“Will you come out a bit, Andrew,” he said, “—if you’re not tired? It’s a fine night, and it’s easy to talk in the gloamin’!”
Andrew consented with alacrity.
On the side of the castle away from the town, the descent was at first by a succession of terraces with steps from the one to the other, the terraces themselves being little flower-gardens. At the bottom of the last of these terraces and parallel with them, was a double row of trees, forming a long narrow avenue between two little doors in two walls at opposite ends of the castle. One of these led to some of the offices; the other admitted to a fruit garden which turned the western shoulder of the hill, and found for the greater part a nearly southern exposure. At this time of the year it was a lonely enough place, and at this time of the day more than likely to be altogether deserted: thither Donal would lead his friend. Going out therefore by the kitchen-door, they went first into a stable-yard, from which descended steps to the castle-well, on the level of the second terrace. Thence they arrived, by more steps, at the mews where in old times the hawks were kept, now rather ruinous though not quite neglected. Here the one wall-door opened on the avenue which led to the other. It was one of the pleasantest walks in immediate proximity to the castle.
The first of the steely stars were shining through the naked rafters of leafless boughs overhead, as Donal and the cobbler stepped, gently talking, into the aisle of trees. The old man looked up, gazed for a moment in silence, and said:—
“‘The h’avens declare the glory o’ God, an’ the firmament showeth his handy-wark.’ I used, whan I was a lad, to study astronomy a wee, i’ the houp o’ better hearin’ what the h’avens declared aboot the glory o’ God: I wud fain un’erstan’ the speech a’ day cried across the nicht to the ither. But I was sair disapp’intit. The things the astronomer tellt semple fowk war verra won’erfu’, but I couldna fin’ i’ my hert ’at they made me think ony mair o’ God nor I did afore. I dinna mean to say they michtna be competent to wark that in anither, but it wasna my experrience o’ them. My hert was some sair at this, for ye see I was set upo’ winnin’ intil the presence o’ him I couldna bide frae, an’ at that time I hadna learnt to gang straucht to him wha’s the express image o’ ’s person, but, aye soucht him throuw the philosophy—eh, but it was bairnly philosophy!—o’ the guid buiks ’at dwall upo’ the natur o’ God an’ a’ that, an’ his hatred o’ sin an’ a’ that—airt an’ pairt true, nae doobt! but I wantit God great an’ near, an’ they made him oot sma’—sma’, an’ unco far awa’. Ae nicht I was oot by mysel’ upo’ the shore, jist as the stars war teetin’ oot. An’ it wasna as gien they war feart o’ the sun, an’ pleast ’at he was gane, but as gien they war a’ teetin’ oot to see what had come o’ their Father o’ Lichts. A’ at ance I cam to mysel’, like oot o’ some blin’ delusion. Up I cuist my e’en abune—an’ eh, there was the h’aven as God made it—awfu’!—big an’ deep, ay faddomless deep, an’ fu’ o’ the wan’erin’ yet steady lichts ’at naething can blaw oot, but the breath o’ his moo’! Awa’ up an’ up it gaed, an’ deeper an’ deeper! an’ my e’en gaed traivellin’ awa’ an’ awa’, till it seemed as though they never could win back to me. A’ at ance they drappit frae the lift like a laverock, an’ lichtit upo’ the horizon, whaur the sea an’ the sky met like richteousness an’ peace kissin’ ane anither, as the psalm says. Noo I canna tell what it was, but jist there whaur the earth an’ the sky cam thegither, was the meetin’ o’ my earthly sowl wi’ God’s h’avenly sowl! There was bonnie colours, an’ bonnie lichts, an’ a bonnie grit star hingin’ ower ’t a’, but it was nane o’ a’ thae things; it was something deeper nor a’, an’ heicher nor a’! Frae that moment I saw—no hoo the h’avens declare the glory o’ God, but I saw them declarin’ ’t, an’ I wantit nae mair. Astronomy for me micht sit an’ wait for a better warl’, whaur fowk didna weir oot their shune, an’ ither fowk hadna to men’ them. For what is the great glory o’ God but, that, though no man can comprehen’ him, he comes doon, an’ lays his cheek til his man’s, an’ says til him, ‘Eh, my cratur!’”
While the cobbler was thus talking, they had gone the length of the avenue, and were within less than two trees of the door of the fruit-garden, when it opened, and was hurriedly shut again—not, however, before Donal had caught sight, as he believed, of the form of Eppy. He called her by name, and ran to the door, followed by Andrew: the same suspicion had struck both of them at once! Donal lifted the latch, and would have opened the door, but some one held it against him, and he heard the noise of an attempt to push the rusty bolt into the staple. He set his strength to it, and forced the door open. Lord Forgue was on the other side of it, and a little way off stood Eppy trembling. Donal turned away from his lordship, and said to the girl,
“Eppy, here’s your grandfather come to see you!”
The cobbler, however, went up to lord Forgue.
“You’re a young man, my lord,” he said, “an’ may regard it as folly in an auld man to interfere between you an’ your wull; but I warn ye, my lord, excep’ you cease to carry yourself thus towards my granddaughter, his lordship, your father, shall be informed of the matter. Eppy, you come home with me.”
“I will not,” said Eppy, her voice trembling with passion, though which passion it were hard to say; “I am a free woman. I make my own living. I will not be treated like a child!”