TEN AULD HOOSE O’ GALBRAITH.
One cold afternoon in the end of October, when Mistress Croale was
shutting up her shop in the market, and a tumbler of something hot was
haunting her imagination, Gibbie came walking up the long gallery with
the light hill-step which he never lost, and startled her with a hand
on her shoulder, making signs that she must come with him. She made
haste to lock her door, and they walked side by side to the Widdiehill.
As they crossed the end of it she cast a look down Jink Lane, and
thought of her altered condition with a sigh. Then the memory of the
awful time amongst the sailors, in which poor Sambo’s frightful death
was ever prominent, came back like a fog from hell. But so far gone
were those times now, that, seeing their events more as they really
were, she looked upon them with incredulous horror, as things in which
she could hardly have had any part or lot. Then returned her wanderings
and homeless miseries, when often a haystack or a heap of straw in a
shed was her only joy--whisky always excepted. Last of all came the
dread perils, the hairbreadth escapes of her too adventurous voyage
on the brander;--and after all these things, here she was, walking in
peace by the side of wee Sir Gibbie, a friend as strong now as he had
always been true! She asked herself, or some power within asked her,
whence came the troubles that had haunted her life. Why had she been
marked out for such misfortunes? Her conscience answered--from her
persistence in living by the sale of drink after she had begun to feel
it was wrong. Thence it was that she had learned to drink, and that
she was even now liable, if not to be found drunk in the streets, yet
to go to bed drunk as any of her former customers. The cold crept into
her bones; the air seemed full of blue points and clear edges of cold,
that stung and cut her. She was a wretched, a low creature! What would
her late aunt think to see her now? What if this cold in her bones
were the cold of coming death? To lie for ages in her coffin, with her
mouth full of earth, longing for whisky! A verse from the end of the
New Testament with “_nor drunkards_” in it, came to her mind. She had
always had faith, she said to herself; but let them preach what they
liked about salvation by faith, she knew there was nothing but hell for
her if she were to die that night. There was Mistress Murkison looking
out of her shop-door! She was respected as much as ever! Would Mistress
Murkison be saved if she died that night? At least nobody would want
her damned; whereas not a few, and Mr. Sclater in particular, would
think it no fair play if Mistress Croale were not damned!
They turned into the close of the Auld Hoose o’ Galbraith.
“Wee Gibbie’s plottin’ to lead me to repentance!” she said to herself.
“He’s gaein’ to shaw me whaur his father dee’d, an’ whaur they leevit
in sic meesery--a’ throu’ the drink I gae ’im, an’ the respectable
hoose I keepit to ’tice him till ’t! He wad hae me persuaudit to lea’
aff the drink! Weel, I’m a heap better nor ance I was, an’ gie ’t up I
wull a’thegither--afore it comes to the last wi’ me.”
By this time Gibbie was leading her up the dark stair. At the top, on a
wide hall-like landing, he opened a door. She drew back with shy amaze.
Her first thought was--“That prood madam, the minister’s wife, ’ill
be there!” Was affront lying in wait for her again? She looked round
angrily at her conductor. But his smile reassured her, and she stepped
in.
It was almost a grand room, rich and sombre in colour, old-fashioned in
its somewhat stately furniture. A glorious fire was blazing and candles
were burning. The table was covered with a white cloth, and laid for
two. Gibbie shut the door, placed a chair for Mistress Croale by the
fire, seated himself, took out his tablets, wrote “Will you be my
housekeeper? I will give you £100 a year,” and handed them to her.
“Lord, Sir Gibbie!” she cried, jumping to her feet, “hae ye tint yer
wuts? Hoo wad an auld wife like me luik in sic a place--an’ in sic duds
as this? It wad gar Sawtan lauch, an’ that he can but seldom.”
Gibbie rose, and taking her by the hand, led her to the door of an
adjoining room. It was a bedroom, as grand as the room they had left,
and if Mistress Croale was surprised before, she was astonished now. A
fire was burning here too, candles were alight on the dressing-table,
a hot bath stood ready, on the bed lay a dress of rich black satin,
with linen and everything down, or up, to collars, cuffs, mittens,
cap, and shoes. All these things Gibbie had bought himself, using the
knowledge he had gathered in shopping with Mrs. Sclater, and the advice
of her dressmaker, whom he had taken into his confidence, and who had
entered heartily into his plan. He made signs to Mistress Croale that
everything there was at her service, and left her.
Like one in a dream she yielded to the rush of events, not too much
bewildered to dress with care, and neither too old nor too wicked nor
too ugly to find pleasure in it. She might have been a born lady just
restored to the habits of her youth, to judge by her delight over the
ivory brushes and tortoise-shell comb, and great mirror. In an hour or
so she made her appearance--I can hardly say reappeared, she was so
altered. She entered the room neither blushing nor smiling, but wiping
the tears from her eyes like a too blessed child. What Mrs. Sclater
would have felt, I dare hardly think; for there was “the horrid woman”
arrayed as nearly after her fashion as Gibbie had been able to get
her up! A very good “get-up” nevertheless it was, and satisfactory to
both concerned. Mistress Croale went out a decent-looking poor body,
and entered a not uncomely matron of the housekeeper class, rather
agreeable to look upon, who had just stood a nerve-shaking but not
unpleasant surprise, and was recovering. Gibbie was so satisfied with
her appearance that, come of age as he was, and vagrant no more, he
first danced round her several times with a candle in his hand, much to
the danger but nowise to the detriment of her finery, then set it down,
and executed his old lavolta of delight, which, as always, he finished
by standing on one leg.
