“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 he 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’erstan’!—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.