"But my father, I am sure, would not have been angry with you. He would have said you had a right to do it."

"Perhaps; but the earl is not the master I mean."

"Who is, then?"

"Jesus Christ."

"O--oh!"

"He says I must not return evil for evil, a blow for a blow. I don't mind what people say about it: he would not have me disgrace myself!

He never even threatened those that struck him."

"But he wasn't a man, you know!"

"Not a man! What was he then?"

"He was G.o.d, you know."

"And isn't G.o.d a man--and ever so much more than a man?"

The boy made no answer, and Donal went on.

"Do you think G.o.d would have his child do anything disgraceful? Why, Davie, you don't know your own Father! What G.o.d wants of us is to be down-right honest, and do what he tells us without fear."

Davie was silent. His conscience reproved him, as the conscience of a true-hearted boy will reprove him at the very mention of the name of G.o.d, until he sets himself consciously to do his will. Donal said no more, and they went for their walk.

CHAPTER XVI.

COLLOQUIES.

In the evening Donal went to see Andrew Comin.

"Weel, hoo are ye gettin' on wi' the yerl?" asked the cobbler.

"You set me a good example of saying nothing about him," answered Donal; "and I will follow it--at least till I know more: I have scarce seen him yet."

"That's right!" returned the cobbler with satisfaction. "I'm thinkin'

ye'll be ane o' the feow 'at can rule their ane hoose--that is, haud their ain tongues till the hoor for speech be come. Stick ye to that, my dear sir, an' mair i'll be weel nor in general is weel."

"I'm come to ye for a bit o' help though; I want licht upon a queston 'at 's lang triblet me.--What think ye?--hoo far does the comman' laid upo' 's, as to warfare 'atween man an' man, reach? Are we never ta raise the han' to human bein', think ye?"

"Weel, I hae thoucht a heap aboot it, an' I daurna say 'at I'm jist absolute clear upo' the maitter. But there may be pairt clear whaur a'

's no clear; an' by what we un'erstan' we come the nearer to what we dinna un'erstan'. There's ae thing unco plain--'at we're on no acc.o.o.nt to return evil for evil: onybody 'at ca's himsel' a Christian maun un'erstan' that muckle. We're to gie no place to revenge, inside or oot. Therefore we're no to gie blow for blow. Gien a man hit ye, ye're to take it i' G.o.d's name. But whether things mayna come to a p'int whaurat ye're bu'n', still i' G.o.d's name, to defen' the life G.o.d has gien ye, I canna say--I haena the licht to justifee me in denyin' 't.

There maun surely, I hae said to mysel', be a time whan a man may hae to du what G.o.d dis sae aften--mak use o' the strong han'! But it's clear he maunna do 't in rage--that's ower near hate--an' hate 's the deevil's ain. A man may, gien he live varra near the Lord, be whiles angry ohn sinned: but the wrath o' man worketh not the richteousness o'

G.o.d; an' the wrath that rises i' the mids o' enc.o.o.nter, is no like to be o' the natur o' divine wrath. To win at it, gien 't be possible, lat's consider the Lord--hoo he did. There's no word o' him ever liftin' han' to protec' himsel'. The only thing like it was for ithers. To gar them lat his disciples alane--maybe till they war like eneuch til himsel' no to rin, he pat oot mair nor his han' upo' them 'at cam to tak him: he strak them sair wi' the pooer itsel' 'at muvs a'

airms. But no varra sair naither--he but knockit them doon!--jist to lat them ken they war to du as he bade them, an' lat his fowk be;--an'

maybe to lat them ken 'at gien he loot them tak him, it was no 'at he couldna hin'er them gien he likit. I canna help thinkin' we may stan'

up for ither fowk. An' I'm no sayin' 'at we arena to defen' oorsels frae a set attack wi' design.--But there's something o' mair importance yet nor kennin' the richt o' ony queston."

"What can that be? What can be o' mair importance nor doin' richt i'

the sicht o' G.o.d?" said Donal.

"Bein' richt wi' the varra thoucht o' G.o.d, sae 'at we canna mistak, but maun ken jist what he wad hae dune. That's the big Richt, the mother o' a' the lave o' the richts. That's to be as the maister was.

Onygait, whatever we du, it maun be sic as to be dune, an' it maun be dune i' the name o' G.o.d; whan we du naething we maun du that naething i' the name o' G.o.d. A body may weel say, 'O Lord, thoo hasna latten me see what I oucht to du, sae I'll du naething!' Gien a man ought to defen' himsel', but disna du 't, 'cause he thinks G.o.d wadna hae him du 't, wull G.o.d lea' him oondefent for that? Or gien a body stan's up i'

the name o' G.o.d, an' fronts an airmy o' enemies, div ye think G.o.d 'ill forsake him 'cause he 's made a mistak? Whatever's dune wantin' faith maun be sin--it canna help it; whatever's dune in faith canna be sin, though it may be a mistak. Only latna a man tak presumption for faith!

that's a fearsome mistak, for it's jist the opposite."

"I thank ye," said Donal. "I'll consider wi' my best endeevour what ye hae said."

"But o' a' things," resumed the cobbler, "luik 'at ye lo'e fairplay.

Fairplay 's a won'erfu' word--a gran' thing constantly lost sicht o'.

