MISTRESS CROALE.
The house at which they met had yet not a little character
remaining. Mistress Croale had come in for a derived worthiness, in
the memory, yet lingering about the place, of a worthy aunt
deceased, and always encouraged in herself a vague idea of
obligation to live up to it. Hence she had made it a rule to supply
drink only so long as her customers _kept decent_--that is, so long as
they did not quarrel aloud, and put her in danger of a visit from
the police; tell such tales as offended her modesty; utter oaths of
any peculiarly atrocious quality; or defame the Sabbath Day, the
Kirk, or the Bible. On these terms, and so long as they paid for
what they had, they might get as drunk as they pleased, without the
smallest offence to Mistress Croale. But if the least unquestionable
infringement of her rules occurred, she would pounce upon the
shameless one with sudden and sharp reproof. I doubt not that,
so doing, she cherished a hope of recommending herself above,
and making deposits in view of a coming balance-sheet. The result
for this life so far was, that, by these claims to respectability,
she had gathered a _clientèle_ of douce, well-disposed drunkards, who
rarely gave her any trouble so long as they were in the house, though
sometimes she had reason to be anxious about the fate of individuals
of them after they left it.
Another peculiarity in her government was that she would rarely give
drink to a woman. “Na, na,” she would say, “what has a wuman to dee
wi’ strong drink! Lat the men dee as they like, we canna help
_them_.” She made exception in behalf of her personal friends; and,
for herself, was in the way of sipping--only sipping--privately, on
account of her “trouble,” she said--by which she meant some
complaint, speaking of it as if it were generally known, although of
the nature of it nobody had an idea. The truth was that, like her
customers, she also was going down the hill, justifying to herself
every step of her descent. Until lately, she had been in the way of
going regularly to church, and she did go occasionally yet, and
always took the yearly sacrament; but the only result seemed to be
that she abounded the more in finding justifications, or, where they
were not to be had, excuses, for all she did. Probably the stirring
of her conscience made this the more necessary to her peace.
If the Lord were to appear in person amongst us, how much would the
sight of him do for the sinners of our day? I am not sure that many
like Mistress Croale would not go to him. She was not a bad woman,
but slowly and surely growing worse.
That morning, as soon as the customer whose entrance had withdrawn
her from her descent on Gibbie, had gulped down his dram, wiped his
mouth with his blue cotton handkerchief, settled his face into the
expression of a drink of water, gone demurely out, and crossed to
the other side of the street, she would have returned to the charge,
but was prevented by the immediately following entrance of the Rev.
Clement Sclater--the minister of her parish, recently appointed. He
was a man between young and middle-aged, an honest fellow, zealous
to perform the duties of his office, but with notions of religion
very beggarly. How could it be otherwise when he knew far more of
what he called the _Divine decrees_ than he did of his own heart, or
the needs and miseries of human nature? At the moment, Mistress
Croale was standing with her back to the door, reaching up to
replace the black bottle on its shelf, and did not see the man she
heard enter.
“What’s yer wull?” she said indifferently.
Mr. Sclater made no answer, waiting for her to turn and face him,
which she did the sooner for his silence. Then she saw a man
unknown to her--evidently, from his white neckcloth and funereal
garments, a minister--standing solemn, with wide-spread legs, and
round eyes of displeasure, expecting her attention.
“What’s yer wull, sir?” she repeated, with more respect, but less
cordiality than at first.
“If you ask my will,” he replied, with some pomposity, for who that
has just gained an object of ambition can be humble?--“it is that
you shut up this whisky shop, and betake yourself to a more decent
way of life in my parish.”
“My certie! but ye’re no blate (_over-modest_) to craw sae lood i’ _my_
hoose, an’ that’s a nearer fit nor a perris!” she cried, flaring up
in wrath both at the nature and rudeness of the address. “Alloo me
to tell ye, sir, ye’re the first ’at ever daured threep my hoose was
no a dacent ane.”
“I said nothing about your house. It was your shop I spoke of,”
said the minister, not guiltless of subterfuge.
“An’ what’s my chop but my hoose? Haith! my hoose wad be o’ fell
sma’ consideration wantin’ the chop. Tak ye heed o’ beirin’ fause
witness, sir.”
“I said nothing, and know nothing, against yours more than any other
shop for the sale of drink in my parish.”
“The Lord’s my shepherd! Wad ye even (_compare_) my hoose to Jock
Thamson’s or Jeemie Deuk’s, baith i’ this perris?”
“My good woman,--”
“Naither better nor waur nor my neepers,” interrupted Mistress
Croale, forgetting what she had just implied: “a body maun live.”