Then they sat down to a nice nondescript meal, also of Gibbie’s own
providing.
When their meal was ended, he went to a bureau, and brought thence a
paper, plainly written to this effect:
“I agree to do whatever Sir Gilbert Galbraith may require of me, so
long as it shall not be against my conscience; and consent that, if I
taste whisky once, he shall send me away immediately, without further
reason given.”
He handed it to Mistress Croale; she read, and instantly looked about
for pen and ink: she dreaded seeming for a moment to hesitate. He
brought them to her, she signed, and they shook hands.
He then conducted her all over the house--first to the rooms prepared
for his study and bedroom, and next to the room in the garret, which he
had left just as it was when his father died in it. There he gave her
a look by which he meant to say, “See what whisky brings people to!”
but which her conscience interpreted, “See what you brought my father
to!” Next, on the floor between, he showed her a number of bedrooms,
all newly repaired and fresh-painted,--with double windows, the inside
ones filled with frosted glass. These rooms, he gave her to understand,
he wished her to furnish, getting as many things as she could from
Mistress Murkison. Going back then to the sitting-room, he proceeded
to explain his plans, telling her he had furnished the house that he
might not any longer be himself such a stranger as to have no place
to take a stranger to. Then he got a Bible there was in the room, and
showed her those words in the book of Exodus--“Also, thou shalt not
oppress a stranger; for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing ye were
strangers in the land of Egypt;” and while she thought again of her
wanderings through the country, and her nights in the open air, made
her understand that whomsoever he should at any time bring home she was
to treat as his guest. She might get a servant to wait upon herself,
he said, but she must herself help him to wait upon his guests, in the
name of the Son of Man.
She expressed hearty acquiescence, but would not hear of a servant: the
more work the better for her! she said. She would to-morrow arrange for
giving up her shop and disposing of her stock and the furniture in her
garret. But Gibbie requested the keys of both those places. Next, he
insisted that she should never utter a word as to the use he intended
making of his house; if the thing came out, it would ruin his plans,
and he must give them up altogether--and thereupon he took her to the
ground floor and showed her a door in communication with a poor little
house behind, by which he intended to introduce and dismiss his guests,
that they should not know where they had spent the night. Then he made
her read to him the hundred and seventh Psalm; after which he left her,
saying he would come to the house as soon as the session began, which
would be in a week; until then he should be at Mr. Sclater’s.
Left alone in the great house--like one with whom the most beneficent
of fairies had been busy, the first thing Mistress Croale did was to go
and have a good look at herself--from head to foot--in the same mirror
that had enlightened Donal as to his outermost man. Very different
was the re-reflection it caused in Mistress Croale: she was satisfied
with everything she saw there, except her complexion, and that she
resolved should improve. She was almost painfully happy. Out there was
the Widdiehill, dark and dismal and cold, through which she had come,
sad and shivering and haunted with miserable thoughts, into warmth and
splendour and luxury and bliss! Wee Sir Gibbie had made a lady of her!
If only poor Sir George were alive to see and share!--There was but one
thing wanted to make it Paradise indeed--a good tumbler of toddy by the
fire before she went to bed!
Then first she thought of the vow she had made as she signed the paper,
and shuddered--not at the thought of breaking it, but at the thought of
having to keep it, and no help.--No help! it was the easiest thing in
the world to get a bottle of whisky. She had but to run to Jink Lane at
the farthest, to her own old house, which, for all Mr. Sclater, was a
whisky shop yet! She had emptied her till, and had money in her pocket.
Who was there to tell? She would not have a chance when Sir Gibbie came
home to her. She must make use of what time was left her. She was safe
now from going too far, because she _must_ give it up; and why not
then have one farewell night of pleasure, to bid a last good-bye to
her old friend Whisky? what should she have done without him, lying in
the cold wind by a dykeside, or going down the Daur like a shot on her
brander?--Thus the tempting passion; thus, for aught I know, a tempting
devil at the ear of her mind as well.--But with that came the face of
Gibbie; she thought how troubled that face would look if she failed
him. What a lost, irredeemable wretch was she about to make of herself
after all he had done for her! No; if whisky _was_ heaven, and the want
of it _was_ hell, she _would_ not do it! She ran to the door, locked
it, brought away the key, and laid it under the Bible from which she
had been reading to Sir Gibbie. Perhaps she might have done better than
betake herself again to her finery, but it did help her through the
rest of the evening, and she went to her grand bed not only sober, but
undefiled of the enemy. When Gibbie came to her a week after, he came
to a true woman, one who had kept faith with him.