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diff --git a/2370-h/2370-h.htm b/2370-h/2370-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc2bbe9 --- /dev/null +++ b/2370-h/2370-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,19461 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg Ebook of Sir Gibbie, by George Macdonald, by George Macdonald—A Project Gutenberg eBook + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; width: 60%;} +table.autotable td, +table.autotable th { padding: 4px; } +.x-ebookmaker table {width: 95%;} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em;} + + +/* Footnotes */ + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 5%; text-indent: 0em;} +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry in browsers */ +/* .poetry {display: inline-block;} */ +/* large inline blocks don't split well on paged devices */ +@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } +.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block; margin-left: 5%} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + +.big {font-size: 1.2em;} +.small {font-size: 0.8em;} + +abbr[title] { + text-decoration: none; +} + + /* ]]> */ </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sir Gibbie, by George MacDonald</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Sir Gibbie</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: George MacDonald</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Posting: March 1, 2009 [EBook #2370]<br> +Release Date: October, 2000<br> +Last Updated: October 29, 2022</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: John Bechard. HTML version by Al Haines. Smart quotes, Lisa +Wadsworth.</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIR GIBBIE ***</div> + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter transnote"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="See_BROAD_SCOTS_GLOSSARY_at_end_of_this_work">See “BROAD SCOTS GLOSSARY” at end of this work.</h2> + + +<p>Note from electronic text creator: I have compiled a <a href="#GLOSSARY">word list</a> with +definitions of most of the Scottish words found in this work at the +end of the book. This list does not belong to the original work, +but is designed to help with the conversations in Broad Scots found +in this work. A further explanation of this list can be found +towards the end of this document, preceding the word list.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>SIR GIBBIE.</h1> + + +<p class="center p2">BY</p> + +<p class="center big">GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> +</div> +<table class="autotable"> +<tr><td> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">I. THE EARRING.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II. SIR GEORGE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III. MISTRESS CROALE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV. THE PARLOUR.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V. GIBBIE’S CALLING.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI. A SUNDAY AT HOME.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII. THE TOWN-SPARROW.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII. SAMBO.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX. ADRIFT.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X. THE BARN.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI. JANET.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII. GLASHGAR.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII. THE CEILING.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV. HORNIE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV. DONAL GRANT.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI. APPRENTICESHIP.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII. SECRET SERVICE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII. THE BROONIE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX. THE LAIRD.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX. THE AMBUSH.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI. THE PUNISHMENT.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII. REFUGE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII. MORE SCHOOLING.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV. THE SLATE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV. RUMOURS.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI. THE GAMEKEEPER</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII. A VOICE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII. THE WISDOM OF THE WISE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX. THE BEAST-BOY.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX. THE LORRIE MEADOW.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI. THEIR REWARD.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII. PROLOGUE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII. THE MAINS.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV. GLASHRUACH.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV. THE WHELP.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI. THE BRANDER.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII. MR. SCLATER.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII. THE MUCKLE HOOSE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX. DAUR STREET.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XL">XL. MRS. SCLATER.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">XLI. INITIATION.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">XLII. DONAL’S LODGING.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">XLIII. THE MINISTER’S DEFEAT.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">XLIV. THE SINNER.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">XLV. SHOALS AHEAD.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">XLVI. THE GIRLS.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">XLVII. A LESSON OF WISDOM.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">XLVIII. NEEDFULL ODDS AND ENDS.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX">XLIX. THE HOUSELESS.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_L">L. A WALK.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LI">LI. THE NORTH CHURCH.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LII">LII. THE QUARRY.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LIII">LIII. A NIGHT-WATCH.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LIV">LIV. OF AGE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LV">LV. TEN AULD HOOSE O’ GALBRAITH.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LVI">LVI. THE LAIRD AND THE PREACHER.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LVII">LVII. A HIDING-PLACE FROM THE WIND.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LVIII">LVIII. THE CONFESSION.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LIX">LIX. CATASTROPHE.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LX">LX. ARRANGEMENT AND PREPARATION.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXI">LXI. THE WEDDING.</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_LXII">LXII. THE BURN.</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br><span class="small">THE EARRING.</span></h2></div> + +<p>“Come oot o’ the gutter, ye nickum!” cried, in harsh, half-masculine +voice, a woman standing on the curbstone of a short, narrow, dirty +lane, at right angles to an important thoroughfare, itself none of +the widest or cleanest. She was dressed in dark petticoat and print +wrapper. One of her shoes was down at the heel, and discovered a great +hole in her stocking. Had her black hair been brushed and displayed, +it would have revealed a thready glitter of grey, but all that was now +visible of it was only two or three untidy tresses that dropped from +under a cap of black net and green ribbons, which looked as if she +had slept in it. Her face must have been handsome when it was young +and fresh; but was now beginning to look tattooed, though whether the +colour was from without or from within, it would have been hard to +determine. Her black eyes looked resolute, almost fierce, above her +straight, well-formed nose. Yet evidently circumstance clave fast to +her. She had never risen above it, and was now plainly subjected to it.</p> + +<p>About thirty yards from her, on the farther side of the main street, +and just opposite the mouth of the lane, a child, apparently about six, +but in reality about eight, was down on his knees raking with both +hands in the grey dirt of the kennel. At the woman’s cry he lifted +his head, ceased his search, raised himself, but without getting up, +and looked at her. They were notable eyes out of which he looked—of +such a deep blue were they, and having such long lashes; but more +notable far from their expression, the nature of which, although a +certain witchery of confidence was at once discoverable, was not to be +determined without the help of the whole face, whose diffused meaning +seemed in them to deepen almost to speech. Whatever was at the heart +of that expression, it was something that enticed question and might +want investigation. The face as well as the eyes was lovely—not +very clean, and not too regular for hope of a fine development, but +chiefly remarkable from a general effect of something I can only +call <i>luminosity</i>. The hair, which stuck out from his head in every +direction, like a round fur cap, would have been of the red-gold kind, +had it not been sunburned into a sort of human hay. An odd creature +altogether the child appeared, as, shaking the gutter-drops from his +little dirty hands, he gazed from his bare knees on the curbstone at +the woman of rebuke. It was but for a moment. The next he was down, +raking in the gutter again.</p> + +<p>The woman looked angry, and took a step forward; but the sound of a +sharp imperative little bell behind her, made her turn at once, and +re-enter the shop from which she had just issued, following a man whose +pushing the door wider had set the bell ringing. Above the door was a +small board, nearly square, upon which was painted in lead-colour on a +black ground the words, “Licensed to sell beer, spirits, and tobacco to +be drunk on the premises.” There was no other sign. “Them ’at likes my +whusky ’ill no aye be speirin’ my name,” said Mistress Croale. As the +day went on she would have more and more customers, and in the evening +on to midnight, her parlour would be well filled. Then she would be +always at hand, and the spring of the bell would be turned aside from +the impact of the opening door. Now the bell was needful to recall her +from house affairs.</p> + +<p>“The likin’ ’at cratur his for clean dirt! He’s been at it this hale +half-hoor!” she murmured to herself as she poured from a black bottle +into a pewter measure a gill of whisky for the pale-faced toper who +stood on the other side of the counter: far gone in consumption, he +could not get through the forenoon without his <i>morning</i>. “I wad +like,” she went on, as she replaced the bottle without having spoken a +word to her customer, whose departure was now announced with the same +boisterous alacrity as his arrival by the shrill-toned bell—“I wad +like, for ’is father’s sake, honest man! to thraw Gibbie’s lug. That +likin’ for dirt I canna fathom nor bide.”</p> + +<p>Meantime the boy’s attention seemed entirely absorbed in the gutter. +Whatever vehicle passed before him, whatever footsteps behind, he +never lifted his head, but went creeping slowly on his knees along the +curb still searching down the flow of the sluggish, nearly motionless +current.</p> + +<p>It was a grey morning towards the close of autumn. The days began and +ended with a fog, but often between, as golden a sunshine glorified the +streets of the grey city as any that ripened purple grapes. To-day the +mist had lasted longer than usual—had risen instead of dispersing; +but now it was thinning, and at length, like a slow blossoming of +the sky-flower, the sun came melting through the cloud. Between the +gables of two houses, a ray fell upon the pavement and the gutter. It +lay there a very type of purity, so pure that, rest where it might, +it destroyed every shadow of defilement that sought to mingle with +it. Suddenly the boy made a dart upon all fours, and pounced like a +creature of prey upon something in the kennel. He had found what he +had been looking for so long. He sprang to his feet and bounded with +it into the sun, rubbing it as he ran upon what he had for trousers, +of which there was nothing below the knees but a few streamers, and +nothing above the knees but the body of the garment, which had been—I +will not say made for, but last worn by a boy three times his size. His +feet, of course, were bare as well as his knees and legs. But though +they were dirty, red, and rough, they were nicely shaped little legs, +and the feet were dainty.</p> + +<p>The sunbeams he sought came down through the smoky air like a Jacob’s +ladder, and he stood at the foot of it like a little prodigal angel +that wanted to go home again, but feared it was too much inclined for +him to manage the ascent in the present condition of his wings. But +all he did want was to see in the light of heaven what the gutter had +yielded him. He held up his <i>find</i> in the radiance and regarded it +admiringly. It was a little earring of amethyst-coloured glass, and in +the sun looked lovely. The boy was in an ecstasy over it. He rubbed it +on his sleeve, sucked it to clear it from the last of the gutter, and +held it up once more in the sun, where, for a few blissful moments, he +contemplated it speechless. He then caused it to disappear somewhere +about his garments—I will not venture to say in a pocket—and ran off, +his little bare feet sounding <i>thud, thud, thud</i> on the pavement, and +the collar of his jacket sticking halfway up the back of his head, and +threatening to rub it bare as he ran. Through street after street he +sped—all built of granite, all with flagged footways, and all paved +with granite blocks—a hard, severe city, not beautiful or stately with +its thick, grey, sparkling walls, for the houses were not high, and the +windows were small, yet in the better parts, nevertheless, handsome as +well as massive and strong.</p> + +<p>To the boy the great city was but a house of many rooms, all for his +use, his sport, his life. He did not know much of what lay within the +houses; but <i>that</i> only added the joy of mystery to possession: they +were jewel-closets, treasure-caves, indeed, with secret fountains of +life; and every street was a channel into which they overflowed.</p> + +<p>It was in one of quite a third-rate sort that the urchin at length +ceased his trot, and drew up at the door of a baker’s shop—a divided +door, opening in the middle by a latch of bright brass. But the child +did not lift the latch—only raised himself on tiptoe by the help of +its handle, to look through the upper half of the door, which was of +glass, into the beautiful shop. The floor was of flags, fresh sanded; +the counter was of deal, scrubbed as white almost as flour; on the +shelves were heaped the loaves of the morning’s baking, along with a +large store of scones and rolls and baps—the last, the best bread in +the world—biscuits hard and soft, and those brown discs of delicate +flaky piecrust, known as buns. And the smell that came through the very +glass, it seemed to the child, was as that of the tree of life in the +Paradise of which he had never heard. But most enticing of all to the +eyes of the little wanderer of the street were the penny-loaves, hot +smoking from the oven—which fact is our first window into the ordered +nature of the child. For the main point which made them more attractive +than all the rest to him was, that sometimes he did have a penny, and +that a penny loaf was the largest thing that could be had for a penny +in the shop. So that, lawless as he looked, the desires of the child +were moderate, and his imagination wrought within the bounds of reason. +But no one who has never been blessed with only a penny to spend and +a mighty hunger behind it, can understand the interest with which he +stood there and through the glass watched the bread, having no penny +and only the hunger. There is at least one powerful bond, though it may +not always awake sympathy, between mudlark and monarch—that of hunger. +No one has yet written the poetry of hunger—has built up in verse its +stairs of grand ascent—from such hunger as Gibbie’s for a penny-loaf +up—no, no, not to an alderman’s feast; that is the way down the +mouldy cellar-stair—but up the white marble scale to the hunger after +righteousness whose very longings are bliss.</p> + +<p>Behind the counter sat the baker’s wife, a stout, fresh-coloured woman, +looking rather dull, but simple and honest. She was knitting, and if +not dreaming, at least dozing over her work, for she never saw the +forehead and eyes which, like a young ascending moon, gazed at her over +the horizon of the opaque half of her door. There was no greed in those +eyes—only much quiet interest. He did not want to get in; had to wait, +and while waiting beguiled the time by beholding. He knew that Mysie, +the baker’s daughter, was at school, and that she would be home within +half an hour. He had seen her with tear-filled eyes as she went, had +learned from her the cause, and had in consequence unwittingly roused +Mrs. Croale’s anger, and braved it when aroused. But though he was +waiting for her, such was the absorbing power of the spectacle before +him that he never heard her approaching footsteps.</p> + +<p>“Lat me in,” said Mysie, with conscious dignity and a touch of +indignation at being impeded on the very threshold of her father’s shop.</p> + +<p>The boy started and turned, but instead of moving out of the way, began +searching in some mysterious receptacle hid in the recesses of his +rags. A look of anxiety once appeared, but the same moment it vanished, +and he held out in his hand the little drop of amethystine splendour. +Mysie’s face changed, and she clutched it eagerly.</p> + +<p>“That’s rale guid o’ ye, wee Gibbie!” she cried. “Whaur did ye get it?”</p> + +<p>He pointed to the kennel, and drew back from the door.</p> + +<p>“I thank ye,” she said heartily, and pressing down the thumbstall of +the latch, went in.</p> + +<p>“Wha’s that ye’re colloguin’ wi’, Mysie?” asked her mother, somewhat +severely, but without lifting her eyes from her wires. “Ye maunna be +speykin’ to loons i’ the street.”</p> + +<p>“It’s only wee Gibbie, mither,” answered the girl in a tone of +confidence.</p> + +<p>“Ow weel!” returned the mother, “he’s no like the lave o’ loons.”</p> + +<p>“But what had ye to say till him?” she resumed, as if afraid her +leniency might be taken advantage of. “He’s no fit company for the +likes o’ you, ’at his a father an’ mither, an’ a chop (<i>shop</i>). Ye maun +hae little to say to sic rintheroot laddies.”</p> + +<p>“Gibbie has a father, though they say he never hid nae mither,” said +the child.</p> + +<p>“Troth, a fine father!” rejoined the mother, with a small scornful +laugh. “Na, but he’s something to mak mention o’! Sic a father, lassie, +as it wad be tellin’ him he had nane! What said ye till ’im?”</p> + +<p>“I bit thankit ’im, ’cause I tint my drop as I gaed to the schuil i’ +the mornin’, an’ he fan ’t till me, an’ was at the chopdoor waitin’ to +gie me ’t back. They say he’s aye fin’in’ things.”</p> + +<p>“He’s a guid-hertit cratur!” said the mother,—“for ane, that is, ’at’s +been sae ill broucht up.”</p> + +<p>She rose, took from the shelf a large piece of bread, composed of many +adhering penny-loaves, detached one, and went to the door.</p> + +<p>“Here, Gibbie!” she cried as she opened it; “here’s a fine piece to ye.”</p> + +<p>But no Gibbie was there. Up and down the street not a child was to be +seen. A sandboy with a donkey cart was the sole human arrangement in +it. The baker’s wife drew back, shut the door and resumed her knitting.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br><span class="small">SIR GEORGE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The sun was hot for an hour or two in the middle of the day, but +even then in the shadow dwelt a cold breath—of the winter, or of +death—of something that humanity felt unfriendly. To Gibbie, +however, bare-legged, bare-footed, almost bare-bodied as he was, sun +or shadow made small difference, except as one of the musical +intervals of life that make the melody of existence. His bare feet +knew the difference on the flags, and his heart recognized +unconsciously the secret as it were of a meaning and a symbol, in +the change from the one to the other, but he was almost as happy in +the dull as in the bright day. Hardy through hardship, he knew +nothing better than a constant good-humoured sparring with nature +and circumstance for the privilege of being, enjoyed what came to +him thoroughly, never mourned over what he had not, and, like the +animals, was at peace. For the bliss of the animals lies in this, +that, on their lower level, they shadow the bliss of those—few at +any moment on the earth—who do not “look before and after, and pine +for what is not,” but live in the holy carelessness of the eternal +<i>now</i>. Gibbie by no means belonged to the higher order, was as yet, +indeed, not much better than a very blessed little animal.</p> + +<p>To him the city was all a show. He knew many of the people—some of +them who thought no small things of themselves—better than they +would have chosen he or any one else should know them. He knew all +the peripatetic vendors, most of the bakers, most of the small +grocers and tradespeople. Animal as he was, he was laying in a +great stock for the time when he would be something more, for the +time of reflection, whenever that might come. Chiefly, his +experience was a wonderful provision for the future perception of +character; for now he knew to a nicety how any one of his large +acquaintance would behave to him in circumstances within the scope +of that experience. If any such little vagabond rises in the scale +of creation, he carries with him from the street an amount of +material serving to the knowledge of human nature, human need, human +aims, human relations in the business of life, such as hardly +another can possess. Even the poet, greatly wise in virtue of his +sympathy, will scarcely understand a given human condition so well +as the man whose vital tentacles have been in contact with it for +years.</p> + +<p>When Gibbie was not looking in at a shop-window, or turning on one +heel to take in all at a sweep, he was oftenest seen trotting. +Seldom he walked. A gentle trot was one of his natural modes of +being. And though this day he had been on the trot all the sunshine +through, nevertheless, when the sun was going down there was wee +Gibbie upon the trot in the chilling and darkening streets. He had +not had much to eat. He had been very near having a penny loaf. +Half a cookie, which a stormy child had thrown away to ease his +temper, had done further and perhaps better service in easing +Gibbie’s hunger. The green-grocer woman at the entrance of the +court where his father lived, a good way down the same street in +which he had found the lost earring, had given him a small yellow +turnip—to Gibbie nearly as welcome as an apple. A fishwife from +Finstone with a <i>creel</i> on her back, had given him all his hands could +hold of the sea-weed called <i>dulse</i>, presumably not from its +sweetness, although it is good eating. She had added to the gift a +small crab, but that he had carried to the seashore and set free, +because it was alive. These, the half-cookie, the turnip, and the +dulse, with the smell of the baker’s bread, was all he had had. It +had been rather one of his meagre days. But it is wonderful upon +how little those rare natures capable of making the most of things +will live and thrive. There is a great deal more to be got out of +things than is generally got out of them, whether the thing be a +chapter of the Bible or a yellow turnip, and the marvel is that +those who use the most material should so often be those that show +the least result in strength or character. A superstitious +priest-ridden Catholic may, in the kingdom of heaven, be high beyond +sight of one who counts himself the broadest of English churchmen. +Truly Gibbie got no fat out of his food, but he got what was far +better. What he carried—I can hardly say under or in, but along +with those rags of his, was all muscle—small, but hard and +healthy, and knotting up like whipcord. There are all degrees of +health in poverty as well as in riches, and Gibbie’s health was +splendid. His senses also were marvellously acute. I have already +hinted at his gift for finding things. His eyes were sharp, quick, +and roving, and then they went near the ground—he was such a little +fellow. His success, however, not all these considerations could +well account for, and he was regarded as born with a special luck in +finding. I doubt if sufficient weight was given to the fact that, +even when he was not so turning his mind, it strayed in that +direction, whence, if any object cast its reflected rays on his +retina, those rays never failed to reach his mind also. On one +occasion he picked up the pocket-book a gentleman had just dropped, +and, in mingled fun and delight, was trying to put it in its owner’s +pocket unseen, when he collared him, and, had it not been for the +testimony of a young woman who, coming behind, had seen the whole, +would have handed him over to the police. After all, he remained in +doubt, the thing seemed so incredible. He did give him a penny, +however, which Gibbie at once spent upon a loaf.</p> + +<p>It was not from any notions of honesty—he knew nothing about +it—that he always did what he could to restore the things he found; +the habit came from quite another cause. When he had no clue to the +owner, he carried the thing found to his father, who generally let +it lie a while, and at length, if it was of nature convertible, +turned it into drink.</p> + +<p>While Gibbie thus lived in the streets like a town-sparrow—as like a +human bird without storehouse or barn as boy could well be—the +human father of him would all day be sitting in a certain dark +court, as hard at work as an aching head and a bloodless system +would afford. The said court was off the narrowest part of a long, +poverty-stricken street, bearing a name of evil omen, for it was +called the Widdiehill—the place of the gallows. It was entered by +a low archway in the middle of an old house, around which yet clung +a musty fame of departed grandeur and ancient note. In the court, +against a wing of the same house, rose an outside stair, leading to +the first floor; under the stair was a rickety wooden shed; and in +the shed sat the father of Gibbie, and cobbled boots and shoes as +long as, at this time of the year, the light lasted. Up that stair, +and two more inside the house, he went to his lodging, for he slept +in the garret. But when or how he got to bed, George Galbraith +never knew, for then, invariably, he was drunk. In the morning, +however, he always found himself in it—generally with an aching +head, and always with a mingled disgust at and desire for drink. +During the day, alas! the disgust departed, while the desire +remained, and strengthened with the approach of evening. All day he +worked with might and main, such might and main as he had—worked as +if for his life, and all to procure the means of death. No one ever +sought to <i>treat</i> him, and from no one would he accept drink. He was +a man of such inborn honesty, that the usurping demon of a vile +thirst had not even yet, at the age of forty, been able to cast it +out. The last little glory-cloud of his origin was trailing behind +him—but yet it trailed. Doubtless it needs but time to make of a +drunkard a thief, but not yet, even when longing was at the highest, +would he have stolen a forgotten glass of whisky; and still, often +in spite of sickness and aches innumerable, George laboured that he +might have wherewith to make himself drunk honestly. Strange +honesty! Wee Gibbie was his only child, but about him or his +well-being he gave himself almost as little trouble as Gibbie caused +him! Not that he was hard-hearted; if he had seen the child in +want, he would, at the drunkest, have shared his whisky with him; if +he had fancied him cold, he would have put his last garment upon +him; but to his whisky-dimmed eyes the child scarcely seemed to want +anything, and the thought never entered his mind that, while Gibbie +always looked smiling and contented, his father did so little to +make him so. He had at the same time a very low opinion of himself +and his deservings, and justly, for his consciousness had dwindled +into little more than a live thirst. He did not do well for +himself, neither did men praise him; and he shamefully neglected his +child; but in one respect, and that a most important one, he did +well by his neighbours: he gave the best of work, and made the +lowest of charges. In no other way was he for much good. And yet I +would rather be that drunken cobbler than many a “fair professor,” +as Bunyan calls him. A grasping merchant ranks infinitely lower +than <i>such</i> a drunken cobbler. Thank God, the Son of Man is the +judge, and to him will we plead the cause of such—yea, and of worse +than they—for He will do right. It may be well for drunkards that +they are social outcasts, but is there no intercession to be made +for them—no excuse to be pleaded? Alas! the poor wretches would +storm the kingdom of peace by the inspiration of the enemy. Let us +try to understand George Galbraith. His very existence the sense of +a sunless, dreary, cold-winded desert, he was evermore confronted, +in all his resolves after betterment, by the knowledge that with the +first eager mouthful of the strange element, a rosy dawn would begin +to flush the sky, a mist of green to cover the arid waste, a wind of +song to ripple the air, and at length the misery of the day would +vanish utterly, and the night throb with dreams. For George was by +nature no common man. At heart he was a poet—weak enough, but +capable of endless delight. The time had been when now and then he +read a good book and dreamed noble dreams. Even yet the stuff of +which such dreams are made, fluttered in particoloured rags about +his life; and colour is colour even on a scarecrow.</p> + +<p>He had had a good mother, and his father was a man of some +character, both intellectually and socially. Now and then, it is +too true, he had terrible bouts of drinking; but all the time +between he was perfectly sober. He had given his son more than a +fair education; and George, for his part, had trotted through the +curriculum of Elphinstone College not altogether without +distinction. But beyond this his father had entirely neglected his +future, not even revealing to him the fact—of which, indeed, he was +himself but dimly aware—that from wilful oversight on his part and +design on that of others, his property had all but entirely slipped +from his possession.</p> + +<p>While his father was yet alive, George married the daughter of a +small laird in a neighbouring county—a woman of some education, and +great natural refinement. He took her home to the ancient family +house in the city—the same in which he now occupied a garret, and +under whose outer stair he now cobbled shoes. There, during his +father’s life, they lived in peace and tolerable comfort, though in +a poor enough way. It was all, even then, that the wife could do to +make both ends meet; nor would her relations, whom she had +grievously offended by her marriage, afford her the smallest +assistance. Even then, too, her husband was on the slippery +incline; but as long as she lived, she managed to keep him within the +bounds of what is called respectability. She died, however, soon +after Gibbie was born; and then George began to lose himself +altogether. The next year his father died, and creditors appeared +who claimed everything. Mortgaged land and houses, with all upon +and in them, were sold, and George left without a penny or any means +of winning a livelihood, while already he had lost the reputation +that might have introduced him to employment. For heavy work he was +altogether unfit; and had it not been for a bottle companion—a +merry, hard-drinking shoemaker—he would have died of starvation or +sunk into beggary.</p> + +<p>This man taught him his trade, and George was glad enough to work at +it, both to deaden the stings of conscience and memory, and to +procure the means of deadening them still further. But even here +was something in the way of improvement, for hitherto he had applied +himself to nothing, his being one of those dreamful natures capable +of busy exertion for a time, but ready to collapse into disgust with +every kind of effort.</p> + +<p>How Gibbie had got thus far alive was a puzzle not a creature could +have solved. It must have been by charity and ministration of more +than one humble woman, but no one now claimed any particular +interest in him—except Mrs. Croale, and hers was not very tender. +It was a sad sight to some eyes to see him roving the streets, but +an infinitely sadder sight was his father, even when bent over his +work, with his hands and arms and knees going as if for very +salvation. What thoughts might then be visiting his poor worn-out +brain I cannot tell; but he looked the pale picture of misery. +Doing his best to restore to service the nearly shapeless boots of +carter or beggar, he was himself fast losing the very idea of his +making, consumed heart and soul with a hellish thirst. For the +thirst of the drunkard is even more of the soul than of the body. +When the poor fellow sat with his drinking companions in Mistress +Croale’s parlour, seldom a flash broke from the reverie in which he +seemed sunk, to show in what region of fancy his spirit wandered, or +to lighten the dulness that would not unfrequently invade that +forecourt of hell. For even the damned must at times become aware +of what they are, and then surely a terrible though momentary hush +must fall upon the forsaken region. Yet those drinking companions +would have missed George Galbraith, silent as he was, and but poorly +responsive to the wit and humour of the rest; for he was always +courteous, always ready to share what he had, never looking beyond +the present tumbler—altogether a genial, kindly, honest nature. +Sometimes, when two or three of them happened to meet elsewhere, +they would fall to wondering why the silent man sought their +company, seeing he both contributed so little to the hilarity of the +evening, and seemed to derive so little enjoyment from it. But I +believe their company was necessary as well as the drink to enable +him to elude his conscience and feast with his imagination. Was it +that he knew they also fought misery by investments in her +bonds—that they also were of those who by Beelzebub would cast out +Beelzebub—therefore felt at home, and with his own?</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br><span class="small">MISTRESS CROALE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>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 <i>kept decent</i>—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 <i>clientèle</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>them</i>.” 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Divine decrees</i> 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.</p> + +<p>“What’s yer wull?” she said indifferently.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What’s yer wull, sir?” she repeated, with more respect, but less +cordiality than at first.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“My certie! but ye’re no blate (<i>over-modest</i>) to craw sae lood i’ <i>my</i> +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.”</p> + +<p>“I said nothing about your house. It was your shop I spoke of,” +said the minister, not guiltless of subterfuge.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I said nothing, and know nothing, against yours more than any other +shop for the sale of drink in my parish.”</p> + +<p>“The Lord’s my shepherd! Wad ye even (<i>compare</i>) my hoose to Jock +Thamson’s or Jeemie Deuk’s, baith i’ this perris?”</p> + +<p>“My good woman,—”</p> + +<p>“Naither better nor waur nor my neepers,” interrupted Mistress +Croale, forgetting what she had just implied: “a body maun live.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“They’re like to see deils ony gait er lang,” retorted the +minister, relapsing into the vernacular for a moment.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“As Mistress Bonniman’s, for enstance?” suggested Mrs. Croale, +interrogatively, and with just the least trace of pawkiness in the +tone.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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’ <i>your</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>The remark drove her behind the categorical stockade of her +religious merits.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>With these words he left the shop rather hurriedly, in evident dread +of a reply.</p> + +<p>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, <i>a’ in a trim’le</i>. +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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br><span class="small">THE PARLOUR.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The day went on, and went out, its short autumnal brightness quenched +in a chilly fog. All along the Widdiehill, the gas was alight in the +low-browed dingy shops. To the well-to-do citizen hastening home to +the topmost business of the day, his dinner, these looked the abodes +of unlovely poverty and mean struggle. Even to those behind their +counters, in their back parlours, and in their rooms above, everything +about them looked common—to most of them, save the owners, wearisome. +But to yon pale-faced student, gliding in the glow of his red gown, +through the grey mist, back to his lodging, and peeping in at every +open door as he passes, they are so full of mystery, that gladly would +he yield all he has gathered from books, for one genuine glance of +insight into the vital movement of the hearts and households of which +those open shops are the sole outward and visible signs. Each house is +to him a nest of human birds, over which brood the eternal wings of +love and purpose. Only such different birds are hatched from the same +nest! And what a nest was then the city itself!—with its university, +its schools, its churches, its hospitals, its missions; its homes, its +lodging-houses, its hotels, its drinking shops, its houses viler still; +its factories, its ships, its great steamers; and the same humanity +busy in all!—here the sickly lady walking in the panoply of love +unharmed through the horrors of vicious suffering; there the strong +mother cursing her own child along half a street with an intensity and +vileness of execration unheard elsewhere! The will of the brooding +spirit must be a grand one, indeed, to enclose so much of what cannot +be its will, and turn all to its purpose of eternal good! Our knowledge +of humanity, how much more our knowledge of the Father of it, is moving +as yet but in the first elements.</p> + +<p>In his shed under the stair it had been dark for some time—too dark +for work, that is, and George Galbraith had lighted a candle: he never +felt at liberty to leave off so long as a man was recognizable in +the street by daylight. But now at last, with a sigh of relief, he +rose. The hour of his redemption was come, the moment of it at hand. +Outwardly calm, he was within eager as a lover to reach Lucky Croale’s +back parlour. His hand trembled with expectation as he laid from it the +awl, took from between his knees the great boot on the toe of which +he had been stitching a patch, lifted the yoke of his leather apron +over his head, and threw it aside. With one hasty glance around, as +if he feared some enemy lurking near to prevent his escape, he caught +up a hat which looked as if it had been brushed with grease, pulled +it on his head with both hands, stepped out quickly, closed the door +behind him, turned the key, left it in the lock, and made straight for +his earthly paradise—but with chastened step. All Mistress Croale’s +customers made a point of looking decent in the street—strove, in +their very consciousness, to carry the expression of being on their way +to their tea, not their toddy—or if their toddy, then not that they +desired it, but merely that it was their custom always of an afternoon: +man had no choice—he must fill space, he must occupy himself; and if +so, why not Mistress Croale’s the place, and the consumption of whisky +the occupation? But alas for their would-be seeming indifference! +Everybody in the lane, almost in the Widdiehill, knew every one of +them, and knew him for what he was; knew that every drop of toddy he +drank was to him as to a miser his counted sovereign; knew that, as +the hart for the water-brooks, so thirsted his soul ever after another +tumbler; that he made haste to swallow the last drops of the present, +that he might behold the plenitude of the next steaming before him; +that, like the miser, he always understated the amount of the treasure +he had secured, because the less he acknowledged, the more he thought +he could claim.</p> + +<p>George was a tall man, of good figure, loosened and bowed. His face +was well favoured, but not a little wronged by the beard and dirt +of a week, through which it gloomed haggard and white. Beneath his +projecting black brows, his eyes gleamed doubtful, as a wood-fire where +white ash dims the glow. He looked neither to right nor left, but +walked on with moveless dull gaze, noting nothing.</p> + +<p>“Yon’s his ain warst enemy,” said the kindly grocer-wife, as he passed +her door.</p> + +<p>“Aye,” responded her customer, who kept a shop near by for old +furniture, or anything that had been already once possessed—“aye, I +daursay. But eh! to see that puir negleckit bairn o’ his rin scoorin’ +aboot the toon yon gait—wi’ little o’ a jacket but the collar, an’ +naething o’ the breeks but the doup—eh, wuman! it maks a mither’s hert +sair to luik upo’ ’t. It’s a providence ’at <i>his</i> mither’s weel awa an’ +canna see ’t; it wad gar her turn in her grave.”</p> + +<p>George was the first arrival at Mistress Croale’s that night. He opened +the door of the shop like a thief, and glided softly into the dim +parlour, where the candles were not yet lit. There was light enough, +however, from the busy little fire in the grate to show the clean +sanded floor which it crossed with flickering shadows, the coloured +prints and cases of stuffed birds on the walls, the full-rigged barque +suspended from the centre of the ceiling, and, chief of all shows of +heaven or earth, the black bottle on the table, with the tumblers, each +holding its ladle, and its wine glass turned bottom upwards. Nor must +I omit a part without which the rest could not have been a whole—the +kettle of water that sat on the hob, softly crooning. Compared with the +place where George had been at work all day, this was indeed an earthly +paradise. Nor was the presence and appearance of Mistress Croale an +insignificant element in the paradisial character of the place. She +was now in a clean white cap with blue ribbons. Her hair was neatly +divided, and drawn back from her forehead. Every trace of dirt and +untidiness had disappeared from her person, which was one of importance +both in size and in bearing. She wore a gown of some dark stuff with +bright flowers on it, and a black silk apron. Her face was composed, +almost to sadness, and throughout the evening, during which she waited +in person upon her customers, she comported herself with such dignity, +that her slow step and stately carriage seemed rather to belong to the +assistant at some religious ceremony than to one who ministered at the +orgies of a few drunken tradespeople.</p> + +<p>She was seated on the horsehair sofa in the fire-twilight, waiting for +customers, when the face of Galbraith came peering round the door-cheek.</p> + +<p>“Come awa ben,” she said, hospitably, and rose. But as she did so, +she added with a little change of tone, “But I’m thinkin’ ye maun hae +forgotten, Sir George. This is Setterday nicht, ye ken; an’ gien it war +to be Sunday mornin’ afore ye wan to yer bed, it wadna be the first +time, an’ ye michtna be up ear’ eneuch to get yersel shaved afore kirk +time.”</p> + +<p>She knew as well as George himself that never by any chance did he +go to church; but it was her custom, as I fancy it is that of some +other bulwarks of society and pillars of the church, “for the sake +of example,” I presume, to make not unfrequent allusion to certain +observances, moral, religious, or sanatory as if they were laws that +everybody kept.</p> + +<p>Galbraith lifted his hand, black, and embossed with cobbler’s wax, +and rubbed it thoughtfully over his chin: he accepted the fiction +offered him; it was but the well-known prologue to a hebdomadal passage +between them. What if he did not intend going to church the next day? +Was that any reason why he should not look a little tidier when his +hard week’s-work was over, and his nightly habit was turned into the +comparatively harmless indulgence of a Saturday, in sure hope of the +day of rest behind.</p> + +<p>“Troth, I didna min’ ’at it was Setterday,” he answered. “I wuss I had +pitten on a clean sark, an’ washen my face. But I s’ jist gang ower to +the barber’s an’ get a scrape, an’ maybe some o’ them ’ill be here or I +come back.”</p> + +<p>Mistress Croale knew perfectly that there was no clean shirt in +George’s garret. She knew also that the shirt he then wore, which +probably, in consideration of her maid’s festered hand, she would wash +for him herself, was one of her late husband’s which she had given him. +But George’s speech was one of those forms of sound words held fast by +all who frequented Mistress Croale’s parlour, and by herself estimated +at more than their worth.</p> + +<p>The woman had a genuine regard for Galbraith. Neither the character +nor fate of one of the rest gave her a moment’s trouble; but in her +secret mind she deplored that George should drink so inordinately, +and so utterly neglect his child as to let him spend his life in the +streets. She comforted herself, however, with the reflection, that +seeing he would drink, he drank with no bad companions—drank at all +events where what natural wickedness might be in them, was suppressed +by the sternness of her rule. Were he to leave her fold—for a fold in +very truth, and not a sty, it appeared to her—and wander away to Jock +Thamson’s or Jeemie Deuk’s, he would be drawn into loud and indecorous +talk, probably into quarrel and uproar.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes George returned, an odd contrast visible between the +upper and lower halves of his face. Hearing his approach she met him at +the door.</p> + +<p>“Noo, Sir George,” she said, “jist gang up to my room an’ hae a wash, +an’ pit on the sark ye’ll see lyin’ upo’ the bed; syne come doon an’ +hae yer tum’ler comfortable.”</p> + +<p>George’s whole soul was bent upon his drink, but he obeyed as if she +had been twice his mother. By the time he had finished his toilet, the +usual company was assembled, and he appeared amongst them in all the +respectability of a clean shirt and what purity besides the general +adhesiveness of his trade-material would yield to a single ablution +long delayed. They welcomed him all, with nod, or grin, or merry +word, in individual fashion, as each sat measuring out his whisky, or +pounding at the slow-dissolving sugar, or tasting the mixture with +critical soul seated between tongue and palate.</p> + +<p>The conversation was for some time very dull, with a strong tendency +to the censorious. For in their circle, not only were the claims of +respectability silently admitted, but the conduct of this and that man +of their acquaintance, or of public note, was pronounced upon with +understood reference to those claims—now with smile of incredulity or +pity, now with headshake regretful or condemnatory—and this all the +time that each was doing his best to reduce himself to a condition in +which the word conduct could no longer have meaning in reference to him.</p> + +<p>All of them, as did their hostess, addressed Galbraith as Sir George, +and he accepted the title with a certain unassuming dignity. For, if it +was not universally known in the city, it was known to the best lawyers +in it, that he was a baronet by direct derivation from the hand of King +James the Sixth.</p> + +<p>The fire burned cheerfully, and the kettle making many journeys +between it and the table, things gradually grew more lively. Stories +were told, often without any point, but not therefore without effect; +reminiscences, sorely pulpy and broken at the edges, were offered +and accepted with a laughter in which sober ears might have detected +a strangely alien sound; and adventures were related in which truth +was no necessary element to reception. In the case of the postman, +for instance, who had been dismissed for losing a bag of letters the +week before, not one of those present believed a word he said; yet as +he happened to be endowed with a small stock of genuine humour, his +stories were regarded with much the same favour as if they had been +authentic. But the revival scarcely reached Sir George. He said little +or nothing, but, between his slow gulps of toddy, sat looking vacantly +into his glass. It is true he smiled absently now and then when the +others laughed, but that was only for manners. Doubtless he was seeing +somewhere the saddest of all visions—the things that might have been. +The wretched craving of the lower organs stilled, and something spared +for his brain, I believe the chief joy his drink gave him lay in the +power once more to feel himself a gentleman. The washed hands, the +shaven face, the clean shirt, had something to do with it, no doubt, +but the necromantic whisky had far more.</p> + +<p>What faded ghosts of ancestral dignity and worth and story the evil +potion called up in the mind of Sir George!—who himself hung ready +to fall, the last, or all but the last, mildewed fruit of the tree of +Galbraith! Ah! if this one and that of his ancestors had but lived to +his conscience, and with some thought of those that were to come after +him, he would not have transmitted to poor Sir George, in horrible +addition to moral weakness, that physical proclivity which had now +grown to such a hideous craving. To the miserable wretch himself it +seemed that he could no more keep from drinking whisky than he could +from breathing air.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br><span class="small">GIBBIE’S CALLING.</span></h2></div> + +<p>I am not sure that his father’s neglect was not on the whole better for +Gibbie than would have been the kindness of such a father persistently +embodying itself. But the picture of Sir George, by the help of whisky +and the mild hatching oven of Mistress Croale’s parlour, softly +breaking from the shell of the cobbler, and floating a mild gentleman +in the air of his lukewarm imagination, and poor wee Gibbie trotting +outside in the frosty dark of the autumn night, through which the +moon keeps staring down, vague and disconsolate, is hardly therefore +the less pathetic. Under the window of the parlour where the light of +revel shone radiant through a red curtain, he would stand listening +for a moment, then, darting off a few yards suddenly and swiftly like +a scared bird, fall at once into his own steady trot—up the lane and +down, till he reached the window again, where again he would stand and +listen. Whether he made this departure and return twenty or a hundred +times in a night, he nor any one else could have told. Sometimes he +would for a change extend his trot along the Widdiehill, sometimes +along the parallel Vennel, but never far from Jink Lane and its glowing +window. Never moth haunted lamp so persistently. Ever as he ran, up +this pavement and down that, on the soft-sounding soles of his bare +feet, the smile on the boy’s face grew more and more sleepy, but still +he smiled and still he trotted, still paused at the window, and still +started afresh.