“It’s no the duin’ o’ the richt, ye see,” said the cobbler, “—I mean, that’s no itsel’ the en’, but the richt humour o’ the sowl towards a’ things thoucht or felt or dune! That’s richteousness, an’ oot o’ that comes, o’ the verra necessity o’ natur, a’ richt deeds o’ whatever kin’. Whaur they comena furth, it’s whaur the sowl, the thoucht o’ the man ’s no richt. Oor puir lassie shaws a’ mainner o’ sma’ infirmities jist ’cause the humour o’ her sowl ’s no hermonious wi’ the trowth, no hermonious in itsel’, no at ane wi’ the true thing—wi’ the true man—wi’ the true God. It may even be said it’s a sma’ thing ’at a man sud du wrang, sae lang as he’s capable o’ duin’ wrang, an’ lovesna the richt wi’ hert an’ sowl. But eh, it’s no a sma’ thing ’at he sud be capable!”
“Surely, Anerew,” interposed his wife, holding up her hands in mild deprecation, “ye wudna lat the lassie du wrang gien ye could haud her richt?”
“No, I wudna,” replied her husband, “—supposin’ the haudin’ o’ her richt to fa’ in wi’ ony degree o’ perception o’ the richt on her pairt. But supposin’ it was only the haudin’ o’ her frae ill by ootward constraint, leavin’ her ready upo’ the first opportunity to turn aside; whereas, gien she had dune wrang, she wud repent o’ ’t, an’ see what a foul thing it was to gang again’ the holy wull o’ him ’at made an’ dee’d for her—I lea’ ye to jeedge for yersel’ what ony man ’at lo’ed God an’ lo’ed the lass an’ lo’ed the richt, wud chuise. We maun haud baith een open upo’ the trowth, an’ no blink sidewise upo’ the warl’ an’ its richteousness wi’ ane o’ them. Wha wadna be Zacchay wi’ the Lord in his hoose, an’ the richteousness o’ God himsel’ growin’ in his hert, raither nor the prood Pharisee wha kent nae ill he was duin’, an’ thoucht it a shame to speyk to sic a man as Zacchay!”
The grandmother held her peace, thinking probably that so long as one kept respectable, there remained the more likelihood of a spiritual change.
“Is there anything you think I could do?” asked Donal. “I confess I’m afraid of meddling.”
“I wudna hae you appear, sir,” said Andrew, “in onything, concernin’ her. Ye’re a yoong man yersel’, an’ fowk’s herts as well as fowk’s tongues are no to be lippent til. I hae seen fowk, ’cause they couldna believe a body duin’ a thing frae a sma’ modicum o’ guid wull, set themsel’s to invent what they ca’d a motive til accoont for ’t—something, that is, that wud hae prevailt wi’ themsel’s to gar them du ’t. Sic fowk canna un’erstan’ a body duin’ onything jist ’cause it was worth duin’ in itsel’!”
“But maybe,” said the old woman, returning to the practical, “as ye hae been pleased to say ye’re on freen’ly terms wi’ mistress Brookes, ye micht jist see gien she’s observed ony ten’ency to resumption o’ the auld affair!”
Donal promised, and as soon as he reached the castle sought an interview with the house keeper. She told him she had been particularly pleased of late with Eppy’s attention to her work, and readiness to make herself useful. If she did look sometimes a little out of heart, they must remember, she said, that they had been young themselves once, and that it was not so easy to forget as to give up. But she would keep her eyes open!
CHAPTER XXX.
LORD MORVEN.
The winter came at last in good earnest—first black frost, then white snow, then sleet and wind and rain; then snow again, which fell steady and calm, and lay thick. After that came hard frost, and brought plenty of skating, and to Davie the delight of teaching his master. Donal had many falls, but was soon, partly in virtue of those same falls, a very decent skater. Davie claimed all the merit of his successful training; and when his master did anything particularly well, would remark with pride, that he had taught him. But the good thing in it for Davie was, that he noted the immediate faith with which Donal did or tried to do what he told him: this reacted in opening his mind to the beauty and dignity of obedience, and went a long way towards revealing the low moral condition of the man who seeks freedom through refusal to act at the will of another. He who does so will come by degrees to have no will of his own, and act only from impulse—which may be the will of a devil. So Donal and Davie grew together into one heart of friendship. Donal never longed for his hours with Davie to pass, and Davie was never so happy as when with Donal. The one was gently leading the other into the paths of liberty. Nothing but the teaching of him who made the human soul can make that soul free, but it is in great measure through those who have already learned that he teaches; and Davie was an apt pupil, promising to need less of the discipline of failure and pain that he was strong to believe, and ready to obey.