“There are limits even to that most generally accepted of all
principles,” returned Mr. Sclater; “and I give you fair warning that
I mean to do what I can to shut up all such houses as yours in my
parish. I tell you of it, not from the least hope that you will
anticipate me by closing, but merely that no one may say I did
anything in an underhand fashion.”
The calmness with which he uttered the threat alarmed Mistress
Croale. He might rouse unmerited suspicion, and cause her much
trouble by vexatious complaint, even to the peril of her license.
She must take heed, and not irritate her enemy. Instantly,
therefore, she changed her tone to one of expostulation.
“It’s a sair peety, doobtless,” she said, “’at there sud be sae mony
drouthie thrapples i’ the kingdom, sir; but drouth maun drink, an’
ye ken, sir, gien it war hauden frae them, they wad but see deils
an’ cut their throts.”
“They’re like to see deils ony gait er lang,” retorted the
minister, relapsing into the vernacular for a moment.
“Ow, ’deed maybe, sir! but e’en the deils themsel’s war justifeed i’
their objection to bein’ committed to their ain company afore their
time.”
Mr. Sclater could not help smiling at the woman’s readiness, and
that was a point gained by her. An acquaintance with Scripture goes
far with a Scotch ecclesiastic. Besides, the man had a redeeming
sense of humour, though he did not know how to prize it, not
believing it a gift of God.
“It’s true, my woman,” he answered. “Aye! it said something for them,
deils ’at they war, ’at they preferred the swine. But even the
swine cudna bide them!”
Encouraged by the condescension of the remark, but disinclined to
follow the path of reflection it indicated, Mistress Croale ventured
a little farther upon her own.
“Ye see, sir,” she said, “as lang ’s there’s whusky, it wull tak the
throt-ro’d. It’s the naitral w’y o’ ’t, ye see, to rin doon; an’
it’s no mainner o’ use gangin’ again’ natur. Sae, allooin’ the thing
maun be, ye’ll hae till alloo likewise, an’ it’s a trowth I’m
tellin’ ye, sir, ’at it’s o’ nae sma’ consequence to the toon ’at
the drucken craturs sud fill themsel’s wi’ dacency--an’ that’s what I
see till. Gang na to the magistrate, sir; but as sune ’s ye hae
gotten testimony--guid testimony though, sir--’at there’s been
disorder or immorawlity i’ my hoose, come ye to me, an’ I’ll gie ye
my han’ to paper on ’t this meenute, ’at I’ll gie up my chop, an’
lea’ yer perris--an’ may ye sune get a better i’ my place. Sir, I’m
like a mither to the puir bodies! An’ gien ye drive them to Jock
Thamson’s, or Jeemie Deuk’s, it’ll be jist like--savin’ the word, I
dinna inten’ ’t for sweirin’, guid kens!--I say, it’ll jist be
dammin’ them afore their time, like the puir deils. Hech! but it’ll
come sune eneuch, an’ they’re muckle to be peetied!”
“And when those victims of your vile ministrations,” said the
clergyman, again mounting his wooden horse, and setting it rocking,
“find themselves where there will be no whisky to refresh them,
where do you think you will be, Mistress Croale?”
“Whaur the Lord wulls,” answered the woman. “Whaur that may be, I
confess I’m whiles laith to think. Only gien I was you, Maister
Sclater, I wad think twise afore I made ill waur.”
“But hear me, Mistress Croale: it’s not your besotted customers only
I have to care for. Your soul is as precious in my sight as any of
which I shall have to render an account.”
“As Mistress Bonniman’s, for enstance?” suggested Mrs. Croale,
interrogatively, and with just the least trace of pawkiness in the
tone.
The city, large as it was, was yet not large enough to prevent a
portion of the private affairs of individuals from coming to be
treated as public property, and Mrs. Bonniman was a handsome and
rich young widow, the rumour of whose acceptableness to Mr. Sclater
had reached Mistress Croale’s ear before ever she had seen the
minister himself. An unmistakable shadow of confusion crossed his
countenance; whereupon with consideration both for herself and him,
the woman made haste to go on, as if she had but chosen her instance
at merest random.
“Na, na, sir! what my sowl may be in the eyes o’ my Maker, I hae ill
tellin’,” she said, “but dinna ye threep upo’ me ’at it’s o’ the
same vailue i’ _your_ eyes as the sowl o’ sic a fine, bonnie, winsome
leddy as yon. In trowth,” she added, and shook her head mournfully,
“I haena had sae mony preevileeges; an’ maybe it’ll be seen till,
an’ me passed ower a wheen easier nor some fowk.”