</p> + +<p>He was not so much to be pitied as my reader may think. Never in his +life had he yet pitied himself. The thought of hardship or wrong had +not occurred to him. It would have been difficult—impossible, I +believe—to get the idea into his head that existence bore to him any +other shape than it ought. Things were with him as they had always +been, and whence was he to take a fresh start, and question what had +been from the beginning? Had any authority interfered, with a decree +that Gibbie should no more scour the midnight streets, no more pass and +repass that far-shining splendour of red, then indeed would bitter, +though inarticulate, complaint have burst from his bosom. But there +was no evil power to issue such a command, and Gibbie’s peace was not +invaded.</p> + +<p>It was now late, and those streets were empty; neither carriage nor +cart, wheelbarrow nor truck, went any more bumping and clattering +over their stones. They were well lighted with gas, but most of the +bordering houses were dark. Now and then a single foot-farer passed +with loud, hollow-sounding boots along the pavement; or two girls +would come laughing along, their merriment echoing rude in the wide +stillness. A cold wind, a small, forsaken, solitary wind, moist with +a thin fog, seemed, as well as wee Gibbie, to be roaming the night, +for it met him at various corners, and from all directions. But it had +nothing to do, and nowhere to go, and there it was not like Gibbie, the +business of whose life was even now upon him, the mightiest hope of +whose conscious being was now awake.</p> + +<p>All he expected, or ever desired to discover, by listening at the +window, was simply whether there were yet signs of the company’s +breaking up; and his conclusions on that point were never mistaken: +how he arrived at them it would be hard to say. Seldom had he there +heard the voice of his father, still seldomer anything beyond its tone. +This night, however, as the time drew near when they must go, lest +the Sabbath should be broken in Mistress Croale’s decent house, and +Gibbie stood once more on tiptoe, with his head just on the level of +the windowsill, he heard his father utter two words: “Up Daurside” came +to him through the window, in the voice he loved, plain and distinct. +The words conveyed to him nothing at all; the mere hearing of them +made them memorable. For the time, however, he forgot them, for, by +indications best known to himself, he perceived that the company was on +the point of separating, and from that moment did not take his eyes off +the door until he heard the first sounds of its opening. As, however, +it was always hard for Gibbie to stand still, and especially hard on +a midnight so cold that his feet threatened to grow indistinguishable +from the slabs of the pavement, he was driven, in order not to lose +sight of it, to practise the art, already cultivated by him to a +crab-like perfection, of running first backwards, then forwards with +scarcely superior speed. But it was not long ere the much expected +sound of Mistress Croale’s voice heralded the hour for patience to +blossom into possession. The voice was neither loud nor harsh, but +clear and firm; the noise that followed was both loud and strident. +Voices had a part in it, but the movement of chairs and feet and the +sudden contact of different portions of the body with walls and tables, +had a larger. The guests were obeying the voice of their hostess all +in one like a flock of sheep, but it was poor shepherd-work to turn +them out of the fold at midnight. Gibbie bounded up and stood still as +a statue at the very door-cheek, until he heard Mistress Croale’s hand +upon the lock, when he bolted, trembling with eagerness, into the entry +of a court a few houses nearer to the Widdiehill.</p> + +<p>One after one the pitiable company issued from its paradise, and each +stumbled away, too far gone for leave-taking. Most of them passed +Gibbie where he stood, but he took no heed; his father was always the +last—and the least capable. But, often as he left her door, never did +it close behind him until with her own eyes Mistress Croale had seen +Gibbie dart like an imp out of the court—to take him in charge, and, +all the weary way home, hover, not very like a guardian angel, but not +the less one in truth, around the unstable equilibrium of his father’s +tall and swaying form. And thereupon commenced a series of marvellous +gymnastics on the part of wee Gibbie. Imagine a small boy with a +gigantic top, which, six times his own size, he keeps erect on its peg, +not by whipping it round, but by running round it himself, unfailingly +applying, at the very spot and at the very moment, the precise measure +of impact necessary to counterbalance its perpetual tendency to fall in +one direction or another, so that the two have all the air of a single +invention—such an invention as one might meet with in an ancient +clock, contrived when men had time to mingle play with earnest—and you +will have in your mind’s eye a real likeness of Sir George attended, +any midnight in the week, by his son Gilbert. Home the big one +staggered, reeled, gyrated, and tumbled; round and round him went the +little one, now behind, now before, now on this side, now on that, his +feet never more than touching the ground but dancing about like those +of a prize-fighter, his little arms up and his hands well forward, like +flying buttresses. And such indeed they were—buttresses which flew and +flew all about a universally leaning tower. They propped it here, they +propped it there; with wonderful judgment and skill and graduation of +force they applied themselves, and with perfect success. Not once, for +the last year and a half, during which time wee Gibbie had been the +nightly guide of Sir George’s homeward steps, had the self-disabled +mass fallen prostrate in the gutter, there to snore out the night.</p> + +<p>The first special difficulty, that of turning the corner of Jink Lane +and the Widdiehill, successfully overcome, the twain went reeling +and revolving along the street, much like a whirlwind that had half +forgotten the laws of gyration, until at length it spun into the court, +and up to the foot of the outside stair over the baronet’s workshop. +Then commenced the real struggle of the evening for Gibbie—and for his +father too, though the latter was aware of it only in the momentary and +evanescent flashes of such enlightenment as made him just capable of +yielding to the pushes and pulls of the former. All up the outside and +the two inside stairs, his waking and sleeping were as the alternate +tictac of a pendulum; but Gibbie stuck to his business like a man, and +his resolution and perseverance were at length, as always, crowned with +victory.</p> + +<p>The house in which lords and ladies had often reposed was now filled +with very humble folk, who were all asleep when Gibbie and his +father entered; but the noise they made in ascending caused no great +disturbance of their rest; for, if any of them were roused for a +moment, it was but to recognize at once the cause of the tumult, and +with the remark, “It’s only wee Gibbie luggin’ hame Sir George,” to +turn on the other side and fall asleep again.</p> + +<p>Arrived at last at the garret door, which stood wide open, Gibbie had +small need of light in the nearly pitch darkness of the place, for +there was positively nothing to stumble over or against between the +door and the ancient four-post bed, which was all of his father’s house +that remained to Sir George. With heavy shuffling feet the drunkard +lumbered laboriously bedward; and the bare posts and crazy frame +groaned and creaked as he fell upon the oat-chaff that lay waiting him +in place of the vanished luxury of feathers. Wee Gibbie flew at his +legs, nor rested until, the one after the other, he had got them on the +bed; if then they were not very comfortably deposited, he knew that, in +his first turn, their owner would get them all right.</p> + +<p>And now rose the <i>culmen</i> of Gibbie’s day! its cycle, rounded through +regions of banishment, returned to its nodus of bliss. In triumph he +spread over his sleeping father his dead mother’s old plaid of Gordon +tartan, all the bedding they had, and without a moment’s further +delay—no shoes even to put off—crept under it, and nestled close +upon the bosom of his unconscious parent. A victory more! another day +ended with success! his father safe, and all his own! the canopy of the +darkness and the plaid over them, as if they were the only two in the +universe! his father unable to leave him—his for whole dark hours to +come! It was Gibbie’s paradise now! His heaven was his father’s bosom, +to which he clung as no infant yet ever clung to his mother’s. He never +thought to pity himself that the embrace was all on his side, that no +answering pressure came back from the prostrate form. He never said +to himself, “My father is a drunkard, but I must make the best of it; +he is all I have!” He clung to his one possession—only clung: this +was his father—all in all to him. What must be the bliss of such a +heart—of any heart—when it comes to know that there is a father of +fathers, yea, a father of fatherhood! a father who never slumbers nor +sleeps, but holds all the sleeping in his ever waking bosom—a bosom +whose wakefulness is the sole fountain of their slumber!</p> + +<p>The conscious bliss of the child was of short duration, for in a few +minutes he was fast asleep; but for the gain of those few minutes only, +the day had been well spent.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br><span class="small">A SUNDAY AT HOME.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Such were the events of every night, and such had they been since +Gibbie first assumed this office of guardian—a time so long in +proportion to his life that it seemed to him as one of the laws of +existence that fathers got drunk and Gibbies took care of them. But +Saturday night was always one of special bliss; for then the joy to +come spread its arms beneath and around the present delight: all Sunday +his father would be his. On that happiest day of all the week, he never +set his foot out of doors, except to run twice to Mistress Croale’s, +once to fetch the dinner which she supplied from her own table, and +for which Sir George regularly paid in advance on Saturday before +commencing his potations.</p> + +<p>But indeed the streets were not attractive to the child on Sundays: +there were no shops open, and the people in their Sunday clothes, many +of them with their faces studiously settled into masks intended to +express righteousness, were far less interesting, because less alive, +than the same people in their work-day attire, in their shops, or +seated at their stalls, or driving their carts, and looking thoroughly +human. As to going to church himself, such an idea had never entered +his head. He had not once for a moment imagined that anybody would +like him to go to church, that such as he ever went to church, that +church was at all a place to which Gibbies with fathers to look after +should have any desire to go. As to what church going meant, he had +not the vaguest idea; it had not even waked the glimmer of a question +in his mind. All he knew was that people went to church on Sundays. +It was another of the laws of existence, the reason of which he knew +no more than why his father went every night to Jink Lane and got +drunk. George, however, although he had taught his son nothing, was not +without religion, and had notions of duty in respect of the Sabbath. +Not even with the prize of whisky in view, would he have consented to +earn a sovereign on that day by the lightest of work.</p> + +<p>Gibbie was awake some time before his father, and lay revelling in +love’s bliss of proximity. At length Sir George, the merest bubble of +nature, awoke, and pushed him from him.</p> + +<p>The child got up at once, but only to stand by the bed-side. He said no +word, did not even think an impatient thought, yet his father seemed +to feel that he was waiting for him. After two or three huge yawns, +he spread out his arms, but, unable to stretch himself, yawned again, +rolled himself off the bed, and crept feebly across the room to an +empty chest that stood under the skylight. There he seated himself, +and for half an hour sat motionless, a perfect type of dilapidation, +moral and physical, while a little way off stood Gibbie, looking on, +like one awaiting a resurrection. At length he seemed to come to +himself—the expected sign of which was that he reached down his hand +towards the meeting of roof and floor, and took up a tiny last with a +half-made boot upon it. At sight of it in his father’s hands, Gibbie +clapped his with delight—an old delight, renewed every Sunday since +he could remember. That boot was for him! and this being the second, +the pair would be finished before night! By slow degrees of revival, +with many pauses between, George got to work. He wanted no breakfast, +and made no inquiry of Gibbie whether he had had any. But what cared +Gibbie about breakfast! With his father all to himself, and that father +working away at a new boot for him—for him who had never had a pair of +any sort upon his feet since the woollen ones he wore in his mother’s +lap, breakfast or no breakfast was much the same to him. It could never +have occurred to him that it was his father’s part to provide him with +breakfast. If he was to have none, it was Sunday that was to blame: +there was no use in going to look for any when the shops were all shut, +and everybody either at church, or closed in domestic penetralia, or +out for a walk. More than contented, therefore, while busily his father +wedded welt and sole with stitches infrangible, Gibbie sat on the +floor, preparing waxed ends, carefully sticking in the hog’s bristle, +and rolling the combination, with quite professional aptitude, between +the flat of his hand and what of trouser-leg he had left, gazing +eagerly between at the advancing masterpiece. Occasionally the triumph +of expectation would exceed his control, when he would spring from the +floor, and caper and strut about like a pigeon—soft as a shadow, for +he knew his father could not bear noise in the morning—or behind his +back execute a pantomimic dumb show of delight, in which he seemed with +difficulty to restrain himself from jumping upon him, and hugging him +in his ecstasy. Oh, best of parents! working thus even on a Sunday for +his Gibbie, when everybody else was at church enjoying himself! But +Gibbie never dared hug his father except when he was drunk—why, he +could hardly have told. Relieved by his dumb show, he would return, +quiet as an aged grimalkin, and again deposit himself on the floor near +his father where he could see his busy hands.</p> + +<p>All this time Sir George never spoke a word. Incredible as it may +seem, however, he was continually, off and on, trying his hardest to +think of some Sunday lesson to give his child. Many of those that knew +the boy, regarded him as a sort of idiot, drawing the conclusion from +Gibbie’s practical honesty and his too evident love for his kind: it +was incredible that a child should be poor, unselfish, loving, and +<i>not</i> deficient in intellect! His father knew him better, yet he often +quieted his conscience in regard to his education, with the reflection +that not much could be done for him. Still, every now and then he +would think perhaps he ought to do something: who could tell but the +child might be damned for not understanding the plan of salvation? +and brooding over the matter this morning, as well as his headache +would permit, he came to the resolution, as he had often done before, +to buy a Shorter Catechism; the boy could not learn it, but he would +keep reading it to him, and something might stick. Even now perhaps he +could begin the course by recalling some of the questions and answers +that had been the plague of his life every Saturday at school. He set +his recollection to work, therefore, in the lumber-room of his memory, +and again and again sent it back to the task, but could find nothing +belonging to the catechism except the first question with its answer, +and a few incoherent fragments of others. Moreover, he found his mind +so confused and incapable of continuous or concentrated effort, that +he could not even keep “man’s chief end” and the rosined end between +his fingers from twisting up together in the most extraordinary manner. +Yet if the child but “had the question,” he might get some good of +it. The hour might come when he would say, “My father taught me +that!”—who could tell? And he knew he had the words correct, wherever +he had dropped their meaning. For the sake of Gibbie’s immortal part, +therefore, he would repeat the answer to that first, most momentous +of questions, over and over as he worked, in the hope of insinuating +something—he could not say what—into the small mental pocket of the +innocent. The first, therefore, and almost the only words which Gibbie +heard from his father’s lips that morning, were these, dozens of times +repeated—“Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him for +ever.” But so far was Gibbie from perceiving in them any meaning, that +even with his father’s pronunciation of <i>chief end</i> as <i>chifenn</i>, they +roused in his mind no sense or suspicion of obscurity. The word stuck +there, notwithstanding; but Gibbie was years a man before he found out +what a <i>chifenn</i> was. Where was the great matter? How many who have +learned their catechism and deplore the ignorance of others, make the +least effort to place their chief end even in the direction of that +of their creation? Is it not the constant thwarting of their aims, +the rendering of their desires futile, and their ends a mockery, that +alone prevents them and their lives from proving an absolute failure? +Sir George, with his inveterate, consuming thirst for whisky, was but +the type of all who would gain their bliss after the scheme of their +own fancies, instead of the scheme of their existence; who would +build their house after their own childish wilfulness instead of the +ground-plan of their being. How was Sir George to glorify the God whom +he could honestly thank for nothing but whisky, the sole of his gifts +that he prized? Over and over that day he repeated the words, “Man’s +chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him for ever,” and all the +time his imagination, his desire, his hope, were centred on the bottle, +which with his very back he felt where it stood behind him, away on +the floor at the head of his bed. Nevertheless when he had gone over +them a score of times or so, and Gibbie had begun, by a merry look and +nodding of his head, to manifest that he knew what was coming next, the +father felt more content with himself than for years past; and when +he was satisfied that Gibbie knew all the words, though, indeed, they +were hardly more than sounds to him, he sent him, with a great sense of +relief, to fetch the broth and beef and potatoes from Mistress Croale’s.</p> + +<p>Eating a real dinner in his father’s house, though without a table to +set it upon, Gibbie felt himself a most privileged person. The only +thing that troubled him was that his father ate so little. Not until +the twilight began to show did Sir George really begin to revive, +but the darker it grew without, the brighter his spirit burned. +For, amongst not a few others, there was this strange remnant of +righteousness in the man, that he never would taste drink before it +was dark in winter, or in summer before the regular hour for ceasing +work had arrived; and to this rule he kept, and that under far greater +difficulties, on the Sunday as well. For Mistress Croale would not sell +a drop of drink, not even on the sly, on the Sabbath-day: she would +fain have some stake in the hidden kingdom; and George, who had not a +Sunday stomach he could assume for the day any more than a Sunday coat, +was thereby driven to provide his whisky and that day drink it at home; +when, with the bottle so near him, and the sense that he had not to go +out to find his relief, his resolution was indeed sorely tried; but he +felt that to yield would be to cut his last cable and be swept on the +lee-shore of utter ruin.</p> + +<p>Breathless with eager interest, Gibbie watched his father’s hands, and +just as the darkness closed in, the boot was finished. His father rose, +and Gibbie, glowing with delight, sprang upon the seat he had left, +while his father knelt upon the floor to try upon the unaccustomed foot +the result from which he had just drawn the last. Ah, pity! pity! But +even Gibbie might by this time have learned to foresee it! three times +already had the same thing happened: the boot would not go on the foot. +The real cause of the failure it were useless to inquire. Sir George +said that, Sunday being the only day he could give to the boots, before +he could finish them, Gibbie’s feet had always outgrown the measure. +But it may be Sir George was not so good a maker as cobbler. That he +meant honestly by the boy I am sure, and not the less sure for the +confession I am forced to make, that on each occasion when he thus +failed to fit him, he sold the boots the next day at a fair price to a +ready-made shop, and drank the proceeds. A stranger thing still was, +that, although Gibbie had never yet worn boot or shoe, his father’s +conscience was greatly relieved by the knowledge that he spent his +Sundays in making boots for him. Had he been an ordinary child, and +given him trouble, he would possibly have hated him; as it was, he had +a great though sadly inoperative affection for the boy, which was an +endless good to them both.</p> + +<p>After many bootless trials, bootless the feet must remain, and George, +laying the failure down in despair, rose from his knees, and left +Gibbie seated on the chest more like a king discrowned, than a beggar +unshod. And like a king the little beggar bore his pain. He heaved +one sigh, and a slow moisture gathered in his eyes, but it did not +overflow. One minute only he sat and hugged his desolation—then, +missing his father, jumped off the box to find him.</p> + +<p>He sat on the edge of the bed, looking infinitely more disconsolate +than Gibbie felt, his head and hands hanging down, a picture of utter +dejection. Gibbie bounded to him, climbed on the bed, and nearly +strangled him in the sharp embrace of his little arms. Sir George took +him on his knees and kissed him, and the tears rose in his dull eyes. +He got up with him, carried him to the box, placed him on it once more, +and fetched a piece of brown paper from under the bed. From this he +tore carefully several slips, with which he then proceeded to take a +most thoughtful measurement of the baffling foot. He was far more to be +pitied than Gibbie, who would not have worn the boots an hour had they +been the best fit in shoedom. The soles of his feet were very nearly +equal in resistance to leather, and at least until the snow and hard +frost came, he was better without boots.</p> + +<p>But now the darkness had fallen, and his joy was at the door. But he +was always too much ashamed to <i>begin</i> to drink before the child: he +hated to uncork the bottle before him. What followed was in regular +Sunday routine.</p> + +<p>“Gang ower to Mistress Croale’s, Gibbie,” he said, “wi’ my compliments.”</p> + +<p>Away ran Gibbie, nothing loath, and at his knock was admitted. Mistress +Croale sat in the parlour, taking her tea, and expecting him. She was +always kind to the child. She could not help feeling that no small +part of what ought to be spent on him came to her; and on Sundays, +therefore, partly for his sake, partly for her own, she always gave him +his tea—nominally tea, really blue city-milk—with as much dry bread +as he could eat, and a bit of buttered toast from her plate to finish +off with. As he ate, he stood at the other side of the table; he looked +so miserable in her eyes that, even before her servant, she was ashamed +to have him sit with her; but Gibbie was quite content, never thought +of sitting, and ate in gladness, every now and then looking up with +loving, grateful eyes, which must have gone right to the woman’s heart, +had it not been for a vague sense she had of being all the time his +enemy—and that although she spent much time in persuading herself that +she did her best both for his father and him.</p> + +<p>When he returned, greatly refreshed, and the boots all but forgotten, +he found his father, as he knew he would, already started on the +business of the evening. He had drawn the chest, the only seat in the +room, to the side of the bed, against which he leaned his back. A penny +candle was burning in a stone blacking bottle on the chimney piece, +and on the floor beside the chest stood the bottle of whisky, a jug of +water, a stoneware mug, and a wineglass.</p> + +<p>There was no fire and no kettle, whence his drinking was sad, as became +the Scotch Sabbath in distinction from the Jewish. There, however, was +the drink, and thereby his soul could live—yea, expand her mouldy +wings! Gibbie was far from shocked; it was all right, all in the order +of things, and he went up to his father with radiant countenance. Sir +George put forth his hands and took him between his knees. An evil wind +now swelled his sails, but the cargo of the crazy human hull was not +therefore evil.</p> + +<p>“Gibbie,” he said, solemnly, “never ye drink a drap o’ whusky. Never +ye rax oot the han’ to the boatle. Never ye drink onything but watter, +caller watter, my man.”</p> + +<p>As he said the words, he stretched out his own hand to the mug, lifted +it to his lips, and swallowed a great gulp.</p> + +<p>“Dinna do ’t, I tell ye, Gibbie,” he repeated.</p> + +<p>Gibbie shook his head with positive repudiation.</p> + +<p>“That’s richt, my man,” responded his father with satisfaction. “Gien +ever I see ye pree (<i>taste</i>) the boatle, I’ll warstle frae my grave an’ +fleg ye oot o’ the sma’ wuts ye hae, my man.”</p> + +<p>Here followed another gulp from the mug.</p> + +<p>The threat had conveyed nothing to Gibbie. Even had he understood, it +would have carried anything but terror to his father-worshipping heart.</p> + +<p>“Gibbie,” resumed Sir George, after a brief pause, “div ye ken what +fowk’ll ca’ ye whan I’m deid?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie again shook his head—with expression this time of mere +ignorance.</p> + +<p>“They’ll ca’ ye Sir Gibbie Galbraith, my man,” said his father, “an’ +richtly, for it’ll be no nickname, though some may lauch ’cause yer +father was a sutor, an’ mair ’at, for a’ that, ye haena a shee to yer +fut yersel’, puir fallow! Heedna ye what they say, Gibbie. Min’ ’at +ye’re Sir Gibbie, an’ hae the honour o’ the faimily to haud up, my +man—an’ that ye <i>can not</i> dee an’ drink. This cursit drink’s been +the ruin o’ a’ the Galbraiths as far back as I ken. ’Maist the only +thing I can min’ o’ my gran’father—a big bonnie man, wi’ lang white +hair—twise as big ’s me, Gibbie—is seein’ him deid drunk i’ the +gutter o’ the pump. He drank ’maist a’ thing there was, Gibbie—lan’s +an’ lordship, till there was hardly an accre left upo’ haill Daurside +to come to my father—’maist naething but a wheen sma’ hooses. He was +a guid man, my father; but his father learnt him to drink afore he was +’maist oot o’ ’s coaties, an’ gae him nae schuilin’; an’ gien he red +himsel’ o’ a’ ’at was left, it was sma’ won’er—only, ye see, Gibbie, +what was to come o’ me? I pit it till ye, Gibbie—what was to come o’ +me?—Gien a kin’ neeper, ’at kent what it was to drink, an’ sae had a +fallow-feelin’, hadna ta’en an’ learnt me my trade, the Lord kens what +wad hae come o’ you an’ me, Gibbie, my man!—Gang to yer bed, noo, an’ +lea’ me to my ain thouchts; no ’at they’re aye the best o’ company, +laddie.—But whiles they’re no that ill,” he concluded, with a weak +smile, as some reflex of himself not quite unsatisfactory gloomed +faintly in the besmeared mirror of his uncertain consciousness.</p> + +<p>Gibbie obeyed, and getting under the Gordon tartan, lay and looked out, +like a weasel from its hole, at his father’s back. For half an hour or +so Sir George went on drinking. All at once he started to his feet, and +turning towards the bed a white face distorted with agony, kneeled down +on the box and groaned out:</p> + +<p>“O God, the pains o’ hell hae gotten haud upo’ me. O Lord, I’m i’ the +grup o’ Sawtan. The deevil o’ drink has me by the hause. I doobt, O +Lord, ye’re gauin’ to damn me dreidfu’. What guid that’ll do ye, O +Lord, I dinna ken, but I doobtna ye’ll dee what’s richt, only I wuss I +hed never crossed ye i’ yer wull. I kenna what I’m to dee, or what’s +to be deen wi’ me, or whaur ony help’s to come frae. I hae tried an’ +tried to maister the drink, but I was aye whumled. For ye see, Lord, +kennin’ a’ thing as ye dee, ’at until I hae a drap i’ my skin, I canna +even think; I canna min’ the sangs I used to sing, or the prayers my +mither learnt me sittin’ upo’ her lap. Till I hae swallowed a moo’fu’ +or twa, things luik sae awfu’-like ’at I’m fit to cut my thro’t; an’ +syne ance I’m begun, there’s nae mair thoucht o’ endeevourin’ to behaud +(<i>withhold</i>) till I canna drink a drap mair. O God, what garred ye mak +things ’at wad mak whusky, whan ye kenned it wad mak sic a beast o’ me?”</p> + +<p>He paused, stretched down his hand to the floor, lifted the mug, and +drank a huge mouthful; then with a cough that sounded apologetic, set +it down, and recommenced:</p> + +<p>“O Lord, I doobt there’s nae houp for me, for the verra river o’ the +watter o’ life wadna be guid to me wantin’ a drap frae the boatle intil +’t. It’s the w’y wi’ a’ his ’at drinks. It’s no ’at we’re drunkards, +Lord—ow na! it’s no that, Lord; it’s only ’at we canna dee wantin’ +the drink. We’re sair drinkers, I maun confess, but no jist drunkards, +Lord. I’m no drunk the noo; I ken what I’m sayin’, an’ it’s sair +trowth, but I cudna hae prayt a word to yer lordship gien I hadna had +a jooggy or twa first. O Lord, deliver me frae the pooer o’ Sawtan.—O +Lord! O Lord! I canna help mysel’. Dinna sen’ me to the ill place. Ye +loot the deils gang intil the swine, lat me tee.”</p> + +<p>With this frightful petition, his utterance began to grow indistinct. +Then he fell forward upon the bed, groaning, and his voice died +gradually away. Gibbie had listened to all he said, but the awe of +hearing his father talk to one unseen, made his soul very still, and +when he ceased he fell asleep.</p> + +<p>Alas for the human soul inhabiting a drink-fouled brain! It is a +human soul still, and wretched in the midst of all that whisky can do +for it. From the pit of hell it cries out. So long as there is that +which can sin, it is a man. And the prayer of misery carries its own +justification, when the sober petitions of the self-righteous and the +unkind are rejected. He who forgives not is not forgiven, and the +prayer of the Pharisee is as the weary beating of the surf of hell, +while the cry of a soul out of its fire sets the heart-strings of love +trembling. There are sins which men must leave behind them, and sins +which they must carry with them. Society scouts the drunkard because he +is loathsome, and it matters nothing whether society be right or wrong, +while it cherishes in its very bosom vices which are, to the God-born +thing we call the soul, yet worse poisons. Drunkards and sinners, +hard as it may be for them to enter into the kingdom of heaven, must +yet be easier to save than the man whose position, reputation, money, +engross his heart and his care, who seeks the praise of men and not the +praise of God. When I am more of a Christian, I shall have learnt to +be sorrier for the man whose end is money or social standing than for +the drunkard. But now my heart, recoiling from the one, is sore for the +other—for the agony, the helplessness, the degradation, the nightmare +struggle, the wrongs and cruelties committed, the duties neglected, +the sickening ruin of mind and heart. So often, too, the drunkard is +originally a style of man immeasurably nobler than the money-maker! +Compare a Coleridge, Samuel Taylor or Hartley, with—no; that man has +not yet passed to his account. God has in his universe furnaces for +the refining of gold, as well as for the burning of chaff and tares +and fruitless branches; and, however they may have offended, it is the +elder brother who is the judge of all the younger ones.</p> + +<p>Gibbie slept some time. When he woke, it was pitch dark, and he was not +lying on his father’s bosom. He felt about with his hands till he found +his father’s head. Then he got up and tried to rouse him, and failing, +to get him on to the bed. But in that too he was sadly unsuccessful: +what with the darkness and the weight of him, the result of the boy’s +best endeavour was, that Sir George half slipped, half rolled down +upon the box, and from that to the floor. Assured then of his own +helplessness, wee Gibbie dragged the miserable bolster from the bed, +and got it under his father’s head; then covered him with the plaid, +and creeping under it, laid himself on his father’s bosom, where soon +he slept again.</p> + +<p>He woke very cold, and getting up, turned heels-over-head several times +to warm himself, but quietly, for his father was still asleep. The room +was no longer dark, for the moon was shining through the skylight. +When he had got himself a little warmer, he turned to have a look at +his father. The pale light shone full upon his face, and it was that, +Gibbie thought, which made him look so strange. He darted to him, and +stared aghast: he had never seen him look like that before, even when +most drunk! He threw himself upon him: his face was dreadfully cold. He +pulled and shook him in fear—he could not have told of what—but he +would not wake. He was gone to see what God could do for him there, for +whom nothing more could be done here.</p> + +<p>But Gibbie did not know anything about death, and went on trying to +wake him. At last he observed that, although his mouth was wide open, +the breath did not come from it. Thereupon his heart began to fail him. +But when he lifted an eyelid, and saw what was under it, the house rang +with the despairing shriek of the little orphan.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br><span class="small">THE TOWN-SPARROW.</span></h2></div> + +<p>“This, too, will pass,” is a Persian word: I should like it better if +it were “This, too, shall pass.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie’s agony passed, for God is not the God of the dead but of the +living. Through the immortal essence in him, life became again life, +and he ran about the streets as before. Some may think that wee Sir +Gibbie—as many now called him, some knowing the truth, and others in +kindly mockery—would get on all the better for the loss of such a +father; but it was not so. In his father he had lost his Paradise, and +was now a creature expelled. He was not so much to be pitied as many +a child dismissed by sudden decree from a home to a school; but the +streets and the people and the shops, the horses and the dogs, even +the penny-loaves though he was hungry, had lost half their precious +delight, when his father was no longer in the accessible background, +the heart of the blissful city. As to food and clothing, he did neither +much better nor any worse than before: people were kind as usual, and +kindness was to Gibbie the very milk of mother Nature. Whose the hand +that proffered it, or what the form it took, he cared no more than a +stray kitten cares whether the milk set down to it be in a blue saucer +or a white. But he always made the right return. The first thing a +kindness deserves is acceptance, the next is transmission: Gibbie gave +both, without thinking much about either. For he never had taken, and +indeed never learned to take, a thought about what he should eat or +what he should drink, or wherewithal he should be clothed—a fault +rendering him, in the eyes of the economist of this world, utterly +unworthy of a place in it. There is a world, however, and one pretty +closely mixed up with this, though it never shows itself to one who +has no place in it, the birds of whose air have neither storehouse +nor barn, but are just such thoughtless cherubs—thoughtless for +themselves, that is—as wee Sir Gibbie. It would be useless to attempt +convincing the mere economist that this great city was a little better, +a little happier, a little merrier, for the presence in it of the +child, because he would not, even if convinced of the fact, recognize +the gain; but I venture the assertion to him, that the conduct of +not one of its inhabitants was the worse for the example of Gibbie’s +apparent idleness; and that not one of the poor women who now and then +presented the small baronet with a penny, or a bit of bread, or a scrap +of meat, or a pair of old trousers—shoes nobody gave him, and he +neither desired nor needed any—ever felt the poorer for the gift, or +complained that she should be so taxed.</p> + +<p>Positively or negatively, then, everybody was good to him, and Gibbie +felt it; but what could make up for the loss of his Paradise, the bosom +of a father? Drunken father as he was, I know of nothing that can or +ought to make up for such a loss, except that which can restore it—the +bosom of the Father of fathers.</p> + +<p>He roamed the streets, as all his life before, the whole of the day, +and part of the night; he took what was given him, and picked up what +he found. There were some who would gladly have brought him within the +bounds of an ordered life; he soon drove them to despair, however, for +the streets had been his nursery, and nothing could keep him out of +them. But the sparrow and the rook are just as respectable in reality, +though not in the eyes of the hen-wife, as the egg-laying fowl, or the +dirt-gobbling duck; and, however Gibbie’s habits might shock the ladies +of Mr. Sclater’s congregation who sought to civilize him, the boy was +no more about mischief in the streets at midnight, than they were in +their beds. They collected enough for his behoof to board him for a +year with an old woman who kept a school, and they did get him to sleep +one night in her house. But in the morning, when she would not let him +run out, brought him into the school-room, her kitchen, and began to +teach him to write, Gibbie failed to see the good of it. He must have +space, change, adventure, air, or life was not worth the name to him. +Above all he must see friendly faces, and that of the old dame was not +such. But he desired to be friendly with her, and once, as she leaned +over him, put up his hand—not a very clean one, I am bound to give +her the advantage of my confessing—to stroke her cheek: she pushed +him roughly away, rose in indignation upon her crutch, and lifted her +cane to chastise him for the insult. A class of urchins, to Gibbie’s +eyes at least looking unhappy, were at the moment blundering through +the twenty-third psalm. Ever after, even when now Sir Gilbert more than +understood the great song, the words, “thy rod and thy staff,” like +the spell of a necromancer would still call up the figure of the dame +irate, in her horn spectacles and her black-ribboned cap, leaning with +one arm on her crutch, and with the other uplifting what was with her +no mere symbol of authority. Like a shell from a mortar, he departed +from the house. She hobbled to the door after him, but his diminutive +figure many yards away, his little bare legs misty with swiftness as he +ran, was the last she ever saw of him, and her pupils had a bad time of +it the rest of the day. He never even entered the street again in which +she lived. Thus, after one night’s brief interval of respectability, he +was again a rover of the city, a flitting insect that lighted here and +there, and spread wings of departure the moment a fresh desire awoke.</p> + +<p>It would be difficult to say where he slept. In summer anywhere; in +winter where he could find warmth. Like animals better clad than he, +yet like him able to endure cold, he revelled in mere heat when he +could come by it. Sometimes he stood at the back of a baker’s oven, +for he knew all the haunts of heat about the city; sometimes he buried +himself in the sids (<i>husks of oats</i>) lying ready to feed the kiln of a +meal-mill; sometimes he lay by the furnace of the steam-engine of the +water-works. One man employed there, when his time was at night, always +made a bed for Gibbie: he had lost his own only child, and this one of +nobody’s was a comfort to him.</p> + +<p>Even those who looked upon wandering as wicked, only scolded into +the sweet upturned face, pouring gall into a cup of wine too full +to receive a drop of it—and did not hand him over to the police. +Useless verily that would have been, for the police would as soon have +thought of taking up a town sparrow as Gibbie, and would only have +laughed at the idea. They knew Gibbie’s merits better than any of those +good people imagined his faults. It requires either wisdom or large +experience to know that a child is not necessarily wicked even if born +and brought up in a far viler <i>entourage</i> than was Gibbie.</p> + +<p>The merits the police recognized in him were mainly two—neither of +small consequence in their eyes; the first, the negative, yet more +important one, that of utter harmlessness; the second, and positive +one—a passion and power for rendering help, taking notable shape +chiefly in two ways, upon both of which I have already more than +touched. The first was the peculiar faculty now pretty generally +known—his great gift, some, his great luck, others called it—for +finding things lost. It was no wonder the town crier had sought his +acquaintance, and when secured, had cultivated it—neither a difficult +task; for the boy, ever since he could remember, had been in the +habit, as often as he saw the crier, or heard his tuck of drum in the +distance, of joining him and following, until he had acquainted himself +with all particulars concerning everything proclaimed as missing. The +moment he had mastered the facts announced, he would dart away to +search, and not unfrequently to return with the thing sought. But it +was not by any means only things sought that he found. He continued +to come upon things of which he had no simulacrum in his phantasy. +These, having no longer a father to carry them to, he now, their owners +unknown, took to the crier, who always pretended to receive them with a +suspicion which Gibbie understood as little as the other really felt, +and at once advertised them by drum and cry. What became of them after +that, Gibbie never knew. If they did not find their owners, neither did +they find their way back to Gibbie; if their owners were found, the +crier never communicated with him on the subject. Plainly he regarded +Gibbie as the favoured jackal, whose privilege it was to hunt for the +crier, the royal lion of the city forest. But he spoke kindly to him, +as well he might, and now and then gave him a penny.</p> + +<p>The second of the positive merits by which Gibbie found acceptance in +the eyes of the police, was a yet more peculiar one, growing out of his +love for his father, and his experience in the exercise of that love. +It was, however, unintelligible to them, and so remained, except on the +theory commonly adopted with regard to Gibbie, namely, that <i>he wasna +a’ there</i>. Not the less was it to them a satisfactory whim of his, +seeing it mitigated their trouble as guardians of the nightly peace and +safety. It was indeed the main cause of his being, like themselves, so +much in the street at night: seldom did Gibbie seek his lair—I cannot +call it couch—before the lengthening hours of the morning. If the +finding of things was a gift, this other peculiarity was a passion—and +a right human passion—absolutely possessing the child: it was, to play +the guardian angel to drunk folk. If such a distressed human craft hove +in sight, he would instantly bear down upon and hover about him, until +resolved as to his real condition. If he was in such distress as to +require assistance, he never left him till he saw him safe within his +own door. The police asserted that wee Sir Gibbie not only knew every +drunkard in the city, and where he lived, but where he generally got +drunk as well. That one was in no danger of taking the wrong turning, +upon whom Gibbie was in attendance, to determine, by a shove on this +side or that, the direction in which the hesitating, uncertain mass +of stultified humanity was to go. He seemed a visible embodiment of +that special providence which is said to watch over drunk people and +children, only here a child was the guardian of the drunkard, and +in this branch of his mission, was well known to all who, without +qualifying themselves for coming under his cherubic cognizance, were in +the habit of now and then returning home late. He was least known to +those to whom he rendered most assistance. Rarely had he thanks for it, +never halfpence, but not unfrequently blows and abuse. For the first +he cared nothing; the last, owing to his great agility, seldom visited +him with any directness. A certain reporter of humorous scandal, after +his third tumbler, would occasionally give a graphic description of +what, coming from a supper-party, he once saw about two o’clock in +the morning. In the great street of the city, he overhauled a huge +galleon, which proved, he declared, to be the provost himself, not +exactly <i>water</i>-logged, and yet not very buoyant, but carrying a good +deal of sail. He might possibly have escaped very particular notice, +he said, but for the assiduous attendance upon him of an absurd little +cock-boat, in the person of wee Gibbie—the two reminding him right +ludicrously of the story of the Spanish Armada. Round and round the +bulky provost gyrated the tiny baronet, like a little hero of the ring, +pitching into him, only with open-handed pushes, not with blows, now +on this side and now on that—not after such fashion of sustentation +as might have sufficed with a man of ordinary size, but throwing all +his force now against the provost’s bulging bows, now against his +over-leaning quarter, encountering him now as he lurched, now as he +heeled, until at length he landed him high, though certainly not dry, +on the top of his own steps. The moment the butler opened the door, and +the heavy hulk rolled into dock, Gibbie darted off as if he had been +the wicked one tormenting the righteous, and in danger of being caught +by a pair of holy tongs. Whether the tale was true or not, I do not +know: with after-dinner humourists there is reason for caution. Gibbie +was not offered the post of henchman to the provost, and rarely could +have had the chance of claiming salvage for so distinguished a vessel, +seeing he generally cruised in waters where such craft seldom sailed. +Though almost nothing could now have induced him to go down Jink Lane, +yet about the time the company at Mistress Croale’s would be breaking +up, he would on most nights be lying in wait a short distance down the +Widdiehill, ready to minister to that one of his father’s old comrades +who might prove most in need of his assistance; and if he showed him no +gratitude, Gibbie had not been trained in a school where he was taught +to expect or even to wish for any.</p> + +<p>I could now give a whole chapter to the setting forth of the pleasures +the summer brought him, city summer as it was, but I must content +myself with saying that first of these, and not least, was the mere +absence of the cold of the other seasons, bringing with it many +privileges. He could lie down anywhere and sleep when he would; or +spend, if he pleased, whole nights awake, in a churchyard, or on the +deck of some vessel discharging her cargo at the quay, or running about +the still, sleeping streets. Thus he got to know the shapes of some of +the constellations, and not a few of the aspects of the heavens. But +even then he never felt alone, for he gazed at the vista from the midst +of a cityful of his fellows. Then there were the scents of the laylocks +and the roses and the carnations and the sweet-peas, that came floating +out from the gardens, contending sometimes with those of the grocers’ +and chemists’ shops. Now and then too he came in for a small feed of +strawberries, which were very plentiful in their season. Sitting then +on a hospitable doorstep, with the feet and faces of friends passing +him in both directions, and love embodied in the warmth of summer all +about him, he would eat his strawberries, and inherit the earth.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br><span class="small">SAMBO.</span></h2></div> + +<p>No one was so sorry for the death of Sir George, or had so many kind +words to say in memory of him, as Mistress Croale. Neither was her +sorrow only because she had lost so good a customer, or even because +she had liked the man: I believe it was much enhanced by a vague doubt +that after all she was to blame for his death. In vain she said to +herself, and said truly, that it would have been far worse for him, +and Gibbie too, had he gone elsewhere for his drink; she could not get +the account settled with her conscience. She tried to relieve herself +by being kinder than before to the boy; but she was greatly hindered +in this by the fact that, after his father’s death, she could not get +him inside her door. That his father was not there—would not be there +at night, made the place dreadful to him. This addition to the trouble +of mind she already had on account of the nature of her business, was +the cause, I believe, why, after Sir George’s death, she went down the +hill with accelerated speed. She sipped more frequently from her own +bottle, soon came to “tasting with” her customers, and after that her +descent was rapid. She no longer refused drink to women, though for a +time she always gave it under protest; she winked at card-playing; she +grew generally more lax in her administration; and by degrees a mist +of evil fame began to gather about her house. Thereupon her enemy, as +she considered him, the Rev. Clement Sclater, felt himself justified +in moving more energetically for the withdrawal of her license, which, +with the support of outraged neighbours, he found no difficulty in +effecting. She therefore <i>flitted</i> to another parish, and opened a +worse house in a worse region of the city—on the river-bank, namely, +some little distance above the quay, not too far to be within easy +range of sailors, and the people employed about the vessels loading +or discharging cargo. It pretended to be only a lodging-house, and +had no license for the sale of strong drink, but nevertheless, one +way and another, a great deal was drunk in the house, and, as always, +card-playing, and sometimes worse things were going on, getting more +vigorous ever as the daylight waned; frequent quarrels and occasional +bloodshed was the consequence. For some time, however, nothing very +serious brought the place immediately within the conscious ken of the +magistrates.