George MacDonald - Donal Grant

It was a lovely morning in the first of summer. Donal Grant was descending a path on a hillside to the valley below—a sheep-track of which he knew every winding as well as any boy his half-mile to and from school. But he had never before gone down the hill with the feeling that he was not about to go up again. He was on his way to pastures very new, and in the distance only negatively inviting. But his heart was too full to be troubled—nor was his a heart to harbour a care, the next thing to an evil spirit, though not quite so bad; for one care may drive out another, while one devil is sure to bring in another.

A great billowy waste of mountains lay beyond him, amongst which played the shadow at their games of hide and seek—graciously merry in the eyes of the happy man, but sadly solemn in the eyes of him in whose heart the dreary thoughts of the past are at a like game. Behind Donal lay a world of dreams into which he dared not turn and look, yet from which he could scarce avert his eyes.

He was nearing the foot of the hill when he stumbled and almost fell, but recovered himself with the agility of a mountaineer, and the unpleasant knowledge that the sole of one of his shoes was all but off. Never had he left home for college that his father had not made personal inspection of his shoes to see that they were fit for the journey, but on this departure they had been forgotten. He sat down and took off the failing equipment. It was too far gone to do anything temporary with it; and of discomforts a loose sole to one's shoe in walking is of the worst. The only thing was to take off the other shoe and both stockings and go barefoot. He tied all together with a piece of string, made them fast to his deerskin knapsack, and resumed his walk. The thing did not trouble him much. To have what we want is riches, but to be able to do without is power. To have shoes is a good thing; to be able to walk without them is a better. But it was long since Donal had walked barefoot, and he found his feet like his shoe, weaker in the sole than was pleasant.

"It's time," he said to himself, when he found he was stepping gingerly, "I ga'e my feet a turn at the auld accomplishment. It's a pity to grow nae so fit for onything suner nor ye need. I wad like to lie doon at last wi' hard soles!"

In every stream he came to he bathed his feet, and often on the way rested them, when otherwise able enough to go on. He had no certain goal, though he knew his direction, and was in no haste. He had confidence in God and in his own powers as the gift of God, and knew that wherever he went he needed not be hungry long, even should the little money in his pocket be spent. It is better to trust in work than in money: God never buys anything, and is for ever at work; but if any one trust in work, he has to learn that he must trust in nothing but strength—the self-existent, original strength only; and Donal Grant had long begun to learn that. The man has begun to be strong who knows that, separated from life essential, he is weakness itself, that, one with his origin, he will be of strength inexhaustible. Donal was now descending the heights of youth to walk along the king's highroad of manhood: happy he who, as his sun is going down behind the western, is himself ascending the eastern hill, returning through old age to the second and better childhood which shall not be taken from him! He who turns his back on the setting sun goes to meet the rising sun; he who loses his life shall find it. Donal had lost his past—but not so as to be ashamed. There are many ways of losing! His past had but crept, like the dead, back to God who gave it; in better shape it would be his by and by! Already he had begun to foreshadow this truth: God would keep it for him.

He had set out before the sun was up, for he would not be met by friends or acquaintances. Avoiding the well-known farmhouses and occasional village, he took his way up the river, and about noon came to a hamlet where no one knew him—a cluster of straw-roofed cottages, low and white, with two little windows each. He walked straight through it not meaning to stop; but, spying in front of the last cottage a rough stone seat under a low, widespreading elder tree, was tempted to sit down and rest a little. The day was now hot, and the shadow of the tree inviting.

He had but seated himself when a woman came to the door of the cottage, looked at him for a moment, and probably thinking him, from his bare feet, poorer than he was, said—

"Wad ye like a drink?"

"Ay, wad I," answered Donal, "—a drink o' watter, gien ye please."

"What for no milk?" asked the woman.

"'Cause I'm able to pey for 't," answered Donal.

"I want nae peyment," she rejoined, perceiving his drift as little as probably my reader.

"An' I want nae milk," returned Donal.

"Weel, ye may pey for 't gien ye like," she rejoined.

"But I dinna like," replied Donal.

"Weel, ye're a some queer customer!" she remarked.

"I thank ye, but I'm nae customer, 'cep' for a drink o' watter," he persisted, looking in her face with a smile; "an' watter has aye been grâtis sin' the days o' Adam—'cep' maybe i' toons i' the het pairts o' the warl'."

The woman turned into the cottage, and came out again presently with a delft basin, holding about a pint, full of milk, yellow and rich.

"There!" she said; "drink an' be thankfu'."

"I'll be thankfu' ohn drunken," said Donal. "I thank ye wi' a' my heart. But I canna bide to tak for naething what I can pey for, an' I dinna like to lay oot my siller upon a luxury I can weel eneuch du wantin', for I haena muckle. I wadna be shabby nor yet greedy."

"Drink for the love o' God," said the woman.

Donal took the bowl from her hand, and drank till all was gone.

"Wull ye hae a drap mair?" she asked.

"Na, no a drap," answered Donal. "I'll gang i' the stren'th o' that ye hae gi'en me—maybe no jist forty days, gudewife, but mair nor forty minutes, an' that's a gude pairt o' a day. I thank ye hertily. Yon was the milk o' human kin'ness, gien ever was ony."

As he spoke he rose, and stood up refreshed for his journey.

"I hae a sodger laddie awa' i' the het pairts ye spak o'," said the woman: "gien ye hadna ta'en the milk, ye wad hae gi'en me a sair hert."

"Eh, gudewife, it wad hae gi'en me ane to think I had!" returned Donal. "The Lord gie ye back yer sodger laddie safe an' soon'! Maybe I'll hae to gang efter 'im, sodger mysel'."

"Na, na, that wadna do. Ye're a scholar—that's easy to see, for a' ye're sae plain spoken. It dis a body's hert guid to hear a man 'at un'erstan's things say them plain oot i' the tongue his mither taucht him. Sic a ane 'ill gang straucht till's makker, an' fin' a'thing there hame-like. Lord, I wuss minnisters wad speyk like ither fowk!"

"Ye wad sair please my mither sayin' that," remarked Donal. "Ye maun be jist sic anither as her!"

"Weel, come in, an' sit ye doon oot o' the sin, an' hae something to ait."

"Na, I'll tak nae mair frae ye the day, an' I thank ye," replied Donal; "I canna weel bide."

"What for no?"

"It's no sae muckle 'at I'm in a hurry as 'at I maun be duin'."

"Whaur are ye b'un' for, gien a body may speir?"

"I'm gaein' to seek—no my fortin, but my daily breid. Gien I spak as a richt man, I wad say I was gaein' to luik for the wark set me. I'm feart to say that straucht oot; I haena won sae far as that yet. I winna du naething though 'at he wadna hae me du. I daur to say that—sae be I un'erstan'. My mither says the day 'ill come whan I'll care for naething but his wull."

"Yer mither 'ill be Janet Grant, I'm thinkin'! There canna be twa sic in ae country-side!"

"Ye're i' the richt," answered Donal. "Ken ye my mither?"