“I wouldn’t have you build too much upon that, Mistress Croale,”
said Mr. Sclater, glad to follow the talk down another turning, but
considerably more afraid of rousing the woman than he had been
before.
The remark drove her behind the categorical stockade of her
religious merits.
“I pey my w’y,” she said, with modest firmness. “I put my penny, and
whiles my saxpence, intil the plate at the door whan I gang to the
kirk--an’ I was jist thinkin’ I wad win there the morn’s nicht at
farest, whan I turnt an’ saw ye stan’in there, sir; an’ little I
thoucht--but that’s neither here nor there, I’m thinkin’. I tell as
feow lees as I can; I never sweir, nor tak the name o’ the Lord in
vain, anger me ’at likes; I sell naething but the best whusky; I
never hae but broth to my denner upo’ the Lord’s day, an’ broth
canna brak the Sawbath, simmerin’ awa upo’ the bar o’ the grate,
an’ haudin’ no lass frae the kirk; I confess, gien ye wull be
speirin’, ’at I dinna read my buik sae aften as maybe I sud; but,
’deed, sir, tho’ I says ’t ’at sud haud my tongue, ye hae waur folk
i’ yer perris nor Benjie Croale’s widow; an’ gien ye wunna hae a
drap to weet yer ain whustle for the holy wark ye hae afore ye the
morn’s mornin’, I maun gang an’ mak my bed, for the lass is laid up
wi’ a bealt thoom, an’ I maunna lat a’ thing gang to dirt an’ green
bree; though I’m sure it’s rale kin’ o’ ye to come to luik efter me,
an’ that’s mair nor Maister Rennie, honest gentleman, ever did me
the fawvour o’, a’ the time he ministered the perris. I haena an
ill name wi’ them ’at kens me, sir; that I can say wi’ a clean
conscience; an’ ye may ken me weel gien ye wull. An’ there’s jist
ae thing mair, sir: I gie ye my Bible-word, ’at never, gien I saw
sign o’ repentance or turnin’ upo’ ane o’ them ’at pits their legs
aneth my table--Wad ye luik intil the parlour, sir? No!--as I was
sayin’, never did I, sin I keepit hoose, an’ never wad I set mysel’
to quench the smokin’ flax; I wad hae no man’s deith, sowl or body,
lie at my door.”
“Well, well, Mistress Croale,” said the minister, somewhat dazed by
the cataract he had brought upon his brain, and rather perplexed
what to say in reply with any hope of reaching her, “I don’t doubt a
word of what you tell me; but you know works cannot save us; our
best righteousness is but as filthy rags.”
“It’s weel I ken that, Mr. Sclater. An’ I’m sure I’ll be glaid to
see ye, sir, ony time ye wad dee me the fawvour to luik in as ye’re
passin’ by. It’ll be none to yer shame, sir, for mine’s an honest
hoose.”
“I’ll do that, Mistress Croale,” answered the minister, glad to
escape. “But mind,” he added, “I don’t give up my point for all
that; and I hope you will think over what I have been saying to
you--and that seriously.”
With these words he left the shop rather hurriedly, in evident dread
of a reply.
Mistress Croale turned to the shelves behind her, took again the
bottle she had replaced, poured out a large half-glass of whisky,
and tossed it off. She had been compelled to think and talk of
things unpleasant, and it had put her, as she said, _a’ in a trim’le_.
She was but one of the many who get the fuel of their life in at
the wrong door, their comfort from the world-side of the universe.
I cannot tell whether Mr. Sclater or she was the farther from the
central heat. The woman had the advantage in this, that she had to
expend all her force on mere self-justification, and had no energy
left for vain-glory. It was with a sad sigh she set about the work
of the house. Nor would it have comforted her much to assure her
that hers was a better defence than any distiller in the country
could make. Even the whisky itself gave her little relief; it
seemed to scald both stomach and conscience, and she vowed never to
take it again. But alas! this time is never the time for
self-denial; it is always the next time. Abstinence is so much more
pleasant to contemplate upon the other side of indulgence! Yet the
struggles after betterment that many a drunkard has made in vain,
would, had his aim been high enough, have saved his soul from death,
and turned the charnel of his life into a temple. Abject as he is,
foiled and despised, such a one may not yet be half so contemptible
as many a so-counted respectable member of society, who looks down
on him from a height too lofty even for scorn. It is not the first
and the last only, of whom many will have to change places; but
those as well that come everywhere between.