</p> + +<p>In the second winter after his father’s death, Gibbie, wandering +everywhere about the city, encountered Lucky Croale in the +neighbourhood of her new abode; down there she was <i>Mistress</i> no +longer, but, with a familiarity scarcely removed from contempt, was +both mentioned and addressed as Lucky Croale. The repugnance which +had hitherto kept Gibbie from her having been altogether to her place +and not to herself, he at once accompanied her home, and after that +went often to the house. He was considerably surprised when first he +heard words from her mouth for using which she had formerly been in +the habit of severely reproving her guests; but he always took things +as he found them, and when ere long he had to hear such occasionally +addressed to himself, when she happened to be more out of temper than +usual, he never therefore questioned her friendship. What more than +anything else attracted him to her house, however, was the jolly +manners and open-hearted kindness of most of the sailors who frequented +it, with almost all of whom he was a favourite; and it soon came about +that, when his ministrations to the incapable were over, he would +spend the rest of the night more frequently there than anywhere else; +until at last he gave up, in a great measure, his guardianship of the +drunk in the streets for that of those who were certainly in much +more danger of mishap at Lucky Croale’s. Scarcely a night passed when +he was not present at one or more of the quarrels of which the place +was a hot-bed; and as he never by any chance took a part, or favoured +one side more than another, but confined himself to an impartial +distribution of such peace-making blandishments as the ever-springing +fountain of his affection took instinctive shape in, the wee baronet +came to be regarded, by the better sort of the rough fellows, almost as +the very identical sweet little cherub, sitting perched up aloft, whose +department in the saving business of the universe it was, to take care +of the life of poor Jack. I do not say that he was always successful +in his endeavours at atonement, but beyond a doubt Lucky Croale’s +house was a good deal less of a hell through the haunting presence +of the child. He was not shocked by the things he saw, even when he +liked them least. He regarded the doing of them much as he had looked +upon his father’s drunkenness—as a pitiful necessity that overtook +men—one from which there was no escape, and which caused a great need +for Gibbies. Evil language and coarse behaviour alike passed over him, +without leaving the smallest stain upon heart or conscience, desire or +will. No one could doubt it who considered the clarity of his face and +eyes, in which the occasional but not frequent expression of keenness +and promptitude scarcely even ruffled the prevailing look of unclouded +heavenly babyhood.</p> + +<p>If any one thinks I am unfaithful to human fact, and overcharge the +description of this child, I on my side doubt the extent of the +experience of that man or woman. I admit the child a rarity, but +a rarity in the right direction, and therefore a being with whom +humanity has the greater need to be made acquainted. I admit that +the best things are the commonest, but the highest types and the +best combinations of them are the rarest. There is more love in the +world than anything else, for instance; but the best love and the +individual in whom love is supreme are the rarest of all things. That +for which humanity has the strongest claim upon its workmen, is the +representation of its own best; but the loudest demand of the present +day is for the representation of that grade of humanity of which men +see the most—that type of things which could never have been but +that it might pass. The demand marks the commonness, narrowness, +low-levelled satisfaction of the age. It loves its own—not that which +might be, and ought to be its own—not its better self, infinitely +higher than its present, for the sake of whose approach it exists. I +do not think that the age is worse in this respect than those which +have preceded it, but that vulgarity, and a certain vile contentment +swelling to self-admiration, have become more vocal than hitherto; just +as unbelief, which I think in reality less prevailing than in former +ages, has become largely more articulate, and thereby more loud and +peremptory. But whatever the demand of the age, I insist that that +which <i>ought</i> to be presented to its beholding, is the common good +uncommonly developed, and that not because of its rarity, but because +it is truer to humanity. Shall I admit those conditions, those facts, +to be true exponents of <i>humanity</i>, which, except they be changed, +purified, or abandoned, must soon cause that humanity to cease from its +very name, must destroy its very being? To make the admission would be +to assert that a house may be divided against itself, and yet stand. It +is the noble, not the failure from the noble, that is the true human; +and if I must show the failure, let it ever be with an eye to the final +possible, yea, imperative, success. But in our day, a man who will +accept any oddity of idiosyncratic development in manners, tastes, or +habits, will refuse, not only as improbable, but as inconsistent with +human nature, the representation of a man trying to be merely as noble +as is absolutely essential to his being—except, indeed, he be at the +same time represented as failing utterly in the attempt, and compelled +to fall back upon the imperfections of humanity, and acknowledge them +as its laws. Its improbability, judged by the experience of most men, I +admit; its unreality in fact, I deny; and its absolute unity with the +true idea of humanity, I believe and assert.</p> + +<p>It is hardly necessary for me now to remark, seeing my narrative must +already have suggested it, that what kept Gibbie pure and honest was +the rarely-developed, ever-active love of his kind. The human face +was the one attraction to him in the universe. In deep fact, it is so +to everyone; I state but the commonest reality in creation; only in +Gibbie the fact had come to the surface; the common thing was his in +uncommon degree and potency. Gibbie knew no music except the voice of +man and woman; at least no other had as yet affected him. To be sure he +had never heard much. Drunken sea-songs he heard every night almost; +and now and then on Sundays he ran through a zone of psalm-singing; +but neither of those could well be called music. There hung a caged +bird here and there at a door in the poorer streets; but Gibbie’s love +embraced the lower creation also, and too tenderly for the enjoyment of +its melody. The human bird loved liberty too dearly to gather anything +but pain from the song of the little feathered brother who had lost it, +and to whom he could not minister as to the drunkard. In general he ran +from the presence of such a prisoner. But sometimes he would stop and +try to comfort the naked little Freedom, disrobed of its space; and on +one occasion was caught in the very act of delivering a canary that +hung outside a little shop. Any other than wee Gibbie would have been +heartily cuffed for the offence, but the owner of the bird only smiled +at the would-be liberator, and hung the cage a couple of feet higher +on the wall. With such a passion of affection, then, finding vent in +constant action, is it any wonder Gibbie’s heart and hands should be +too full for evil to occupy them even a little?</p> + +<p>One night in the spring, entering Lucky Croale’s common room, he saw +there for the first time a negro sailor, whom the rest called Sambo, +and was at once taken with his big, dark, radiant eyes, and his white +teeth continually uncovering themselves in good-humoured smiles. Sambo +had left the vessel in which he had arrived, was waiting for another, +and had taken up his quarters at Lucky Croale’s. Gibbie’s advances he +met instantly, and in a few days a strong mutual affection had sprung +up between them. To Gibbie Sambo speedily became absolutely loving and +tender, and Gibbie made him full return of devotion.</p> + +<p>The negro was a man of immense muscular power, like not a few of his +race, and, like most of them, not easily provoked, inheriting not a +little of their hard-learned long-suffering. He bore even with those +who treated him with far worse than the ordinary superciliousness of +white to black; and when the rudest of city boys mocked him, only +showed his teeth by way of smile. The ill-conditioned among Lucky +Croale’s customers and lodgers were constantly taking advantage of his +good nature, and presuming upon his forbearance; but so long as they +confined themselves to mere insolence, or even bare-faced cheating, he +endured with marvellous temper. It was possible, however, to go too far +even with him.</p> + +<p>One night Sambo was looking on at a game of cards, in which all the +rest in the room were engaged. Happening to laugh at some turn it took, +one of them, a Malay, who was losing, was offended, and abused him. +Others objected to his having fun without risking money, and required +him to join in the game. This for some reason or other he declined, +and when the whole party at length insisted, positively refused. +Thereupon they all took umbrage, nor did most of them make many steps +of the ascent from displeasure to indignation, wrath, revenge; and then +ensued a row. Gibbie had been sitting all the time on his friend’s +knee, every now and then stroking his black face, in which, as insult +followed insult, the sunny blood kept slowly rising, making the balls +of his eyes and his teeth look still whiter. At length a savage from +Greenock threw a tumbler at him. Sambo, quick as a lizard, covered his +face with his arm. The tumbler falling from it, struck Gibbie on the +head—not severely, but hard enough to make him utter a little cry. At +that sound, the latent fierceness came wide awake in Sambo. Gently as +a nursing mother he set Gibbie down in a corner behind him, then with +one rush sent every Jack of the company sprawling on the floor, with +the table and bottles and glasses atop of them. At the vision of their +plight his good humour instantly returned, he burst into a great hearty +laugh, and proceeded at once to lift the table from off them. That +effected, he caught up Gibbie in his arms, and carried him with him to +bed.</p> + +<p>In the middle of the night Gibbie half woke, and, finding himself +alone, sought his father’s bosom; then, in the confusion between +sleeping and waking, imagined his father’s death come again. Presently +he remembered it was in Sambo’s arms he fell asleep, but where he was +now he could not tell: certainly he was not in bed. Groping, he pushed +a door, and a glimmer of light came in. He was in a closet of the +room in which Sambo slept—and something was to do about his bed. He +rose softly and peeped out. There stood several men, and a struggle +was going on—nearly noiseless. Gibbie was half-dazed, and could not +understand; but he had little anxiety about Sambo, in whose prowess he +had a triumphant confidence. Suddenly came the sound of a great gush, +and the group parted from the bed and vanished. Gibbie darted towards +it. The words, “<i>O Lord Jesus!</i>” came to his ears, and he heard no +more: they were poor Sambo’s last in this world. The light of a street +lamp fell upon the bed: the blood was welling, in great thick throbs, +out of his huge black throat. They had bent his head back, and the gash +gaped wide.</p> + +<p>For some moments Gibbie stood in ghastly terror. No sound except a low +gurgle came to his ears, and the horror of the stillness overmastered +him. He never could recall what came next. When he knew himself again, +he was in the street, running like the wind, he knew not whither. It +was not that he dreaded any hurt to himself; horror, not fear, was +behind him.</p> + +<p>His next recollection of himself was in the first of the morning, on +the lofty chain-bridge over the river Daur. Before him lay he knew +not what, only escape from what was behind. His faith in men seemed +ruined. The city, his home, was frightful to him. Quarrels and curses +and blows he had been used to, and amidst them life could be lived. If +he did not consciously weave them into his theories, he unconsciously +wrapped them up in his confidence, and was at peace. But the last night +had revealed something unknown before. It was as if the darkness had +been cloven, and through the cleft he saw into hell. A thing had been +done that could not be undone, and he thought it must be what people +called <i>murder</i>. And Sambo was such a good man! He was almost as good a +man as Gibbie’s father, and now he would not breathe any more! Was he +gone where Gibbie’s father was gone? Was it the good men that stopped +breathing and grew cold? But it was those wicked men that had <i>deaded</i> +Sambo! And with that his first vague perception of evil and wrong in +the world began to dawn.</p> + +<p>He lifted his head from gazing down on the dark river. A man was +approaching the bridge. He came from the awful city! Perhaps he +wanted him! He fled along the bridge like a low-flying water-bird. If +another man had appeared at the other end, he would have got through +between the rods, and thrown himself into the river. But there was no +one to oppose his escape; and after following the road a little way +up the river, he turned aside into a thicket of shrubs on the nearly +precipitous bank, and sat down to recover the breath he had lost more +from dismay than exertion.</p> + +<p>The light grew. All at once he descried, far down the river, the +steeples of the city. Alas! alas! there lay poor black Sambo, so dear +to wee Sir Gibbie, motionless and covered with blood! He had two red +mouths now, but was not able to speak a word with either! They would +carry him to a churchyard and lay him in a hole to lie there for ever +and ever. Would all the good people be laid into holes and leave Gibbie +quite alone? Sitting and brooding thus, he fell into a dreamy state, +in which, brokenly, from here and there, pictures of his former life +grew out upon his memory. Suddenly, plainer than all the rest, came +the last time he stood under Mistress Croale’s window, waiting to help +his father home. The same instant, back to the ear of his mind came +his father’s two words, as he had heard them through the window—“<i>Up +Daurside.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Up Daurside!”—Here he was upon Daurside—a little way up too: he +would go farther up. He rose and went on, while the great river kept +flowing the other way, dark and terrible, down to the very door inside +which lay Sambo with the huge gape in his big throat.</p> + +<p>Meantime the murder came to the knowledge of the police, Mistress +Croale herself giving the information, and all in the house were +arrested. In the course of their examination, it came out that wee Sir +Gibbie had gone to bed with the murdered man, and was now nowhere to +be found. Either they had murdered him too, or carried him off. The +news spread, and the whole city was in commotion about his fate. It +was credible enough that persons capable of committing such a crime on +such an inoffensive person as the testimony showed poor Sambo, would +be capable also of throwing the life of a child after that of the man +to protect their own. The city was searched from end to end, from +side to side, and from cellar to garret. Not a trace of him was to be +found—but indeed Gibbie had always been easier to find than to trace, +for he had no belongings of any sort to betray him. No one dreamed of +his having fled straight to the country, and search was confined to the +city.</p> + +<p>The murderers were at length discovered, tried, and executed. They +protested their innocence with regard to the child, and therein +nothing appeared against them beyond the fact that he was missing. The +result, so far as concerned Gibbie, was, that the talk of the city, +where almost everyone knew him, was turned, in his absence, upon his +history; and from the confused mass of hearsay that reached him, Mr. +Sclater set himself to discover and verify the facts. For this purpose +he burrowed about in the neighbourhoods Gibbie had chiefly frequented, +and was so far successful as to satisfy himself that Gibbie, if he was +alive, was Sir Gilbert Galbraith, Baronet; but his own lawyer was able +to assure him that not an inch of property remained anywhere attached +to the title. There were indeed relations of the boy’s mother, who +were of some small consequence in a neighbouring county, also one in +business in Glasgow, or its neighbourhood, reported wealthy; but these +had entirely disowned her because of her marriage. All Mr. Sclater +discovered besides was, in a lumber-room next the garret in which Sir +George died, a box of papers—a glance at whose contents showed that +they must at least prove a great deal of which he was already certain +from other sources. A few of them had to do with the house in which +they were found, still known as the <i>Auld Hoose o’ Galbraith</i>; but most +of them referred to property in land, and many were of ancient date. If +the property were in the hands of descendants of the original stock, +the papers would be of value in their eyes; and, in any case, it would +be well to see to their safety. Mr. Sclater therefore had the chest +removed to the garret of the manse, where it stood thereafter, little +regarded, but able to answer for more than itself.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br><span class="small">ADRIFT.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Gibbie was now without a home. He had had a whole city for his +dwelling, every street of which had been to him as another hall in his +own house, every lane as a passage from one set of rooms to another, +every court as a closet, every house as a safe, guarding the only +possessions he had, the only possessions he knew how to value—his +fellow-mortals, radiant with faces, and friendly with hands and +tongues. Great as was his delight in freedom, a delight he revelled +in from morning to night, and sometimes from night to morning, he +had never had a notion of it that reached beyond the city, he never +longed for larger space, for wider outlook. Space and outlook he had +skyward—and seaward when he would, but even into these regions he had +never yet desired to go. His world was the world of men; the presence +of many was his greater room; his people themselves were his world. +He had no idea of freedom in dissociation with human faces and voices +and eyes. But now he had left all these, and as he ran from them, a +red pall seemed settling down behind him, wrapping up and hiding away +his country, his home. For the first time in his life, the fatherless, +motherless, brotherless, sisterless stray of the streets felt himself +alone. The sensation was an awful one. He had lost so many, and had +not one left! That gash in Sambo’s black throat had slain “a whole +cityful.” His loneliness grew upon him, until again he darted aside +from the road into the bush, this time to hide from the Spectre of +the Desert—the No Man. Deprived of human countenances, the face of +creation was a mask without eyes, and liberty a mere negation. Not that +Gibbie had ever thought about liberty; he had only enjoyed: not that he +had ever thought about human faces; he had only loved them, and lived +upon their smiles. “Gibbie wadna need to gang to haiven,” said Mysie, +the baker’s daughter, to her mother one night, as they walked home from +a merry-making. “What for that, lassie?” returned her mother. “Cause +he wad be meeserable whaur there was nae drunk fowk,” answered Mysie. +And now it seemed to the poor, shocked, heart-wounded creature, as if +the human face were just the one thing he could no more look upon. One +haunted him, the black one, with the white, staring eyes, the mouth in +its throat, and the white grinning teeth.</p> + +<p>It was a cold, fresh morning, cloudy and changeful, towards the end +of April. It had rained, and would rain again; it might snow. Heavy +undefined clouds, with saffron breaks and borders, hung about the +east, but what was going to happen there—at least he did not think; +he did not know east from west, and I doubt whether, although he had +often seen the sun set, he had ever seen him rise. Yet even to him, +city-creature as he was, it was plain <i>something</i> was going to happen +there. And happen it did presently, and that with a splendour that +for a moment blinded Gibbie. For just at the horizon there was a long +horizontal slip of blue sky, and through that crack the topmost arc of +the rising sun shot suddenly a thousand arrows of radiance into the +brain of the boy. But the too-much light scorched there a blackness +instantly; and to the soul of Gibbie it was the blackness of the room +from which he had fled, and upon it out came the white eyeballs and the +brilliant teeth of his dead Sambo, and the red burst from his throat +that answered the knife of the Malay. He shrieked, and struck with +his hands against the sun from which came the terrible vision. Had he +been a common child, his reason would have given way; but one result +of the overflow of his love was, that he had never yet known fear for +himself. His sweet confident face, innocent eyes, and caressing ways, +had almost always drawn a response more or less in kind; and that +certain some should not repel him, was a fuller response from them than +gifts from others. Except now and then, rarely, a street boy a little +bigger than himself, no one had ever hurt him, and the hurt upon these +occasions had not gone very deep, for the child was brave and hardy. So +now it was not fear, but the loss of old confidence, a sickness coming +over the heart and brain of his love, that unnerved him. It was not +the horrid cruelty to his friend, and his own grievous loss thereby, +but the recoil of his loving endeavour that, jarring him out of every +groove of thought, every socket of habit, every joint of action, cast +him from the city, and made of him a wanderer indeed, not a wanderer in +a strange country, but a wanderer in a strange world.</p> + +<p>To no traveller could one land well be so different from another, +as to Gibbie the country was from the town. He had seen bushes and +trees before, but only over garden walls, or in one or two of the +churchyards. He had looked from the quay across to the bare shore on +the other side, with its sandy hills, and its tall lighthouse on the +top of the great rocks that bordered the sea; but, so looking, he had +beheld space as one looking from this world into the face of the moon, +as a child looks upon vastness and possible dangers from his nurse’s +arms where it cannot come near him; for houses backed the quay all +along; the city was behind him, and spread forth her protecting arms. +He had, once or twice, run out along the pier, which shot far into the +immensity of the sea, like a causeway to another world—a stormy thread +of granite, beaten upon both sides by the waves of the German Ocean; +but it was with the sea and not the country he then made the small +acquaintance—and that not without terror. The sea was as different +from the city as the air into which he had looked up at night—too +different to compare against it and feel the contrast; on neither could +he set foot; in neither could he be required to live and act—as now in +this waste of enterable and pervious extent.</p> + +<p>Its own horror drove the vision away, and Gibbie saw the world +again—saw, but did not love it. The sun seemed but to have looked up +to mock him and go down again, for he had crossed the crack, and was +behind a thick mass of cloud; a cold damp wind, spotted with sparkles +of rain, blew fitfully from the east; the low bushes among which he +sat, sent forth a chill sighing all about him, as they sifted the wind +into sound; the smell of the damp earth was strange to him—he did not +know the freshness, the new birth of which it breathed; below him the +gloomy river, here deep, smooth, moody, sullen, there puckered with the +grey ripples of a shallow laughter under the cold breeze, went flowing +heedless to the city. There only was—or had been, friendliness, +comfort, home! This was emptiness—the abode of things, not beings. +Yet never once did Gibbie think of returning to the city. He rose and +wandered up the wide road along the river bank, farther and farther +from it—his only guide the words of his father, “<i>Up Daurside</i>;” his +sole comfort the feeling of having once more to do with his father +so long departed, some relation still with the paradise of his old +world. Along cultivated fields and copses on the one side, and on the +other a steep descent to the river, covered here and there with trees, +but mostly with rough grass and bushes and stones, he followed the +king’s highway. There were buttercups and plenty of daisies within +his sight—primroses, too, on the slope beneath; but he did not know +flowers, and his was not now the mood for discovering what they were. +The exercise revived him, and he began to be hungry. But how could +there be anything to eat in the desert, inhospitable succession of +trees and fields and hedges, through which the road wound endlessly +along, like a dead street, having neither houses nor paving stones? +Hunger, however, was far less enfeebling to Gibbie than to one +accustomed to regular meals, and he was in no anxiety about either when +or what he should eat.</p> + +<p>The morning advanced, and by-and-by he began to meet a fellow-creature +now and then upon the road; but at sight of everyone a feeling rose in +him such as he had never had towards human being before: they seemed +somehow of a different kind from those in the town, and they did not +look friendly as they passed. He did not know that he presented to them +a very different countenance from that which his fellow-citizens had +always seen him wear; for the mingled and conflicting emotions of his +spirit had sent out upon it an expression which, accompanied by the +misery of his garments, might well, to the superficial or inexperienced +observer, convey the idea that he was a fugitive and guilty. He was +so uncomfortable at length from the way the people he met scrutinized +him that, when he saw anyone coming, he would instantly turn aside and +take the covert of thicket, or hedge, or stone wall, until the bearer +of eyes had passed. His accustomed trot, which he kept up for several +hours, made him look the more suspicious; but his feet, hardened from +very infancy as they were, soon found the difference between the smooth +flags and the sharp stones of the road, and before noon he was walking +at quite a sober, although still active, pace. Doubtless it slackened +the sooner that he knew no goal, no end to his wandering. <i>Up Daurside</i> +was the one vague notion he had of his calling, his destiny, and with +his short, quick step, his progress was considerable; he passed house +after house, farm after farm; but, never in the way of asking for +anything, though as little in the way of refusing, he went nearer none +of them than the road led him. Besides, the houses were very unlike +those in the city, and not at all attractive to him. He came at length +to a field, sloping to the road, which was covered with leaves like +some he had often seen in the market. They drew him; and as there +was but a low and imperfect hedge between, he got over, and found it +was a crop of small yellow turnips. He gathered as many as he could +carry, and ate them as he went along. Happily no agricultural person +encountered him for some distance, though Gibbie knew no special cause +to congratulate himself upon that, having not the slightest conscience +of offence in what he did. His notions of property were all associated +with well-known visible or neighbouring owners, and in the city he +would never have dreamed of touching anything that was not given him, +except it lay plainly a lost thing. But here, where everything was so +different, and he saw none of the signs of ownership to which he was +accustomed, the idea of property did not come to him; here everything +looked lost, or on the same category with the chips and parings and +crusts that were thrown out in the city, and became common property. +Besides, the love which had hitherto rendered covetousness impossible, +had here no object whose presence might have suggested a doubt, to +supply in a measure the lack of knowledge; hunger, instead, was busy +in his world. I trust there were few farmers along the road who would +have found fault with him for taking one or two; but none, I suspect, +would have liked to see him with all the turnips he could carry, eating +them like a very rabbit: they were too near a city to look upon such a +spectacle with indifference. Gibbie made no attempt to hide his spoil; +whatever could have given birth to the sense that caution would be +necessary, would have prevented him from taking it. While yet busy he +came upon a little girl feeding a cow by the roadside. She saw how he +ate the turnips, and offered him a bit of oatmeal bannock. He received +it gladly, and with beaming eyes offered her a turnip. She refused +it with some indignation. Gibbie, disappointed, but not ungrateful, +resumed his tramp, eating his bannock. He came soon after to a little +stream that ran into the great river. For a few moments he eyed it +very doubtfully, thinking it must, like the kennels along the sides of +the streets, be far too dirty to drink of; but the way it sparkled and +sang—most unscientific reasons—soon satisfied him, and he drank and +was refreshed. He had still two turnips left, but, after the bannock, +he did not seem to want them, and stowed them in the ends of the +sleeves of his jacket, folded back into great cuffs.</p> + +<p>All day the cold spring weather continued, with more of the past +winter in it than of the coming summer. The sun would shine out for a +few moments, with a grey, weary, old light, then retreat as if he had +tried, but really could not. Once came a slight fall of snow, which, +however, melted the moment it touched the earth. The wind kept blowing +cheerlessly by fits, and the world seemed growing tired of the same +thing over again so often. At length the air began to grow dusk: then, +first, fears of the darkness, to Gibbie utterly unknown before, and +only born of the preceding night, began to make him aware of their +existence in the human world. They seemed to rise up from his lonely +heart; they seemed to descend upon him out of the thickening air; they +seemed to catch at his breath, and gather behind him as he went. But, +happily, before it was quite dark, and while yet he could distinguish +between objects, he came to the gate of a farmyard; it waked in him +the hope of finding some place where he could sleep warmer than in the +road, and he clambered over it. Nearest of the buildings to the gate, +stood an open shed, and he could see the shafts of carts projecting +from it: perhaps in one of those carts, or under it, he might find +a place that would serve him to sleep in: he did not yet know what +facilities for repose the country affords. But just as he entered +the shed, he spied at the farther corner of it, outside, a wooden +structure, like a small house, and through the arched door of it saw +the floor covered with nice-looking straw. He suspected it to be a +dog’s kennel; and presently the chain lying beside it, with a collar +at the end, satisfied him it was. The dog was absent, and it looked +altogether enticing! He crept in, got under as much of the straw as he +could heap over him, and fell fast asleep.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes, as it seemed to him, he was roused by the great +voice of a dog in conversation with a boy: the boy seemed, by the +sound of the chain, to be fastening the collar on the dog’s neck, +and presently left him. The dog, which had been on the rampage the +whole afternoon, immediately turned to creep in and rest till supper +time, presenting to Gibbie, who had drawn himself up at the back of +the kennel, the intelligent countenance of a large Newfoundland. Now +Gibbie had been honoured with the acquaintance of many dogs, and the +friendship of most of them, for a lover of humanity can hardly fail to +be a lover of caninity. Even among dogs, however, there are ungracious +individuals, and Gibbie had once or twice been bitten by quadrupedal +worshippers of the respectable. Hence, with the sight of the owner of +the dwelling, it dawned upon him that he must be startled to find a +stranger in his house, and might, regarding him as an intruder rather +than a guest, worry him before he had time to explain himself. He +darted forward therefore to get out, but had scarcely reached the door, +when the dog put in his nose, ready to follow with all he was and had. +Gibbie, thereupon, began a loud barking, as much as to say—“Here I +am: please do nothing without reflection.” The dog started back in +extreme astonishment, his ears erect, and a keen look of question on +his sagacious visage: what strange animal, speaking like, and yet so +unlike, an orthodox dog, could have got into his very chamber? Gibbie, +amused at the dog’s fright, and assured by his looks that he was both a +good-natured and reasonable animal, burst into a fit of merry laughter +as loud as his previous barking, and a good deal more musical. The dog +evidently liked it better, and took it as a challenge to play: after +a series of sharp bursts of barking, his eyes flashing straight in at +the door, and his ears lifted up like two plumes on the top of them, +he darted into the kennel, and began poking his nose into his visitor. +Gibbie fell to patting and kissing and hugging him as if he had been a +human—as who can tell but he was?—glad of any companion that belonged +to the region of the light; and they were friends at once. Mankind had +disappointed him, but here was a dog! Gibbie was not the one to refuse +mercies which yet he would not have been content to pray for. Both were +tired, however, for both had been active that day, and a few minutes +of mingled wrestling and endearment, to which, perhaps, the narrowness +of their play-ground gave a speedier conclusion, contented both, after +which they lay side by side in peace, Gibbie with his head on the dog’s +back, and the dog every now and then turning his head over his shoulder +to lick Gibbie’s face.</p> + +<p>Again he was waked by approaching steps, and the same moment the dog +darted from under him, and with much rattle out of the kennel, in front +of which he stood and whined expectant. It was not quite dark, for the +clouds had drifted away, and the stars were shining, so that, when he +put out his head, he was able to see the dim form of a woman setting +down something before the dog—into which he instantly plunged his +nose, and began gobbling. The sound stirred up all the latent hunger in +Gibbie, and he leaped out, eager to have a share. A large wooden bowl +was on the ground, and the half of its contents of porridge and milk +was already gone; for the poor dog had not yet had experience enough +to be perfect in hospitality, and had forgotten his guest’s wants in +his own: it was plain that, if Gibbie was to have any, he must lose no +time in considering the means. Had he had a long nose and mouth all +in one like him, he would have plunged them in beside the dog’s; but +the flatness of his mouth causing the necessity, in the case of such +an attempt, of bringing the whole of his face into contact with the +food, there was not room in the dish for the two to feed together after +the same fashion, so that he was driven to the sole other possible +expedient, that of making a spoon of his hand. The dog neither growled +nor pushed away the spoon, but instantly began to gobble twice as fast +as before, and presently was licking the bottom of the dish. Gibbie’s +hand, therefore, made but few journeys to his mouth, but what it +carried him was good food—better than any he had had that day. When +all was gone he crept again into the kennel; the dog followed, and soon +they were both fast asleep in each other’s arms and legs.</p> + +<p>Gibbie woke at sunrise and went out. His host came after him, and +stood wagging his tail and looking wistfully up in his face. Gibbie +understood him, and, as the sole return he could make for his +hospitality, undid his collar. Instantly he rushed off, his back going +like a serpent, cleared the gate at a bound, and scouring madly across +a field, vanished from his sight; whereupon Gibbie too set out to +continue his journey up Daurside.</p> + +<p>This day was warmer; the spring had come a step nearer; the dog had +been a comforter to him, and the horror had begun to assuage; he began +to grow aware of the things about him, and to open his eyes to them. +Once he saw a primrose in a little dell, and left the road to look +at it. But as he went, he set his foot in the water of a chalybeate +spring, which was trickling through the grass, and dyeing the ground +red about it: filled with horror he fled, and for some time dared never +go near a primrose. And still upon his right hand was the great river, +flowing down towards the home he had left; now through low meadows, +now through upshouldered fields of wheat and oats, now through rocky +heights covered with the graceful silver-barked birch, the mountain +ash, and the fir. Every time Gibbie, having lost sight of it by some +turn of the road or some interposing eminence, caught its gleam afresh, +his first feeling was that it was hurrying to the city, where the dead +man lay, to tell where Gibbie was. Why he, who had from infancy done +just as he pleased, should now have begun to dread interference with +his liberty, he could not himself have told. Perhaps the fear was but +the shadow of his new-born aversion to the place where he had seen +those best-loved countenances change so suddenly and terribly—cease to +smile, but not cease to stare.</p> + +<p>That second day he fared better, too, than the first; for he came on a +family of mongrel gipsies, who fed him well out of their kettle, and, +taken with his looks, thought to keep him for begging purposes. But now +that Gibbie’s confidence in human nature had been so rudely shaken, +he had already begun, with analysis unconscious, to read the human +countenance, questioning it; and he thought he saw something that would +hurt, in the eyes of two of the men and one of the women. Therefore, in +the middle of the night, he slipped silently out of the tent of rags, +in which he had lain down with the gipsy children, and ere the mothers +woke, was a mile up the river.</p> + +<p>But I must not attempt the detail of this part of his journey. It +is enough that he got through it. He met with some adventures, and +suffered a good deal from hunger and cold. Had he not been hardy as +well as fearless he must have died. But, now from this quarter, now +from that, he got all that was needful for one of God’s birds. Once +he found in a hedge the nest of an errant and secretive hen, and +recognizing the eggs as food authorized by the shop windows and market +of the city, soon qualified himself to have an opinion of their worth. +Another time he came upon a girl milking a cow in a shed, and his +astonishment at the marvels of the process was such, that he forgot +even the hunger that was rendering him faint. He had often seen cows in +the city, but had never suspected what they were capable of. When the +girl caught sight of him, staring with open mouth, she was taken with +such a fit of laughter, that the cow, which was ill-tempered, kicked +out, and overturned the pail. Now because of her troublesomeness this +cow was not milked beside the rest, and the shed where she stood was +used for farm-implements only. The floor of it was the earth, beaten +hard, and worn into hollows. When the milk settled in one of these, +Gibbie saw that it was lost to the girl, and found to him: undeterred +by the astounding nature of the spring from which he had just seen +it flow, he threw himself down, and drank like a calf. Her laughter +ended, the girl was troubled: she would be scolded for her clumsiness +in allowing Hawkie to kick over the pail, but the eagerness of the boy +after the milk troubled her more. She told him to wait, and running to +the house, returned with two large pieces of oatcake, which she gave +him.</p> + +<p>Thus, one way and another, food came to Gibbie. Drink was to be had +in almost any hollow. Sleep was scattered everywhere over the world. +For warmth, only motion and a seasoned skin were necessary: the latter +Gibbie had; the former, already a habit learned in the streets, had now +become almost a passion.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br><span class="small">THE BARN.</span></h2></div> + +<p>By this time Gibbie had got well up towards the roots of the hills of +Gormgarnet, and the river had dwindled greatly. He was no longer afraid +of it, but would lie for hours listening to its murmurs over its pebbly +bed, and sometimes even sleep in the hollows of its banks, or below the +willows that overhung it. Every here and there, a brown rivulet from +some peat-bog on a hill—brown and clear, like smoke-crystals molten +together, flowed into it, and when he had lost it, guided him back +to his guide. Farm after farm he passed, here one widely bordering a +valley stream, there another stretching its skirts up the hillsides +till they were lost in mere heather, where the sheep wandered about, +cropping what stray grass-blades and other eatables they could find. +Lower down he had passed through small towns and large villages: here, +farms and cottages, with an occasional country-seat and little village +of low thatched houses, made up the abodes of men. By this time he had +become greatly reconciled to the loneliness of Nature, and no more was +afraid in her solitary presence.</p> + +<p>At the same time his heart had begun to ache and long after the +communion of his kind. For not once since he set out—and that seemed +months where it was only weeks, had he had an opportunity of doing +anything for anybody—except, indeed, unfastening the dog’s collar; and +not to be able to help was to Gibbie like being dead. Everybody, down +to the dogs, had been doing for him, and what was to become of him! It +was a state altogether of servitude into which he had fallen.</p> + +<p>May had now set in, but up here among the hills she was May by courtesy +only: or if she was May, she would never be Might. She was, indeed, +only April, with her showers and sunshine, her tearful, childish +laughter, and again the frown, and the despair irremediable. Nay, as +if she still kept up a secret correspondence with her cousin March, +banished for his rudeness, she would not very seldom shake from her +skirts a snow storm, and oftener the dancing hail. Then out would come +the sun behind her, and laugh, and say—“I could not help <i>that</i>; but +here I am all the same, coming to you as fast as I can!” The green +crops were growing darker, and the trees were all getting out their +nets to catch carbon. The lambs were frolicking, and in sheltered +places the flowers were turning the earth into a firmament. And now +a mere daisy was enough to delight the heart of Gibbie. His joy in +humanity so suddenly checked, and his thirst for it left unslaked, he +had begun to see the human look in the face of the commonest flowers, +to love the trusting stare of the daisy, that gold-hearted boy, and the +gentle despondency of the girl harebell, dreaming of her mother, the +azure. The wind, of which he had scarce thought as he met it roaming +the streets like himself, was now a friend of his solitude, bringing +him sweet odours, alive with the souls of bees, and cooling with bliss +the heat of the long walk. Even when it blew cold along the waste moss, +waving the heads of the cotton-grass, the only live thing visible, it +was a lover, and kissed him on the forehead. Not that Gibbie knew what +a kiss was, any more than he knew about the souls of bees. He did not +remember ever having been kissed. In that granite city, the women were +not much given to kissing children, even their own, but if they had +been, who of them would have thought of kissing Gibbie! The baker’s +wife, kind as she always was to him, would have thought it defilement +to press her lips to those of the beggar child. And how is any child +to thrive without kisses! The first caresses Gibbie ever knew as +such, were given him by Mother Nature herself. It was only, however, +by degrees, though indeed rapid degrees, that he became capable of +them. In the first part of his journey he was stunned, stupid, lost in +change, distracted between a suddenly vanished past, and a future slow +dawning in the present. He felt little beyond hunger, and that vague +urging up Daurside, with occasional shoots of pleasure from kindness, +mostly of woman and dog. He was less shy of the country people by this +time, but he did not care to seek them. He thought them not nearly +so friendly and good as the town-people, forgetting that those knew +him and these did not. To Gibbie an introduction was the last thing +necessary for any one who wore a face, and he could not understand why +they looked at him so.</p> + +<p>Whatever is capable of aspiring, must be troubled that it may wake and +aspire—then troubled still, that it may hold fast, be itself, and +aspire still.</p> + +<p>One evening his path vanished between twilight and moonrise, and just +as it became dark he found himself at a rough gate, through which he +saw a field. There was a pretty tall hedge on each side of the gate, +and he was now a sufficiently experienced traveller to conclude that +he was not far from some human abode. He climbed the gate and found +himself in a field of clover. It was a splendid big bed, and even had +the night not been warm, he would not have hesitated to sleep in it. He +had never had a cold, and had as little fear for his health as for his +life. He was hungry, it is true; but although food was doubtless more +delicious to such hunger as his—that of the whole body—than it can be +to the mere palate and culinary imagination of an epicure, it was not +so necessary to him that he could not go to sleep without it. So down +he lay in the clover, and was at once unconscious.</p> + +<p>When he woke, the moon was high in the heavens, and had melted the veil +of the darkness from the scene of still, well-ordered comfort. A short +distance from his couch, stood a little army of ricks, between twenty +and thirty of them, constructed perfectly—smooth and upright and round +and large, each with its conical top netted in with straw-rope, and +finished off with what the herd-boy called a <i>toupican</i>—a neatly tied +and trim tuft of the straw with which it was thatched, answering to the +stone-ball on the top of a gable. Like triangles their summits stood +out against the pale blue, moon-diluted air. They were treasure-caves, +hollowed out of space, and stored with the best of ammunition against +the armies of hunger and want; but Gibbie, though he had seen many +of them, did not know what they were. He had seen straw used for the +bedding of cattle and horses, and supposed <i>that</i> the chief end of +such ricks. Nor had he any clear idea that the cattle themselves were +kept for any other object than to make them comfortable and happy. He +had stood behind their houses in the dark, and heard them munching +and grinding away even in the night. Probably the country was for +the cattle, as the towns for the men; and that would explain why +the country-people were so inferior. While he stood gazing, a wind +arose behind the hills, and came blowing down some glen that opened +northwards; Gibbie felt it cold, and sought the shelter of the ricks.</p> + +<p>Great and solemn they looked as he drew nigh—near each other, yet +enough apart for plenty of air to flow and eddy between. Over a low +wall of unmortared stones, he entered their ranks: above him, as he +looked up from their broad base, they ascended huge as pyramids, +and peopled the waste air with giant forms. How warm it was in the +round-winding paths amongst the fruitful piles—tombs these, no +cenotaphs! He wandered about them, now in a dusky yellow gloom, and now +in the cold blue moonlight, which they seemed to warm. At length he +discovered that the huge things were flanked on one side by a long low +house, in which there was a door, horizontally divided into two parts. +Gibbie would fain have got in, to try whether the place was good for +sleep; but he found both halves fast. In the lower half, however, he +spied a hole, which, though not so large, reminded him of the entrance +to the kennel of his dog host; but alas! it had a door too, shut from +the inside. There might be some way of opening it. He felt about, and +soon discovered that it was a sliding valve, which he could push to +either side. It was, in fact, the cat’s door, specially constructed for +her convenience of entrance and exit. For the cat is the guardian of +the barn; the grain which tempts the rats and mice is no temptation to +her; the rats and mice themselves are; upon them she executes justice, +and remains herself an incorruptible, because untempted, therefore a +respectable member of the farm-community—only the dairy door must be +kept shut; that has no cat-wicket in it.</p> + +<p>The hole was a small one, but tempting to the wee baronet; he might +perhaps be able to squeeze himself through. He tried and succeeded, +though with some little difficulty. The moon was there before him, +shining through a pane or two of glass over the door, and by her light +on the hard brown clay floor, Gibbie saw where he was, though if he had +been told he was in the barn, he would neither have felt nor been at +all the wiser. It was a very old-fashioned barn. About a third of it +was floored with wood—dark with age—almost as brown as the clay—for +threshing upon with flails. At that labour two men had been busy +during the most of the preceding day, and that was how, in the same +end of the barn, rose a great heap of oat-straw, showing in the light +of the moon like a mound of pale gold. Had Gibbie had any education +in the marvellous, he might now, in the midnight and moonlight, have +well imagined himself in some treasure-house of the gnomes. What he +saw in the other corner was still liker gold, and was indeed greater +than gold, for it was life—the heap, namely, of corn threshed from +the straw: Gibbie recognized this as what he had seen given to horses. +But now the temptation to sleep, with such facilities presented, was +overpowering, and took from him all desire to examine further: he shot +into the middle of the loose heap of straw, and vanished from the +glimpses of the moon, burrowing like a mole. In the heart of the golden +warmth, he lay so dry and comfortable that, notwithstanding his hunger +had waked with him, he was presently in a faster sleep than before. And +indeed what more luxurious bed, or what bed conducive to softer slumber +was there in the world to find!