Man, I hae been tryin' to win at the duin' o' the richt this mony a year, but I daurna yet lat mysel' ac' upo' the spur o' the moment whaur my ain enterest 's concernt: my ain side micht yet blin' me to the ither man's side o' the business. Onybody can un'erstan' his ain richt, but it taks trible an' thoucht to un'erstan' what anither c.o.o.nts his richt. Twa richts canna weel clash. It's a wrang an' a richt, or pairt wrang an' a pairt richt 'at clashes."

"Gien a'body did that, I doobt there wad be feow fortins made!" said Donal.

"Aboot that I canna say, no kennin'; I daurna discover a law whaur I haena knowledge! But this same fairplay lies, alang wi' love, at the varra rute and f'undation o' the universe. The theologians had a glimmer o' the fac' whan they made sae muckle o' justice, only their justice is sic a meeserable sma' bit plaister eemage o' justice, 'at it maist gars an honest body lauch. They seem to me like shepherds 'at rive doon the door-posts, an' syne block up the door wi' them."

Donal told him of the quarrel he had had with lord Forgue, and asked him whether he thought he had done right.

"Weel," answered the cobbler, "I'm as far frae blamin' you as I am frae justifeein' the yoong lord."

"He seems to me a fine kin' o' a lad," said Donal, "though some owerbeirin'."

"The likes o' him are mair to be excused for that nor ither fowk, for they hae great disadvantages i' the position an' the upbringin'. It's no easy for him 'at's broucht up a lord to believe he's jist ane wi'

the lave."

Donal went for a stroll through the town, and met the minister, but he took no notice of him. He was greatly annoyed at the march which he said the fellow had stolen upon him, and regarded him as one who had taken an unfair advantage of him. But he had little influence at the castle. The earl never by any chance went to church. His niece, lady Arctura, did, however, and held the minister for an authority at things spiritual--one of whom living water was to be had without money and without price. But what she counted spiritual things were very common earthly stuff, and for the water, it was but stagnant water from the ditches of a sham theology. Only what was a poor girl to do who did not know how to feed herself, but apply to one who pretended to be able to feed others? How was she to know that he could not even feed himself? Out of many a difficulty she thought he helped her--only the difficulty would presently clasp her again, and she must deal with it as she best could, until a new one made her forget it, and go to the minister, or rather to his daughter, again. She was one of those who feel the need of some help to live--some upholding that is not of themselves, but who, through the stupidity of teachers unconsciously false,--men so unfit that they do not know they are unfit, direct their efforts, first towards having correct notions, then to work up the feelings that belong to those notions. She was an honest girl so far as she had been taught--perhaps not so far as she might have been without having been taught. How was she to think aright with scarce a glimmer of G.o.d's truth? How was she to please G.o.d, as she called it, who thought of him in a way repulsive to every loving soul? How was she to be accepted of G.o.d, who did not accept her own neighbour, but looked down, without knowing it, upon so many of her fellow-creatures?

How should such a one either enjoy or recommend her religion? It would have been the worse for her if she had enjoyed it--the worse for others if she had recommended it! Religion is simply the way home to the Father. There was little of the path in her religion except the difficulty of it. The true way is difficult enough because of our unchildlikeness--uphill, steep, and difficult, but there is fresh life on every surmounted height, a purer air gained, ever more life for more climbing. But the path that is not the true one is not therefore easy.

Up hill is hard walking, but through a bog is worse. Those who seek G.o.d with their faces not even turned towards him, who, instead of beholding the Father in the Son, take the stupidest opinions concerning him and his ways from other men--what should they do but go wandering on dark mountains, spending their strength in avoiding precipices and getting out of bogs, mourning and sighing over their sins instead of leaving them behind and fleeing to the Father, whom to know is eternal life. Did they but set themselves to find out what Christ knew and meant and commanded, and then to do it, they would soon forget their false teachers. But alas! they go on bowing before long-faced, big-worded authority--the more fatally when it is embodied in a good man who, himself a victim to faith in men, sees the Son of G.o.d only through the theories of others, and not with the sight of his own spiritual eyes.

Donal had not yet seen the lady. He neither ate, sat, nor held intercourse with the family. Away from Davie, he spent his time in his tower chamber, or out of doors. All the grounds were open to him except a walled garden on the south-eastern slope, looking towards the sea, which the earl kept for himself, though he rarely walked in it.

On the side of the hill away from the town, was a large park reaching down to the river, and stretching a long way up its bank--with fine trees, and glorious outlooks to the sea in one direction, and to the mountains in the other. Here Donal would often wander, now with a book, now with Davie. The boy's presence was rarely an interruption to his thoughts when he wanted to think. Sometimes he would thrown himself on the gra.s.s and read aloud; then Davie would throw himself beside him, and let the words he could not understand flow over him in a spiritual cataract. On the river was a boat, and though at first he was awkward enough in the use of the oars, he was soon able to enjoy thoroughly a row up or down the stream, especially in the twilight.

He was alone with his book under a beech-tree on a steep slope to the river, the day after his affair with lord Forgue: reading aloud, he did not hear the approach of his lordship.

"Mr. Grant," he said, "if you will say you are sorry you threw me from my horse, I will say I am sorry I struck you."

"I am very sorry," said Donal, rising, "that it was necessary to throw you from your horse; and perhaps your lordship may remember that you struck me before I did so."

"That has nothing to do with it. I propose an accommodation, or compromise, or what you choose to call it: if you will do the one, I will do the other."

"What I think I ought to do, my lord, I do without bargaining. I am not sorry I threw you from your horse, and to say so would be to lie."

"Of course everybody thinks himself in the right!" said his lordship with a small sneer.