, noo ye hae begun to say't to
yersel. But, believe me, though ye can never be the bairn's ain mither,
she can never be til 'im the same ye hae been a'ready, whatever mair or
better may follow. The pairt ye hae chosen is guid eneuch never to be taen
frae ye--i' this warl or the neist!"
"Thank ye, father, for that! I'll dee for him what I can, ohn forgotten
that he's no mine but anither wuman's. I maunna tak frae her what's her
ain!"
The soutar, especially while at his work, was always trying "to get," as he
said, "into his Lord's company,"--now endeavouring, perhaps, to understand
some saying of his, or now, it might be, to discover his reason for saying
it just then and there. Often, also, he would be pondering why he allowed
this or that to take place in the world, for it was his house, where he was
always present and always at work. Humble as diligent disciple, he never
doubted, when once a thing had taken place, that it was by his will it came
to pass, but he saw that evil itself, originating with man or his deceiver,
was often made to subserve the final will of the All-in-All. And he knew
in his own self that much must first be set right there, before the will of
the Father could be done in earth as it was in heaven. Therefore in any new
development of feeling in his child, he could recognize the pressure of a
guiding hand in the formation of her history; and was able to understand
St. John where he says, "Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth
not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that, when he shall appear,
we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is." For first, foremost,
and deepest of all, he positively and absolutely believed in the man whose
history he found in the Gospel: that is, he believed not only that such a
man once was, and that every word he then spoke was true, but he believed
that that man was still in the world, and that every word he then spoke,
had always been, still was, and always would be true. Therefore he also
believed--which was more both to the Master and to John MacLear, his
disciple--that the chief end of his conscious life must be to live in His
presence, and keep his affections ever, afresh and constantly, turning
toward him in hope and aspiration. Hence every day he felt afresh that he
too was living in the house of God, among the things of the father of
Jesus.
The life-influence of the soutar had already for some time, and in some
measure, been felt at Tiltowie. In a certain far-off way, men seemed to
surmise what he was about, although they were, one and all, unable to
estimate the nature or value of his pursuit. What their idea of him was,
may in a measure be gathered from the answer of the village-fool to the
passer-by who said to him: "Weel, and what's yer soutar aboot the noo?"
"Ow, as usual," answered the natural, "turnin up ilka muckle stane to
luik for his maister aneth it!" For in truth he believed that the Lord of
men was very often walking to and fro in the earthly kingdom of his Father,
watching what was there going on, and doing his best to bring it to its
true condition; that he was ever and always in the deepest sense present
in the same, where he could, if he pleased, at any moment or in any spot,
appear to whom he would. Never did John MacLear lift his eyes heavenward
without a vague feeling that he might that very moment, catch a sight of
the glory of his coming Lord; if ever he fixed his eyes on the far horizon,
it was never without receiving a shadowy suggestion that, like a sail
towering over the edge of the world, the first great flag of the Lord's
hitherward march might that moment be rising between earth and heaven;--for
certainly He would come unawares, and then who could tell what moment be
might not set his foot on the edge of the visible, and come out of the
dark in which he had hitherto clothed himself as with a garment--to appear
in the ancient glory of his transfiguration! Thus he was ever ready to fall
a watching--and thus, also, never did he play the false prophet, with cries
of "Lo here!" and "Lo there!" And even when deepest lost in watching, the
lowest whisper of humanity seemed always loud enough to recall him to his
"work alive"--lest he should be found asleep at His coming. His was the
same live readiness that had opened the ear of Maggie to the cry of the
little one on the hill-side. As his daily work was ministration to the
weary feet of his Master's men, so was his soul ever awake to their sorrows
and spiritual necessities.
"There's a haill warl' o' bonny wark aboot me!" he would say. "I hae but to
lay my han' to what's neist me, and it's sure to be something that wants
deein! I'm clean ashamt sometimes, whan I wauk up i' the mornin, to fin'
mysel deein naething!"
Every evening while the summer lasted, he would go out alone for a walk,
generally toward a certain wood nigh the town; for there lay, although it
was of no great extent, and its trees were small, a probability of escaping
for a few moments from the eyes of men, and the chance of certain of
another breed showing themselves.
"No that," he once said to Maggie, "I ever cared vera muckle aboot the
angels: it's the man, the perfec man, wha was there wi' the Father afore
ever an angel was h'ard tell o', that sen's me upo my knees! Whan I see a
man that but minds me o' Him, my hert rises wi' a loup, as gien it wad
'maist lea' my body ahint it.--Love's the law o' the universe, and it jist
works amazin!"
One day a man, seeing him approach in the near distance, and knowing he had
not perceived his presence, lay down behind a great stone to watch "the mad
soutar," in the hope of hearing him say something insane. As John came
nearer, the man saw his lips moving, and heard sounds issue from them; but
as he passed, nothing was audible but the same words repeated several
times, and with the same expression of surprise and joy as if at something
for the first time discovered:--"Eh, Lord! Eh, Lord, I see! I
un'erstaun'!--Lord, I'm yer ain--to the vera deith!--a' yer ain!--Thy
father bless thee, Lord!--I ken ye care for noucht else!--Eh, but my
hert's glaid!--that glaid, I 'maist canna speyk!"
That man ever after spoke of the soutar with a respect that resembled awe.
After that talk with her father about the child and his mother, a certain
silent change appeared in Maggie. People saw in her face an expression
which they took to resemble that of one whose child was ill, and was
expected to die. But what Maggie felt was only resignation to the will of
her Lord: the child was not hers but the Lord's, lent to her for a season!
She must walk softly, doing everything for him as under the eye of the
Master, who might at any moment call to her, "Bring the child: I want him
now!" And she soon became as cheerful as before, but never after quite lost
the still, solemn look as of one in the eternal spaces, who saw beyond this
world's horizon. She talked less with her father than hitherto, but at the
same time seemed to live closer to him. Occasionally she would ask him to
help her to understand something he had said; but even then he would not
always try to make it plain; he might answer--
"I see, lassie, ye're no just ready for 't! It's true, though; and the day
maun come whan ye'll see the thing itsel, and ken what it is; and that's
the only w'y to win at the trowth o' 't! In fac', to see a thing, and ken
the thing, and be sure it's true, is a' ane and the same thing!" Such a
word from her father was always enough to still and content the girl.
Her delight in the child, instead of growing less, went on increasing
because of the awe, rather than dread of having at last to give him
up.
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