</p> + +<p>“The moving moon went <i>down</i> the sky,” the cold wind softened and grew +still; the stars swelled out larger; the rats came, and then came puss, +and the rats went with a scuffle and patter; the pagan grey came in +like a sleep-walker, and made the barn dreary as a dull dream; then +the horses began to fidget with their big feet, the cattle to low with +their great trombone throats, and the cocks to crow as if to give +warning for the last time against the devil, the world, and the flesh; +the men in the adjoining chamber woke, yawned, stretched themselves +mightily, and rose; the god-like sun rose after them, and, entering the +barn with them, drove out the grey; and through it all, the orphan lay +warm in God’s keeping and his nest of straw, like the butterfly of a +huge chrysalis.</p> + +<p>When at length Gibbie became once more aware of existence, it was +through a stormy invasion of the still realm of sleep; the blows of two +flails fell persistent and quick-following, first on the thick head of +the sheaf of oats untied and cast down before them, then grew louder +and more deafening as the oats flew and the chaff fluttered, and the +straw flattened and broke and thinned and spread—until at last they +thundered in great hard blows on the wooden floor. It was the first of +these last blows that shook Gibbie awake. What they were or indicated +he could not tell. He wormed himself softly round in the straw to look +out and see.</p> + +<p>Now whether it was that sleep was yet heavy upon him, and bewildered +his eyes, or that his imagination had in dreams been busy with foregone +horrors, I cannot tell; but, as he peered through the meshes of the +crossing and blinding straws, what he seemed to see was the body of an +old man with dishevelled hair, whom, prostrate on the ground, they were +beating to death with great sticks. His tongue clave to the roof of his +mouth, not a sound could he utter, not a finger could he move; he had +no choice but to lie still, and witness the fierce enormity. But it is +good that we are compelled to see some things, life amongst the rest, +to what we call the end of them. By degrees Gibbie’s sight cleared; +the old man faded away; and what was left of him he could see to be +only an armful of straw. The next sheaf they threw down, he perceived, +under their blows, the corn flying out of it, and began to understand +a little. When it was finished, the corn that had flown dancing from +its home, like hail from its cloud, was swept aside to the common heap, +and the straw tossed up on the mound that harboured Gibbie. It was well +that the man with the pitchfork did not spy his eyes peering out from +the midst of the straw: he might have taken him for some wild creature, +and driven the prongs into him. As it was, Gibbie did not altogether +like the look of him, and lay still as a stone. Then another sheaf +was unbound and cast on the floor, and the blows of the flails began +again. It went on thus for an hour and a half, and Gibbie although +he dropped asleep several times, was nearly stupid with the noise. +The men at length, however, swept up the corn and tossed up the straw +for the last time, and went out. Gibbie, judging by his own desires, +thought they must have gone to eat, but did not follow them, having +generally been ordered away the moment he was seen in a farmyard. He +crept out, however, and began to look about him—first of all for +something he could eat. The oats looked the most likely, and he took +a mouthful for a trial. He ground at them severely, but, hungry as he +was, he failed to find oats good for food. Their hard husks, their +dryness, their instability, all slipping past each other at every +attempt to crush them with his teeth, together foiled him utterly. He +must search farther. Looking round him afresh, he saw an open loft, +and climbing on the heap in which he had slept, managed to reach it. +It was at the height of the walls, and the couples of the roof rose +immediately from it. At the farther end was a heap of hay, which he +took for another kind of straw. Then he spied something he knew; a row +of cheeses lay on a shelf suspended from the rafters, ripening. Gibbie +knew them well from the shop windows—knew they were cheeses, and good +to eat, though whence and how they came he did not know, his impression +being that they grew in the fields like the turnips. He had still the +notion uncorrected, that things in the country belonged to nobody in +particular, and were mostly for the use of animals, with which, since +he became a wanderer, he had almost come to class himself. He was very +hungry. He pounced upon a cheese and lifted it between his two hands; +it smelled good, but felt very hard. That was no matter: what else were +teeth made strong and sharp for? He tried them on one of the round +edges, and, nibbling actively, soon got through to the softer body +of the cheese. But he had not got much farther when he heard the men +returning, and desisted, afraid of being discovered by the noise he +made. The readiest way to conceal himself was to lie down flat on the +loft, and he did so just where he could see the threshing-floor over +the edge of it by lifting his head. This, however, he scarcely ventured +to do; and all he could see as he lay was the tip of the swing-bar of +one of the flails, ever as it reached the highest point of its ascent. +But to watch for it very soon ceased to be interesting; and although +he had eaten so little of the cheese, it had yet been enough to make +him dreadfully thirsty, therefore he greatly desired to get away. But +he dared not go down: with their sticks those men might knock him over +in a moment! So he lay there thinking of the poor little hedgehog he +had seen on the road as he came; how he stood watching it, and wishing +he had a suit made all of great pins, which he could set up when he +pleased; and how the driver of a cart, catching sight of him at the +foot of the hedge, gave him a blow with his whip, and, poor fellow! +notwithstanding his clothes of pins, that one blow of a whip was too +much for him! There seemed nothing in the world but killing!</p> + +<p>At length he could, unoccupied with something else, bear his thirst no +longer, and, squirming round on the floor, crept softly towards the +other end of the loft, to see what was to be seen there.</p> + +<p>He found that the heap of hay was not in the loft at all. It filled a +small chamber in the stable, in fact; and when Gibbie clambered upon +it, what should he see below him on the other side, but a beautiful +white horse, eating some of the same sort of stuff he was now lying +upon! Beyond he could see the backs of more horses, but they were very +different—big and clumsy, and not white. They were all eating, and +this was their food on which he lay! He wished he too could eat it—and +tried, but found it even less satisfactory than the oats, for it nearly +choked him, and set him coughing so that he was in considerable danger +of betraying his presence to the men in the barn. How did the horses +manage to get such dry stuff down their throats? But the cheese was dry +too, and he could eat that! No doubt the cheese, as well as the fine +straw, was there for the horses! He would like to see the beautiful +white creature down there eat a bit of it; but with all his big teeth +he did not think he could manage a whole cheese, and how to get a piece +broken off for him, with those men there, he could not devise. It +would want a long-handled hammer like those with which he had seen men +breaking stones on the road.</p> + +<p>A door opened beyond, and a man came in and led two of the horses out, +leaving the door open. Gibbie clambered down from the top of the hay +into the stall beside the white horse, and ran out. He was almost in +the fields, had not even a fence to cross.</p> + +<p>He cast a glance around, and went straight for a neighbouring hollow, +where, taught by experience, he hoped to find water.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br><span class="small">JANET.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Once away, Gibbie had no thought of returning. <i>Up Daurside</i> was the +sole propulsive force whose existence he recognized. But when he lifted +his head from drinking at the stream, which was one of some size, and, +greatly refreshed, looked up its channel, a longing seized him to know +whence came the water of life which had thus restored him to bliss—how +a burn first appears upon the earth. He thought it might come from the +foot of a great conical mountain which seemed but a little way off. He +would follow it up and see. So away he went, yielding at once, as was +his wont, to the first desire that came. He had not trotted far along +the bank, however, before, at a sharp turn it took, he saw that its +course was a much longer one than he had imagined, for it turned from +the mountain, and led up among the roots of other hills; while here +in front of him, direct from the mountain, as it seemed, came down a +smaller stream, and tumbled noisily into this. The larger burn would +lead him too far from the Daur; he would follow the smaller one. He +found a wide shallow place, crossed the larger, and went up the side of +the smaller.</p> + +<p>Doubly free after his imprisonment of the morning, Gibbie sped joyously +along. Already, nature, her largeness, her openness, her loveliness, +her changefulness, her oneness in change, had begun to heal the child’s +heart, and comfort him in his disappointment with his kind. The stream +he was now ascending ran along a claw of the mountain, which claw was +covered with almost a forest of pine, protecting little colonies of +less hardy timber. Its heavy green was varied with the pale delicate +fringes of the fresh foliage of the larches, filling the air with +aromatic breath. In the midst of their soft tufts, each tuft buttoned +with a brown spot, hung the rich brown knobs and tassels of last year’s +cones. But the trees were all on the opposite side of the stream, and +appeared to be mostly on the other side of a wall. Where Gibbie was, +the mountain-root was chiefly of rock, interspersed with heather.</p> + +<p>A little way up the stream, he came to a bridge over it, closed at the +farther end by iron gates between pillars, each surmounted by a wolf’s +head in stone. Over the gate on each side leaned a rowan-tree, with +trunk and branches aged and gnarled amidst their fresh foliage. He +crossed the burn to look through the gate, and pressed his face between +the bars to get a better sight of a tame rabbit that had got out of its +hutch. It sat, like a Druid white with age, in the midst of a gravel +drive, much overgrown with moss, that led through a young larch wood, +with here and there an ancient tree, lonely amidst the youth of its +companions. Suddenly from the wood a large spaniel came bounding upon +the rabbit. Gibbie gave a shriek, and the rabbit made one white flash +into the wood, with the dog after him. He turned away sad at heart.</p> + +<p>“Ilka cratur ’at can,” he said to himself, “ates ilka cratur ’at canna!”</p> + +<p>It was his first generalization, but not many years passed before he +supplemented it with a conclusion:</p> + +<p>“But the man ’at wad be a man, he maunna.”</p> + +<p>Resuming his journey of investigation, he trotted along the bank of the +burn, farther and farther up, until he could trot no more, but must go +clambering over great stones, or sinking to the knees in bog, patches +of it red with iron, from which he would turn away with a shudder. +Sometimes he walked in the water, along the bed of the burn itself; +sometimes he had to scramble up its steep side, to pass one of the many +little cataracts of its descent. Here and there a small silver birch, +or a mountain-ash, or a stunted fir-tree, looking like a wizard child, +hung over the stream. Its banks were mainly of rock and heather, but +now and then a small patch of cultivation intervened. Gibbie had no +thought that he was gradually leaving the abodes of men behind him; he +knew no reason why in ascending things should change, and be no longer +as in plainer ways. For what he knew, there might be farm after farm, +up and up for ever, to the gates of heaven. But it would no longer +have troubled him greatly to leave all houses behind him for a season. +A great purple foxglove could do much now, just at this phase of his +story, to make him forget—not the human face divine, but the loss of +it. A lark aloft in the blue, from whose heart, as from a fountain +whose roots were lost in the air, its natural source, issued, not a +stream, but an ever spreading lake of song, was now more to him than +the memory of any human voice he had ever heard, except his father’s +and Sambo’s. But he was not yet quite out and away from the dwellings +of his kind.</p> + +<p>I may as well now make the attempt to give some idea of Gibbie’s +appearance, as he showed after so long wandering. Of dress he had +hardly enough left to carry the name. Shoes, of course, he had none. +Of the shape of trousers there remained nothing, except the division +before and behind in the short petticoat to which they were reduced; +and those rudimentary divisions were lost in the multitude of rents +of equal apparent significance. He had never, so far as he knew, +had a shirt upon his body; and his sole other garment was a jacket, +so much too large for him, that to retain the use of his hands he +had folded back the sleeves quite to his elbows. Thus reversed they +became pockets, the only ones he had, and in them he stowed whatever +provisions were given him of which he could not make immediate +use—porridge and sowens and mashed potatoes included: they served +him, in fact, like the first of the stomachs of those animals which +have more than one—concerning which animals, by the way, I should +much like to know what they were in “Pythagoras’ time.” His head had +plentiful protection in his own natural crop—had never either had or +required any other. That would have been of the gold order, had not a +great part of its colour been sunburnt, rained, and frozen out of it. +All ways it pointed, as if surcharged with electric fluid, crowning +him with a wildness which was in amusing contrast with the placidity +of his countenance. Perhaps the resulting queerness in the expression +of the little vagrant, a look as if he had been hunted till his body +and soul were nearly ruffled asunder, and had already parted company in +aim and interest, might have been the first thing to strike a careless +observer. But if the heart was not a careless one, the eye would look +again and discover a stronger stillness than mere placidity—a sort +of live peace abiding in that weather-beaten little face under its +wild crown of human herbage. The features of it were well-shaped, and +not smaller than proportioned to the small whole of his person. His +eyes—partly, perhaps, because there was so little flesh upon his +bones—were large, and in repose had much of a soft animal expression: +there was not in them the look of <i>You and I know</i>. Frequently, too, +when occasion roused the needful instinct, they had a sharp expression +of outlook and readiness, which, without a trace of fierceness or +greed, was yet equally animal. Only, all the time there was present +something else, beyond characterization: behind them something seemed +to lie asleep. His hands and feet were small and childishly dainty, his +whole body well-shaped and well put together—of which the style of his +dress rather quashed the evidence.</p> + +<p>Such was Gibbie to the eye, as he rose from Daurside to the last +cultivated ground on the borders of the burn, and the highest dwelling +on the mountain. It was the abode of a cottar, and was a dependency +of the farm he had just left. The cottar was an old man of seventy; +his wife was nearly sixty. They had reared stalwart sons and shapely +daughters, now at service here and there in the valleys below—all +ready to see God in nature, and recognize Him in providence. They +belong to a class now, I fear, extinct, but once, if my love prejudice +not my judgment too far, the glory and strength of Scotland: their +little acres are now swallowed up in the larger farms.</p> + +<p>It was a very humble dwelling, built of turf upon a foundation of +stones, and roofed with turf and straw—warm, and nearly impervious to +the searching airs of the mountain-side. One little window of a foot +and a half square looked out on the universe. At one end stood a stack +of peat, half as big as the cottage itself. All around it were huge +rocks, some of them peaks whose masses went down to the very central +fires, others only fragments that had rolled from above. Here and +there a thin crop was growing in patches amongst them, the red grey +stone lifting its baldness in spots numberless through the soft waving +green. A few of the commonest flowers grew about the door, but there +was no garden. The door-step was live rock, and a huge projecting rock +behind formed the back and a portion of one of the end walls. This +latter rock had been the attraction to the site, because of a hollow +in it, which now served as a dairy. For up there with them lived the +last cow of the valley—the cow that breathed the loftiest air on all +Daurside—a good cow, and gifted in feeding well upon little. Facing +the broad south, and leaning against the hill, as against the bosom +of God, sheltering it from the north and east, the cottage looked so +high-humble, so still, so confident, that it drew Gibbie with the spell +of heart-likeness. He knocked at the old, weather-beaten, shrunk and +rent, but well patched door. A voice, alive with the soft vibrations of +thought and feeling, answered,</p> + +<p>“Come yer wa’s in, whae’er ye be.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie pulled the string that came through a hole in the door, so +lifting the latch, and entered.</p> + +<p>A woman sat on a creepie, her face turned over her shoulder to see who +came. It was a grey face, with good simple features and clear grey +eyes. The plentiful hair that grew low on her forehead, was half grey, +mostly covered by a white cap with frills. A clean wrapper and apron, +both of blue print, over a blue winsey petticoat, blue stockings, and +strong shoes completed her dress. A book lay on her lap: always when +she had finished her morning’s work, and made her house tidy, she sat +down to <i>have her comfort</i>, as she called it. The moment she saw Gibbie +she rose. Had he been the angel Gabriel, come to tell her she was +wanted at the throne, her attention could not have been more immediate +or thorough. She was rather a little woman, and carried herself +straight and light.</p> + +<p>“Eh, ye puir ootcast!” she said, in the pitying voice of a mother, “hoo +cam ye here sic a heicht? Cratur, ye hae left the warl’ ahin’ ye. What +wad ye hae here? <i>I</i> hae naething.”</p> + +<p>Receiving no answer but one of the child’s betwitching smiles, she +stood for a moment regarding him, not in mere silence, but with a +look of dumbness. She was a mother. One who is mother only to her own +children is not a mother; she is only a woman who has borne children. +But here was one of God’s mothers.</p> + +<p>Loneliness and silence, and constant homely familiarity with the vast +simplicities of nature, assist much in the development of the deeper +and more wonderful faculties of perception. The perceptions themselves +may take this or that shape according to the education—may even embody +themselves fantastically, yet be no less perceptions. Now the very +moment before Gibbie entered, she had been reading the words of the +Lord: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my +brethren, ye have done it unto me”; and with her heart full of them, +she lifted her eyes and saw Gibbie. For one moment, with the quick +flashing response of the childlike imagination of the Celt, she fancied +she saw the Lord himself. Another woman might have made a more serious +mistake, and seen there <i>only</i> a child. Often had Janet pondered, as +she sat alone on the great mountain, while Robert was with the sheep, +or she lay awake by his side at night, with the wind howling about the +cottage, whether the Lord might not sometimes take a lonely walk to +look after such solitary sheep of his flock as they, and let them know +he had not lost sight of them, for all the ups and downs of the hills. +There stood the child, and whether he was the Lord or not, he was +evidently hungry. Ah! who could tell but the Lord was actually hungry +in every one of his hungering little ones!</p> + +<p>In the mean time—only it was but thought-time, not clock-time—Gibbie +stood motionless in the middle of the floor, smiling his innocent +smile, asking for nothing, hinting at nothing, but resting his wild +calm eyes, with a sense of safety and mother-presence, upon the grey +thoughtful face of the gazing woman. Her awe deepened; it seemed to +descend upon her and fold her in as with a mantle. Involuntarily she +bowed her head, and stepping to him took him by the hand, and led him +to the stool she had left. There she made him sit, while she brought +forward her table, white with scrubbing, took from a hole in the wall +and set upon it a platter of oatcakes, carried a wooden bowl to her +dairy in the rock through a whitewashed door, and bringing it back +filled, half with cream half with milk, set that also on the table. +Then she placed a chair before it, and said—</p> + +<p>“Sit ye doon, an’ tak. Gien ye war the Lord himsel’, my bonnie man, +an’ ye may be for oucht I ken, for ye luik puir an’ despised eneuch, I +cud gie nae better, for it’s a’ I hae to offer ye—’cep it micht be an +egg,” she added, correcting herself, and turned and went out.</p> + +<p>Presently she came back with a look of success, carrying two eggs, +which, having raked out a quantity, she buried in the hot ashes of the +peats, and left in front of the hearth to roast, while Gibbie went on +eating the thick oatcake, sweet and substantial, and drinking such milk +as the wildest imagination of town-boy could never suggest. It was +indeed angels’ food—food such as would have pleased the Lord himself +after a hard day with axe and saw and plane, so good and simple and +strong was it. Janet resumed her seat on the low three-legged stool, +and took her knitting that he might feel neither that he was watched as +he ate, nor that she was waiting for him to finish. Every other moment +she gave a glance at the stranger she had taken in; but never a word he +spoke, and the sense of mystery grew upon her.</p> + +<p>Presently came a great bounce and scramble; the latch jumped up, +the door flew open, and after a moment’s pause, in came a sheep +dog—a splendid thorough-bred collie, carrying in his mouth a tiny, +long-legged lamb, which he dropped half dead in the woman’s lap. It +was a late lamb, born of a mother which had been sold from the hill, +but had found her way back from a great distance, in order that her +coming young one might have the privilege of being yeaned on the same +spot where she had herself awaked to existence. Another moment, and her +<i>mba-a</i> was heard approaching the door. She trotted in, and going up to +Janet, stood contemplating the consequences of her maternal ambition. +Her udder was full, but the lamb was too weak to suck. Janet rose, +and going to the side of the room, opened the door of what might have +seemed an old press, but was a bed. Folding back the counterpane, she +laid the lamb in the bed, and covered it over. Then she got a <i>caup</i>, a +wooden dish like a large saucer, and into it milked the ewe. Next she +carried the caup to the bed; but what means she there used to enable +the lamb to drink, the boy could not see, though his busy eyes and +loving heart would gladly have taken in all.</p> + +<p>In the mean time the collie, having done his duty by the lamb, and +perhaps forgotten it, sat on his tail, and stared with his two brave +trusting eyes at the little beggar that sat in the master’s chair, and +ate of the fat of the land. Oscar was a gentleman, and had never gone +to school, therefore neither fancied nor had been taught that rags +make an essential distinction, and ought to be barked at. Gibbie was a +stranger, and therefore as a stranger Oscar gave him welcome—now and +then stooping to lick the little brown feet that had wandered so far.</p> + +<p>Like all wild creatures, Gibbie ate fast, and had finished everything +set before him ere the woman had done feeding the lamb. Without a +notion of the rudeness of it, his heart full of gentle gratitude, he +rose and left the cottage. When Janet turned from her shepherding, +there sat Oscar looking up at the empty chair.</p> + +<p>“What’s come o’ the laddie?” she said to the dog, who answered with a +low whine, half-regretful, half-interrogative. It may be he was only +asking, like Esau, if there was no residuum of blessing for him also; +but perhaps he too was puzzled what to conclude about the boy. Janet +hastened to the door, but already Gibbie’s nimble feet refreshed to +the point of every toe with the food he had just swallowed, had borne +him far up the hill, behind the cottage, so that she could not get a +glimpse of him. Thoughtfully she returned, and thoughtfully removed +the remnants of the meal. She would then have resumed her Bible, but +her hospitality had rendered it necessary that she should put on her +<i>girdle</i>—not a cincture of leather upon her body, but a disc of iron +on the fire—to bake thereon cakes ere her husband’s return. It was a +simple enough process, for the oat-meal wanted nothing but water and +fire; but her joints had not yet got rid of the winter’s rheumatism, +and the labour of the baking was the hardest part of the sacrifice of +her hospitality. To many it is easy to give what they have, but the +offering of weariness and pain is never easy. They are indeed a true +salt to salt sacrifices withal. That it was the last of her meal till +her youngest boy should bring her a bag on his back from the mill the +next Saturday, made no point in her trouble.</p> + +<p>When at last she had done, and put the things away, and swept up the +hearth, she milked the ewe, sent her out to nibble, took her Bible, and +sat down once more to read. The lamb lay at her feet, with his little +head projecting from the folds of her new flannel petticoat; and every +time her eye fell from the book upon the lamb, she felt as if somehow +the lamb was the boy that had eaten of her bread and drunk of her milk. +After she had read a while, there came a change, and the lamb seemed +the Lord himself, both lamb and shepherd, who had come to claim her +hospitality. Then, divinely invaded with the dread lest in the fancy +she should forget the reality, she kneeled down and prayed to the +friend of Martha and Mary and Lazarus, to come as he had said, and sup +with her indeed.</p> + +<p>Not for years and years had Janet been to church; she had long been +unable to walk so far; and having no book but the best, and no help +to understand it but the highest, her faith was simple, strong, +real, all-pervading. Day by day she pored over the great gospel—I +mean just the good news according to Matthew and Mark and Luke and +John—until she had grown to be one of the noble ladies of the kingdom +of heaven—one of those who inherit the earth, and are ripening to +see God. For the Master, and his mind in hers, was her teacher. She +had little or no theology save what he taught her, or rather, what he +is. And of any other than that, the less the better; for no theology, +except the <i>Θεοῡ λόγος</i>, is worth the learning, no other being true. To +know <i>him</i> is to know God. And he only who obeys him, does or can know +him; he who obeys him cannot fail to know him. To Janet, Jesus Christ +was no object of so-called theological speculation, but a living man, +who somehow or other heard her when she called to him, and sent her the +help she needed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br><span class="small">GLASHGAR.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Up and up the hill went Gibbie. The path ceased altogether; but when +<i>up</i> is the word in one’s mind—and <i>up</i> had grown almost a fixed idea +with Gibbie—he can seldom be in doubt whether he is going right, even +where there is no track. Indeed in all more arduous ways, men leave no +track behind them, no finger-post—there is always but the steepness. +He climbed and climbed. The mountain grew steeper and barer as he went, +and he became absorbed in his climbing. All at once he discovered that +he had lost the stream, where or when he could not tell. All below and +around him was red granite rock, scattered over with the chips and +splinters detached by air and wind, water and stream, light and heat +and cold. Glashgar was only about three thousand feet in height, but it +was the steepest of its group—a huge rock that, even in the midst of +masses, suggested solidity.</p> + +<p>Not once while he ascended had the idea come to him that by and by +he should be able to climb no farther. For aught he knew there were +oat-cakes and milk and sheep and collie dogs ever higher and higher +still. Not until he actually stood upon the peak did he know that +there was the earthly <i>hitherto</i>—the final obstacle of unobstancy, +the everywhere which, from excess of perviousness, was to human foot +impervious. The sun was about two hours towards the west, when Gibbie, +his little legs almost as active as ever, surmounted the final slope. +Running up like a child that would scale heaven, he stood on the bare +round, the head of the mountain, and saw, with an invading shock of +amazement, and at first of disappointment, that there was no going +higher: in every direction the slope was downward. He had never been +on the top of anything before. He had always been in the hollows of +things. Now the whole world lay beneath him. It was cold; in some of +the shadows lay snow—weary exile from both the sky and the sea and +the ways of them—captive in the fetters of the cold—prisoner to +the mountain top; but Gibbie felt no cold. In a glow with the climb, +which at the last had been hard, his lungs filled with the heavenly +air, and his soul with the feeling that he was above everything that +was, uplifted on the very crown of the earth, he stood in his rags, +a fluttering scarecrow, the conqueror of height, the discoverer of +immensity, the monarch of space. Nobody knew of such marvel but him! +Gibbie had never even heard the word <i>poetry</i>, but none the less was +he the very stuff out of which poems grow, and now all the latent +poetry in him was set a swaying and heaving—an ocean inarticulate +because unobstructed—a might that could make no music, no thunder +of waves, because it had no shore, no rocks of thought against which +to break in speech. He sat down on the topmost point; and slowly, +in the silence and the loneliness, from the unknown fountains of +the eternal consciousness, the heart of the child filled. Above him +towered infinitude, immensity, potent on his mind through shape to his +eye in a soaring dome of blue—the one visible symbol informed and +insouled of the eternal, to reveal itself thereby. In it, centre and +life, lorded the great sun, beginning to cast shadows to the south +and east from the endless heaps of the world that lifted themselves +in all directions. Down their sides ran the streams, down busily, +hasting away through every valley to the Daur, which bore them back +to the ocean-heart—through woods and meadows, park and waste, rocks +and willowy marsh. Behind the valleys rose mountains; and behind the +mountains, other mountains, more and more, each swathed in its own +mystery; and beyond all hung the curtain-depth of the sky-gulf. Gibbie +sat and gazed, and dreamed and gazed. The mighty city that had been +to him the universe, was dropped and lost, like a thing that was now +nobody’s, in far indistinguishable distance; and he who had lost it +had climbed upon the throne of the world. The air was still; when a +breath awoke, it but touched his cheek like the down of a feather, and +the stillness was there again. The stillness grew great, and slowly +descended upon him. It deepened and deepened. Surely it would deepen to +a voice!—it was about to speak! It was as if a great single thought +was the substance of the silence, and was all over and around him, and +closer to him than his clothes, than his body, than his hands. I am +describing the indescribable, and compelled to make it too definite +for belief. In colder speech, an experience had come to the child; a +link in the chain of his development glided over the windlass of his +uplifting; a change passed upon him. In after years, when Gibbie had +the idea of God, when he had learned to think about him, to desire his +presence, to believe that a will of love enveloped his will, as the +brooding hen spreads her wings over her eggs—as often as the thought +of God came to him, it came in the shape of the silence on the top of +Glashgar.</p> + +<p>As he sat, with his eyes on the peak he had just chosen from the rest +as the loftiest of all within his sight, he saw a cloud begin to grow +upon it. The cloud grew, and gathered, and descended, covering its +sides as it went, until the whole was hidden. Then swiftly, as he +gazed, the cloud opened as it were a round window in the heart of it, +and through that he saw the peak again. The next moment a flash of blue +lightning darted across the opening, and whether Gibbie really saw what +follows, he never could be sure, but always after, as often as the +vision returned, in the flash he saw a rock rolling down the peak. The +clouds swept together, and the window closed. The next thing which in +after years he remembered was, that the earth, mountains, meadows, and +streams, had vanished; everything was gone from his sight, except a +few yards around him of the rock upon which he sat, and the cloud that +hid world and heaven. Then again burst forth the lightning. He saw no +flash, but an intense cloud-illumination, accompanied by the deafening +crack, and followed by the appalling roar and roll of the thunder. Nor +was it noise alone that surrounded him, for, as if he were in the heart +and nest of the storm, the very wind-waves that made the thunder rushed +in driven bellowing over him, and had nearly swept him away. He clung +to the rock with hands and feet. The cloud writhed and wrought and +billowed and eddied, with all the shapes of the wind, and seemed itself +to be the furnace-womb in which the thunder was created. Was this then +the voice into which the silence had been all the time deepening?—had +the Presence thus taken form and declared itself? Gibbie had yet to +learn that there is a deeper voice still into which such a silence may +grow—and the silence not be broken. He was not dismayed. He had no +conscience of wrong, and scarcely knew fear. It was an awful delight +that filled his spirit. Mount Sinai was not to him a terror. To him +there was no wrath in the thunder any more than in the greeting of the +dog that found him in his kennel. To him there was no being in the sky +so righteous as to be more displeased than pitiful over the wrongness +of the children whom he had not yet got taught their childhood. +Gibbie sat calm, awe-ful, but, I imagine, with a clear forehead and +smile-haunted mouth, while the storm roared and beat and flashed and +ran about him. It was the very fountain of tempest. From the bare crest +of the mountain the water poured down its sides, as if its springs were +in the rock itself, and not in the bosom of the cloud above. The tumult +at last seized Gibbie like an intoxication; he jumped to his feet, +and danced and flung his arms about, as if he himself were the storm. +But the uproar did not last long. Almost suddenly it was gone, as if, +like a bird that had been flapping the ground in agony, it had at last +recovered itself, and taken to its great wings and flown. The sun shone +out clear, and in all the blue abyss not a cloud was to be seen, except +far away to leeward, where one was spread like a banner in the lonely +air, fleeting away, the ensign of the charging storm—bearing for its +device a segment of the many-coloured bow.</p> + +<p>And now that its fierceness was over, the jubilation in the softer +voices of the storm became audible. As the soul gives thanks for the +sufferings that are overpast, offering the love and faith and hope +which the pain has stung into fresh life, so from the sides of the +mountain ascended the noise of the waters the cloud had left behind. +The sun had kept on his journey; the storm had been no disaster to him; +and now he was a long way down the west, and Twilight, in her grey +cloak, would soon be tracking him from the east, like sorrow dogging +delight. Gibbie, wet and cold, began to think of the cottage where he +had been so kindly received, of the friendly face of its mistress, and +her care of the lamb. It was not that he wanted to eat. He did not +even imagine more eating, for never in his life had he eaten twice +of the same charity in the same day. What he wanted was to find some +dry hole in the mountain, and sleep as near the cottage as he could. +So he rose and set out. But he lost his way; came upon one precipice +after another, down which only a creeping thing could have gone; was +repeatedly turned aside by torrents and swampy places; and when the +twilight came, was still wandering upon the mountain. At length he +found, as he thought, the burn along whose bank he had ascended in +the morning, and followed it towards the valley, looking out for the +friendly cottage. But the first indication of abode he saw, was the +wall of the grounds of the house through whose gate he had looked in +the morning. He was then a long way from the cottage, and not far +from the farm; and the best thing he could do was to find again the +barn where he had slept so well the night before. This was not very +difficult even in the dusky night. He skirted the wall, came to his +first guide, found and crossed the valley-stream, and descended it +until he thought he recognized the slope of clover down which he had +run in the morning. He ran up the brae, and there were the solemn cones +of the corn-ricks between him and the sky! A minute more and he had +crept through the cat-hole, and was feeling about in the dark barn. +Happily the heap of straw was not yet removed. Gibbie shot into it like +a mole, and burrowed to the very centre, there coiled himself up, and +imagined himself lying in the heart of the rock on which he sat during +the storm, and listening to the thunder winds over his head. The fancy +enticed the sleep which before was ready enough to come, and he was +soon far stiller than Ariel in the cloven pine of Sycorax.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.<br><span class="small">THE CEILING.</span></h2></div> + +<p>He might have slept longer the next morning, for there was no threshing +to wake him, in spite of the cocks in the yard that made it their +business to rouse sleepers to their work, had it not been for another +kind of cock inside him, which bore the same relation to food that the +others bore to light. He peeped first, then crept out. All was still +except the voices of those same prophet cocks, crying in the wilderness +of the yet sunless world; a moo now and then from the byres; and the +occasional stamp of a great hoof in the stable. Gibbie clambered up +into the loft, and turning the cheeses about until he came upon the one +he had gnawed before, again attacked it, and enlarged considerably the +hole he had already made in it. Rather dangerous food it was, perhaps, +eaten in that unmitigated way, for it was made of skimmed milk, and was +very dry and hard; but Gibbie was a powerful little animal, all bones +and sinews, small hard muscle, and faultless digestion. The next idea +naturally rising was the burn; he tumbled down over the straw heap to +the floor of the barn, and made for the cat-hole. But the moment he +put his head out, he saw the legs of a man: the farmer was walking +through his ricks, speculating on the money they held. He drew back, +and looked round to see where best he could betake himself should he +come in. He spied thereupon a ladder leaning against the end-wall +of the barn, opposite the loft and the stables, and near it in the +wall a wooden shutter, like the door of a little cupboard. He got up +the ladder, and opening the shutter, which was fastened only with a +button, found a hole in the wall, through which popping his head too +carelessly, he knocked from a shelf some piece of pottery, which fell +with a great crash on a paved floor. Looking after it, Gibbie beheld +below him a rich prospect of yellow-white pools ranged in order on +shelves. They reminded him of milk, but were of a different colour. As +he gazed, a door opened hastily, with sharp clicking latch, and a woman +entered, ejaculating, “Care what set that cat!” Gibbie drew back, lest +in her search for the cat she might find the culprit. She looked all +round, muttering such truncated imprecations as befitted the mouth of a +Scotchwoman; but as none of her milk was touched, her wrath gradually +abated: she picked up the fragments and withdrew.</p> + +<p>Thereupon Gibbie ventured to reconnoitre a little farther, and popping +in his head again, saw that the dairy was open to the roof, but the +door was in a partition which did not run so high. The place from which +the woman entered, was ceiled, and the ceiling rested on the partition +between it and the dairy; so that, from a shelf level with the hole, he +could easily enough get on the top of the ceiling. This, urged by the +instinct of the homeless to understand their surroundings, he presently +effected, by creeping like a cat along the top shelf.</p> + +<p>The ceiling was that of the kitchen, and was merely of boards, which, +being old and shrunken, had here and there a considerable crack +between two, and Gibbie, peeping through one after another of these +cracks, soon saw several things he did not understand. Of such was a +barrel-churn, which he took for a barrel-organ, and welcomed as a sign +of civilization. The woman was sweeping the room towards the hearth, +where the peat fire was already burning, with a great pot hanging over +it, covered with a wooden lid. When the water in it was hot, she poured +it into a large wooden dish, in which she began to wash other dishes, +thus giving the observant Gibbie his first notion of housekeeping. Then +she scoured the deal table, dusted the bench and the chairs, arranged +the dishes on shelves and rack, except a few which she placed on the +table, put more water on the fire, and disappeared in the dairy. Thence +presently she returned, carrying a great jar, which, to Gibbie’s +astonishment, having lifted a lid in the top of the churn, she emptied +into it; he was not, therefore, any farther astonished, when she began +to turn the handle vigorously, that no music issued. As to what else +might be expected, Gibbie had not even a mistaken idea. But the butter +<i>came</i> quickly that morning, and then he did have another astonishment, +for he saw a great mass of something half-solid tumbled out where he +had seen a liquid poured in—nor that alone, for the liquid came out +again too! But when at length he saw the mass, after being well washed, +moulded into certain shapes, he recognized it as butter, such as he had +seen in the shops, and had now and then tasted on the <i>piece</i> given +him by some more than usually generous housekeeper. Surely he had +wandered into a region of plenty! Only now, when he saw the woman busy +and careful, the idea of things in the country being a sort of common +property began to fade from his mind, and the perception to wake that +they were as the things in the shops, which must not be touched without +first paying money for them over a counter.</p> + +<p>The butter-making, brought to a successful close, the woman proceeded +to make porridge for the men’s breakfast, and with hungry eyes Gibbie +watched that process next. The water in the great pot boiling like +a wild volcano, she took handful after handful of meal from a great +wooden dish, called a <i>bossie</i>, and threw it into the pot, stirring as +she threw, until the mess was presently so thick that she could no more +move the <i>spurtle</i> in it; and scarcely had she emptied it into another +great wooden bowl, called a <i>bicker</i>, when Gibbie heard the heavy tramp +of the men crossing the yard to consume it.</p> + +<p>For the last few minutes, Gibbie’s nostrils—alas! not Gibbie—had been +regaled with the delicious odour of the boiling meal; and now his eyes +had their turn—but still, alas, not Gibbie! Prostrate on the ceiling +he lay and watched the splendid spoonfuls tumble out of sight into the +capacious throats of four men; all took their spoonfuls from the same +dish, but each dipped his spoonful into his private <i>caup</i> of milk, +ere he carried it to his mouth. A little apart sat a boy, whom the +woman seemed to favour, having provided him with a plateful of porridge +by himself, but the fact was, four were as many as could <i>bicker</i> +comfortably, or with any chance of fair play. The boy’s countenance +greatly attracted Gibbie. It was a long, solemn face, but the eyes +were bright-blue and sparkling; and when he smiled, which was not very +often, it was a good and meaningful smile.</p> + +<p>When the meal was over, and he saw the little that was left, with all +the drops of milk from the <i>caups</i>, tumbled into a common receptacle, +to be kept, he thought, for the next meal, poor Gibbie felt very empty +and forsaken. He crawled away sad at heart, with nothing before him +except a drink of water at the burn. He might have gone to the door +of the house, in the hope of a bit of cake, but now that he had seen +something of the doings in the house and of the people who lived in +it—as soon, that is, as he had looked embodied ownership in the +face—he began to be aware of its claims, and the cheese he had eaten +to lie heavy upon his spiritual stomach; he had done that which he +would not have done before leaving the city. Carefully he crept across +the ceiling, his head hanging, like a dog scolded of his master, +carefully along the shelf of the dairy, and through the opening in +the wall, quickly down the ladder, and through the cat-hole in the +barn door. There was no one in the corn-yard now, and he wandered +about among the ricks looking, with little hope, for something to eat. +Turning a corner he came upon a hen-house—and there was a crowd of +hens and half-grown chickens about the very dish into which he had seen +the remnants of the breakfast thrown, all pecking billfuls out of it. +As I may have said before, he always felt at liberty to share with the +animals, partly, I suppose, because he saw they had no scrupulosity +or ceremony amongst themselves; so he dipped his hand into the dish: +why should not the bird of the air now and then peck with the more +respectable of the barn-door, if only to learn his inferiority? Greatly +refreshed, he got up from among the hens, scrambled over the dry +stone-wall, and trotted away to the burn.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.<br><span class="small">HORNIE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>It was now time he should resume his journey up Daurside, and he set +out to follow the burn that he might regain the river. It led him into +a fine meadow, where a number of cattle were feeding. The meadow was +not fenced—little more than marked off, indeed, upon one side, from a +field of growing corn, by a low wall of earth, covered with moss and +grass and flowers. The cattle were therefore herded by a boy, whom +Gibbie recognized even in the distance as him by whose countenance +he had been so much attracted when, like an old deity on a cloud, +he lay spying through the crack in the ceiling. The boy was reading +a book, from which every now and then he lifted his eyes to glance +around him, and see whether any of the cows or heifers or stirks were +wandering beyond their pasture of rye-grass and clover. Having them +all before him, therefore no occasion to look behind, he did not see +Gibbie approaching. But as soon as he seemed thoroughly occupied, a +certain black cow, with short sharp horns and a wicked look, which had +been gradually, as was her wont, edging nearer and nearer to the corn, +turned suddenly and ran for it, jumped the dyke, and plunging into a +mad revelry of greed, tore and devoured with all the haste not merely +of one insecure, but of one that knew she was stealing. Now Gibbie had +been observant enough during his travels to learn that this was against +the law and custom of the country—that it was not permitted to a cow +to go into a field where there were no others—and like a shot he was +after the black marauder. The same instant the herd boy too, lifting +his eyes from his book, saw her, and springing to his feet, caught up +his great stick, and ran also: he had more than one reason to run, for +he understood only too well the dangerous temper of the cow, and saw +that Gibbie was a mere child, and unarmed—an object most provocative +of attack to Hornie—so named, indeed, because of her readiness to +use the weapons with which Nature had provided her. She was in fact a +malicious cow, and but that she was a splendid milker, would have been +long ago fatted up and sent to the butcher. The boy as he ran full +speed to the rescue, kept shouting to warn Gibbie from his purpose, but +Gibbie was too intent to understand the sounds he uttered, and supposed +them addressed to the cow. With the fearless service that belonged +to his very being, he ran straight at Hornie, and, having nothing to +strike her with, flung himself against her with a great shove towards +the dyke. Hornie, absorbed in her delicious robbery, neither heard nor +saw before she felt him, and, startled by the sudden attack, turned +tail. It was but for a moment. In turning, she caught sight of her +ruler, sceptre in hand, at some little distance, and turned again, +either to have another mouthful, or in the mere instinct to escape +him. Then she caught sight of the insignificant object that had scared +her, and in contemptuous indignation lowered her head between her +forefeet, and was just making a rush at Gibbie, when a stone struck +her on a horn, and the next moment the herd came up, and with a storm +of fiercest blows, delivered with the full might of his arm, drove +her in absolute rout back into the meadow. Drawing himself up in the +unconscious majesty of success, Donal Grant looked down upon Gibbie, +but with eyes of admiration.</p> + +<p>“Haith, cratur!” he said, “ye’re mair o’ a man nor ye’ll luik this +saven year! What garred ye rin upo’ the deevil’s verra horns that gait?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie stood smiling.</p> + +<p>“Gien ’t hadna been for my club we wad baith be ower the mune ’gain +this time. What ca’ they ye, man?”</p> + +<p>Still Gibbie only smiled.</p> + +<p>“Whaur come ye frae?—Wha’s yer fowk?—Whaur div ye bide?—Haena ye a +tongue i’ yer heid, ye rascal?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie burst out laughing, and his eyes sparkled and shone: he was +delighted with the herd-boy, and it was so long since he had heard +human speech addressed to himself!</p> + +<p>“The cratur’s feel (<i>foolish</i>)!” concluded Donal to himself pityingly. +“Puir thing! puir thing!” he added aloud, and laid his hand on Gibbie’s +head.</p> + +<p>It was but the second <i>touch</i> of kindness Gibbie had received since he +was the dog’s guest: had he been acquainted with the bastard emotion +of self-pity, he would have wept; as he was unaware of hardship in his +lot, discontent in his heart, or discord in his feeling, his emotion +was one of unmingled delight, and embodied itself in a perfect smile.