The little pocket-money Mr.Sclater allowed Gibbie, was chiefly spent at the shop of a certain secondhand bookseller, nearly opposite Mistress Murkison's.The books they bought were carried to Donal's room, there to be considered by Gibbie Donal's, and by Donal Gibbie's.Among the rest was a reprint of Marlow's Faust, the daring in the one grand passage of which both awed and delighted them; there were also some of the Ettrick Shepherd's eerie stories, alone in their kind; and above all there was a miniature copy of Shelley, whose verse did much for the music of Donal's, while yet he could not quite appreciate the truth for the iridescence of it: he said it seemed to him to have been all composed in a balloon.Ihave mentioned only works of imagination, but it must not be supposed they had not a relish for stronger food: the books more severe came afterwards, when they had liberty to choose their own labours; now they had plenty of the harder work provided for them.
Somewhere about this time Fergus Duff received his license to preach, and set himself to acquire what his soul thirsted after--a reputation, namely, for eloquence.This was all the flood-mark that remained of the waters of verse with which he had at one time so plentifully inundated his soul.He was the same as man he had been as youth--handsome, plausible, occupied with himself, determined to succeed, not determined to labour.Praise was the very necessity of his existence, but he had the instinct not to display his beggarly hunger--which reached even to the approbation of such to whom he held himself vastly superior.He seemed generous, and was niggardly, by turns; cultivated suavity; indulged in floridity both of manners and speech; and signed his name so as nobody could read it, though his handwriting was plain enough.
In the spring, summer, and autumn, Donal laboured all day with his body, and in the evening as much as he could with his mind.Lover of Nature as he was, however, more alive indeed than before to the delights of the country, and the genial companionship of terrene sights and sounds, scents and motions, he could not help longing for the winter and the city, that his soul might be freer to follow its paths.And yet what a season some of the labours of the field afforded him for thought! To the student who cannot think without books, the easiest of such labours are a dull burden, or a distress;but for the man in whom the wells have been unsealed, in whom the waters are flowing, the labour mingles gently and genially with the thought, and the plough he holds with his hands lays open to the sun and the air more soils than one.Mr.Sclater without his books would speedily have sunk into the mere shrewd farmer; Donal, never opening a book, would have followed theories and made verses to the end of his days.
Every Saturday, as before, he went to see his father and mother.
Janet kept fresh and lively, although age told on her, she said, more rapidly since Gibbie went away.
"But gien the Lord lat auld age wither me up," she said, "he'll luik efter the cracks himsel'."Six weeks of every summer between Donal's sessions, while the minister and his wife took their holiday, Gibbie spent with Robert and Janet.It was a blessed time for them all.He led then just the life of the former days, with Robert and Oscar and the sheep, and Janet and her cow and the New Testament--only he had a good many more things to think about now, and more ways of thinking about them.With his own hands he built a neat little porch to the cottage door, with close sides and a second door to keep the wind off: Donal and he carried up the timber and the mortar.But although he tried hard to make Janet say what he could do for her more, he could not bring her to reveal any desire that belonged to this world--except, indeed, for two or three trifles for her husband's warmth and convenience.
"The sicht o' my Lord's face," she said once, when he was pressing her, "is a' 'at I want, Sir Gibbie.For this life it jist blecks me to think o' onything I wad hae or wad lowse.This boady o' mine's growin' some heavy-like, I maun confess, but I wadna hae't ta'en aff o' me afore the time.It wad be an ill thing for the seed to be shal't ower sune."They almost always called him Sir Gibbie, and he never objected, or seemed either annoyed or amused at it; he took it just as the name that was his, the same way as his hair or his hands were his; he had been called wee Sir Gibbie for so long.
