Donal Grant Part 33

EPPY AGAIN.

He would gladly have told his friend the cobbler all about the strange occurrence; but he did not feel sure it would be right to carry a report of the house where he held a position of trust; and what made him doubtful was, that first he doubted whether the cobbler would consider it right. But he went to see him the next day, in the desire to be near the only man to whom it was possible he might tell what he had seen.

The moment he entered the room, where the cobbler as usual sat at work by his wife, he saw that something was the matter. But they welcomed him with their usual cordiality, nor was it many minutes before mistress Comin made him acquainted with the cause of their anxiety.

"We're jist a wee triblet, sir," she said, "aboot Eppy!"

"I am very sorry," said Donal, with a pang: he had thought things were going right with her. "What is the matter?"

"It's no sae easy to say!" returned the grandmother. "It may weel be only a fancy o' the auld fowk, but it seems to baith o' 's she has a w'y wi' her 'at disna come o' the richt. She'll be that meek as gien she thoucht naething at a' o' hersel', an' the next moment be angert at a word. She canna bide a syllable said 'at 's no correc' to the verra hair. It's as gien she dreidit waur 'ahint it, an' wud mairch straucht to the defence. I'm no makin' my meanin' that clear, I doobt; but ye'll ken 't for a' that!"

"I think I do," said Donal. "--I see nothing of her."

"I wudna mak a won'er o' that, sir! She may weel haud oot o' your gait, feelin' rebukit 'afore ane 'at kens a' aboot her gaein's on wi' my lord!"

"I don't know how I should see her, though!" returned Donal.

"Didna she sweep oot the schoolroom first whan ye gaed, sir?"

"When I think of it--yes."

"Does she still that same?"

"I do not know. Understanding at what hour in the morning the room will be ready for me, I do not go to it sooner."

"It's but the luik, an' the general cairriage o' the la.s.sie!" said the old woman. "Gien we had onything to tak a haud o', we wad maybe think the less. True, she was aye some--what ye micht ca' a bit cheengeable in her w'ys; but she was aye, whan she had the chance, unco' willin' to gie her faither there or mysel' a spark o' glaidness like. It pleased her to be pleasin' i' the eyes o' the auld fowk, though they war but her ain. But noo we maunna say a word til her. We hae nae business to luik til her for naething! No 'at she's aye like that; but it comes sae aft 'at at last we daur hardly open oor moo's for the fear o' hoo she'll tak it. Only a' the time it's mair as gien she was flingin'

something frae her, something she didna like an' wud fain be rid o', than 'at she cared sae verra muckle aboot onything we said no til her min'. She taks a haud o' the words, no doobt! but I canna help thinkin'

'at 'maist whatever we said, it wud be the same. Something to compleen o' 's never wantin' whan ye're ill-pleast a'ready!"

"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 la.s.sie 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 G.o.d. 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 la.s.sie 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 luved G.o.d an' luved the la.s.s an' luved 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' G.o.d himsel' growin' in his hert, raither nor the prood Pharisee wha kent nae ill he was duin', an'

thoucht it a shame to speak 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' modic.u.m o' gude wull, set themsel's to invent what they ca'd a motive til acc.o.o.nt 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 x.x.x.

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 friends.h.i.+p.

Donal never longed for his hours with Davie to pa.s.s, 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.

But Donal was not all the day with Davie, and latterly had begun to feel a little anxious about the time the boy spent away from him--partly with his brother, partly with the people about the stable, and partly with his father, who evidently found the presence of his younger son less irksome to him than that of any other person, and saw more of him than of Forgue: the amount of loneliness the earl could endure was amazing. But after what he had seen and heard, Donal was most anxious concerning his time with his father, only he felt it a delicate thing to ask him about it. At length, however, Davie himself opened up the matter.

"Mr. Grant," he said one day, "I wish you could hear the grand fairy-stories my papa tells!"

"I wish I might!" answered Donal.

"I will ask him to let you come and hear. I have told him you can make fairy-tales too; only he has quite another way of doing it;--and I must confess," added Davie a little pompously, "I do not follow him so easily as you.--Besides," he added, "I never can find anything in what you call the cupboard behind the curtain of the story. I wonder sometimes if his stories have any cupboard!--I will ask him to-day to let you come."

"I think that would hardly do," said Donal. "Your father likes to tell his boy fairy-tales, but he might not care to tell them to a man. You must remember, too, that though I have been in the house what you think a long time, your father has seen very little of me, and might feel me in the way: invalids do not generally enjoy the company of strangers.

You had better not ask him."

"But I have often told him how good you are, Mr. Grant, and how you can't bear anything that is not right, and I am sure he must like you--I don't mean so well as I do, because you haven't to teach him anything, and n.o.body can love anybody so well as the one he teaches to be good."

"Still I think you had better leave it alone lest he should not like your asking him. I should be sorry to have you disappointed."

"I do not mind that so much as I used. If you do not tell me I am not to do it, I think I will venture."

Donal said no more. He did not feel at liberty, from his own feeling merely, to check the boy. The thing was not wrong, and something might be intended to come out of it! He shrank from the least ruling of events, believing man's only call to action is duty. So he left Davie to do as he pleased.

"Does your father often tell you a fairy-tale?" he asked.

"Not every day, sir."

"What time does he tell them?"

"Generally when I go to him after tea."

"Do you go any time you like?"

"Yes; but he does not always let me stay. Sometimes he talks about mamma, I think; but only coming into the fairy-tale.--He has told me one in the middle of the day! I think he would if I woke him up in the night! But that would not do, for he has terrible headaches. Perhaps that is what sometimes makes his stories so terrible I have to beg him to stop!"

"And does he stop?"

"Well--no--I don't think he ever does.--When a story is once begun, I suppose it ought to be finished!"

So the matter rested for the time. But about a week after, Donal received one morning through the butler an invitation to dine with the earl, and concluded it was due to Davie, whom he therefore expected to find with his father. He put on his best clothes, and followed Simmons up the grand staircase. The great rooms of the castle were on the first floor, but he pa.s.sed the entrance to them, following his guide up and up to the second floor, where the earl had his own apartment. Here he was shown into a small room, richly furnished after a sombrely ornate fas.h.i.+on, the drapery and coverings much faded, worn even to shabbiness.

It had been for a century or so the private sitting-room of the lady of the castle, but was now used by the earl, perhaps in memory of his wife. Here he received his sons, and now Donal, but never any whom business or politeness compelled him to see.