</p> + +<p>“Come, cratur, an’ I’ll gie ye a piece: ye’ll aiblins un’erstan’ that!” +said Donal, as he turned to leave the corn for the grass, where Hornie +was eating with the rest like the most innocent of hum’le (<i>hornless</i>) +animals. Gibbie obeyed, and followed, as, with slow step and downbent +face, Donal led the way. For he had tucked his club under his arm, and +already his greedy eyes were fixed on the book he had carried all the +time, nor did he take them from it until, followed in full and patient +content by Gibbie, he had almost reached the middle of the field, some +distance from Hornie and her companions, when, stopping abruptly short, +he began without lifting his head to cast glances on this side and that.</p> + +<p>“I houp nane o’ them’s swallowed my nepkin!” he said musingly. “I’m no +sure whaur I was sittin’. I hae my place i’ the beuk, but I doobt I hae +tint my place i’ the gerse.”</p> + +<p>Long before he had ended, for he spoke with utter deliberation, Gibbie +was yards away, flitting hither and thither like a butterfly. A minute +more and Donal saw him pounce upon his bundle, which he brought to him +in triumph.</p> + +<p>“Fegs! ye’re no the gowk I took ye for,” said Donal meditatively.</p> + +<p>Whether Gibbie took the remark for a compliment, or merely was +gratified that Donal was pleased, the result was a merry laugh.</p> + +<p>The bundle had in it a piece of hard cheese, such as Gibbie had +already made acquaintance with, and a few <i>quarters of cakes</i>. One of +these Donal broke into two, gave Gibbie the half, replaced the other, +and sat down again to his book—this time with his back against the +<i>fell-dyke</i> dividing the grass from the corn. Gibbie seated himself, +like a Turk, with his bare legs crossed under him, a few yards off, +where, in silence and absolute content, he ate his <i>piece</i>, and gravely +regarded him. His human soul had of late been starved, even more than +his body—and that from no fastidiousness; and it was paradise again +to be in such company. Never since his father’s death had he looked on +a face that drew him as Donal’s. It was fair of complexion by nature, +but the sun had burned it brown, and it was covered with freckles. +Its forehead was high, with a mass of foxy hair over it, and under it +two keen hazel eyes, in which the green predominated over the brown. +Its nose was long and solemn, over his well-made mouth, which rarely +smiled, but not unfrequently trembled with emotion—over his book. For +age, Donal was getting towards fifteen, and was strongly built and +well grown. A general look of honesty, and an attractive expression of +reposeful friendliness pervaded his whole appearance. Conscientious in +regard to his work, he was yet in danger of forgetting his duty for +minutes together in his book. The chief evil that resulted from it was +such an occasional inroad on the corn as had that morning taken place; +and many were Donal’s self-reproaches ere he got to sleep when that had +fallen out during the day. He knew his master would threaten him with +dismissal if he came upon him reading in the field, but he knew also +his master was well aware that he did read, and that it was possible to +read and yet herd well. It was easy enough in this same meadow: on one +side ran the Lorrie; on another was a stone wall; and on the third a +ditch; only the cornfield lay virtually unprotected, and there he had +to be himself the boundary. And now he sat leaning against the dyke, as +if he held so a position of special defence; but he knew well enough +that the dullest calf could outflank him, and invade, for a few moments +at the least, the forbidden pleasure-ground. He had gained an ally, +however, whose faculty and faithfulness he little knew yet. For Gibbie +had begun to comprehend the situation. He could not comprehend why or +how anyone should be absorbed in a book, for all he knew of books was +from his one morning of dame-schooling; but he could comprehend that, +if one’s attention <i>were</i> so occupied, it must be a great <i>vex</i> to be +interrupted continually by the ever-waking desires of his charge after +dainties. Therefore, as Donal watched his book, Gibbie for Donal’s +sake watched the herd, and, as he did so, gently possessed himself of +Donal’s club. Nor had many minutes passed, before Donal, raising his +head to look, saw the curst cow again in the green corn, and Gibbie +manfully encountering her with the club, hitting her hard upon head and +horns, and deftly avoiding every rush she made at him.</p> + +<p>“Gie her ’t upo’ the nose,” Donal shouted in terror, as he ran full +speed to his aid, abusing Hornie in terms of fiercest vituperation.</p> + +<p>But he needed not have been so apprehensive. Gibbie heard and obeyed, +and the next moment Hornie had turned tail and was fleeing back to the +safety of the lawful meadow.</p> + +<p>“Hech, cratur! but ye maun be come o’ fechtin’ fowk!” said Donal, +regarding him with fresh admiration.</p> + +<p>Gibbie laughed; but he had been sorely put to it, and the big drops +were coursing fast down his sweet face. Donal took the club from him, +and rushing at Hornie, belaboured her well, and drove her quite to +the other side of the field. He then returned and resumed his book, +while Gibbie again sat down near by, and watched both Donal and his +charge—the keeper of both herd and cattle. Surely Gibbie had at last +found his vocation on Daurside, with both man and beast for his special +care!</p> + +<p>By and by Donal raised his head once more, but this time it was to +regard Gibbie and not the <i>nowt</i>. It had gradually sunk into him that +the appearance and character of the <i>cratur</i> were peculiar. He had +regarded him as a little tramp, whose people were not far off, and who +would soon get tired of herding and rejoin his companions; but while +he read, a strange feeling of the presence of the boy had, in spite +of the witchery of his book, been growing upon him. He seemed to feel +his eyes without seeing them; and when Gibbie rose to look how the +cattle were distributed, he became vaguely uneasy lest the boy should +be going away. For already he had begun to feel him a humble kind of +guardian angel. He had already that day, through him, enjoyed a longer +spell of his book, than any day since he had been herd at the Mains of +Glashruach. And now the desire had come to regard him more closely.</p> + +<p>For a minute or two he sat and gazed at him. Gibbie gazed at him +in return, and in his eyes the herd-boy looked the very type of +power and gentleness. How he admired even his suit of small-ribbed, +greenish-coloured corduroy, the ribs much rubbed and obliterated! Then +his jacket had round brass buttons! his trousers had patches instead of +holes at the knees! their short legs revealed warm woollen stockings! +and his shoes had their soles full of great broad-headed iron tacks! +while on his head he had a small round blue bonnet with a red tuft! +The little outcast, on the other hand, with his loving face and pure +clear eyes, bidding fair to be naked altogether before long, woke in +Donal a divine pity, a tenderness like that nestling at the heart of +womanhood. The neglected creature could surely have no mother to shield +him from frost and wind and rain. But a strange thing was, that out +of this pitiful tenderness seemed to grow, like its blossom, another +unlike feeling—namely, that he was in the presence of a being of some +order superior to his own, one to whom he would have to listen if he +spoke, who knew more than he would tell. But then Donal was a Celt, and +might be a poet, and the sweet stillness of the child’s atmosphere made +things bud in his imagination.</p> + +<p>My reader must think how vastly, in all his poverty, Donal was Gibbie’s +superior in the social scale. He earned his own food and shelter, and +nearly four pounds a year besides; lived as well as he could wish, +dressed warm, was able for his work, and imagined it no hardship. Then +he had a father and mother whom he went to see every Saturday, and of +whom he was as proud as son could be—a father who was the priest of +the family, and fed sheep; a mother who was the prophetess, and kept +the house ever an open refuge for her children. Poor Gibbie earned +nothing—never had earned more than a penny at a time in his life, and +had never dreamed of having a claim to such penny. Nobody seemed to +care for him, give him anything, do anything for him. Yet there he sat +before Donal’s eyes, full of service, of smiles, of contentment.</p> + +<p>Donal took up his book, but laid it down again and gazed at Gibbie. +Several times he tried to return to his reading, but as often resumed +his contemplation of the boy. At length it struck him as something more +than shyness would account for, that he had not yet heard a word from +the lips of the child, even when running after the cows. He must watch +him more closely.</p> + +<p>By this it was his dinner time. Again he untied his handkerchief, and +gave Gibbie what he judged a fair share for his bulk—namely about a +third of the whole. Philosopher as he was, however, he could not help +sighing a little when he got to the end of his diminished portion. +But he was better than comforted when Gibbie offered him all that yet +remained to him; and the smile with which he refused it made Gibbie as +happy as a prince would like to be. What a day it had been for Gibbie! +A whole human being, and some five and twenty four-legged creatures +besides, to take care of!</p> + +<p>After their dinner, Donal gravitated to his book, and Gibbie resumed +the executive. Some time had passed when Donal, glancing up, saw Gibbie +lying flat on his chest, staring at something in the grass. He slid +himself quietly nearer, and discovered it was a daisy—one by itself +alone; there were not many in the field. Like a mother leaning over her +child, he was gazing at it. The daisy was not a cold white one, neither +was it a red one; it was just a perfect daisy: it looked as if some +gentle hand had taken it, while it slept and its star points were all +folded together, and dipped them—just a tiny touchy dip, in a molten +ruby, so that, when it opened again, there was its crown of silver +pointed with rubies all about its golden sun-heart.</p> + +<p>“He’s been readin’ Burns!” said Donal. He forgot that the daisies were +before Burns, and that he himself had loved them before ever he heard +of him. Now, he had not heard of Chaucer, who made love to the daisies +four hundred years before Burns.—God only knows what gospellers they +have been on his middle-earth. All its days his daisies have been +coming and going, and they are not old yet, nor have worn out yet their +lovely garments, though they patch and darn just as little as they toil +and spin.</p> + +<p>“Can ye read, cratur?” asked Donal.</p> + +<p>Gibbie shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Canna ye speyk, man?”</p> + +<p>Again Gibbie shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Can ye hear?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie burst out laughing. He knew that he heard better than other +people.</p> + +<p>“Hearken till this than,” said Donal.</p> + +<p>He took his book from the grass, and read, in a chant, or rather in a +lilt, the Danish ballad of Chyld Dyring, as translated by Sir Walter +Scott. Gibbie’s eyes grew wider and wider as he listened; their pupils +dilated, and his lips parted: it seemed as if his soul were looking out +of door and windows at once—but a puzzled soul that understood nothing +of what it saw. Yet plainly, either the sounds, or the thought-matter +vaguely operative beyond the line where intelligence begins, or, it +may be, the sparkle of individual word or phrase islanded in a chaos +of rhythmic motion, wrought somehow upon him, for his attention was +fixed as by a spell. When Donal ceased, he remained open-mouthed and +motionless for a time; then, drawing himself slidingly over the grass +to Donal’s feet, he raised his head and peeped above his knees at the +book. A moment only he gazed, and drew back with a hungry sigh: he had +seen nothing in the book like what Donal had been drawing from it—as +if one should look into the well of which he had just drunk, and see +there nothing but dry pebbles and sand! The wind blew gentle, the sun +shone bright, all nature closed softly round the two, and the soul +whose children they were was nearer than the one to the other, nearer +than sun or wind or daisy or Chyld Dyring. To his amazement, Donal saw +the tears gathering in Gibbie’s eyes. He was as one who gazes into the +abyss of God’s will—sees only the abyss, cannot see the will, and +weeps. The child in whom neither cold nor hunger nor nakedness nor +loneliness could move a throb of self-pity, was moved to tears that a +loveliness, to him strange and unintelligible, had passed away, and he +had no power to call it back.</p> + +<p>“Wad ye like to hear ’t again?” asked Donal, more than half +understanding him instinctively.</p> + +<p>Gibbie’s face answered with a flash, and Donal read the poem again, and +Gibbie’s delight returned greater than before, for now something like +a dawn began to appear among the cloudy words. Donal read it a third +time, and closed the book, for it was almost the hour for driving the +cattle home. He had never yet seen, and perhaps never again did see, +such a look of thankful devotion on human countenance as met his lifted +eyes.</p> + +<p>How much Gibbie even then understood of the lovely eerie old ballad, +it is impossible for me to say. Had he a glimmer of the return of the +buried mother? Did he think of his own? I doubt if he had ever thought +that he had a mother; but he may have associated the tale with his +father, and the boots he was always making for him. Certainly it was +the beginning of much. But the waking up of a human soul to know itself +in the mirror of its thoughts and feelings, its loves and delights, +oppresses me with so heavy a sense of marvel and inexplicable mystery, +that when I imagine myself such as Gibbie then was, I cannot imagine +myself coming awake. I can hardly believe that, from being such as +Gibbie was the hour before he heard the ballad, I should <i>ever</i> have +come awake. Yet here I am, capable of pleasure unspeakable from +that and many another ballad, old and new! somehow, at one time or +another, or at many times in one, I have at last come awake! When, by +slow filmy unveilings, life grew clearer to Gibbie, and he not only +knew, but knew that he knew, his thoughts always went back to that +day in the meadow with Donal Grant as the beginning of his knowledge +of beautiful things in the world of man. Then first he saw nature +reflected, Narcissus-like, in the mirror of her humanity, her highest +self. But when or how the change in him began, the turn of the balance, +the first push towards life of the evermore invisible germ—of that he +remained, much as he wondered, often as he searched his consciousness, +as ignorant to the last as I am now. Sometimes he was inclined to think +the glory of the new experience must have struck him dazed, and that +was why he could not recall what went on in him at the time.</p> + +<p>Donal rose and went driving the cattle home, and Gibbie lay where he +had again thrown himself upon the grass. When he lifted his head, Donal +and the cows had vanished.</p> + +<p>Donal had looked all round as he left the meadow, and seeing the boy +nowhere, had concluded he had gone to his people. The impression he had +made upon him faded a little during the evening. For when he reached +home, and had watered them, he had to tie up the animals, each in its +stall, and make it comfortable for the night; next, eat his own supper; +then learn a proposition of Euclid, and go to bed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.<br><span class="small">DONAL GRANT.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Hungering minds come of peasant people as often as of any, and have +appeared in Scotland as often, I fancy, as in any nation; not every +Scotsman, therefore, who may not himself have known one like Donal, +will refuse to believe in such a herd-laddie. Besides, there are still +those in Scotland, as well as in other nations, to whom the simple and +noble, not the commonplace and selfish, is the true type of humanity. +Of such as Donal, whether English or Scotch, is the class coming up to +preserve the honour and truth of our Britain, to be the oil of the lamp +of her life, when those who place her glory in knowledge, or in riches, +shall have passed from her history as the smoke from her chimneys.</p> + +<p>Cheap as education then was in Scotland, the parents of Donal Grant +had never dreamed of sending a son to college. It was difficult for +them to save even the few quarterly shillings that paid the fees of the +parish schoolmaster: for Donal, indeed, they would have failed even in +this, but for the help his brothers and sisters afforded. After he left +school, however, and got a place as herd, he fared better than any of +the rest, for at the Mains he found a friend and helper in Fergus Duff, +his master’s second son, who was then at home from college, which he +had now attended two winters. Partly that he was delicate in health, +partly that he was something of a fine gentleman, he took no share with +his father and elder brother in the work of the farm, although he was +at the Mains from the beginning of April to the end of October. He was +a human kind of soul notwithstanding, and would have been much more +of a man if he had thought less of being a gentleman. He had taken a +liking to Donal, and having found in him a strong desire after every +kind of knowledge of which he himself had any share, had sought to +enliven the tedium of an existence rendered not a little flabby from +want of sufficient work, by imparting to him of the treasures he had +gathered. They were not great, and he could never have carried him far, +for he was himself only a respectable student, not a little lacking in +perseverance, and given to dreaming dreams of which he was himself the +hero. Happily, however, Donal was of another sort, and from the first +needed but to have the outermost shell of a thing broken for him, and +that Fergus could do: by and by Donal would break a shell for himself.</p> + +<p>But perhaps the best thing Fergus did for him was the lending him +books. Donal had an altogether unappeasable hunger after every form of +literature with which he had as yet made acquaintance, and this hunger +Fergus fed with the books of the house, and many besides of such as he +purchased or borrowed for his own reading—these last chiefly poetry. +But Fergus Duff, while he revelled in the writings of certain of the +poets of the age, was incapable of finding poetry for himself in the +things around him: Donal Grant, on the other hand, while he seized +on the poems Fergus lent him, with an avidity even greater than his, +received from the nature around him influences similar to those which +exhaled from the words of the poet. In some sense, then, Donal was +original; that is, he received at first hand what Fergus required to +have “put on” him, to quote Celia, in <i>As you like it</i>, “as pigeons +feed their young.” Therefore, fiercely as it would have harrowed the +pride of Fergus to be informed of the fact, he was in the kingdom of +art only as one who ate of what fell from the table, while his father’s +herd-boy was one of the family. This was as far from Donal’s thought, +however, as from that of Fergus; the condescension, therefore, of the +latter did not impair the gratitude for which the former had such large +reason; and Donal looked up to Fergus as to one of the lords of the +world.</p> + +<p>To find himself now in the reversed relation of superior and teacher to +the little outcast, whose whole worldly having might be summed in the +statement that he was not absolutely naked, woke in Donal an altogether +new and strange feeling; yet gratitude to his master had but turned +itself round, and become tenderness to his pupil.</p> + +<p>After Donal left him in the field, and while he was ministering, first +to his beasts and then to himself, Gibbie lay on the grass, as happy +as child could well be. A loving hand laid on his feet or legs would +have found them like ice; but where was the matter so long as he never +thought of them? He could have supped a huge bicker of sowens, and +eaten a dozen potatoes; but of what mighty consequence is hunger, so +long as it neither absorbs the thought, nor causes faintness? The sun, +however, was going down behind a great mountain, and its huge shadow, +made of darkness, and haunted with cold, came sliding across the river, +and over valley and field, nothing staying its silent wave, until it +covered Gibbie with the blanket of the dark, under which he could +not long forget that he was in a body to which cold is unfriendly. +At the first breath of the night-wind that came after the shadow, he +shivered, and starting to his feet, began to trot, increasing his +speed until he was scudding up and down the field like a wild thing +of the night, whose time was at hand, waiting until the world should +lie open to him. Suddenly he perceived that the daisies, which all day +long had been full-facing the sun, like true souls confessing to the +father of them, had folded their petals together to points, and held +them like spear-heads tipped with threatening crimson, against the +onset of the night and her shadows, while within its white cone each +folded in the golden heart of its life, until the great father should +return, and, shaking the wicked out of the folds of the night, render +the world once more safe with another glorious day. Gibbie gazed and +wondered; and while he gazed—slowly, glidingly, back to his mind came +the ghost-mother of the ballad, and in every daisy he saw her folding +her neglected orphans to her bosom, while the darkness and the misery +rolled by defeated. He wished he knew a ghost that would put her arms +round him. He must have had a mother once, he supposed, but he could +not remember her, and of course she must have forgotten him. He did +not know that about him were folded the everlasting arms of the great, +the one Ghost, which is the Death of death—the life and soul of all +things and all thoughts. The Presence, indeed, was with him, and he +felt it, but he knew it only as the wind and shadow, the sky and closed +daisies: in all these things and the rest it took shape that it might +come near him. Yea, the Presence was in his very soul, else he could +never have rejoiced in friend, or desired ghost to mother him: still +he knew not the Presence. But it was drawing nearer and nearer to his +knowledge—even in sun and air and night and cloud, in beast and flower +and herd-boy, until at last it would reveal itself to him, in him, +as Life Himself. Then the man would know that in which the child had +rejoiced. The stars came out, to Gibbie the heavenly herd, feeding at +night, and gathering gold in the blue pastures. He saw them, looking up +from the grass where he had thrown himself to gaze more closely at the +daisies; and the sleep that pressed down his eyelids seemed to descend +from the spaces between the stars. But it was too cold that night to +sleep in the fields, when he knew where to find warmth. Like a fox into +his hole, the child would creep into the corner where God had stored +sleep for him: back he went to the barn, gently trotting, and wormed +himself through the cat-hole.</p> + +<p>The straw was gone! But he remembered the hay. And happily, for he was +tired, there stood the ladder against the loft. Up he went, nor turned +aside to the cheese; but sleep was common property still. He groped +his way forward through the dark loft until he found the hay, when at +once he burrowed into it like a sand-fish into the wet sand. All night +the white horse, a glory vanished in the dark, would be close to him, +behind the thin partition of boards. He could hear his very breath as +he slept, and to the music of it, audible sign of companionship, he +fell fast asleep, and slept until the waking horses woke him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.<br><span class="small">APPRENTICESHIP.</span></h2></div> + +<p>He scrambled out on the top of the hay, and looked down on the +beautiful creature below him, dawning radiant again with the morning, +as it issued undimmed from the black bosom of the night. He was not, +perhaps, just so well groomed as white steed might be; it was not +a stable where they kept a blue-bag for their grey horses; but to +Gibbie’s eyes he was so pure, that he began, for the first time in his +life, to doubt whether he was himself quite as clean as he ought to +be. He did not know, but he would make an experiment for information +when he got down to the burn. Meantime was there nothing he could do +for the splendid creature? From above, leaning over, he filled his rack +with hay; but he had eaten so much grass the night before, that he +would not look at it, and Gibbie was disappointed. What should he do +next? The thing he would like best would be to look through the ceiling +again, and watch the woman at her work. Then, too, he would again +smell the boiling porridge, and the burning of the little sprinkles +of meal that fell into the fire. He dragged, therefore, the ladder to +the opposite end of the barn, and gradually, with no little effort, +raised it against the wall. Carefully he crept through the hole, and +softly round the shelf, the dangerous part of the pass, and so on to +the ceiling, whence he peeped once more down into the kitchen. His +precautions had been so far unnecessary, for as yet it lay unvisited, +as witnessed by its disorder. Suddenly came to Gibbie the thought that +here was a chance for him—here a path back to the world. Rendered +daring by the eagerness of his hope, he got again upon the shelf, and +with every precaution lest he should even touch a milkpan, descended by +the lower shelves to the floor. There finding the door only latched, +he entered the kitchen, and proceeded to do everything he had seen the +woman do, as nearly in her style as he could. He swept the floor, and +dusted the seats, the window sill, the table, with an apron he found +left on a chair, then arranged everything tidily, roused the rested +fire, and had just concluded that the only way to get the great pot +full of water upon it, would be to hang first the pot on the chain, +and then fill it with the water, when his sharp ears caught sounds and +then heard approaching feet. He darted into the dairy, and in a few +seconds, for he was getting used to the thing now, had clambered upon +the ceiling, and was lying flat across the joists, with his eyes to the +most commanding crack he had discovered: he was anxious to know how +his service would be received. When Jean Mavor—she was the farmer’s +half-sister—opened the door, she stopped short and stared; the kitchen +was not as she had left it the night before! She concluded she must be +mistaken, for who could have touched it? and entered. Then it became +plain beyond dispute that the floor had been swept, the table wiped, +the place <i>redd up</i>, and the fire roused.</p> + +<p>“Hoots! I maun hae been walkin’ i’ my sleep!” said Jean to herself +aloud. “Or maybe that guid laddie Donal Grant’s been wullin’ to gie me +a helpin’ han’ for ’s mither’s sake, honest wuman! The laddie’s guid +eneuch for onything!—ay, gien ’twar to mak a minister o’!”</p> + +<p>Eagerly, greedily, Gibbie now watched her every motion, and, bent +upon learning, nothing escaped him: he would do much better next +morning!—At length the men came in to breakfast, and he thought to +enjoy the sight; but, alas! it wrought so with his hunger as to make +him feel sick, and he crept away to the barn. He would gladly have +lain down in the hay for a while, but that would require the ladder, +and he did not now feel able to move it. On the floor of the barn he +was not safe, and he got out of it into the cornyard, where he sought +the henhouse. But there was no food there yet, and he must not linger +near; for, if he were discovered, they would drive him away, and he +would lose Donal Grant. He had not seen him at breakfast, for indeed +he seldom, during the summer, had a meal except supper in the house. +Gibbie, therefore, as he could not eat, ran to the burn and drank—but +had no heart that morning for his projected inquiry into the state of +his person. He must go to Donal. The sight of him would help him to +bear his hunger.</p> + +<p>The first indication Donal had of his proximity was the rush of Hornie +past him in flight out of the corn. Gibbie was pursuing her with stones +for lack of a stick. Thoroughly ashamed of himself, Donal threw his +book from him, and ran to meet Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“Ye maunna fling stanes, cratur,” he said. “Haith! it’s no for me to +fin’ fau’t, though,” he added, “sittin’ readin’ buiks like a gowk ’at I +am, an’ lattin’ the beasts rin wull amo’ the corn, ’at’s weel peyed to +haud them oot o’ ’t! I’m clean affrontit wi’ mysel’, cratur.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie’s response was to set off at full speed for the place where +Donal had been sitting. He was back in a moment with the book, which he +pressed into Donal’s hand, while from the other he withdrew his club. +This he brandished aloft once or twice, then starting at a steady trot, +speedily circled the herd, and returned to his adopted master—only +to start again, however, and attack Hornie, whom he drove from the +corn-side of the meadow right over to the other: she was already afraid +of him. After watching him for a time, Donal came to the conclusion +that he could not do more than <i>the cratur</i> if he had as many eyes as +Argus, and gave not even one of them to his book. He therefore left +all to Gibbie, and did not once look up for a whole hour. Everything +went just as it should; and not once, all that day, did Hornie again +get a mouthful of the grain. It was rather a heavy morning for Gibbie, +though, who had eaten nothing, and every time he came near Donal, saw +the handkerchief bulging in the grass, which a little girl had brought +and left for him. But he was a rare one both at waiting and at going +without.</p> + +<p>At last, however, Donal either grew hungry of himself, or was moved +by certain understood relations between the sun and the necessities +of his mortal frame; for he laid down his book, called out to Gibbie, +“Cratur, it’s denner-time,” and took his bundle. Gibbie drew near with +sparkling eyes. There was no selfishness in his hunger, for, at the +worst pass he had ever reached, he would have shared what he had with +another, but he looked so eager, that Donal, who himself knew nothing +of want, perceived that he was ravenous, and made haste to undo the +knots of the handkerchief, which Mistress Jean appeared that day to +have tied with more than ordinary vigour, ere she intrusted the bundle +to the foreman’s daughter. When the last knot yielded, he gazed with +astonishment at the amount and variety of provision disclosed.</p> + +<p>“Losh!” he exclaimed, “the mistress maun hae kenned there was two o’ +’s.”</p> + +<p>He little thought that what she had given him beyond the usual supply +was an acknowledgment of services rendered by those same hands into +which he now delivered a share, on the ground of other service +altogether. It is not always, even where there is no mistake as to +the person who has deserved it, that the reward reaches the doer so +directly.</p> + +<p>Before the day was over, Donal gave his helper more and other pay for +his service. Choosing a fit time, when the cattle were well together +and in good position, Hornie away at the stone dyke, he took from his +pocket a somewhat wasted volume of ballads—<i>ballants</i>, he called +them—and said, “Sit ye doon, cratur. Never min’ the nowt. I’m gaein’ +to read till ye.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie dropped on his crossed legs like a lark to the ground, and sat +motionless. Donal, after deliberate search, began to read, and Gibbie +to listen; and it would be hard to determine which found the more +pleasure in his part. For Donal had seldom had a listener—and never +one so utterly absorbed.</p> + +<p>When the hour came for the cattle to go home, Gibbie again remained +behind, waiting until all should be still at the farm. He lay on the +dyke, brooding over what he had heard, and wondering how it was that +Donal got all those strange beautiful words and sounds and stories out +of the book.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.<br><span class="small">SECRET SERVICE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>I must not linger over degrees and phases. Every morning, Gibbie +got into the kitchen in good time; and not only did more and more +of the work, but did it more and more to the satisfaction of Jean, +until, short of the actual making of the porridge, he did everything +antecedent to the men’s breakfast. When Jean came in, she had but to +take the lid from the pot, put in the salt, assume the spurtle, and, +grasping the first handful of the meal, which stood ready waiting in +the bossie on the stone cheek of the fire, throw it in, thus commencing +the simple cookery of the best of all dishes to a true-hearted and +healthy Scotsman. Without further question she attributed all the aid +she received to the goodness, “enough for anything,” of Donal Grant, +and continued to make acknowledgment of the same in both sort and +quantity of victuals, whence, as has been shown, the real labourer +received his due reward.</p> + +<p>Until he had thoroughly mastered his work, Gibbie persisted in +regarding matters economic “from his loophole in the <i>ceiling</i>;” and +having at length learned the art of making butter, soon arrived at some +degree of perfection in it. But when at last one morning he not only +churned, but washed and made it up entirely to Jean’s satisfaction, she +did begin to wonder how a mere boy could both have such perseverance, +and be so clever at a woman’s work. For now she entered the kitchen +every morning without a question of finding the fire burning, the water +boiling, the place clean and tidy, the supper dishes well washed and +disposed on shelf and rack: her own part was merely to see that proper +cloths were handy to so thorough a user of them. She took no one into +her confidence on the matter: it was enough, she judged, that she and +Donal understood each other.</p> + +<p>And now if Gibbie had contented himself with rendering this +house-service in return for the shelter of the barn and its hay, +he might have enjoyed both longer; but from the position of his +night-quarters, he came gradually to understand the work of the stable +also; and before long, the men, who were quite ignorant of anything +similar taking place in the house, began to observe, more to their +wonder than satisfaction, that one or other of their horses was +generally groomed before his man came to him; that often there was hay +in their racks which they had not given them; and that the master’s +white horse every morning showed signs of having had some attention +paid him that could not be accounted for. The result was much talk +and speculation, suspicion and offence; for all were jealous of their +rights, their duty, and their dignity, in relation to their horses: +no man was at liberty to do a thing to or for any but his own pair. +Even the brightening of the harness-brass, in which Gibbie sometimes +indulged, was an offence; for did it not imply a reproach? Many were +the useless traps laid for the offender, many the futile attempts to +surprise him: as Gibbie never did anything except for half an hour +or so while the men were sound asleep or at breakfast, he escaped +discovery.</p> + +<p>But he could not hold continued intercourse with the splendour of the +white horse, and neglect carrying out the experiment on which he had +resolved with regard to the effect of water upon his own skin; and +having found the result a little surprising, he soon got into the habit +of daily and thorough ablution. But many animals that never wash are +yet cleaner than some that do; and, what with the scantiness of his +clothing, his constant exposure to the atmosphere, and his generally +lying in a fresh lair, Gibbie had always been comparatively clean. +Besides, being nice in his mind, he was naturally nice in his body.</p> + +<p>The new personal regard thus roused by the presence of Snowball, had +its development greatly assisted by the scrupulosity with which most +things in the kitchen, and chief of all in this respect, the churn, +were kept. It required much effort to come up to the nicety considered +by Jean indispensable in the churn; and the croucher on the ceiling, +when he saw the long nose advance to prosecute inquiry into its +condition, mentally trembled lest the next movement should condemn his +endeavour as a failure. With his clothes he could do nothing, alas! but +he bathed every night in the Lorrie as soon as Donal had gone home with +the cattle. Once he got into a deep hole, but managed to get out again, +and so learned that he could swim.</p> + +<p>All day he was with Donal, and took from him by much the greater part +of his labour: Donal had never had such time for reading. In return +he gave him his dinner, and Gibbie could do very well upon one meal a +day. He paid him also in poetry. It never came into his head, seeing +he never spoke, to teach him to read. He soon gave up attempting to +learn anything from him as to his place or people or history, for to +all questions in that direction Gibbie only looked grave and shook his +head. As often, on the other hand, as he tried to learn where he spent +the night, he received for answer only one of his merriest laughs.</p> + +<p>Nor was larger time for reading the sole benefit Gibbie conferred upon +Donal. Such was the avidity and growing intelligence with which the +little naked town-savage listened to what Donal read to him, that his +presence was just so much added to Donal’s own live soul of thought and +feeling. From listening to his own lips through Gibbie’s ears, he not +only understood many things better, but, perceiving what things must +puzzle Gibbie, came sometimes, rather to his astonishment, to see that +in fact he did not understand them himself. Thus the bond between the +boy and the child grew closer—far closer, indeed than Donal imagined; +for, although still, now and then, he had a return of the fancy that +Gibbie might be a creature of some speechless race other than human, +of whom he was never to know whence he came or whither he went—a +messenger, perhaps, come to unveil to him the depths of his own spirit, +and make up for the human teaching denied him, this was only in his +more poetic moods, and his ordinary mental position towards him was one +of kind condescension.</p> + +<p>It was not all fine weather up there among the mountains in the +beginning of summer. In the first week of June even, there was sleet +and snow in the wind—the tears of the vanquished Winter, blown, as +he fled, across the sea, from Norway or Iceland. Then would Donal’s +heart be sore for Gibbie, when he saw his poor rags blown about like +streamers in the wind, and the white spots melting on his bare skin. +His own condition would then to many have appeared pitiful enough, +but such an idea Donal would have laughed to scorn, and justly. Then +most, perhaps then only, does the truly generous nature feel poverty, +when he sees another in need and can do little or nothing to help him. +Donal had neither greatcoat, plaid, nor umbrella, wherewith to shield +Gibbie’s looped and windowed raggedness. Once, in great pity, he pulled +off his jacket, and threw it on Gibbie’s shoulders. But the shout of +laughter that burst from the boy, as he flung the jacket from him, and +rushed away into the middle of the feeding herd, a shout that came from +no cave of rudeness, but from the very depths of delight, stirred by +the loving kindness of the act, startled Donal out of his pity into +brief anger, and he rushed after him in indignation, with full purpose +to teach him proper behaviour by a box on each ear. But Gibbie dived +under the belly of a favourite cow, and peering out sideways from +under her neck and between her forelegs, his arms grasping each a leg, +while the cow went on twisting her long tongue round the grass and +plucking it undisturbed, showed such an innocent countenance of holy +merriment, that the pride of Donal’s hurt benevolence melted away, and +his laughter emulated Gibbie’s. That sort of day was in truth drearier +for Donal than for Gibbie, for the books he had were not his own, and +he dared not expose them to the rain; some of them indeed came from +Glashruach—<i>the Muckle Hoose</i>, they generally called it! When he left +him, it was to wander disconsolately about the field; while Gibbie, +sheltered under a whole cow, defied the chill and the sleet, and had no +books of which to miss the use. He could not, it is true, shield his +legs from the insidious attacks of such sneaking blasts as will always +find out the undefended spots; but his great heart was so well-to-do +in the inside of him, that, unlike Touchstone, his spirits not being +weary, he cared not for his legs. The worst storm in the world could +not have made that heart quail. For, think! there had just been the +strong, the well-dressed, the learned, the wise, the altogether mighty +and considerable Donal, the cowherd, actually desiring him, wee Sir +Gibbie Galbraith, the cinder of the city furnace, the naked, and +generally the hungry little tramp, to wear his jacket to cover him from +the storm! The idea was one of eternal triumph; and Gibbie, exulting +in the unheard-of devotion and condescension of the thing, kept on +laughing like a blessed cherub under the cow’s belly. Nor was there in +his delight the smallest admixture of pride that <i>he</i> should have drawn +forth such kindness; it was simple glorying in the beauteous fact. As +to the cold and the sleet, so far as he knew they never hurt anybody. +They were not altogether pleasant creatures, but they could not help +themselves, and would soon give over their teasing. By to-morrow they +would have wandered away into other fields, and left the sun free to +come back to Donal and the cattle, when Gibbie, at present shielded +like any lord by the friendliest of cows, would come in for a share of +the light and the warmth. Gibbie was so confident with the animals, +that they were already even more friendly with him than with Donal—all +except Hornie, who, being of a low spirit, therefore incapable of +obedience, was friendliest with the one who gave her the hardest blows.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.<br><span class="small">THE BROONIE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Things had gone on in this way for several weeks—if Gibbie had +not been such a small creature, I hardly see how they could for so +long—when one morning the men came in to breakfast all out of temper +together, complaining loudly of the person unknown who would persist +in interfering with their work. They were the louder that their +suspicions fluttered about Fergus, who was rather overbearing with +them, and therefore not a favourite. He was in reality not at all a +likely person to bend back or defile hands over such labour, and their +pitching upon him for the object of their suspicion, showed how much +at a loss they were. Their only ground for suspecting him, beyond the +fact that there was no other whom by any violence of imagination they +could suspect, was, that, whatever else was done or left undone in +the stable, Snowball, whom Fergus was fond of, and rode almost every +day, was, as already mentioned, sure to have something done for him. +Had he been in good odour with them, they would have thought no harm +of most of the things they thought he did, especially as they eased +their work; but he carried himself high, they said, doing nothing but +ride over the farm and pick out every fault he could find—to show how +sharp he was, and look as if he could do better than any of them; and +they fancied that he carried their evil report to his father, and that +this underhand work in the stable must be part of some sly scheme for +bringing them into disgrace. And now at last had come the worst thing +of all: Gibbie had discovered the corn-bin, and having no notion but +that everything in the stable was for the delectation of the horses, +had been feeding them largely with oats—a delicacy with which, in the +plenty of other provisions, they were very sparingly supplied; and the +consequences had begun to show themselves in the increased unruliness +of the more wayward amongst them. Gibbie had long given up resorting +to the ceiling, and remained in utter ignorance of the storm that was +brewing because of him.</p> + +<p>The same day brought things nearly to a crisis; for the overfed +Snowball, proving too much for Fergus’s horsemanship, came rushing +home at a fierce gallop without him, having indeed left him in a ditch +by the roadside. The remark thereupon made by the men in his hearing, +that it was his own fault, led him to ask questions, when he came +gradually to know what they attributed to him, and was indignant at the +imputation of such an employment of his mornings to one who had his +studies to attend to—scarcely a wise line of defence where the truth +would have been more credible as well as convincing—namely, that at +the time when those works of supererogation could alone be effected, he +lay as lost a creature as ever sleep could make of a man.</p> + +<p>In the evening, Jean sought a word with Donal, and expressed her +surprise that he should be able to do everybody’s work about the +place, warning him it would be said he did it at the expense of his +own. But what could he mean, she said, by wasting the good corn to put +devilry into the horses? Donal stared in utter bewilderment. He knew +perfectly that to the men suspicion of him was as impossible as of one +of themselves. Did he not sleep in the same chamber with them? Could it +be allusion to the way he spent his time when out with the cattle that +Mistress Jean intended? He was so confused, looked so guilty as well as +astray, and answered so far from any point in Jean’s mind, that she at +last became altogether bewildered also, out of which chaos of common +void gradually dawned on her mind the conviction that she had been +wasting both thanks and material recognition of service, where she was +under no obligation. Her first feeling thereupon was, not unnaturally +however unreasonably, one of resentment—as if Donal, in not doing her +the kindness her fancy had been attributing to him, had all the time +been doing her an injury; but the boy’s honest bearing and her own good +sense made her, almost at once, dismiss the absurdity.</p> + +<p>Then came anew the question, utterly unanswerable now—who could it +be that did not only all her morning work, but, with a passion for +labour insatiable, part of that of the men also? She knew her nephew +better than to imagine for a moment, with the men, it could be he. A +good enough lad she judged him, but not good enough for that. He was +too fond of his own comfort to dream of helping other people! But now, +having betrayed herself to Donal, she wisely went farther, and secured +herself by placing full confidence in him. She laid open the whole +matter, confessing that she had imagined her ministering angel to be +Donal himself: now she had not even a conjecture to throw at random +after the person of her secret servant. Donal, being a Celt, and a +poet, would have been a brute if he had failed of being a gentleman, +and answered that he was ashamed it should be another and not himself +who had been her servant and gained her commendation; but he feared, if +he had made any such attempt, he would but have fared like the husband +in the old ballad who insisted that his wife’s work was much easier +to do than his own. But as he spoke, he saw a sudden change come over +Jean’s countenance. Was it fear? or what was it? She gazed with big +eyes fixed on his face, heeding neither him nor his words, and Donal, +struck silent, gazed in return. At length, after a pause of strange +import, her soul seemed to return into her deep-set grey eyes, and in a +broken voice, low, and solemn, and fraught with mystery, she said,</p> + +<p>“Donal, it’s the broonie!”</p> + +<p>Donal’s mouth opened wide at the word, but the tenor of his thought +it would have been hard for him to determine. Celtic in kindred and +education, he had listened in his time to a multitude of strange tales, +both indigenous and exotic, and, Celtic in blood, had been inclined to +believe every one of them for which he could find the least <i>raison +d’être</i>. But at school he had been taught that such stories deserved +nothing better than mockery, that to believe them was contrary to +religion, and a mark of such weakness as involved blame. Nevertheless, +when he heard the word <i>broonie</i> issue from a face with such an +expression as Jean’s then wore, his heart seemed to give a gape in his +bosom, and it rushed back upon his memory how he had heard certain +old people talk of the brownie that used, when their mothers and +grandmothers were young, to haunt the Mains of Glashruach. His mother +did not believe such things, but she believed nothing but her New +Testament!—and what if there should be something in them? The idea of +service rendered by the hand of a being too clumsy, awkward, ugly, to +consent to be seen by the more finished race of his fellow-creatures, +whom yet he surpassed in strength and endurance and longevity, had +at least in it for Donal the attraction of a certain grotesque yet +homely poetic element. He remembered too the honour such a type of +creature had had in being lapt around for ever in the airy folds of +L’Allegro. And to think that Mistress Jean, for whom everybody had +such a respect, should speak of the creature in such a tone!—it sent +a thrill of horrific wonder and delight through the whole frame of +the boy: might, could there be such creatures? And thereupon began to +open to his imagination vista after vista into the realms of might-be +possibility—where dwelt whole clans and kins of creatures, differing +from us and our kin, yet occasionally, at the cross-roads of creation, +coming into contact with us, and influencing us not greatly, perhaps, +yet strangely and notably. Not once did the real brownie occur to +him—the small, naked Gibbie, far more marvellous and admirable than +any brownie of legendary fable or fact, whether celebrated in rude old +Scots ballad for his <i>taeless</i> feet, or designated in noble English +poem of perfect art, as lubber fiend of hairy length.</p> + +<p>Jean Mavor came from a valley far withdrawn in the folds of the +Gormgarnet mountains, where in her youth she had heard yet stranger +tales than had ever come to Donal’s ears, of which some had perhaps +kept their hold the more firmly that she had never heard them even +alluded to since she left her home. Her brother, a hard-headed +highlander, as canny as any lowland Scot, would have laughed to +scorn the most passing reference to such an existence; and Fergus, +who had had a lowland mother—and nowhere is there less of so-called +superstition than in most parts of the lowlands of Scotland—would have +joined heartily in his mockery. For the cowherd, however, as I say, +the idea had no small attraction, and his stare was the reflection of +Mistress Jean’s own—for the soul is a live mirror, at once receiving +into its centre, and reflecting from its surface.</p> + +<p>“Div ye railly think it, mem?” said Donal at last.</p> + +<p>“Think what?” retorted Jean, sharply, jealous instantly of being +compromised, and perhaps not certain that she had spoken aloud.</p> + +<p>“Div ye railly think ’at there <i>is</i> sic craturs as broonies, Mistress +Jean?” said Donal.</p> + +<p>“Wha kens what there is an’ what there isna?” returned Jean: she was +not going to commit herself either way. Even had she imagined herself +above believing such things, she would not have dared to say so; for +there was a time still near in her memory, though unknown to any now +upon the farm except her brother, when the Mains of Glashruach was the +talk of Daurside because of certain inexplicable nightly disorders +that fell out there; the slang <i>rows</i>, or the Scotch <i>remishs</i> (a form +of the English <i>romage</i>), would perhaps come nearest to a designation +of them, consisting as they did of confused noises, rumblings, +ejaculations; and the fact itself was a reason for silence, seeing a +word might bring the place again into men’s mouths in like fashion, and +seriously affect the service of the farm; such a rumour would certainly +be made in the market a ground for demanding more wages to fee to the +Mains. “Ye haud yer tongue, laddie,” she went on; “it’s the least ye +can efter a’ ’at’s come an’ gane; an’ least said’s sunest mendit. Gang +to yer wark.”</p> + +<p>But either Mistress Jean’s influx of caution came too late, and someone +had overheard her suggestion, or the idea was already abroad in the +mind bucolic and georgic, for that very night it began to be reported +upon the nearer farms, that the Mains of Glashruach was haunted by a +brownie who did all the work for both men and maids—a circumstance +productive of different opinions with regard to the desirableness of a +situation there, some asserting they would not fee to it for any amount +of wages, and others averring they could desire nothing better than a +place where the work was all done for them.</p> + +<p>Quick at disappearing as Gibbie was, a very little cunning on the part +of Jean might soon have entrapped the brownie; but a considerable touch +of fear was now added to her other motives for continuing to spend +a couple of hours longer in bed than had formerly been her custom. +So that for yet a few days things went on much as usual; Gibbie saw +no sign that his presence was suspected, or that his doings were +offensive; and life being to him a constant present, he never troubled +himself about anything before it was there to answer for itself.</p> + +<p>One morning the long thick mane of Snowball was found carefully plaited +up in innumerable locks. This was properly elf-work, but no fairies +had been heard of on Daurside for many a long year. The brownie, on +the other hand, was already in every one’s mouth—only a stray one, +probably, that had wandered from some old valley away in the mountains, +where they were still believed in—but not the less a brownie; and if +it was not the brownie who plaited Snowball’s mane, who or what was it? +A phenomenon must be accounted for, and he who will not accept a theory +offered, or even a word applied, is indebted in a full explanation. The +rumour spread in long slow ripples, till at last one of them struck the +<i>membrana tympani</i> of the laird, where he sat at luncheon in the House +of Glashruach.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.<br><span class="small">THE LAIRD.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Thomas Galbraith was by birth Thomas Durrant, but had married an +heiress by whom he came into possession of Glashruach, and had, +according to previous agreement, taken her name. When she died he +mourned her loss as well as he could, but was consoled by feeling +himself now first master of both position and possession, when the +ladder by which he had attained them was removed. It was not that she +had ever given him occasion to feel that marriage and not inheritance +was the source of his distinction in the land, but that having a soul +as keenly sensitive to small material rights as it was obtuse to great +spiritual ones, he never felt the property quite his own until his wife +was no longer within sight. Had he been a little more sensitive still, +he would have felt that the property was then his daughter’s, and his +only through her; but this he failed to consider.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Galbraith was a gentle sweet woman, who loved her husband, +but was capable of loving a greater man better. Had she lived long +enough to allow of their opinions confronting in the matter of their +child’s education, serious differences would probably have arisen +between them; as it was, they had never quarrelled except about the +name she should bear. The father, having for her sake—so he said to +himself—sacrificed his patronymic, was anxious that in order to her +retaining some rudimentary trace of himself in the ears of men, she +should be overshadowed with his Christian name, and called Thomasina. +But the mother was herein all the mother, and obdurate for her +daughter’s future; and, as was right between the two, she had her way, +and her child a pretty name. Being more sentimental than artistic, +however, she did not perceive how imperfectly the sweet Italian +<i>Ginevra</i> concorded with the strong Scotch <i>Galbraith</i>. Her father +hated the name, therefore invariably abbreviated it after such fashion +as rendered it inoffensive to the most conservative of Scotish ears; +and for his own part, at length, never said <i>Ginny</i>, without seeing and +hearing and meaning <i>Jenny</i>. As <i>Jenny</i>, indeed, he addressed her in +the one or two letters which were all he ever wrote to her; and thus he +perpetuated the one matrimonial difference across the grave.</p> + +<p>Having no natural bent to literature, but having in his youth studied +for and practised at the Scotish bar, he had brought with him into the +country a taste for certain kinds of dry reading, judged pre-eminently +respectable, and for its indulgence had brought also a not insufficient +store of such provender as his soul mildly hungered after, in the +shape of books bound mostly in yellow-calf—books of law, history, and +divinity. What the books of law were, I would not foolhardily add to +my many risks of blundering by presuming to recall; the history was +mostly Scotish, or connected with Scotish affairs; the theology was +entirely of the New England type of corrupted Calvinism, with which in +Scotland they saddle the memory of great-souled, hard-hearted Calvin +himself. Thoroughly respectable, and a little devout, Mr. Galbraith was +a good deal more of a Scotchman than a Christian; growth was a doctrine +unembodied in his creed; he turned from everything new, no matter how +harmonious with the old, in freezing disapprobation; he recognized no +element in God or nature which could not be reasoned about after the +forms of the Scotch philosophy. He would not have said an Episcopalian +could not be saved, for at the bar he had known more than one good +lawyer of the episcopal party; but to say a Roman Catholic would not +necessarily be damned, would to his judgment have revealed at once the +impending fate of the rash asserter. In religion he regarded everything +not only as settled but as understood; but seemed aware of no call in +relation to truth, but to bark at anyone who showed the least anxiety +to discover it. What truth he held himself, he held as a sack holds +corn—not even as a worm holds earth.</p> + +<p>To his servants and tenants he was what he thought <i>just</i>—never +condescending to talk over a thing with any of the former but the +game-keeper, and never making any allowance to the latter for +misfortune. In general expression he looked displeased, but meant to +look dignified. No one had ever seen him wrathful; nor did he care +enough for his fellow-mortals ever to be greatly vexed—at least he +never manifested vexation otherwise than by a silence that showed more +of contempt than suffering.</p> + +<p>In person, he was very tall and very thin, with a head much too small +for his height; a narrow forehead, above which the brown hair looked +like a wig; pale-blue, ill-set eyes, that seemed too large for their +sockets, consequently tumbled about a little, and were never at once +brought to focus; a large, but soft-looking nose; a loose-lipped mouth, +and very little chin. He always looked as if consciously trying to keep +himself together. He wore his shirt-collar unusually high, yet out of +it far shot his long neck, notwithstanding the smallness of which, his +words always seemed to come from a throat much too big for them. He +had greatly the look of a hen, proud of her maternal experiences, and +silent from conceit of what she could say if she would. So much better +would he have done as an underling than as a ruler—as a journeyman +even, than a master, that to know him was almost to disbelieve in +the good of what is generally called education. His learning seemed +to have taken the wrong fermentation, and turned to folly instead +of wisdom. But he did not do much harm, for he had a great respect +for his respectability. Perhaps if he had been a craftsman, he might +even have done more harm—making rickety wheelbarrows, asthmatic +pumps, ill-fitting window-frames, or boots with a lurking divorce +in each welt. He had no turn for farming, and therefore let all his +land, yet liked to interfere, and as much as possible kept a personal +jurisdiction.</p> + +<p>There was one thing, however, which, if it did not throw the laird +into a passion—nothing, as I have said, did that—brought him nearer +to the outer verge of displeasure than any other, and that was, +anything whatever to which he could affix the name of superstition. +The indignation of better men than the laird with even a confessedly +harmless superstition, is sometimes very amusing; and it was a +point of Mr. Galbraith’s poverty-stricken religion to denounce all +superstitions, however diverse in character, with equal severity. To +believe in the second sight, for instance, or in any form of life as +having the slightest relation to this world, except that of men, that +of animals, and that of vegetables, was with him wicked, antagonistic +to the Church of Scotland, and inconsistent with her perfect doctrine. +The very word <i>ghost</i> would bring upon his face an expression he meant +for withering scorn, and indeed it withered his face, rendering it +yet more unpleasant to behold. Coming to the benighted country, then, +with all the gathered wisdom of Edinburgh in his gallinaceous cranium, +and what he counted a vast experience of worldly affairs besides, he +brought with him also the firm resolve to be the death of superstition, +at least upon his own property. He was not only unaware, but incapable +of becoming aware, that he professed to believe a number of things, +any one of which was infinitely more hostile to the truth of the +universe, than all the fancies and fables of a countryside, handed down +from grandmother to grandchild. When, therefore, within a year of his +settling at Glashruach, there arose a loud talk of the Mains, his best +farm, as haunted by presences making all kinds of tumultuous noises, +and even throwing utensils bodily about, he was nearer the borders +of a rage, although he kept, as became a gentleman, a calm exterior, +than ever he had been in his life. For were not ignorant clodhoppers +asserting as facts what he knew never could take place! At once he set +himself, with all his experience as a lawyer to aid him, to discover +the buffooning authors of the mischief; where there were deeds there +were doers, and where there were doers they were discoverable. But his +endeavours, uninterrmitted for the space of three weeks, after which +the disturbances ceased, proved so utterly without result, that he +could never bear the smallest allusion to the hateful business. For he +had not only been unhorsed, but by his dearest hobby.</p> + +<p>He was seated with a game pie in front of him, over the top of which +Ginevra was visible. The girl never sat nearer her father at meals than +the whole length of the table, where she occupied her mother’s place. +She was a solemn-looking child, of eight or nine, dressed in a brown +merino frock of the plainest description. Her hair, which was nearly of +the same colour as her frock, was done up in two triple plaits, which +hung down her back, and were tied at the tips with black ribbon. To the +first glance she did not look a very interesting or attractive child; +but looked at twice, she was sure to draw the eyes a third time. She +was undeniably like her father, and that was much against her at first +sight; but it required only a little acquaintance with her face to +remove the prejudice; for in its composed, almost resigned expression, +every feature of her father’s seemed comparatively finished, and +settled into harmony with the rest; its chaos was subdued, and not a +little of the original underlying design brought out. The nose was +firm, the mouth modelled, the chin larger, the eyes a little smaller, +and full of life and feeling. The longer it was regarded by any seeing +eye, the child’s countenance showed fuller of promise, or at least +of hope. Gradually the look would appear in it of a latent sensitive +anxiety—then would dawn a glimmer of longing question; and then, all +at once, it would slip back into the original ordinary look, which, +without seeming attractive, had yet attracted. Her father was never +harsh to her, yet she looked rather frightened at him; but then he was +cold, very cold, and most children would rather be struck and kissed +alternately than neither. And the bond cannot be very close between +father and child, when the father has forsaken his childhood. The bond +between any two is the one in the other; it is the father in the child, +and the child in the father, that reach to each other eternal hands. It +troubled Ginevra greatly that, when she asked herself whether she loved +her father better than anybody else, as she believed she ought, she +became immediately doubtful whether she loved him at all.</p> + +<p>She was eating porridge and milk: with spoon arrested in mid-passage, +she stopped suddenly, and said:—</p> + +<p>“Papa, what’s a broonie?”</p> + +<p>“I have told you, Jenny, that you are never to talk broad Scotch in my +presence,” returned her father. “I would lay severer commands upon you, +were it not that I fear tempting you to disobey me, but I will have no +vulgarity in the dining-room.”</p> + +<p>His words came out slowly, and sounded as if each was a bullet wrapped +round with cotton wool to make it fit the barrel. Ginevra looked +perplexed for a moment.</p> + +<p>“Should I say <i>brownie</i>, papa?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“How can I tell you what you should call a creature that has no +existence?” rejoined her father.</p> + +<p>“If it be a creature, papa, it must have a name!” retorted the little +logician, with great solemnity.</p> + +<p>Mr. Galbraith was not pleased, for although the logic was good, it was +against him.</p> + +<p>“What foolish person has been insinuating such contemptible +superstition into your silly head?” he asked. “Tell me, child,” he +continued, “that I may put a stop to it at once.”</p> + +<p>He was rising to ring the bell, that he might give the orders +consequent on the information he expected: he would have asked Mammon +to dinner in black clothes and a white tie, but on Superstition in the +loveliest garb would have loosed all the dogs of Glashruach, to hunt +her from the property. Her next words, however, arrested him, and just +as she ended, the butler came in with fresh toast.</p> + +<p>“They say,” said Ginevra, anxious to avoid the forbidden +Scotch, therefore stumbling sadly in her utterance, “there’s a +broonie—brownie—at the Mains, who dis a’—does all the work.”</p> + +<p>“What is the meaning of this, Joseph?” said Mr. Galbraith, turning from +her to the butler, with the air of rebuke, which was almost habitual to +him, a good deal heightened.</p> + +<p>“The meanin’ o’ what, sir?” returned Joseph, nowise abashed, for to +him his master was not the greatest man in the world, or even in the +highlands. “He’s no a Galbraith,” he used to say, when more than +commonly provoked with him.</p> + +<p>“I ask you, Joseph,” answered the laird, “what this—this outbreak +of superstition imports? You must be aware that nothing in the world +could annoy me more than that Miss Galbraith should learn folly in her +father’s house. That staid servants, such as I had supposed mine to be, +should use their tongues as if their heads had no more in them than so +many bells hung in a steeple, is to me a mortifying reflection.”</p> + +<p>“Tongues as weel ’s clappers was made to wag, sir; an, wag they wull, +sir, sae lang ’s the tow (<i>string</i>) hings oot at baith lugs,” answered +Joseph. The forms of speech he employed were not unfrequently obscure +to his master, and in that obscurity lay more of Joseph’s impunity than +he knew. “Forby (<i>besides</i>), sir,” he went on, “gien tongues didna wag, +what w’y wad you, ’at has to set a’ thing richt, come to ken what was +wrang?”</p> + +<p>“That is not a bad remark, Joseph,” replied the laird, with woolly +condescension. “Pray acquaint me with the whole matter.”</p> + +<p>“I hae naething till acquaint yer honour wi’, sir, but the ting-a-ling +o’ tongues,” replied Joseph; “an’ ye’ll hae till arreenge ’t like, till +yer ain settisfaction.”</p> + +<p>Therewith he proceeded to report what he had heard reported, which +was in the main the truth, considerably exaggerated—that the work of +the house was done over night by invisible hands—and the work of the +stables, too; but that in the latter, cantrips were played as well; +that some of the men talked of leaving the place; and that Mr. Duff’s +own horse, Snowball, was nearly out of his mind with fear.</p> + +<p>The laird clenched his teeth, and for a whole minute said nothing. Here +were either his old enemies again, or some who had heard the old story, +and in their turn were beating the drum of consternation in the ears of +superstition.</p> + +<p>“It is one of the men themselves,” he said at last, with outward +frigidity. “Or some ill-designed neighbour,” he added. “But I shall +soon be at the bottom of it. Go to the Mains at once, Joseph, and +ask young Fergus Duff to be so good as step over, as soon as he +conveniently can.”</p> + +<p>Fergus was pleased enough to be sent for by the laird, and soon told +him all he knew from his aunt and the men, confessing that he had +himself been too lazy of a morning to take any steps towards personal +acquaintance with the facts, but adding that, as Mr. Galbraith took an +interest in the matter, he would be only too happy to carry out any +suggestion he might think proper to make on the subject.</p> + +<p>“Fergus,” returned the laird, “do you imagine things inanimate can +of themselves change their relations in space? In other words, are +the utensils in your kitchen endowed with powers of locomotion? Can +they take to themselves wings and fly? Or to use a figure more to the +point, are they provided with members necessary to the washing of their +own—<i>persons</i>, shall I say? Answer me those points, Fergus.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not, sir,” answered Fergus solemnly, for the laird’s face +was solemn, and his speech was very solemn.</p> + +<p>“Then, Fergus, let me assure you, that to discover by what agency these +apparent wonders are effected, you have merely to watch. If you fail, +I will myself come to your assistance. Depend upon it, the thing when +explained will prove simplicity itself.”</p> + +<p>Fergus at once undertook to watch, but went home not quite so +comfortable as he had gone; for he did not altogether, notwithstanding +his unbelief in the so-called supernatural, relish the approaching +situation. Belief and unbelief are not always quite plainly +distinguishable from each other, and Fear is not always certain which +of them is his mother. He was not the less resolved, however, to +carry out what he had undertaken—that was, to sit up all night, if +necessary, in order to have an interview with the extravagant and +erring—spirit, surely, whether embodied or not, that dared thus wrong +“domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood,” by doing people’s work +for them unbidden. Not even to himself did he confess that he felt +frightened, for he was a youth of nearly eighteen; but he could not +quite hide from himself the fact that he anticipated no pleasure in the +duty which lay before him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.<br><span class="small">THE AMBUSH.</span></h2></div> + +<p>For more reasons than one, Fergus judged it prudent to tell not even +auntie Jean of his intention; but, waiting until the house was quiet, +stole softly from his room and repaired to the kitchen—at the other +end of the long straggling house, where he sat down, and taking his +book, an annual of the beginning of the century, began to read the +story of <i>Kathed and Eurelia</i>. Having finished it, he read another. He +read and read, but no brownie came. His candle burned into the socket. +He lighted another, and read again. Still no brownie appeared, and, +hard and straight as was the wooden chair on which he sat, he began +to doze. Presently he started wide awake, fancying he heard a noise; +but nothing was there. He raised his book once more, and read until he +had finished the stories in it: for the verse he had no inclination +that night. As soon as they were all consumed, he began to feel very +<i>eerie</i>: his courage had been sheltering itself behind his thoughts, +which the tales he had been reading had kept turned away from the +object of dread. Still deeper and deeper grew the night around him, +until the bare, soulless waste of it came at last, when a brave man +might welcome any ghost for the life it would bring. And ever as it +came, the tide of fear flowed more rapidly, until at last it rose over +his heart, and threatened to stifle him. The direst foe of courage is +the fear itself, not the object of it; and the man who can overcome +his own terror is a hero and more. In this Fergus had not yet deserved +to be successful. That kind of victory comes only of faith. Still, he +did not fly the field; he was no coward. At the same time, prizing +courage, scorning fear, and indeed disbelieving in every nocturnal +object of terror except robbers, he came at last to such an all but +abandonment of dread, that he dared not look over his shoulder, lest he +should see the brownie standing at his back; he would rather be seized +from behind and strangled in his hairy grasp, than turn and die of the +seeing. The night was dark—no moon and many clouds. Not a sound came +from the close. The cattle, the horses, the pigs, the cocks and hens, +the very cats and rats seemed asleep. There was not a rustle in the +thatch, a creak in the couples. It was well, for the slightest noise +would have brought his heart into his mouth, and he would have been in +great danger of scaring the household, and for ever disgracing himself, +with a shriek. Yet he longed to hear something stir. Oh! for the stamp +of a horse from the stable or the low of a cow from the byre! But they +were all under the brownie’s spell, and he was coming—toeless feet, +and thumbed but fingerless hands! as if he was made with stockings, +and <i>hum’le mittens</i>! Was it the want of toes that made him able to +come and go so quietly?—Another hour crept by; when lo, a mighty +sun-trumpet blew in the throat of the black cock! Fergus sprang to his +feet with the start it gave him—but the next moment gladness rushed +up in his heart: the morning was on its way! and, foe to superstition +as he was, and much as he had mocked at Donal for what he counted some +of his tendencies in that direction, he began instantly to comfort +himself with the old belief that all things of the darkness flee from +the crowing of the cock. The same moment his courage began to return, +and the next he was laughing at his terrors, more foolish than when he +felt them, seeing he was the same man of fear as before, and the same +circumstances would wrap him in the same garment of dire apprehension. +In his folly he imagined himself quite ready to watch the next night +without even repugnance—for it was the morning, not the night, that +came first!</p> + +<p>When the grey of the dawn appeared, he said to himself he would lie +down on the bench a while, he was so tired of sitting; he would not +sleep. He lay down, and in a moment was asleep. The light grew and +grew, and the brownie came—a different brownie indeed from the one he +had pictured—with the daintiest-shaped hands and feet coming out of +the midst of rags, and with no hair except roughly parted curls over +the face of a cherub—for the combing of Snowball’s mane and tail had +taught Gibbie to use the same comb upon his own thatch. But as soon as +he opened the door of the dairy, he was warned by the loud breathing +of the sleeper, and looking about, espied him on the bench behind the +table, and swiftly retreated. The same instant Fergus woke, stretched +himself, saw it was broad daylight, and, with his brain muddled by +fatigue and sleep combined, crawled shivering to bed. Then in came the +brownie again; and when Jean Mavor entered, there was her work done as +usual.</p> + +<p>Fergus was hours late for breakfast, and when he went into the common +room, found his aunt alone there.</p> + +<p>“Weel, auntie,” he said, “I think I fleggit yer broonie!”</p> + +<p>“Did ye that, man? Aye!—An’ syne ye set tee, an’ did the wark yersel +to save yer auntie Jean’s auld banes?”</p> + +<p>“Na, na! I was o’er tiret for that. Sae wad ye hae been yersel’, gien +ye had sitten up a’ nicht.”</p> + +<p>“Wha did it, than?”</p> + +<p>“Ow, jist yersel’, I’m thinkin’, auntie.”</p> + +<p>“Never a finger o’ mine was laid till ’t, Fergus. Gien ye fleggit ae +broonie, anither cam; for there’s the wark done, the same ’s ever.”</p> + +<p>“Damn the cratur!” cried Fergus.</p> + +<p>“Whisht, whisht, laddie! he’s maybe hearin’ ye this meenute. An’ gien +he binna, there’s ane ’at is, an’ likesna sweirin’.”</p> + +<p>“I beg yer pardon, auntie, but it’s jist provokin’!” returned Fergus, +and therewith recounted the tale of his night’s watch, omitting mention +only of his feelings throughout the vigil.</p> + +<p>As soon as he had had his breakfast, he went to carry his report to +Glashruach.</p> + +<p>The laird was vexed, and told him he must sleep well before night, and +watch to better purpose.</p> + +<p>The next night, Fergus’s terror returned in full force; but he watched +thoroughly notwithstanding, and when his aunt entered, she found him +there, and her kitchen in a mess. He had caught no brownie, it was +true, but neither had a stroke of her work been done. The floor was +unswept; not a dish had been washed; it was churning-day, but the +cream stood in the jar in the dairy, not the butter in the pan on the +kitchen-dresser. Jean could not quite see the good or the gain of it. +She had begun to feel like a lady, she said to herself, and now she +must tuck up her sleeves and set to work as before. It was a come-down +in the world, and she did not like it. She conned her nephew little +thanks, and not being in the habit of dissembling, let him feel the +same. He crept to bed rather mortified. When he woke from a long sleep, +he found no meal waiting him, and had to content himself with cakes<a id="fna1" href="#fn1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> +and milk before setting out for “the Muckle Hoose.”</p> +<div class="footnote"> +<p class="footnote" id="fn1"><a href="#fna1">[1]</a> It amuses a Scotchman to find that the word <i>cakes</i>, as in “<i>The +Land of Cakes</i>,” is taken, not only by foreigners, but by some English +people—as how, indeed, should it be otherwise?—to mean compositions +of flour, more or less enriched, and generally appreciable; whereas, +in fact, it stands for the dryest, simplest preparation in the world. +The genuine cakes is—(My grammar follows usage: cakes <i>is</i>; broth +<i>are</i>.)—literally nothing but oatmeal made into a dough with cold +water and dried over the fire—sometimes then in front of it as well.</p> + +</div> + +<p>“You must add cunning to courage, my young friend,” said Mr. Galbraith; +and the result of their conference was that Fergus went home resolved +on yet another attempt.</p> + +<p>He felt much inclined to associate Donal with him in his watch this +time, but was too desirous of proving his courage both to himself and +to the world, to yield to the suggestion of his fear. He went to bed +with a book immediately after the noon-day meal and rose in time for +supper.</p> + +<p>There was a large wooden press in the kitchen, standing out from the +wall; this with the next wall made a little recess, in which there was +just room for a chair; and in that recess Fergus seated himself, in the +easiest chair he could get into it. He then opened wide the door of the +press, and it covered him entirely.</p> + +<p>This night would have been the dreariest of all for him, the laird +having insisted that he should watch in the dark, had he not speedily +fallen fast asleep, and slept all night—so well that he woke at the +first noise Gibbie made.</p> + +<p>It was broad clear morning, but his heart beat so loud and fast with +apprehension and curiosity mingled, that for a few moments Fergus dare +not stir, but sat listening breathless to the movement beside him, none +the less appalling that it was so quiet. Recovering himself a little he +cautiously moved the door of the press, and peeped out.</p> + +<p>He saw nothing so frightful as he had, in spite of himself, +anticipated, but was not therefore, perhaps, the less astonished. +The dread brownie of his idea shrunk to a tiny ragged urchin, with +a wonderful head of hair, azure eyes, and deft hands, noiselessly +bustling about on bare feet. He watched him at his leisure, watched him +keenly, assured that any moment he could spring upon him.</p> + +<p>As he watched, his wonder sank, and he grew disappointed at the +collapsing of the lubber-fiend into a poor half-naked child upon +whom both his courage and his fear had been wasted. As he continued +to watch, an evil cloud of anger at the presumption of the unknown +minimus began to gather in his mental atmosphere, and was probably the +cause of some movement by which his chair gave a loud creak. Without +even looking round, Gibbie darted into the dairy, and shut the door. +Instantly Fergus was after him, but only in time to see the vanishing +of his last heel through the hole in the wall, and that way Fergus was +much too large to follow him. He rushed from the house, and across the +corner of the yard to the barn-door. Gibbie, who did not believe he had +been seen, stood laughing on the floor, when suddenly he heard the key +entering the lock. He bolted through the cat-hole—but again just one +moment too late, leaving behind him on Fergus’s retina the light from +the soles of two bare feet. The key of the door to the rick-yard was +inside, and Fergus was after him in a moment, but the ricks came close +to the barn-door, and the next he saw of him was the fluttering of his +rags in the wind, and the flashing of his white skin in the sun, as +he fled across the clover field; and before Fergus was over the wall, +Gibbie was a good way ahead towards the Lorrie. Gibbie was a better +runner for his size than Fergus, and in better training too; but, alas! +Fergus’s legs were nearly twice as long as Gibbie’s. The little one +reached the Lorrie first, and dashing across it, ran up the side of the +Glashburn, with a vague idea of Glashgar in his head. Fergus behind +him was growing more and more angry as he gained upon him but felt his +breath failing him. Just at the bridge to the iron gate to Glashruach, +he caught him at last, and sunk on the parapet exhausted. The smile +with which Gibbie, too much out of breath to laugh, confessed himself +vanquished, would have disarmed one harder-hearted than Fergus, had he +not lost his temper in the dread of losing his labour; and the answer +Gibbie received to his smile was a box on the ear that bewildered him. +He looked pitifully in his captor’s face, the smile not yet faded from +his, only to receive a box on the other ear, which, though a contrary +and similar both at once, was not a cure, and the water gathered in his +eyes. Fergus, a little eased in his temper by the infliction, and in +his breath by the wall of the bridge, began to ply him with questions; +but no answer following, his wrath rose again, and again he boxed both +his ears—without better result.</p> + +<p>Then came the question what was he to do with the redoubted brownie, +now that he had him. He was ashamed to show himself as the captor of +such a miserable culprit, but the little rascal deserved punishment, +and the laird would require him at his hands. He turned upon his +prisoner and told him he was an impudent rascal. Gibbie had recovered +again, and was able once more to smile a little. He had been guilty of +burglary, said Fergus; and Gibbie smiled. He could be sent to prison +for it, said Fergus; and Gibbie smiled—but this time a very grave +smile. Fergus took him by the collar, which amounted to nearly a third +part of the jacket, and shook him till he had half torn that third +from the other two; then opened the gate, and, holding him by the back +of the neck, walked him up the drive, every now and then giving him a +fierce shake that jarred his teeth. Thus, over the old gravel, mossy +and damp and grassy, and cool to his little bare feet, between rowan +and birk and pine and larch, like a malefactor, and looking every +inch the outcast he was, did Sir Gilbert Galbraith approach the house +of his ancestors for the first time. Individually, wee Gibbie was +anything but a prodigal; it had never been possible to him to be one; +but none the less was he the type and result and representative of his +prodigal race, in him now once more looking upon the house they had +lost by their vices and weaknesses, and in him now beginning to reap +the benefits of punishment. But of vice and loss, of house and fathers +and punishment, Gibbie had no smallest cognition. His history was about +him and in him, yet of it all he suspected nothing. It would have made +little difference to him if he had known it all; he would none the less +have accepted everything that came, just as part of the story in which +he found himself.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.<br><span class="small">THE PUNISHMENT.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The house he was approaching had a little the look of a prison. Of the +more ancient portion the windows were very small, and every corner +had a turret with a conical cap-roof. That part was all rough-cast, +therefore grey, as if with age. The more modern part was built of all +kinds of hard stone, roughly cloven or blasted from the mountain and +its boulders. Granite red and grey, blue whinstone, yellow ironstone, +were all mingled anyhow, fitness of size and shape alone regarded in +their conjunctions; but the result as to colour was rather pleasing +than otherwise, and Gibbie regarded it with some admiration. Nor, +although he had received from Fergus such convincing proof that he +was regarded as a culprit, had he any dread of evil awaiting him. The +highest embodiment of the law with which he had acquaintance was the +police, and from not one of them in all the city had he ever had a +harsh word; his conscience was as void of offence as ever it had been, +and the law consequently, notwithstanding the threats of Fergus, had +for him no terrors.</p> + +<p>The laird was an early riser, and therefore regarded the mere getting +up early as a virtue, altogether irrespective of how the time, thus +redeemed, as he called it, was spent. This morning, as it turned +out, it would have been better spent in sleep. He was talking to his +gamekeeper, a heavy-browed man, by the coach-house door, when Fergus +appeared holding the dwindled brownie by the huge collar of his +tatters. A more innocent-looking malefactor sure never appeared before +awful Justice! Only he was in rags, and there are others besides dogs +whose judgments go by appearance. Mr. Galbraith was one of them, and +smiled a grim, an ugly smile.</p> + +<p>“So this is your vaunted brownie, Mr. Duff!” he said, and stood looking +down upon Gibbie, as if in his small person he saw superstition at the +point of death, mocked thither by the arrows of his contemptuous wit.</p> + +<p>“It’s all the brownie I could lay hands on, sir,” answered Fergus. “I +took him in the act.”</p> + +<p>“Boy,” said the laird, rolling his eyes, more unsteady than usual with +indignation, in the direction of Gibbie, “what have you to say for +yourself?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie had no say—and nothing to say that his questioner could either +have understood or believed; the truth from his lips would but have +presented him a lying hypocrite to the wisdom of his judge. As it was, +he smiled, looking up fearless in the face of the magistrate, so awful +in his own esteem.</p> + +<p>“What is your name?” asked the laird, speaking yet more sternly.</p> + +<p>Gibbie still smiled and was silent, looking straight in his +questioner’s eyes. He dreaded nothing from the laird. Fergus had beaten +him, but Fergus he classed with the bigger boys who had occasionally +treated him roughly; this was a man, and men, except they were foreign +sailors, or drunk, were never unkind. He had no idea of his silence +causing annoyance. Everybody in the city had known he could not answer; +and now when Fergus and the laird persisted in questioning him, he +thought they were making kindly game of him, and smiled the more. +Nor was there much about Mr. Galbraith to rouse a suspicion of the +contrary; for he made a great virtue of keeping his temper when most he +caused other people to lose theirs.</p> + +<p>“I see the young vagabond is as impertinent as he is vicious,” he +said at last, finding that to no interrogation could he draw forth +any other response than a smile. “Here Angus,”—and he turned to the +gamekeeper—“take him into the coach-house, and teach him a little +behaviour. A touch or two of the whip will find his tongue for him.”</p> + +<p>Angus seized the little gentleman by the neck, as if he had been +a polecat, and at arm’s length walked him unresistingly into the +coach-house. There, with one vigorous tug, he tore the jacket from +his back, and his only other garment, dependent thereupon by some +device known only to Gibbie, fell from him, and he stood in helpless +nakedness, smiling still: he had never done anything shameful, +therefore had no acquaintance with shame. But when the scowling keeper, +to whom poverty was first cousin to poaching, and who hated tramps as +he hated vermin, approached him with a heavy cart whip in his hand, he +cast his eyes down at his white sides, very white between his brown +arms and brown legs, and then lifted them in a mute appeal, which +somehow looked as if it were for somebody else, against what he could +no longer fail to perceive the man’s intent. But he had no notion of +what the thing threatened amounted to. He had had few hard blows in his +time, and had never felt a whip.</p> + +<p>“Ye deil’s glaur!” cried the fellow, clenching the cruel teeth of one +who loved not his brother, “I s’ lat ye ken what comes o’ brakin’ into +honest hooses, an’ takin’ what’s no yer ain!”</p> + +<p>A vision of the gnawed cheese, which he had never touched since the +idea of its being property awoke in him, rose before Gibbie’s mental +eyes, and inwardly he bowed to the punishment. But the look he had +fixed on Angus was not without effect, for the man was a father, though +a severe one, and was not all a brute: he turned and changed the cart +whip for a gig one with a broken shaft, which lay near. It was well +for himself that he did so, for the other would probably have killed +Gibbie. When the blow fell the child shivered all over, his face turned +white, and without uttering even a moan, he doubled up and dropped +senseless. A swollen cincture, like a red snake, had risen all round +his waist, and from one spot in it the blood was oozing. It looked as +if the lash had cut him in two.</p> + +<p>The blow had stung his heart and it had ceased to beat. But the +gamekeeper understood vagrants! the young blackguard was only shamming!</p> + +<p>“Up wi’ ye, ye deevil! or I s’ gar ye,” he said from between his teeth, +lifting the whip for a second blow.</p> + +<p>Just as the stroke fell, marking him from the nape all down the spine, +so that he now bore upon his back in red the sign the ass carries in +black, a piercing shriek assailed Angus’s ears, and his arm, which had +mechanically raised itself for a third blow, hung arrested.</p> + +<p>The same moment, in at the coach-house door shot Ginevra, as white as +Gibbie. She darted to where he lay, and there stood over him, arms +rigid and hands clenched hard, shivering as he had shivered, and +sending from her body shriek after shriek, as if her very soul were +the breath of which her cries were fashioned. It was as if the woman’s +heart in her felt its roots torn from their home in the bosom of God, +and quivering in agony, and confronted by the stare of an eternal +impossibility, shrieked against Satan.</p> + +<p>“Gang awa, missie,” cried Angus, who had respect to this child, though +he had not yet learned to respect childhood; “he’s a coorse cratur, an’ +maun hae ’s whups.”</p> + +<p>But Ginevra was deaf to his evil charming. She stopped her cries, +however, to help Gibbie up, and took one of his hands to raise him. +But his arm hung limp and motionless; she let it go; it dropped like +a stick, and again she began to shriek. Angus laid his hand on her +shoulder. She turned on him, and opening her mouth wide, screamed +at him like a wild animal, with all the hatred of mingled love and +fear; then threw herself on the boy, and covered his body with her +own. Angus, stooping to remove her, saw Gibbie’s face, and became +uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>“He’s deid! he’s deid! Ye’ve killt him, Angus! Ye’re an ill man!” she +cried fiercely. “I hate ye. I’ll tell on ye. I’ll tell my papa.”</p> + +<p>“Hoots! whisht, missie!” said Angus. “It was by yer papa’s ain orders I +gae him the whup, an’ he weel deserved it forby. An’ gien ye dinna gang +awa, an’ be a guid yoong leddy, I’ll gie ’im mair yet.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell God,” shrieked Ginevra with fresh energy of defensive love +and wrath.</p> + +<p>Again he sought to remove her, but she clung so, with both legs and +arms, to the insensible Gibbie, that he could but lift both together, +and had to leave her alone.</p> + +<p>“Gien ye daur to touch ’im again, Angus, I’ll bite ye—<i>bite ye</i>—BITE +YE,” she screamed, in a passage wildly crescendo.</p> + +<p>The laird and Fergus had walked away together, perhaps neither of them +quite comfortable at the orders given, but the one too self-sufficient +to recall them, and the other too submissive to interfere. They heard +the cries, nevertheless, and had they known them for Ginevra’s, would +have rushed to the spot; but fierce emotion had so utterly changed her +voice—and indeed she had never in her life cried out before—that they +took them for Gibbie’s and supposed the whip had had the desired effect +and loosed his tongue. As to the rest of the household, which would +by this time have been all gathered in the coach-house, the laird had +taken his stand where he could intercept them: he would not have the +execution of the decrees of justice interfered with.</p> + +<p>But Ginevra’s shrieks brought Gibbie to himself. Faintly he opened +his eyes, and stared, stupid with growing pain, at the tear-blurred +face beside him. In the confusion of his thoughts he fancied the pain +he felt was Ginevra’s, not his, and sought to comfort her, stroking +her cheek with feeble hand, and putting up his mouth to kiss her. But +Angus, utterly scandalized at the proceeding, and restored to energy +by seeing that the boy was alive, caught her up suddenly and carried +her off—struggling, writhing, and scratching like a cat. Indeed she +bit his arm, and that severely, but the man never even told his wife. +Little Missie was a queen, and little Gibbie was a vermin, but he was +ashamed to let the mother of his children know that the former had +bitten him for the sake of the latter.</p> + +<p>The moment she thus disappeared, Gibbie began to apprehend that she +was suffering for him, not he for her. His whole body bore testimony +to frightful abuse. This was some horrible place inhabited by men +such as those that killed Sambo! He must fly. But would they hurt +the little girl? He thought not—she was at home. He started to +spring to his feet, but fell back almost powerless; then tried more +cautiously and got up wearily, for the pain and the terrible shock +seemed to have taken the strength out of every limb. Once on his feet, +he could scarcely stoop to pick up his remnant of trowsers without +again falling, and the effort made him groan with distress. He was +in the act of trying in vain to stand on one foot, so as to get the +other into the garment, when he fancied he heard the step of his +executioner, returning doubtless to resume his torture. He dropped the +rag, and darted out of the door, forgetting aches and stiffness and +agony. All naked as he was, he fled like the wind, unseen, or at least +unrecognized, of any eye. Fergus did catch a glimpse of something white +that flashed across a vista through the neighbouring wood, but he took +it for a white peacock, of which there were two or three about the +place. The three men were disgusted with the little wretch when they +found that he had actually fled into the open day without his clothes. +Poor Gibbie! it was such a small difference! It needed as little change +to make a savage as an angel of him. All depended on the eyes that saw +him.</p> + +<p>He ran he knew not whither, feeling nothing but the desire first to +get into some covert, and then to run farther. His first rush was for +the shubbery, his next across the little park to the wood beyond. He +did not feel the wind of his running on his bare skin. He did not feel +the hunger that had made him so unable to bear the lash. On and on he +ran, fancying ever he heard the cruel Angus behind him. If a dry twig +snapped, he thought it was the crack of the whip; and a small wind +that rose suddenly in the top of a pine, seemed the hiss with which it +was about to descend upon him. He ran and ran, but still there seemed +nothing between him and his persecutors. He felt no safety. At length +he came where a high wall joining some water formed a boundary. The +water was a brook from the mountain, here widened and deepened into a +still pool. He had been once out of his depth before: he threw himself +in, and swam straight across: ever after that, swimming seemed to him +as natural as walking.</p> + +<p>Then first awoke a faint sense of safety; for on the other side he was +knee deep in heather. He was on the wild hill, with miles on miles of +cover! Here the unman could not catch him. It must be the same that +Donal pointed out to him one day at a distance; he had a gun, and Donal +said he had once shot a poacher and killed him. He did not know what +a poacher was: perhaps he was one himself, and the man would shoot +him. They could see him quite well from the other side! he must cross +the knoll first, and then he might lie down and rest. He would get +right into the heather, and lie with it all around and over him till +the night came. Where he would go then, he did not know. But it was +all one; he could go anywhere. Donal must mind his cows, and the men +must mind the horses, and Mistress Jean must mind her kitchen, but Sir +Gibbie could go where he pleased. He would go up Daurside; but he would +not go just at once; that man might be on the outlook for him, and he +wouldn’t like to be shot. People who were shot lay still, and were put +into holes in the earth, and covered up, and he would not like that.</p> + +<p>Thus he communed with himself as he went over the knoll. On the other +side he chose a tall patch of heather, and crept under. How nice and +warm and kind the heather felt, though it did hurt the weals dreadfully +sometimes. If he only had something to cover just them! There seemed to +be one down his back as well as round his waist!</p> + +<p>And now Sir Gibbie, though not much poorer than he had been, really +possessed nothing separable, except his hair and his nails—nothing +therefore that he could call <i>his</i>, as distinguished from <i>him</i>. His +sole other possession was a negative quantity—his hunger, namely, +for he had not even a meal in his body: he had eaten nothing since +the preceding noon. I am wrong—he had one possession besides, though +hardly a separable one—a ballad about a fair lady and her page, which +Donal had taught him. That he now began to repeat to himself, but was +disappointed to find it a good deal withered. He was not nearly reduced +to extremity yet though—this little heir of the world: in his body he +had splendid health, in his heart a great courage, and in his soul an +ever-throbbing love. It was his love to the very image of man, that +made the horror of the treatment he had received. Angus was and was not +a man! After all, Gibbie was still one to be regarded with holy envy.</p> + +<p>Poor Ginny was sent to bed for interfering with her father’s orders; +and what with rage and horror and pity, an inexplicable feeling of +hopelessness took possession of her, while her affection for her father +was greatly, perhaps for this world irretrievably, injured by that +morning’s experience; a something remained that never passed from her, +and that something, as often as it stirred, rose between him and her.</p> + +<p>Fergus told his aunt what had taken place, and made much game of her +brownie. But the more Jean thought about the affair, the less she liked +it. It was she upon whom it all came! What did it matter who or what +her brownie was? And what had they whipped the creature for? What harm +had he done? If indeed he was a little ragged urchin, the thing was +only the more inexplicable! He had taken nothing! She had never missed +so much as a barley scon! The cream had always brought her the right +quantity of butter! Not even a bannock, so far as she knew, was ever +gone from the press, or an egg from the bossie where they lay heaped! +There was more in it than she could understand! Her nephew’s mighty +feat, so far from explaining anything, had only sealed up the mystery. +She could not help cherishing a shadowy hope that, when things had +grown quiet, he would again reveal his presence by his work, if not +by his visible person. It was mortifying to think that he had gone as +he came, and she had never set eyes upon him. But Fergus’s account +of his disappearance had also, in her judgment, a decided element +of the marvellous in it. She was strongly inclined to believe that +the brownie had cast a glamour over him and the laird and Angus, all +three, and had been making game of them for his own amusement. Indeed +Daurside generally refused the explanation of the brownie presented for +its acceptance, and the laird scored nothing against the arch-enemy +Superstition.</p> + +<p>Donal Grant, missing his “cratur” that day for the first time, heard +enough when he came home to satisfy him that he had been acting the +brownie in the house and the stable as well as in the field, incredible +as it might well appear that such a child should have had even mere +strength for what he did. Then first also, after he had thus lost him, +he began to understand his worth, and to see how much he owed him. +While he had imagined himself kind to the urchin, the urchin had been +laying him under endless obligation. For he left him with ever so much +more in his brains than when he came. This book and that, through his +aid, he had read thoroughly; and a score or so of propositions had been +added to his stock in Euclid. His first feeling about the child revived +as he pondered—namely, that he was not of this world. But even then +Donal did not know the best Gibbie had done for him. He did not know +of what far deeper and better things he had, through his gentleness, +his trust, his loving service, his absolute unselfishness, sown the +seeds in his mind. On the other hand, Donal had in return done more +for Gibbie than he knew, though what he had done for him, namely, +shared his dinners with him, had been less of a gift than he thought, +and Donal had rather been sharing in Gibbie’s dinner, than Gibbie in +Donal’s.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.<br><span class="small">REFUGE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>It was a lovely Saturday evening on Glashgar. The few flowers about +the small turf cottage scented the air in the hot western sun. The +heather was not in bloom yet, and there were no trees; but there were +rocks, and stones, and a brawling burn that half surrounded a little +field of oats, one of potatoes, and a small spot with a few stocks of +cabbage and kail, on the borders of which grew some bushes of double +daisies, and primroses, and carnations. These Janet tended as part +of her household, while her husband saw to the oats and potatoes. +Robert had charge of the few sheep on the mountain which belonged to +the farmer at the Mains, and for his trouble had the cottage and the +land, most of which he had himself reclaimed. He had also a certain +allowance of meal, which was paid in portions, as corn went from the +farm to the mill. If they happened to fall short, the miller would +always advance them as much as they needed, repaying himself—and not +very strictly—the next time the corn was sent from the Mains. They +were never in any want, and never had any money, except what their +children brought them out of their small wages. But that was plenty +for their every need, nor had they the faintest feeling that they were +persons to be pitied. It was very cold up there in winter, to be sure, +and they both suffered from rheumatism; but they had no debt, no fear, +much love, and between them, this being mostly Janet’s, a large hope +for what lay on the other side of death: as to the rheumatism, that was +necessary, Janet said, to teach them patience, for they had no other +trouble. They were indeed growing old, but neither had begun to feel +age a burden yet, and when it should prove such, they had a daughter +prepared to give up service and go home to help them. Their thoughts +about themselves were nearly lost in their thoughts about each other, +their children, and their friends. Janet’s main care was her old man, +and Robert turned to Janet as the one stay of his life, next to the +God in whom he trusted. He did not think so much about God as she: +he was not able; nor did he read so much of his Bible; but she often +read to him; and when any of his children were there of an evening, he +always “took the book.” While Janet prayed at home, his closet was the +mountain-side, where he would kneel in the heather, and pray to Him +who saw unseen, the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise +God. The sheep took no heed of him, but sometimes when he rose from +his knees and saw Oscar gazing at him with deepest regard, he would +feel a little as if he had not quite entered enough into his closet, +and would wonder what the dog was thinking. All day, from the mountain +and sky and preaching burns, from the sheep and his dog, from winter +storms, spring sun and winds, or summer warmth and glow, but more than +all, when he went home, from the presence and influence of his wife, +came to him somehow—who can explain how!—spiritual nourishment and +vital growth. One great thing in it was, that he kept growing wiser and +better without knowing it. If St. Paul had to give up judging his own +self, perhaps Robert Grant might get through without ever beginning it. +He loved life, but if he had been asked why, he might not have found a +ready answer. He loved his wife—just because she was Janet. Blithely +he left his cottage in the morning, deep breathing the mountain air, as +if it were his first in the blissful world; and all day the essential +bliss of being was his; but the immediate hope of his heart was not +the heavenly city; it was his home and his old woman, and her talk of +what she had found in her Bible that day. Strangely mingled—mingled +even to confusion with his faith in God, was his absolute trust in his +wife—a confidence not very different in kind from the faith which so +many Christians place in the mother of our Lord. To Robert, Janet was +one who knew—one who was far <i>ben</i> with the Father of lights. She +perceived his intentions, understood his words, did his will, dwelt in +the secret place of the Most High. When Janet entered into the kingdom +of her Father, she would see that he was not left outside. He was as +sure of her love to himself, as he was of God’s love to her, and was +certain she could never be content without her old man. He was himself +a dull soul, he thought, and could not expect the great God to take +much notice of him, but he would allow Janet to look after him. He had +a vague conviction that he would not be very hard to save, for he knew +himself ready to do whatever was required of him. None of all this was +plain to his consciousness, however, or I daresay he would have begun +at once to combat the feeling.</p> + +<p>His sole anxiety, on the other hand, was neither about life nor +death, about this world nor the next, but that his children should +be honest and honourable, fear God and keep his commandments. Around +them, all and each, the thoughts of father and mother were constantly +hovering—as if to watch them, and ward off evil.</p> + +<p>Almost from the day, now many years ago, when, because of distance and +difficulty, she ceased to go to church, Janet had taken to her New +Testament in a new fashion.</p> + +<p>She possessed an instinctive power of discriminating character, which +had its root and growth in the simplicity of her own; she had always +been a student of those phases of humanity that came within her ken; +she had a large share of that interest in her fellows and their affairs +which is the very bloom upon ripe humanity: with these qualifications, +and the interpretative light afforded by her own calm practical way of +living, she came to understand men and their actions, especially where +the latter differed from what might ordinarily have been expected, in +a marvellous way: her faculty amounted almost to sympathetic contact +with the very humanity. When, therefore, she found herself in this +remote spot, where she could see so little of her kind, she began, she +hardly knew by what initiation, to turn her study upon the story of +our Lord’s life. Nor was it long before it possessed her utterly, so +that she concentrated upon it all the light and power of vision she had +gathered from her experience of humanity. It ought not therefore to be +wonderful how much she now understood of the true humanity—with what +simple directness she knew what many of the words of the Son of Man +meant, and perceived many of the germs of his individual actions. Hence +it followed naturally that the thought of him, and the hope of one day +seeing him, became her one informing idea. She was now such another as +those women who ministered to him on the earth.</p> + +<p>A certain gentle indifference she allowed to things considered +important, the neighbours attributed to weakness of character, and +called <i>softness</i>; while the honesty, energy, and directness with +which she acted upon insights they did not possess, they attributed to +intellectual derangement. She was “ower easy,” they said, when the talk +had been of prudence or worldly prospect; she was “ower hard,” they +said, when the question had been of right and wrong.</p> + +<p>The same afternoon, a neighbour, on her way over the shoulder of the +hill to the next village, had called upon her and found her brushing +the rafters of her cottage with a broom at the end of a long stick.</p> + +<p>“Save ’s a’, Janet! what are ye efter? I never saw sic a thing!” she +exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“I kenna hoo I never thoucht o’ sic a thing afore,” answered Janet, +leaning her broom against the wall, and dusting a chair for her +visitor; “but this mornin’, whan my man an’ me was sittin’ at oor +brakfast, there cam sic a clap o’ thunner, ’at it jist garred the bit +hoosie trim’le; an’ doon fell a snot o’ soot intil the very spune ’at +my man was cairryin’ till ’s honest moo’. That cudna be as things war +inten’it, ye ken; sae what was to be said but set them richt?”</p> + +<p>“Ow, weel! but ye micht hae waitit till Donal cam hame; he wad hae dune +’t in half the time, an’ no raxed his jints.”</p> + +<p>“I cudna pit it aff,” answered Janet. “Wha kenned whan the Lord micht +come?—He canna come at cock-crawin’ the day, but he may be here afore +nicht.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I s’ awa,” said her visitor rising. “I’m gauin’ ower to the toon +to buy a feow hanks o’ worset to weyve a pair o’ stockins to my man. +Guid day to ye, Janet.—What neist, I won’er?” she added to herself as +she left the house. “The wuman’s clean dementit!”</p> + +<p>The moment she was gone, Janet caught up her broom again, and went +spying about over the roof—ceiling there was none—after long +<i>tangles</i> of agglomerated cobweb and smoke.</p> + +<p>“Ay!” she said to herself, “wha kens whan he may be at the door? an’ I +wadna like to hear him say—‘Janet, ye micht hae had yer hoose a bit +cleaner, whan ye kenned I micht be at han’!’”</p> + +<p>With all the cleaning she could give it, her cottage would have looked +but a place of misery to many a benevolent woman, who, if she had lived +there, would not have been so benevolent as Janet, or have kept the +place half so clean. For her soul was alive and rich, and out of her +soul, not education or habit, came the smallest of her virtues.—Having +finished at last, she took her besom to the door, and beat it against +a stone. That done, she stood looking along the path down the hill. +It was that by which her sons and daughters, every Saturday, came +climbing, one after the other, to her bosom, from their various labours +in the valley below, through the sunset, through the long twilight, +through the moonlight, each urged by a heart eager to look again upon +father and mother.</p> + +<p>The sun was now far down his western arc, and nearly on a level with +her eyes; and as she gazed into the darkness of the too much light, +suddenly emerged from it, rose upward, staggered towards her—was +it an angel? was it a spectre? Did her old eyes deceive her? or was +the second sight born in her now first in her old age?—It seemed a +child—reeling, and spreading out hands that groped. She covered her +eyes for a moment, for it might be a vision in the sun, not on the +earth—and looked again. It was indeed a naked child! and—was she +still so dazzled by the red sun as to see red where red was none?—or +were those indeed blood-red streaks on his white skin? Straight now, +though slow, he came towards her. It was the same child who had come +and gone so strangely before! He held out his hands to her, and fell +on his face at her feet like one dead. Then, with a horror of pitiful +amazement, she saw a great cross marked in two cruel stripes on his +back; and the thoughts that thereupon went coursing through her loving +imagination, it would be hard to set forth. Could it be that the Lord +was still, child and man, suffering for his race, to deliver his +brothers and sisters from their sins?—wandering, enduring, beaten, +blessing still? accepting the evil, slaying it, and returning none? +his patience the one rock where the evil word finds no echo; his heart +the one gulf into which the dead-sea wave rushes with no recoil—from +which ever flows back only purest water, sweet and cool; the one +abyss of destroying love, into which all wrong tumbles, and finding +no reaction, is lost, ceases for evermore? there, in its own cradle, +the primal order is still nursed, still restored; thence is still sent +forth afresh, to leaven with new life the world ever ageing! Shadowy +and vague they were—but vaguely shadowed were thoughts like these +in Janet’s mind, as she stood half-stunned, regarding for one moment +motionless the prostrate child and his wrongs. The next she lifted him +in her arms, and holding him tenderly to her mother-heart, carried +him into the house, murmuring over him dove-like sounds of pity and +endearment mingled with indignation. There she laid him on his side in +her bed, covered him gently over, and hastened to the little byre at +the end of the cottage, to get him some warm milk. When she returned, +he had already lifted his heavy eyelids, and was looking wearily about +the place. But when he saw her—did ever so bright a sun shine as that +smile of his? Eyes and mouth and whole face flashed upon Janet! She set +down the milk, and went to the bedside. Gibbie put up his arms, threw +them round her neck, and clung to her as if she had been his mother. +And from that moment she <i>was</i> his mother: her heart was big enough to +mother all the children of humanity. She was like Charity herself, with +her babes innumerable.</p> + +<p>“What hae they dune to ye, my bairn?” she said, in tones pitiful with +the pity of the Shepherd of the sheep himself.</p> + +<p>No reply came back—only another heavenly smile, a smile of absolute +content. For what were stripes and nakedness and hunger to Gibbie, +now that he had a woman to love! Gibbie’s necessity was to love; but +here was more; here was Love offering herself to him! Except in black +Sambo he had scarcely caught a good sight of her before. He had never +before been kissed by that might of God’s grace, a true woman. She was +an old woman who kissed him; but none who have drunk of the old wine +of love, straightway desire the new, for they know that the old is +better. Match such as hers with thy love, maiden of twenty, and where +wilt thou find the man I say, not worthy, but fit to mate with thee? +For hers was love indeed—not the love of love—but the love of Life. +Already Gibbie’s faintness was gone—and all his ills with it. She +raised him with one arm, and held the bowl to his mouth, and he drank; +but all the time he drank, his eyes were fixed upon hers. When she laid +him down again, he turned on his side, off his scored back, and in a +moment was fast asleep. She stood gazing at him. So still was he, that +she began to fear he was dead, and laid her hand on his heart. It was +beating steadily, and she left him, to make some gruel for him against +his waking. Her soul was glad, for she was ministering to her Master, +not the less in his own self, that it was in the person of one of his +little ones. Gruel, as such a one makes it, is no common fare, but +delicate enough for a queen. She set it down by the fire, and proceeded +to lay the supper for her expected children. The clean yellow-white +table of soft smooth fir needed no cloth—only horn spoons and wooden +caups.</p> + +<p>At length a hand came to the latch, and mother and daughter greeted +as mother and daughter only can; then came a son, and mother and son +greeted as mother and son only can. They kept on arriving singly to the +number of six—two daughters and four sons, the youngest some little +time after the rest. Each, as he or she came, Janet took to the bed, +and showed her seventh child where he slept. Each time she showed him, +to secure like pity with her own, she turned down the bedclothes, and +revealed the little back, smitten with the eternal memorial of the +divine perfection. The women wept. The young men were furious, each +after his fashion.</p> + +<p>“God damn the rascal ’at did it!” cried one of them, clenching his +teeth, and forgetting himself quite in the rage of the moment.</p> + +<p>“Laddie, tak back the word,” said his mother calmly. “Gien ye dinna +forgie yer enemies, ye’ll no be forgi’en yersel’.”</p> + +<p>“That’s some hard, mither,” answered the offender, with an attempted +smile.</p> + +<p>“Hard!” she echoed; “it may weel be hard, for it canna be helpit. What +wad be the use o’ forgiein’ ye, or hoo cud it win at ye, or what wad +ye care for ’t, or mak o’ ’t, cairryin’ a hell o’ hate i’ yer verra +hert? For gien God be love, hell maun be hate. My bairn, them ’at winna +forgie their enemies, cairries sic a nest o’ deevilry i’ their ain +boasoms, ’at the verra speerit o’ God himsel’ canna win in till ’t for +bein’ scomfished wi’ smell an’ reik. Muckle guid wad ony pardon dee to +sic! But ance lat them un’erstan’ ’at he canna forgie them, an’ maybe +they’ll be fleyt, an’ turn again’ the Sawtan ’at’s i’ them.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, but he’s no <i>my</i> enemy,” said the youth.</p> + +<p>“No your enemy!” returned his mother; “—no your enemy, an’ sair +(<i>serve</i>) a bairn like that! My certie! but he’s the enemy o’ the +haill race o’ mankin’. He trespasses unco sair again’ <i>me</i>, I’m weel +sure o’ that! An’ I’m glaid o’ ’t. I’m glaid ’at he has me for ane o’ +’s enemies, for I forgie him for ane; an’ wuss him sae affrontit wi’ +himsel’ er a’ be dune, ’at he wad fain hide his heid in a midden.”</p> + +<p>“Noo, noo, mither!” said the eldest son, who had not yet spoken, but +whose countenance had been showing a mighty indignation, “that’s surely +as sair a bannin’ as yon ’at Jock said.”</p> + +<p>“What, laddie! Wad ye hae a fellow-cratur live to a’ eternity ohn bein +ashamed o’ sic a thing ’s that? Wad that be to wuss him weel? Kenna ye +’at the mair shame the mair grace? My word was the best beginnin’ o’ +better ’at I cud wuss him. Na, na, laddie! frae my verra hert, I wuss +he may be that affrontit wi’ himsel’ ’at he canna sae muckle as lift +up ’s een to haiven, but maun smite upo’ ’s breist an’ say, ‘God be +mercifu’ to me, a sinner!’ That’s my curse upo’ <i>him</i>, for I wadna hae +’im a deevil. Whan he comes to think that shame o’ himsel’, I’ll tak +him to my hert, as I tak the bairn he misguidit. Only I doobt I’ll be +lang awa afore that, for it taks time to fess a man like that till ’s +holy senses.”</p> + +<p>The sixth of the family now entered, and his mother led him up to the +bed.</p> + +<p>“The Lord preserve ’s!” cried Donal Grant, “it’s the cratur!—An’ +is that the gait they hae guidit him! The quaietest cratur an’ the +willin’est!”</p> + +<p>Donal began to choke.</p> + +<p>“Ye ken him than, laddie?” said his mother.</p> + +<p>“Weel that,” answered Donal. “He’s been wi’ me an’ the nowt ilka day +for weeks till the day.”</p> + +<p>With that he hurried into the story of his acquaintance with Gibbie; +and the fable of the brownie would soon have disappeared from Daurside, +had it not been that Janet desired them to say nothing about the boy, +but let him be forgotten by his enemies, till he grew able to take care +of himself. Besides, she said, their father might get into trouble with +the master and the laird, if it were known they had him.</p> + +<p>Donal vowed to himself, that, if Fergus had had a hand in the abuse, he +would never speak civil word to him again.</p> + +<p>He turned towards the bed, and there were Gibbie’s azure eyes wide open +and fixed upon him.</p> + +<p>“Eh, ye cratur!” he cried; and darting to the bed, he took Gibbie’s +face between his hands, and said, in a voice to which pity and sympathy +gave a tone like his mother’s,</p> + +<p>“Whaten a deevil was ’t ’at lickit ye like that? Eh! I wuss I had the +trimmin’ o’ him!”</p> + +<p>Gibbie smiled.</p> + +<p>“Has the ill-guideship ta’en the tongue frae ’im, think ye?” asked the +mother.</p> + +<p>“Na, na,” answered Donal; “he’s been like that sin ever I kenned him. I +never h’ard word frae the moo’ o’ ’im.”</p> + +<p>“He’ll be ane o’ the deif an’ dumb,” said Janet.</p> + +<p>“He’s no deif, mither; that I ken weel; but dumb he maun be, I’m +thinkin’.—Cratur,” he continued, stooping over the boy, “gien ye hear +what I’m sayin’, tak haud o’ my nose.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon, with a laugh like that of an amused infant, Gibbie raised +his hand, and with thumb and forefinger gently pinched Donal’s large +nose, at which they all burst out laughing with joy. It was as if +they had found an angel’s baby in the bushes, and been afraid he was +an idiot, but were now relieved. Away went Janet, and brought him his +gruel. It was with no small difficulty and not without a moan or two, +that Gibbie sat up in the bed to take it. There was something very +pathetic in the full content with which he sat there in his nakedness, +and looked smiling at them all. It was more than content—it was bliss +that shone in his countenance. He took the wooden bowl, and began to +eat; and the look he cast on Janet seemed to say he had never tasted +such delicious food. Indeed he never had; and the poor cottage, where +once more he was a stranger and taken in, appeared to Gibbie a place of +wondrous wealth. And so it was—not only in the best treasures, those +of loving kindness, but in all homely plenty as well for the needs of +the body—a very temple of the God of simplicity and comfort—rich in +warmth and rest and food.</p> + +<p>Janet went to her <i>kist</i>, whence she brought out a garment of her own, +and aired it at the fire. It had no lace at the neck or cuffs, no +embroidery down the front; but when she put it on him, amid the tearful +laughter of the women, and had tied it round his waist with a piece +of list that had served as a garter, it made a dress most becoming in +their eyes, and gave Gibbie indescribable pleasure from its whiteness, +and its coolness to his inflamed skin.</p> + +<p>They had just finished clothing him thus, when the goodman came home, +and the mother’s narration had to be given afresh, with Donal’s notes +explanatory and completive. As the latter reported the doings of the +imagined brownie, and the commotion they had caused at the Mains and +along Daurside, Gibbie’s countenance flashed with pleasure and fun; +and at last he broke into such a peal of laughter as had never, for +pure merriment, been heard before so high on Glashgar. All joined +involuntarily in the laugh—even the old man, who had been listening +with his grey eyebrows knit, and hanging like bosky precipices over the +tarns of his deepset eyes, taking in every word, but uttering not one. +When at last his wife showed him the child’s back, he lifted his two +hands, and moved them slowly up and down, as in pitiful appeal for man +against man to the sire of the race. But still he said not a word. As +to utterance of what lay in the deep soul of him, the old man, except +sometimes to his wife, was nearly as dumb as Gibbie himself.</p> + +<p>They sat down to their homely meal. Simplest things will carry the +result of honest attention as plainly as more elaborate dishes; and, +which it might be well to consider, they will carry no more than they +are worth: of Janet’s supper it is enough to say that it was such as +became her heart. In the judgment of all her guests, the porridge was +such as none could make but mother, the milk such as none but mother’s +cow could yield, the cakes such as she only could bake.</p> + +<p>Gibbie sat in the bed like a king on his throne, gazing on his kingdom. +For he that loves has, as no one else has. It is the divine possession. +Picture the delight of the child, in his passion for his kind, looking +out upon this company of true hearts, honest faces, human forms—all +strong and healthy, loving each other and generous to the taking in of +the world’s outcast! Gibbie could not, at that period of his history, +have invented a heaven more to his mind, and as often as one of them +turned eyes towards the bed, his face shone up with love and merry +gratitude, like a better sun.</p> + +<p>It was now almost time for the sons and daughters to go down the hill +again, and leave the cottage and the blessed old parents and the +harboured child to the night, the mountain-silence, and the living God. +The sun had long been down; but far away in the north, the faint thin +fringe of his light-garment was still visible, moving with the unseen +body of his glory softly eastward, dreaming along the horizon, growing +fainter and fainter as it went, but at the faintest then beginning to +revive and grow. Of the northern lands in summer, it may be said, as of +the heaven of heavens, that there is no night there. And by and by the +moon also would attend the steps of the returning children of labour.</p> + +<p>“Noo, lads an’ lasses, afore we hae worship, rin, ilk ane o’ ye,” said +the mother, “an’ pu’ heather to mak a bed to the wee man—i’ the neuk +there, at the heid o’ oors. He’ll sleep there bonnie, an’ no ill ’ill +come near ’im.”</p> + +<p>She was obeyed instantly. The heather was pulled, and set together +upright as it grew, only much closer, so that the tops made a dense +surface, and the many stalks, each weak, a strong upbearing whole. They +boxed them in below with a board or two for the purpose, and bound them +together above with a blanket over the top, and a white sheet over +that—a linen sheet it was, and large enough to be doubled, and receive +Gibbie between its folds. Then another blanket was added, and the bed, +a perfect one, was ready. The eldest of the daughters took Gibbie in +her arms, and, tenderly careful over his hurts, lifted him from the old +folks’ bed, and placed him in his own—one more luxurious, for heather +makes a still better stratum for repose than oat-chaff—and Gibbie sank +into it with a sigh that was but a smile grown vocal.</p> + +<p>Then Donal, as the youngest, got down the big Bible, and having laid it +before his father, lighted the rush-pith-wick projecting from the beak +of the little iron lamp that hung against the wall, its shape descended +from Roman times. The old man put on his spectacles, took the book, and +found the passage that fell, in continuous process, to that evening.</p> + +<p>Now he was not a very good reader, and, what with blindness and +spectacles, and poor light, would sometimes lose his place. But it +never troubled him, for he always knew the sense of what was coming, +and being no idolater of the letter, used the word that first suggested +itself, and so recovered his place without pausing. It reminded his +sons and daughters of the time when he used to tell them Bible stories +as they crowded about his knees; and sounding therefore merely like the +substitution of a more familiar word to assist their comprehension, +woke no surprise. And even now, the word supplied, being in the +vernacular, was rather to the benefit than the disadvantage of his +hearers. The word of Christ is spirit and life, and where the heart is +aglow, the tongue will follow that spirit and life fearlessly, and will +not err.</p> + +<p>On this occasion he was reading of our Lord’s cure of the leper; and +having read, “<i>put forth his hand</i>,” lost his place, and went straight +on without it, from his memory of the facts.</p> + +<p>“He put forth his han’—an’ grippit him, and said, Aw wull—be clean.”</p> + +<p>After the reading followed a prayer, very solemn and devout. It was +then only, when before God, with his wife by his side, and his family +around him, that the old man became articulate. He would scarcely have +been so then, and would have floundered greatly in the marshes of his +mental chaos, but for the stepping-stones of certain theological forms +and phrases, which were of endless service to him in that they helped +him to utter what in him was far better, and so realise more to himself +his own feelings. Those forms and phrases would have shocked any devout +Christian who had not been brought up in the same school; but they did +him little harm, for he saw only the good that was in them, and indeed +did not understand them save in so far as they worded that lifting up +of the heart after which he was ever striving.</p> + +<p>By the time the prayer was over, Gibbie was fast asleep again. What +it all meant he had not an idea; and the sound lulled him—a service +often so rendered in lieu of that intended. When he woke next, from the +aching of his stripes, the cottage was dark. The old people were fast +asleep. A hairy thing lay by his side, which, without the least fear, +he examined by palpation, and found to be a dog, whereupon he fell fast +asleep again, if possible happier than ever. And while the cottage was +thus quiet, the brothers and sisters were still tramping along the +moonlight paths of Daurside. They had all set out together, but at one +point after another there had been a parting, and now they were on six +different roads, each drawing nearer to the labour of the new week.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.<br><span class="small">MORE SCHOOLING.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The first opportunity Donal had, he questioned Fergus as to his +share in the ill-usage of Gibbie. Fergus treated the inquiry as an +impertinent interference, and mounted his high horse at once. What +right had his father’s herd-boy to question him as to his conduct? He +put it so to him and in nearly just as many words. Thereupon answered +Donal—</p> + +<p>“It’s this, ye see, Fergus: ye hae been unco guid to me, an’ I’m mair +obligatit till ye nor I can say. But it wad be a scunnerfu’ thing to +tak the len’ o’ buiks frae ye, an’ speir quest’ons at ye ’at I canna +mak oot mysel’, an’ syne gang awa despisin’ ye i’ my hert for cruelty +an’ wrang. What was the cratur punished for? Tell me that. Accordin’ +till yer aunt’s ain accoont, he had ta’en naething, an’ had dune +naething but guid.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t he speak up then, and defend himself, and not be so damned +obstinate?” returned Fergus. “He wouldn’t open his mouth to tell his +name, or where he came from even. I couldn’t get him to utter a single +word. As for his punishment, it was by the laird’s orders that Angus +MacPholp took the whip to him. I had nothing to do with it.—” Fergus +did not consider the punishment he had himself given him as worth +mentioning—as indeed, except for honesty’s sake, it was not, beside +the other.</p> + +<p>“Weel, I’ll be a man some day, an’ Angus ’ll hae to sattle wi’ me!” +said Donal through his clenched teeth. “Man, Fergus! the cratur’s as +dumb ’s a worum. I dinna believe ’at ever he spak a word in ’s life.”</p> + +<p>This cut Fergus to the heart, for he was far from being without +generosity or pity. How many things a man who is not awake to side +strenuously with the good in him against the evil, who is not on his +guard lest himself should mislead himself, may do, of which he will +one day be bitterly ashamed!—a trite remark, it may be, but, reader, +<i>that</i> will make the thing itself no easier to bear, should you ever +come to know you have done a thing of the sort. I fear, however, from +what I know of Fergus afterwards, that he now, instead of seeking +about to make some amends, turned the strength that should have gone +in that direction, to the justifying of himself to himself in what he +had done. Anyhow, he was far too proud to confess to Donal that he had +done wrong—too much offended at being rebuked by one he counted so +immeasurably his inferior, to do the right thing his rebuke set before +him. What did the mighty business matter! The little rascal was nothing +but a tramp; and if he didn’t deserve his punishment this time, he had +deserved it a hundred times without having it, and would ten thousand +times again. So reasoned Fergus, while the feeling grew upon Donal +that <i>the cratur</i> was of some superior race—came from some other and +nobler world. I would remind my reader that Donal was a Celt, with a +nature open to every fancy of love or awe—one of the same breed with +the foolish Galatians, and like them ready to be bewitched; but bearing +a heart that welcomed the light with glad rebound—loved the lovely, +nor loved it only, but turned towards it with desire to become like +it. Fergus too was a Celt in the main, but was spoiled by the paltry +ambition of being distinguished. He was not in love with loveliness, +but in love with praise. He saw not a little of what was good and +noble, and would fain be such, but mainly that men might regard him for +his goodness and nobility; hence his practical notion of the good was +weak, and of the noble, paltry. His one desire in doing anything, was +to be approved of or admired in the same—approved of in the opinions +he held, in the plans he pursued, in the doctrines he taught; admired +in the poems in which he went halting after Byron, and in the eloquence +with which he meant one day to astonish great congregations. There was +nothing original as yet discoverable in him; nothing to deliver him +from the poor imitative apery in which he imagined himself a poet. He +did possess one invaluable gift—that of perceiving and admiring more +than a little, certain forms of the beautiful; but it was rendered +merely ridiculous by being conjoined with the miserable ambition—poor +as that of any mountebank emperor—to be himself admired for that +admiration. He mistook also sensibility for faculty, nor perceived +that it was at best but a probable sign that he might be able to do +something or other with pleasure, perhaps with success. If any one +judge it hard that men should be made with ambitions to whose objects +they can never attain, I answer, ambition is but the evil shadow of +aspiration; and no man ever followed the truth, which is the one path +of aspiration, and in the end complained that he had been made this +way or that. Man is made to be that which he is made most capable of +desiring—but it goes without saying that he must desire the thing +itself and not its shadow. Man is of the truth, and while he follows a +lie, no indication his nature yields will hold, except the fear, the +discontent, the sickness of soul, that tell him he is wrong. If he say, +“I care not for what you call the substance—it is to me the shadow; +I want what you call the shadow,” the only answer is, that, to all +eternity, he can never have it: a shadow can never be had.</p> + +<p>Ginevra was hardly the same child after the experience of that terrible +morning. At no time very much at home with her father, something had +now come between them, to remove which all her struggles to love him as +before were unavailing. The father was too stupid, too unsympathetic, +to take note of the look of fear that crossed her face if ever he +addressed her suddenly; and when she was absorbed in fighting the +thoughts that <i>would</i> come, he took her constraint for sullenness.</p> + +<p>With a cold spot in his heart where once had dwelt some genuine +regard for Donal, Fergus went back to college. Donal went on herding +the cattle, cudgeling Hornie, and reading what books he could lay +his hands on: there was no supply through Fergus any more, alas! The +year before, ere he took his leave, he had been careful to see Donal +provided with at least books for study; but this time he left him +to shift for himself. He was small because he was proud, spiteful +because he was conceited. He would let Donal know what it was to have +lost his favour! But Donal did not suffer much, except in the loss +of the friendship itself. He managed to get the loan of a copy of +Burns—better meat for a strong spirit than the poetry of Byron or even +Scott. An innate cleanliness of soul rendered the occasional coarseness +to him harmless, and the mighty torrent of the man’s life, broken by +occasional pools reflecting the stars; its headlong hatred of hypocrisy +and false religion; its generosity, and struggling conscientiousness; +its failures and its repentances, roused much in the heart of Donal. +Happily the copy he had borrowed, had in it a tolerable biography; and +that, read along with the man’s work, enabled him, young as he was, +to see something of where and how he had failed, and to shadow out to +himself, not altogether vaguely, the perils to which the greatest must +be exposed who cannot rule his own spirit, but, like a mere child, +reels from one mood into another—at the will of—what?</p> + +<p>From reading Burns, Donal learned also not a little of the capabilities +of his own language; for, Celt as he was by birth and country and +mental character, he could not speak the Gaelic: that language, soft +as the speech of streams from rugged mountains, and wild as that of +the wind in the tops of fir-trees, the language at once of bards and +fighting men, had so far ebbed from the region, lingering only here +and there in the hollow pools of old memories, that Donal had never +learned it; and the lowland Scotch, an ancient branch of English, dry +and gnarled, but still flourishing in its old age, had become instead, +his mother-tongue; and the man who loves the antique speech, or even +the mere patois, of his childhood, and knows how to use it, possesses +therein a certain kind of power over the hearts of men, which the +most refined and perfect of languages cannot give, inasmuch as it has +travelled farther from the original sources of laughter and tears. +But the old Scotish itself is, alas! rapidly vanishing before a poor, +shabby imitation of modern English—itself a weaker language in sound, +however enriched in words, since the days of Shakspere, when it was far +more like Scotch in its utterance than it is now.</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My mother-tongue, how sweet thy tone!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How near to good allied!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were even my heart of steel or stone,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou wouldst drive out the pride.</span><br> +</p> +<p>So sings Klaus Groth, in and concerning his own Plattdeutsch—so nearly +akin to the English.</p> + +<p>To a poet especially is it an inestimable advantage to be able to +employ such a language for his purposes. Not only was it the speech of +his childhood, when he saw everything with fresh, true eyes, but it +is itself a child-speech; and the child way of saying must always lie +nearer the child way of seeing, which is the poetic way. Therefore, as +the poetic faculty was now slowly asserting itself in Donal, it was of +vast importance that he should know what <i>the</i> genius of Scotland had +been able to do with his homely mother-tongue, for through that tongue +alone, could what poetry he had in him have thoroughly fair play, and +in turn do its best towards his development—which is the first and +greatest use of poetry. It is a ruinous misjudgment—too contemptible +to be asserted, but not too contemptible to be acted upon, that the end +of poetry is publication. Its true end is to help first the man who +makes it along the path to the truth: help for other people may or may +not be in it; that, if it become a question at all, must be an after +one. To the man who has it, the gift is invaluable; and, in proportion +as it helps him to be a better man, it is of value to the whole world; +but it may, in itself, be so nearly worthless, that the publishing of +it would be more for harm than good. Ask any one who has had to perform +the unenviable duty of editor to a magazine: he will corroborate what I +say—that the quantity of verse good enough to be its own reward, but +without the smallest claim to be uttered to the world, is enormous.</p> + +<p>Not yet, however, had Donal written a single stanza. A line, or at +most two, would now and then come into his head with a buzz, like a +wandering honey-bee that had mistaken its hive—generally in the shape +of a humorous malediction on Hornie—but that was all.</p> + +<p>In the mean time Gibbie slept and waked and slept again, night after +night—with the loveliest days between, at the cottage on Glashgar. The +morning after his arrival, the first thing he was aware of was Janet’s +face beaming over him, with a look in its eyes more like worship then +benevolence. Her husband was gone, and she was about to milk the cow, +and was anxious lest, while she was away, he should disappear as +before. But the light that rushed into his eyes was in full response to +that which kindled the light in hers, and her misgiving vanished; he +could not love her like that and leave her. She gave him his breakfast +of porridge and milk, and went to her cow.</p> + +<p>When she came back, she found everything tidy in the cottage, the floor +swept, every dish washed and set aside; and Gibbie was examining an old +shoe of Robert’s, to see whether he could not mend it. Janet, having +therefore leisure, proceeded at once with joy to the construction of +a garment she had been devising for him. The design was simple, and +its execution easy. Taking a blue winsey petticoat of her own, drawing +it in round his waist, and tying it over the chemise which was his +only garment, she found, as she had expected, that its hem reached his +feet: she partly divided it up the middle, before and behind, and had +but to backstitch two short seams, and there was a pair of sailor-like +trousers, as tidy as comfortable! Gibbie was delighted with them. True, +they had no pockets, but then he had nothing to put in pockets, and one +might come to think of that as an advantage. Gibbie indeed had never +had pockets, for the pockets of the garments he had had were always +worn out before they reached him. Then Janet thought about a cap; but +considering him a moment critically, and seeing how his hair stood out +like thatch-eaves round his head, she concluded with herself “There +maun be some men as weel ’s women fowk, I’m thinkin’, whause hair’s +gi’en them for a coverin’,” and betook herself instead to her New +Testament.</p> + +<p>Gibbie stood by as she read in silence, gazing with delight, for he +thought it must be a book of ballads like Donal’s that she was reading. +But Janet found his presence, his unresting attitude, and his gaze, +discomposing. To worship freely, one must be alone, or else with +fellow-worshippers. And reading and worshipping were often so mingled +with Janet, as to form but one mental consciousness. She looked up +therefore from her book, and said—</p> + +<p>“Can ye read, laddie?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Sit ye doon than, an’ I s’ read till ye.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie obeyed more than willingly, expecting to hear some ancient Scots +tale of love or chivalry. Instead, it was one of those love-awful, +glory-sad chapters in the end of the Gospel of John, over which hangs +the darkest cloud of human sorrow, shot through and through with the +radiance of light eternal, essential, invincible. Whether it was the +uncertain response to Janet’s tone merely, or to truth too loud to be +heard, save as a thrill, of some chord in his own spirit, having its +one end indeed twisted around an earthly peg, but the other looped to +a tail-piece far in the unknown—I cannot tell; it may have been that +the name now and then recurring brought to his mind the last words of +poor Sambo; anyhow, when Janet looked up, she saw the tears rolling +down the child’s face. At the same time, from the expression of his +countenance, she judged that his understanding had grasped nothing. +She turned therefore to the parable of the prodigal son, and read it. +Even that had not a few words and phrases unknown to Gibbie, but he did +not fail to catch the drift of the perfect story. For had not Gibbie +himself had a father, to whose bosom he went home every night? Let but +love be the interpreter, and what most wretched type will not serve +the turn for the carriage of profoundest truth! The prodigal’s lowest +degradation, Gibbie did not understand; but Janet saw the expression of +the boy’s face alter with every tone of the tale, through all the gamut +between the swine’s trough and the arms of the father. Then at last he +burst—not into tears—Gibbie was not much acquainted with weeping—but +into a laugh of loud triumph. He clapped his hands, and in a shiver of +ecstasy, stood like a stork upon one leg, as if so much of him was all +that could be spared for this lower world, and screwed himself together.</p> + +<p>Janet was well satisfied with her experiment. Most Scotch women, and +more than most Scotch men, would have rebuked him for laughing, but +Janet knew in herself a certain tension of delight which nothing served +to relieve but a wild laughter of holiest gladness; and never in tears +of deepest emotion did her heart appeal more directly to its God. It is +the heart that is not yet sure of its God, that is afraid to laugh in +his presence.</p> + +<p>Thus had Gibbie his first lesson in the only thing worth learning, in +that which, to be learned at all, demands the united energy of heart +and soul and strength and mind; and from that day he went on learning +it. I cannot tell how, or what were the slow stages by which his +mind budded and swelled until it burst into the flower of humanity, +the knowledge of God. I cannot tell the shape of the door by which +the Lord entered into that house, and took everlasting possession of +it. I cannot even tell in what shape he appeared himself in Gibbie’s +thoughts—for the Lord can take any shape that is human. I only know it +was not any unhuman shape of earthly theology that he bore to Gibbie, +when he saw him with “that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude.” +For happily Janet never suspected how utter was Gibbie’s ignorance. +She never dreamed that he did not know what was generally said about +Jesus Christ. She thought he must know as well as she the outlines of +his story, and the purpose of his life and death, as commonly taught, +and therefore never attempted explanations for the sake of which she +would probably have found herself driven to use terms and phrases which +merely substitute that which is intelligible because it appeals to what +in us is low, and is itself both low and false, for that which, if +unintelligible, is so because of its grandeur and truth. Gibbie’s ideas +of God he got all from the mouth of Theology himself, the Word of God; +and to the theologian who will not be content with his teaching, the +disciple of Jesus must just turn his back, that his face may be to his +Master.</p> + +<p>So, teaching him only that which she loved, not that which she had been +taught, Janet read to Gibbie of Jesus, talked to him of Jesus, dreamed +to him about Jesus; until at length—Gibbie did not think to watch, and +knew nothing of the process by which it came about—his whole soul was +full of the man, of his doings, of his words, of his thoughts, of his +life. Jesus Christ was in him—he was possessed by him. Almost before +he knew, he was trying to fashion his life after that of his Master.</p> + +<p>Between the two, it was a sweet teaching, a sweet learning. Under +Janet, Gibbie was saved the thousand agonies that befall the +conscientious disciple, from the forcing upon him, as the thoughts +and will of the eternal Father of our spirits, of the ill expressed +and worse understood experiences, the crude conjectures, the vulgar +imaginations of would-be teachers of the multitude. Containing truth +enough to save those of sufficiently low development to receive such +teaching without disgust, it contains falsehood enough, but for the +Spirit of God, to ruin all nobler—I mean all childlike natures, +utterly; and many such it has gone far to ruin, driving them even to a +madness in which they have died. Jesus alone knows the Father, and can +reveal him. Janet studied only Jesus, and as a man knows his friend, +so she, only infinitely better, knew her more than friend—her Lord +and her God. Do I speak of a poor Scotch peasant woman too largely for +the reader whose test of truth is the notion of probability he draws +from his own experience? Let me put one question to make the real +probability clearer. Should it be any wonder, if Christ be indeed the +natural Lord of every man, woman, and child, that a simple, capable +nature, laying itself entirely open to him and his influences, should +understand him? How should he be the Lord of that nature if such a +thing were not possible, or were at all improbable—nay, if such a +thing did not necessarily follow? Among women, was it not always to +peasant women that heavenly messages came? See revelation culminate in +Elizabeth and Mary, the mothers of John the Baptist and Jesus. Think +how much fitter that it should be so;—that they to whom the word of +God comes should be women bred in the dignity of a natural life, and +familiarity with the large ways of the earth; women of simple and few +wants, without distraction, and with time for reflection—compelled +to reflection, indeed, from the enduring presence of an unsullied +consciousness: for wherever there is a humble, thoughtful nature, into +that nature the divine consciousness, that is, the Spirit of God, +presses as into its own place. Holy women are to be found everywhere, +but the prophetess is not so likely to be found in the city as in the +hill-country.</p> + +<p>Whatever Janet, then, might, perhaps—I do not know—have imagined it +her duty to say to Gibbie had she surmised his ignorance, having long +ceased to trouble her own head, she had now no inclination to trouble +Gibbie’s heart with what men call the plan of salvation. It was enough +to her to find that he followed her Master. Being in the light she +understood the light, and had no need of system, either true or false, +to explain it to her. She lived by the word proceeding out of the mouth +of God. When life begins to speculate upon itself, I suspect it has +begun to die. And seldom has there been a fitter soul, one clearer from +evil, from folly, from human device—a purer cistern for such water +of life as rose in the heart of Janet Grant to pour itself into, than +the soul of Sir Gibbie. But I must not call any true soul a cistern: +wherever the water of life is received, it sinks and softens and +hollows, until it reaches, far down, the springs of life there also, +that come straight from the eternal hills, and thenceforth there is in +that soul a well of water springing up into everlasting life.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.<br><span class="small">THE SLATE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>From that very next day, then, after he was received into the cottage +on Glashgar, Gibbie, as a matter of course, took upon him the work his +hand could find to do, and Janet averred to her husband that never +had any of her daughters been more useful to her. At the same time, +however, she insisted that Robert should take the boy out with him. She +would not have him do woman’s work, especially work for which she was +herself perfectly able. She had not come to her years, she said, to +learn <i>idleset</i>; and the boy would save Robert many a weary step among +the hills.</p> + +<p>“He canna speyk to the dog,” objected Robert, giving utterance to the +first difficulty that suggested itself.</p> + +<p>“The dog canna speyk himsel’,” returned Janet, “an’ the won’er is +he can un’erstan’: wha kens but he may come full nigher ane ’at’s +speechless like himsel’! Ye gie the cratur the chance, an’ I s’ warran’ +he’ll mak himsel’ plain to the dog. Ye jist try ’im. Tell ye him to +tell the dog sae and sae, an’ see what ’ll come o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>Robert made the experiment, and it proved satisfactory. As soon as he +had received Robert’s orders, Gibbie claimed Oscar’s attention. The +dog looked up in his face, noted every glance and gesture, and, partly +from sympathetic instinct, that gift lying so near the very essence of +life, partly from observation of the state of affairs in respect of the +sheep, divined with certainty what the duty required of him was, and +was off like a shot.</p> + +<p>“The twa dumb craturs un’erstan’ ane anither better nor I un’erstan’ +aither o’ them,” said Robert to his wife when they came home.</p> + +<p>And now indeed it was a blessed time for Gibbie. It had been pleasant +down in the valley, with the cattle and Donal, and foul weather +sometimes; but now it was the full glow of summer; the sweet keen air +of the mountain bathed him as he ran, entered into him, filled him with +life like the new wine of the kingdom of God, and the whole world rose +in its glory around him. Surely it is not the outspread sea, however +the sight of its storms and its labouring ships may enhance the sense +of safety to the onlooker, but the outspread land of peace and plenty, +with its nestling houses, its well-stocked yards, its cattle feeding in +the meadows, and its men and horses at labour in the fields, that gives +the deepest delight to the heart of the poet! Gibbie was one of the +meek, and inherited the earth. Throned on the mountain, he beheld the +multiform “goings on of life,” and in love possessed the whole. He was +of the poet-kind also, and now that he was a shepherd, saw everything +with shepherd-eyes. One moment, to his fancy, the great sun above +played the shepherd to the world, the winds were the dogs, and the men +and women the sheep. The next, in higher mood, he would remember the +good shepherd of whom Janet had read to him, and pat the head of the +collie that lay beside him: Oscar too was a shepherd and no hireling; +he fed the sheep; he turned them from danger and barrenness; and he +barked well.</p> + +<p>“I’m the dumb dog!” said Gibbie to himself, not knowing that he was +really a copy in small of the good shepherd; “but maybe there may be +mair nor ae gait o’ barkin’.”</p> + +<p>Then what a joy it was to the heaven-born obedience of the child, to +hearken to every word, watch every look, divine every wish of the +old man! Child Hercules could not have waited on mighty old Saturn +as Gibbie waited on Robert. For he was to him the embodiment of all +that was reverend and worthy, a very gulf of wisdom, a mountain of +rectitude. Gibbie was one of those few elect natures to whom obedience +is a delight—a creature so different from the vulgar that they have +but one tentacle they can reach such with—that of contempt.</p> + +<p>“I jist lo’e the bairn as the verra aipple o’ my ee,” said Robert. “I +can scarce consaive a wuss, but there’s the cratur wi’ a grip o’ ’t! He +seems to ken what’s risin’ i’ my min’, an’ in a moment he’s up like the +dog to be ready, an’ luiks at me waitin’.”</p> + +<p>Nor was it long before the town-bred child grew to love the heavens +almost as dearly as the earth. He would gaze and gaze at the clouds +as they came and went, and watching them and the wind, weighing the +heat and the cold, and marking many indications, known some of them +perhaps only to himself, understood the signs of the earthly times at +length nearly as well as an insect or a swallow, and far better than +long-experienced old Robert. The mountain was Gibbie’s very home; yet +to see him far up on it, in the red glow of the setting sun, with his +dog, as obedient as himself, hanging upon his every signal, one could +have fancied him a shepherd boy come down from the plains of heaven +to look after a lost lamb. Often, when the two old people were in bed +and asleep, Gibbie would be out watching the moon rise—seated, still +as ruined god of Egypt, on a stone of the mountain-side, islanded in +space, nothing alive and visible near him, perhaps not even a solitary +night-wind blowing and ceasing like the breath of a man’s life, and +the awfully silent moon sliding up from the hollow of a valley below. +If there be indeed a one spirit, ever awake and aware, should it be +hard to believe that that spirit should then hold common thought with a +little spirit of its own? If the nightly mountain was the prayer-closet +of him who said he would be with his disciples to the end of the world, +can it be folly to think he would hold talk with such a child, alone +under the heaven, in the presence of the father of both? Gibbie never +thought about himself, therefore was there wide room for the entrance +of the spirit. Does the questioning thought arise to my reader: How +could a man be conscious of bliss without the thought of himself? I +answer the doubt: When a man turns to look at himself, that moment +the glow of the loftiest bliss begins to fade; the pulsing fire-flies +throb paler in the passionate night; an unseen vapour steams up from +the marsh and dims the star-crowded sky and the azure sea; and the next +moment the very bliss itself looks as if it had never been more than a +phosphorescent gleam—the summer lightning of the brain. For then the +man sees himself but in his own dim mirror, whereas ere he turned to +look in that, he knew himself in the absolute clarity of God’s present +thought out-bodying him. The shoots of glad consciousness that come to +the obedient man, surpass in bliss whole days and years of such ravined +rapture as he gains whose weariness is ever spurring the sides of his +intent towards the ever retreating goal of his desires. I am a traitor +even to myself if I would live without my life.</p> + +<p>But I withhold my pen; for vain were the fancy, by treatise or sermon +or poem or tale, to persuade a man to forget himself. He cannot if he +would. Sooner will he forget the presence of a raging tooth. There is +no forgetting of ourselves but in the finding of our deeper, our true +self—God’s idea of us when he devised us—the Christ in us. Nothing +but that self can displace the false, greedy, whining self, of which, +most of us are so fond and proud. And that self no man can find for +himself; seeing of himself he does not even know what to search for. +“But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons +of God.”</p> + +<p>Then there was the delight, fresh every week, of the Saturday gathering +of the brothers and sisters, whom Gibbie could hardly have loved more, +had they been of his own immediate kin. Dearest of all was Donal, +whose greeting—“Weel, cratur,” was heavenly in Gibbie’s ears. Donal +would have had him go down and spend a day, every now and then, with +him and the <i>nowt</i>, as in old times—so soon the times grow old to the +young!—but Janet would not hear of it, until the foolish tale of the +brownie should have quite blown over.</p> + +<p>“Eh, but I wuss,” she added, as she said so, “I cud win at something +aboot his fowk, or aiven whaur he cam frae, or what they ca’d him! +Never ae word has the cratur spoken!”</p> + +<p>“Ye sud learn him to read, mither,” said Donal.</p> + +<p>“Hoo wad I du that, laddie? I wad hae to learn him to speyk first,” +returned Janet.</p> + +<p>“Lat him come doon to me, an’ I’ll try my han’,” said Donal.</p> + +<p>Janet, notwithstanding, persisted in her refusal—for the present. By +Donal’s words set thinking of the matter, however, she now pondered the +question day after day, how she might teach him to read; and at last +the idea dawned upon her to substitute writing for speech.</p> + +<p>She took the Shorter Catechism, which, in those days, had always an +alphabet as janitor to the gates of its mysteries—who, with the +catechism as a consequence even dimly foreboded, would even have +learned it?—and showed Gibbie the letters, naming each several times, +and going over them repeatedly. Then she gave him Donal’s school-slate, +with a <i>sklet-pike</i>, and said, “Noo, mak a muckle A, cratur.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie did so, and well too: she found that already he knew about half +the letters.</p> + +<p>“<i>He’s</i> no fule!” she said to herself in triumph.</p> + +<p>The other half soon followed; and she then began to show him words—not +in the Catechism, but in the New Testament. Having told him what any +word was, and led him to consider the letters composing it, she would +desire him to make it on the slate, and he would do so with tolerable +accuracy: she was not very severe about the spelling, if only it +was plain he knew the word. Ere long he began to devise short ways +of making the letters, and soon wrote with remarkable facility in a +character modified from the printed letters. When at length Janet saw +him take the book by himself, and sit pondering over it, she had not a +doubt he was understanding it, and her heart leapt for joy. He had to +ask her a good many words at first, and often the meaning of one and +another; but he seldom asked a question twice; and as his understanding +was far ahead of his reading, he was able to test a conjectured meaning +by the sense or nonsense it made of the passage.</p> + +<p>One day she turned him to the paraphrases.<a id="fna2" href="#fn2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> At once, to his +astonishment, he found there, all silent, yet still the same delight +which Donal used to divide to him from the book of <i>ballants</i>. His joy +was unbounded. He jumped from his seat; he danced, and laughed, and +finally stood upon one leg: no other mode of expression but this, the +expression of utter failure to express, was of avail to the relief of +his feeling.</p> +<div class="footnote"> +<p class="footnote" id="fn2"><a href="#fna2">[2]</a> Metrical paraphrases of passages of Scripture, always to be found +at the end of the Bibles printed for Scotland.</p> + +</div> + +<p>One day, a few weeks after Gibbie had begun to read by himself, Janet +became aware that he was sitting on his stool, in what had come to +be called <i>the cratur’s corner</i>, more than usually absorbed in some +attempt with slate and pencil—now ceasing, lost in thought, and now +commencing anew. She went near and peeped over his shoulder. At the top +of the slate he had written the word <i>give</i>, then the word <i>giving</i>, +and below them, <i>gib</i>, then <i>gibing</i>; upon these followed <i>gib</i> again, +and he was now plainly meditating something further. Suddenly he seemed +to find what he wanted, for in haste, almost as if he feared it might +escape him, he added a <i>y</i>, making the word <i>giby</i>—then first lifted +his head, and looked round, evidently seeking her. She laid her hand +on his head. He jumped up with one of his most radiant smiles, and +holding out the slate to her, pointed with his pencil to the word he +had just completed. She did not know it for a word, but sounded it +as it seemed to stand, making the <i>g</i> soft, as I daresay some of my +readers, not recognizing in <i>Gibbie</i> the diminutive of <i>Gilbert</i>, +may have treated its more accurate form. He shook his head sharply, +and laid the point of his pencil upon the <i>g</i> of the <i>give</i> written +above. Janet had been his teacher too long not to see what he meant, +and immediately pronounced the word as he would have it. Upon this he +began a wild dance, but sobering suddenly, sat down, and was instantly +again absorbed in further attempt. It lasted so long that Janet +resumed her previous household occupation. At length he rose, and with +thoughtful, doubtful contemplation of what he had done, brought her the +slate. There, under the fore-gone success, he had written the words +<i>galatians</i> and <i>breath</i>, and under them, <i>galbreath</i>. She read them +all, and at the last, which, witnessing to his success, she pronounced +to his satisfaction, he began another dance, which again he ended +abruptly, to draw her attention once more to the slate. He pointed to +the <i>giby</i> first, and the <i>galbreath</i> next, and she read them together. +This time he did not dance, but seemed waiting some result. Upon Janet +the idea was dawning that he meant himself, but she was thrown out by +the cognomen’s correspondence with that of the laird, which suggested +that the boy had been merely attempting the name of the great man of +the district. With this in her mind, and doubtfully feeling her way, +she essayed the tentative of setting him right in the Christian name, +and said: “<i>Thomas—Thomas</i> Galbraith.” Gibbie shook his head as +before, and again resumed his seat. Presently he brought her the slate, +with all the rest rubbed out, and these words standing alone—<i>sir giby +galbreath</i>. Janet read them aloud, whereupon Gibbie began stabbing his +forehead with the point of his slate-pencil, and dancing once more in +triumph: he had, he hoped, for the first time in his life, conveyed a +fact through words.</p> + +<p>“That’s what they ca’ ye, is ’t?” said Janet, looking motherly at him: +“—Sir Gibbie Galbraith?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie nodded vehemently.</p> + +<p>“It’ll be some nickname the bairns hae gi’en him,” said Janet to +herself, but continued to gaze at him, in questioning doubt of her +own solution. She could not recall having ever heard of a <i>Sir</i> in +the family; but ghosts of things forgotten kept rising formless and +thin in the sky of her memory: <i>had</i> she never heard of a Sir Somebody +Galbraith somewhere? And still she stared at the child, trying to grasp +what she could not even see. By this time Gibbie was standing quite +still, staring at her in return: he could not think what made her stare +so at him.</p> + +<p>“Wha ca’d ye that?” said Janet at length, pointing to the slate.</p> + +<p>Gibbie took the slate, dropped upon his seat, and after considerable +cogitation and effort, brought her the words, <i>gibyse fapher</i>. Janet +for a moment was puzzled, but when she thought of correcting the <i>p</i> +with a <i>t</i>, Gibbie entirely approved.</p> + +<p>“What was yer father, cratur?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Gibbie, after a longer pause, and more evident labour than hitherto, +brought her the enigmatical word, <i>asootr</i>, which, the <i>Sir</i> running +about in her head, quite defeated Janet. Perceiving his failure, he +jumped upon a chair, and reaching after one of Robert’s Sunday shoes on +the <i>crap o’ the wa’</i>, the natural shelf running all round the cottage, +formed by the top of the wall where the rafters rested, caught hold +of it, tumbled with it upon his creepie, took it between his knees, +and began a pantomime of the making or mending of the same with such +verisimilitude of imitation, that it was clear to Janet he must have +been familiar with the processes collectively called shoemaking; and +therewith she recognized the word on the slate—<i>a sutor</i>. She smiled +to herself at the association of name and trade, and concluded that +the <i>Sir</i> at least was a nickname. And yet—and yet—whether from the +presence of some rudiment of an old memory, or from something about the +boy that belonged to a higher style than his present showing, her mind +kept swaying in an uncertainty whose very object eluded her.</p> + +<p>“What is ’t yer wull ’at we ca’ ye, than, cratur?” she asked, anxious +to meet the child’s own idea of himself.</p> + +<p>He pointed to the <i>giby</i>.</p> + +<p>“Weel, Gibbie,” responded Janet,—and at the word, now for the first +time addressed by her to himself, he began dancing more wildly than +ever, and ended with standing motionless on one leg: now first and at +last he was fully recognized for what he was!—“Weel, Gibbie, I s’ ca’ +ye what ye think fit,” said Janet. “An’ noo gang yer wa’s, Gibbie, an’ +see ’at Crummie’s no ower far oot o’ sicht.”</p> + +<p>From that hour Gibbie had his name from the whole family—his Christian +name only, however, Robert and Janet having agreed it would be wise +to avoid whatever might possibly bring the boy again under the notice +of the laird. The latter half of his name they laid aside for him, as +parents do a dangerous or over-valuable gift to a child.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.<br><span class="small">RUMOURS.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Almost from the first moment of his being domiciled on Glashgar, what +with the good food, the fine exercise, the exquisite air, and his great +happiness, Gibbie began to grow; and he took to growing so fast that +his legs soon shot far out of his winsey garment. But, of all places, +that was a small matter in Gormgarnet, where the kilt was as common +as trowsers. His wiry limbs grew larger without losing their firmness +or elasticity; his chest, the effort in running up hill constantly +alternated with the relief of running down, rapidly expanded, and his +lungs grew hardy as well as powerful; till he became at length such in +wind and muscle, that he could run down a wayward sheep almost as well +as Oscar. And his nerve grew also with his body and strength, till his +coolness and courage were splendid. Never, when the tide of his affairs +ran most in the shallows, had Gibbie had much acquaintance with fears, +but now he had forgotten the taste of them, and would have encountered +a wild highland bull alone on the mountain, as readily as tie Crummie +up in her byre.</p> + +<p>One afternoon, Donal, having got a half-holiday, by the help of a +friend and the favour of Mistress Jean, came home to see his mother, +and having greeted her, set out to find Gibbie. He had gone a long +way, looking and calling without success, and had come in sight of a +certain tiny loch, or tarn, that filled a hollow of the mountain. It +was called the Deid Pot; and the old awe, amounting nearly to terror, +with which in his childhood he had regarded it, returned upon him, the +moment he saw the dark gleam of it, nearly as strong as ever—an awe +indescribable, arising from mingled feelings of depth, and darkness, +and lateral recesses, and unknown serpent-like fishes. The pot, though +small in surface, was truly of unknown depth, and had elements of dread +about it telling upon far less active imaginations than Donal’s. While +he stood gazing at it, almost afraid to go nearer, a great splash +that echoed from the steep rocks surrounding it, brought his heart +into his mouth, and immediately followed a loud barking, in which he +recognized the voice of Oscar. Before he had well begun to think what +it could mean, Gibbie appeared on the opposite side of the loch, high +above its level, on the top of the rocks forming its basin. He began +instantly a rapid descent towards the water, where the rocks were +so steep, and the footing so precarious, that Oscar wisely remained +at the top, nor attempted to follow him. Presently the dog caught +sight of Donal, where he stood on a lower level, whence the water was +comparatively easy of access, and starting off at full speed, joined +him, with much demonstration of welcome. But he received little notice +from Donal, whose gaze was fixed, with much wonder and more fear, on +the descending Gibbie. Some twenty feet from the surface of the loch, +he reached a point whence clearly, in Donal’s judgment, there was no +possibility of farther descent. But Donal was never more mistaken; for +that instant Gibbie flashed from the face of the rock head foremost, +like a fishing bird, into the lake. Donal gave a cry, and ran to the +edge of the water, accompanied by Oscar, who, all the time, had showed +no anxiety, but had stood wagging his tail, and uttering now and then +a little half-disappointed whine; neither now were his motions as he +ran other than those of frolic and expectancy. When they reached the +loch, there was Gibbie already but a few yards from the only possible +landing-place, swimming with one hand, while in the other arm he held +a baby lamb, its head lying quite still on his shoulder: it had been +stunned by the fall, but might come round again. Then first Donal began +to perceive that <i>the cratur</i> was growing an athlete. When he landed, +he gave Donal a merry laugh of welcome, but without stopping flew up +the hill to take the lamb to its mother. Fresh from the icy water, he +ran so fast that it was all Donal could do to keep up with him.</p> + +<p>The Deid Pot, then, taught Gibbie what swimming it could, which was not +much, and what diving it could, which was more; but the nights of the +following summer, when everybody on mountain and valley were asleep, +and the moon shone, he would often go down to the Daur, and throwing +himself into its deepest reaches, spend hours in lonely sport with +water and wind and moon. He had by that time learned things knowing +which a man can never be lonesome.</p> + +<p>The few goats on the mountain were for a time very inimical to him. So +often did they butt him over, causing him sometimes severe bruises, +that at last he resolved to try conclusions with them; and when next +a goat made a rush at him, he seized him by the horns and wrestled +with him mightily. This exercise once begun, he provoked engagements, +until his strength and aptitude were such and so well known, that not a +billy-goat on Glashgar would have to do with him. But when he saw that +every one of them ran at his approach, Gibbie, who could not bear to +be in discord with any creature, changed his behaviour towards them, +and took equal pains to reconcile them to him—nor rested before he had +entirely succeeded.</p> + +<p>Every time Donal came home, he would bring some book of verse with him, +and, leading Gibbie to some hollow, shady or sheltered as the time +required, would there read to him ballads, or songs, or verse more +stately, as mood or provision might suggest. The music, the melody +and the cadence and the harmony, the tone and the rhythm and the time +and the rhyme, instead of growing common to him, rejoiced Gibbie more +and more every feast, and with ever-growing reverence he looked up to +Donal as a mighty master-magician. But if Donal could have looked down +into Gibbie’s bosom, he would have seen something there beyond his +comprehension. For Gibbie was already in the kingdom of heaven, and +Donal would have to suffer, before he would begin even to look about +for the door by which a man may enter into it.</p> + +<p>I wonder how much Gibbie was indebted to his constrained silence during +all these years. That he lost by it, no one will doubt; that he gained +also, a few will admit: though I should find it hard to say what and +how great, I cannot doubt it bore an important part in the fostering +of such thoughts and feelings and actions as were beyond the vision of +Donal, poet as he was growing to be. While Donal read, rejoicing in +the music both of sound and sense, Gibbie was doing something besides: +he was listening with the same ears, and trying to see with the same +eyes, which he brought to bear upon the things Janet taught him out of +the book. Already those first weekly issues, lately commenced, of a +popular literature had penetrated into the mountains of Gormgarnet; but +whether Donal read Blind Harry from a thumbed old modern edition, or +some new tale or neat poem from the Edinburgh press, Gibbie was always +placing what he heard by the side, as it were, of what he knew; asking +himself, in this case and that, what Jesus Christ would have done, or +what he would require of a disciple. There must be one right way, he +argued. Sometimes his innocence failed to see that no disciple of the +Son of Man could, save by fearful failure, be in such circumstances +as the tale or ballad represented. But, whether successful or not +in the individual inquiry, the boy’s mind and heart and spirit, in +this silent, unembarrassed brooding, as energetic as it was peaceful, +expanded upwards when it failed to widen, and the widening would come +after. Gifted, from the first of his being, with such a rare drawing +to his kind, he saw his utmost affection dwarfed by the words and +deeds of Jesus—beheld more and more grand the requirements made of +a man who would love his fellows as Christ loved them. When he sank +foiled from any endeavour to understand how a man was to behave in +certain circumstances, these or those, he always took refuge in <i>doing</i> +something—and doing it better than before; leaped the more eagerly if +Robert called him, spoke the more gently to Oscar, turned the sheep +more careful not to scare them—as if by instinct he perceived that +the only hope of understanding lies in doing. He would cleave to the +skirt when the hand seemed withdrawn; he would run to do the thing +he had learned yesterday, when as yet he could find no answer to the +question of to-day. Thus, as the weeks of solitude and love and thought +and obedience glided by, the reality of Christ grew upon him, till he +saw the very rocks and heather and the faces of the sheep like him, +and felt his presence everywhere, and ever coming nearer. Nor did his +imagination aid only a little in the growth of his being. He would +dream waking dreams about Jesus, gloriously childlike. He fancied +he came down every now and then to see how things were going in the +lower part of his kingdom; and that when he did so, he made use of +Glashgar and its rocks for his stair, coming down its granite scale in +the morning, and again, when he had ended his visit, going up in the +evening by the same steps. Then high and fast would his heart beat at +the thought that some day he might come upon his path just when he had +passed, see the heather lifting its head from the trail of his garment, +or more slowly out of the prints left by his feet, as he walked up the +stairs of heaven, going back to his Father. Sometimes, when a sheep +stopped feeding and looked up suddenly, he would fancy that Jesus had +laid his hand on its head, and was now telling it that it must not mind +being killed; for he had been killed, and it was all right.</p> + +<p>Although he could read the New Testament for himself now, he always +preferred making acquaintance with any new portion of it first from +the mouth of Janet. Her voice made the word more of a word to him. +But the next time he read, it was sure to be what she had then read. +She was his priestess; the opening of her Bible was the opening of a +window in heaven; her cottage was the porter’s lodge to the temple; his +very sheep were feeding on the temple-stairs. Smile at such fancies +if you will, but think also whether they may not be within sight of +the greatest of facts. Of all teachings that which presents a far +distant God is the nearest to absurdity. Either there is none, or he is +nearer to every one of us than our nearest consciousness of self. An +unapproachable divinity is the veriest of monsters, the most horrible +of human imaginations.</p> + +<p>When the winter came, with its frost and snow, Gibbie saved Robert +much suffering. At first Robert was unwilling to let him go out alone +in stormy weather; but Janet believed that the child doing the old +man’s work would be specially protected. All through the hard time, +therefore, Gibbie went and came, and no evil befell him. Neither did he +suffer from the cold; for, a sheep having died towards the end of the +first autumn, Robert, in view of Gibbie’s coming necessity, had begged +of his master the skin, and dressed it with the wool upon it; and of +this, between the three of them, they made a coat for him; so that he +roamed the hill like a savage, in a garment of skin.</p> + +<p>It became, of course, before very long, well known about the country +that Mr. Duff’s crofters upon Glashgar had taken in and were bringing +up a foundling—some said an innocent, some said a wild boy—who helped +Robert with his sheep, and Janet with her cow, but could not speak a +word of either Gaelic or English. By and by, strange stories came to +be told of his exploits, representing him as gifted with bodily powers +as much surpassing the common, as his mental faculties were assumed +to be under the ordinary standard. The rumour concerning him swelled +as well as spread, mainly from the love of the marvellous common in +the region, I suppose, until, towards the end of his second year on +Glashgar, the notion of Gibbie in the imaginations of the children of +Daurside, was that of an almost supernatural being, who had dwelt upon, +or rather who had haunted, Glashgar from time immemorial, and of whom +they had been hearing all their lives; and, although they had never +heard anything bad of him—that he was <i>wild</i>, that he wore a hairy +skin, that he could do more than any other boy dared attempt, that he +was dumb, and that yet (for this also was said) sheep and dogs and +cattle, and even the wild creatures of the mountain, could understand +him perfectly—these statements were more than enough, acting on the +suspicion and fear belonging to the savage in their own bosoms, to +envelope the idea of him in a mist of dread, deepening to such horror +in the case of the more timid and imaginative of them, that when the +twilight began to gather about the cottages and farmhouses, the very +mention of “the beast-loon o’ Glashgar” was enough, and that for miles +up and down the river, to send many of the children scouring like +startled hares into the house. Gibbie, in his atmosphere of human grace +and tenderness, little thought what clouds of foolish fancies, rising +from the valleys below, had, by their distorting vapours, made of him +an object of terror to those whom at the very first sight he would have +loved and served. Amongst these, perhaps the most afraid of him were +the children of the gamekeeper, for they lived on the very foot of the +haunted hill, near the bridge and gate of Glashruach; and the laird +himself happened one day to be witness of their fear. He inquired the +cause, and yet again was his enlightened soul vexed by the persistency +with which the shadows of superstition still hung about his lands. Had +he been half as philosophical as he fancied himself, he might have +seen that there was not necessarily a single film of superstition +involved in the belief that a savage roamed a mountain—which was all +that Mistress MacPholp, depriving the rumour of its richer colouring, +ventured to impart as the cause of her children’s perturbation; but +anything a hair’s-breadth out of the common, was a thing hated of +Thomas Galbraith’s soul, and whatever another believed which he did +not choose to believe, he set down at once as superstition. He held +therefore immediate communication with his gamekeeper on the subject, +who in his turn was scandalized that <i>his</i> children should have thus +proved themselves unworthy of the privileges of their position, and +given annoyance to the liberal soul of their master, and took care that +both they and his wife should suffer in consequence. The expression +of the man’s face as he listened to the laird’s complaint, would +not have been a pleasant sight to any lover of Gibbie; but it had +not occurred either to master or man that the offensive being whose +doubtful existence caused the scandal, was the same towards whom they +had once been guilty of such brutality; nor would their knowledge of +the fact have been favourable to Gibbie. The same afternoon, the laird +questioned his tenant of the Mains concerning his cottars; and was +assured that better or more respectable people were not in all the +region of Gormgarnet.</p> + +<p>When Robert became aware, chiefly through the representations of his +wife and Donal, of Gibbie’s gifts of other kinds than those revealed +to himself by his good shepherding, he began to turn it over in his +mind, and by and by referred the question to his wife whether they +ought not to send the boy to school, that he might learn the things +he was so much more than ordinarily capable of learning. Janet would +give no immediate opinion. She must think, she said; and she took three +days to turn the matter over in her mind. Her questioning cogitation +was to this effect: “What need has a man to know anything but what the +New Testament teaches him? Life was little to me before I began to +understand its good news; now it is more than good—it is grand. But +then, man is to live by <i>every</i> word that proceedeth out of the mouth +of God; and everything came out of his mouth, when he said, <i>Let there +be this</i>, and <i>Let there be that</i>. Whatever is true is <i>his</i> making, +and the more we know of it the better. Besides, how much less of the +New Testament would I understand now, if it were not for things I had +gone through and learned before!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, Robert,” she answered, without preface, the third day, “I’m +thinkin’ there’s a heap o’ things, gien I hed them, ’at wad help me to +ken what the Maister spak till. It wad be a sin no to lat the laddie +learn. But wha’ll tak the trible needfu’ to the learnin’ o’ a puir +dummie?”</p> + +<p>“Lat him gang doon to the Mains, an’ herd wi’ Donal,” answered Robert. +“He kens a hantle mair nor you or me or Gibbie aither; an’ whan he’s +learnt a’ ’at Donal can shaw him it’ll be time to think what neist.”</p> + +<p>“Weel,” answered Janet, “nane can say but that’s sense, Robert; an’ +though I’m laith, for your sake mair nor my ain, to lat the laddie +gang, lat him gang to Donal. I houp, atween the twa, they winna lat the +nowt amo’ the corn.”</p> + +<p>“The corn’s ’maist cuttit noo,” replied Robert; “an’ for the maitter o’ +that, twa guid consciences winna blaw ane anither oot.—But he needna +gang ilka day. He can gie ae day to the learnin’, an’ the neist to +thinkin’ aboot it amo’ the sheep. An’ ony day ’at ye want to keep him, +ye can keep him; for it winna be as gien he gaed to the schuil.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie was delighted with the proposal.</p> + +<p>“Only,” said Robert, in final warning, “dinna ye lat them tak ye, +Gibbie, an’ score yer back again, my cratur; an’ dinna ye answer +naebody, whan they speir what ye’re ca’d, onything mair nor jist +<i>Gibbie</i>.”</p> + +<p>The boy laughed and nodded, and, as Janet said, the bairn’s nick was +guid ’s the best man’s word.</p> + +<p>Now came a happy time for the two boys. Donal began at once to teach +Gibbie Euclid and arithmetic. When they had had enough of that for a +day, he read Scotish history to him; and when they had done what seemed +their duty by that, then came the best of the feast—whatever tales or +poetry Donal had laid his hands upon.</p> + +<p>Somewhere about this time it was that he first got hold of a copy of +the Paradise Lost. He found that he could not make much of it. But +he found also that, as before with the ballads, when he read from it +aloud to Gibbie, his mere listening presence sent back a spiritual echo +that helped him to the meaning; and when neither of them understood +it, the grand organ roll of it, losing nothing in the Scotch voweling, +delighted them both.</p> + +<p>Once they were startled by seeing the gamekeeper enter the field. The +moment he saw him, Gibbie laid himself flat on the ground, but ready to +spring to his feet and run. The man, however, did not come near them.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI.<br><span class="small">THE GAMEKEEPER.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The second winter came, and with the first frost Gibbie resumed +his sheepskin coat and the brogues and leggings which he had made +for himself of deer-hide tanned with the hair. It pleased the two +old people to see him so warmly clad. It pleased them also that, +thus dressed, he always reminded them of some sacred personage +undetermined—Jacob, or John the Baptist, or the man who went to meet +the lion and be killed by him—in Robert’s big Bible, that is, in one +or other of the woodcuts of the same. Very soon the stories about him +were all stirred up afresh, and new rumours added. This one and that of +the children declared they had caught sight of the beast-loon, running +about the rocks like a goat; and one day a boy of Angus’s own, who had +been a good way up the mountain, came home nearly dead with terror, +saying the beast-loon had chased him a long way. He did not add that he +had been throwing stones at the sheep, not perceiving any one in charge +of them. So, one fine morning in December, having nothing particular +to attend to, Angus shouldered his double-barrelled gun, and set out +for a walk over Glashgar, in the hope of coming upon the savage that +terrified the children. He must be off. That was settled. Where Angus +was in authority, the outlandish was not to be suffered. The sun shone +bright, and a keen wind was blowing.</p> + +<p>About noon he came in sight of a few sheep, in a sheltered spot, where +were little patches of coarse grass among the heather. On a stone, a +few yards above them, sat Gibbie, not reading, as he would be half +the time now, but busied with a Pan’s-pipes—which, under Donal’s +direction, he had made for himself—drawing from them experimental +sounds, and feeling after the possibility of a melody. He was so much +occupied that he did not see Angus approach, who now stood for a moment +or two regarding him. He was hirsute as Esau, his head crowned with its +own plentiful crop—even in winter he wore no cap—his body covered +with the wool of the sheep, and his legs and feet with the hide of the +deer—the hair, as in nature, outward. The deer-skin Angus knew for +what it was from afar, and concluding it the spoil of the only crime +of which he recognized the enormity, whereas it was in truth part of +a skin he had himself sold to a saddler in the next village, to make +sporrans of, boiled over with wrath, and strode nearer, grinding his +teeth. Gibbie looked up, knew him, and starting to his feet, turned +to the hill. Angus, levelling his gun, shouted to him to stop, but +Gibbie only ran the harder, nor once looked round. Idiotic with rage, +Angus fired. One of his barrels was loaded with shot, the other with +ball: meaning to use the shot barrel, he pulled the wrong trigger, +and liberated the bullet. It went through the calf of Gibbie’s right +leg, and he fell. It had, however, passed between two muscles without +injuring either greatly, and had severed no artery. The next moment +he was on his feet again and running, nor did he yet feel pain. +Happily he was not very far from home, and he made for it as fast as +he could—preceded by Oscar, who, having once by accident been shot +himself, had a mortal terror of guns. Maimed as Gibbie was, he could +yet run a good deal faster up hill than the rascal who followed him. +But long before he reached the cottage, the pain had arrived, and +the nearer he got to it the worse it grew. In spite of the anguish, +however, he held on with determination; to be seized by Angus and +dragged down to Glashruach, would be far worse.</p> + +<p>Robert Grant was at home that day, suffering from rheumatism. He was +seated in the <i>ingle-neuk</i>, with his pipe in his mouth, and Janet was +just taking the potatoes for their dinner off the fire, when the door +flew open, and in stumbled Gibbie, and fell on the floor. The old man +threw his pipe from him, and rose trembling, but Janet was before him. +She dropt down on her knees beside the boy, and put her arm under his +head. He was white and motionless.</p> + +<p>“Eh, Robert Grant!” she cried, “he’s bleedin’.”</p> + +<p>The same moment they heard quick yet heavy steps approaching. At once +Robert divined the truth, and a great wrath banished rheumatism and age +together. Like a boy he sprang to the <i>crap o’ the wa’</i>, whence his +yet powerful hand came back armed with a huge rusty old broad-sword +that had seen service in its day. Two or three fierce tugs at the hilt +proving the blade immovable in the sheath, and the steps being now +almost at the door, he clubbed the weapon, grasping it by the sheathed +blade, and holding it with the edge downward, so that the blow he meant +to deal should fall from the round of the basket hilt. As he heaved it +aloft, the gray old shepherd seemed inspired by the god of battles; the +rage of a hundred ancestors was welling up in his peaceful breast. His +red eye flashed, and the few hairs that were left him stood erect on +his head like the mane of a roused lion. Ere Angus had his second foot +over the threshold, down came the helmet-like hilt with a dull crash on +his head, and he staggered against the wall.</p> + +<p>“Tak ye that, Angus MacPholp!” panted Robert through his clenched +teeth, following the blow with another from his fist, that prostrated +the enemy. Again he heaved his weapon, and standing over him where he +lay, more than half-stunned, said in a hoarse voice,</p> + +<p>“By the great God my maker, Angus MacPholp, gien ye seek to rise, I’ll +come doon on ye again as ye lie!—Here, Oscar!—He’s no ane to haud ony +fair play wi’, mair nor a brute beast.—Watch him, Oscar, and tak him +by the thro’t gien he muv a finger.”</p> + +<p>The gun had dropped from Angus’s hand, and Robert, keeping his eye on +him, secured it.</p> + +<p>“She’s lodd,” muttered Angus.</p> + +<p>“Lie still than,” returned Robert, pointing the weapon at his head.</p> + +<p>“It’ll be murder,” said Angus, and made a movement to lay hold of the +barrel.</p> + +<p>“Haud him doon, Oscar,” cried Robert. The dog’s paws were instantly on +his chest, and his teeth grinning within an inch of his face. Angus +vowed in his heart he would kill the beast on the first chance. “It wad +be but blude for blude, Angus MacPholp,” he went on. “Yer hoor’s come, +my man. That bairn’s is no the first blude o’ man ye hae shed, an’ it’s +time the Scripture was fulfillt, an’ the han’ o’ man shed yours.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re no gauin’ to kill me, Rob Grant?” growled the fellow in growing +fright.</p> + +<p>“I’m gauin’ to see whether the shirra’ winna be perswaudit to hang ye,” +answered the shepherd. “This maun be putten a stap till.—Quaiet! or +I’ll brain ye, an’ save him the trouble.—Here, Janet, fess yer pot o’ +pitawtas. I’m gauin’ to toom the man’s gun. Gien he daur to muv, jist +gie him the haill bilin’, bree an a’, i’ the ill face o’ ’im; gien ye +lat him up he’ll kill ’s a’; only tak care an’ haud aff o’ the dog, +puir fallow!—I wad lay the stock o’ yer murderin’ gun i’ the fire gien +’twarna ’at I reckon it’s the laird’s an’ no yours. Ye’re no fit to be +trustit wi’ a gun. Ye’re waur nor a weyver.”</p> + +<p>So saying he carried the weapon to the door, and, in terror lest he +might, through wrath or the pressure of dire necessity, use it against +his foe, emptied its second barrel into the earth, and leaned it up +against the wall outside.</p> + +<p>Janet obeyed her husband so far as to stand over Angus with the +potato-pot: how far she would have carried her obedience had he +attempted to rise may remain a question. Doubtless a brave man doing +his duty would have scorned to yield himself thus; but right and wrong +had met face to face, and the wrong had a righteous traitor in his +citadel.</p> + +<p>When Robert returned and relieved her guard, Janet went back to Gibbie, +whom she had drawn towards the fire. He lay almost insensible, but in +vain Janet attempted to get a teaspoonful of whisky between his lips. +For as he grew older, his horror of it increased; and now, even when he +was faint and but half conscious, his physical nature seemed to recoil +from contact with it. It was with signs of disgust, rubbing his mouth +with the back of each hand alternately, that he first showed returning +vitality. In a minute or two more he was able to crawl to his bed in +the corner, and then Janet proceeded to examine his wound.</p> + +<p>By this time his leg was much swollen, but the wound had almost stopped +bleeding, and it was plain there was no bullet in it, for there were +the two orifices. She washed it carefully and bound it up. Then Gibbie +raised his head and looked somewhat anxiously round the room.</p> + +<p>“Ye’re luikin’ efter Angus?” said Janet; “he’s yon’er upo’ the flure, a +twa yairds frae ye. Dinna be fleyt; yer father an’ Oscar hae him safe +eneuch, I s’ warran’.”</p> + +<p>“Here, Janet!” cried her husband; “gien ye be throu’ wi’ the bairn, I +maun be gauin’.”</p> + +<p>“Hoots, Robert! ye’re no surely gauin’ to lea’ me an’ puir Gibbie, ’at +maunna stir, i’ the hoose oor lanes wi’ the murderin’ man!” returned +Janet.</p> + +<p>“’Deed am I, lass! Jist rin and fess the bit tow ’at ye hing yer duds +upo’ at the washin’, an’ we’ll bin’ the feet an’ the han’s o’ ’im.”</p> + +<p>Janet obeyed and went. Angus, who had been quiet enough for the last +ten minutes, meditating and watching, began to swear furiously, but +Robert paid no more heed than if he had not heard him—stood calm and +grim at his head, with the clubbed sword heaved over his shoulder. +When she came back, by her husband’s directions, she passed the rope +repeatedly round the keeper’s ankles, then several times between them, +drawing the bouts tightly together, so that, instead of the two sharing +one ring, each ankle had now, as it were, a close-fitting one for +itself. Again and again, as she tied it, did Angus meditate a sudden +spring, but the determined look of Robert, and his feeling memory of +the blows he had so unsparingly delivered upon him, as well as the +weakening effect of that he had received on his head, caused him to +hesitate until it was altogether too late. When they began to bind his +hands, however, he turned desperate, and struck at both, cursing and +raging.</p> + +<p>“Gien ye binna quaiet, ye s’ taste the dog’s teeth,” said +Robert.—Angus reflected that he would have a better chance when he +was left alone with Janet, and yielded.—“Troth!” Robert went on, as +he continued his task, “I hae no pity left for ye, Angus MacPholp; an’ +gien ye tyauve ony mair, I’ll lat at ye. I wad care no more to caw oot +yer harns nor I wad to kill a tod (<i>fox</i>). To be hangt for ’t, I wad be +but prood. It’s a fine thing to be hangt for a guid cause, but ye’ll +be hangt for an ill ane.—Noo, Janet, fess a bun’le o’ brackens frae +the byre, an’ lay aneth ’s heid. We maunna be sairer upo’ him, nor the +needcessity laid upo’ his. I s’ jist trail him aff o’ the door, an’ +a bit on to the fire, for he’ll be caul’ whan he’s quaitet doon, an’ +syne I’ll awa an’ get word o’ the shirra’. Scotlan’s come till a pretty +pass, whan they shot men wi’ guns, as gien they war wull craturs to be +peelt an’ aiten. Care what set him! He may weel be a keeper o’ ghem, +for he’s as ill a keeper o’ ’s brither as auld Cain himsel’. But,” he +concluded, tying the last knot hard, “we’ll e’en dee what we can to +keep the keeper.”</p> + +<p>It was seldom Robert spoke at such length, but the provocation, the +wrath, the conflict, and the victory, had sent the blood rushing +through his brain, and loosed his tongue like strong drink.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll tak yer denner afore ye gang, Robert,” said his wife.</p> + +<p>“Na, I can ait naething; I’ll tak a bannock i’ my pooch. Ye can gie my +denner to Angus: he’ll want hertenin’ for the wuddie (<i>gallows</i>).”</p> + +<p>So saying he put the bannock in his pocket, flung his broad blue bonnet +upon his head, took his stick, and ordering Oscar to remain at home +and watch the prisoner, set out for a walk of five miles, as if he had +never known such a thing as rheumatism. He must find another magistrate +than the laird; he would not trust him where his own gamekeeper, Angus +MacPholp, was concerned.</p> + +<p>“Keep yer ee upo’ him, Janet,” he said, turning in the doorway. “Dinna +lowse sicht o’ him afore I come back wi’ the constable. Dinna lippen. I +s’ be back in three hoors like.”</p> + +<p>With these words he turned finally, and disappeared.</p> + +<p>The mortification of Angus as he lay thus trapped in the den of the +beast-loon, at being taken and bound by an old man, a woman, and a +collie dog, was extreme. He went over the whole affair again and +again in his mind, ever with a fresh burst of fury. It was in vain +he excused himself on the ground that the attack had been so sudden +and treacherous, and the precautions taken so complete. He had proved +himself an ass, and the whole country would ring with mockery of him! +He had sense enough, too, to know that he was in a serious as well as +ludicrous predicament: he had scarcely courage enough to contemplate +the possible result. If he could but get his hands free, it would be +easy to kill Oscar and disable Janet. For the idiot, he counted him +nothing. He had better wait, however, until there should be no boiling +liquid ready to her hand.</p> + +<p>Janet set out the dinner, peeled some potatoes, and approaching Angus, +would have fed him. In place of accepting her ministration, he fell to +abusing her with the worst language he could find. She withdrew without +a word, and sat down to her own dinner; but, finding the torrent of +vituperation kept flowing, rose again, and going to the door, fetched +a great jug of cold water from the pail that always stood there, and +coming behind her prisoner, emptied it over his face. He gave a horrid +yell taking the douche for a boiling one.</p> + +<p>“Ye needna cry oot like that at guid caul’ watter,” said Janet. “But +ye’ll jist absteen frae ony mair sic words i’ my hearin’, or ye s’ get +the like ilka time ye brak oot.” As she spoke, she knelt, and wiped his +face and head with her apron.</p> + +<p>A fresh oath rushed to Angus’s lips, but the fear of a second jugful +made him suppress it, and Janet sat down again to her dinner. She could +scarcely eat a mouthful, however, for pity of the rascal beside her, +at whom she kept looking wistfully without daring again to offer him +anything.</p> + +<p>While she sat thus, she caught a swift investigating look he cast on +the cords that bound his hands, and then at the fire. She perceived +at once what was passing in his mind. Rising, she went quickly to the +byre, and returned immediately with a chain they used for tethering the +cow. The end of it she slipt deftly round his neck, and made it fast, +putting the little bar through a link.</p> + +<p>“Ir ye gauin’ to hang me, ye she-deevil?” he cried, making a futile +attempt to grasp the chain with his bound hands.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll be wantin’ a drappy mair caul’ watter, I’m thinkin’,” said Janet.</p> + +<p>She stretched the chain to its length, and with a great stone drove the +sharp iron stake at the other end of it, into the clay-floor. Fearing +next that, bound as his hands were, he might get a hold of the chain +and drag out the stake, or might even contrive to remove the rope from +his feet with them, or that he might indeed with his teeth undo the +knot that confined his hands themselves—she got a piece of rope, and +made a loop at the end of it, then watching her opportunity passed the +loop between his hands, noosed the other end through it, and drew the +noose tight. The free end of the rope she put through the staple that +received the bolt of the cottage-door, and gradually, as he grew weary +in pulling against her, tightened the rope until she had his arms at +their stretch beyond his head. Not quite satisfied yet, she lastly +contrived, in part by setting Oscar to occupy his attention, to do +the same with his feet, securing them to a heavy chest in the corner +opposite the door, upon which chest she heaped a pile of stones. If +it pleased the Lord to deliver them from this man, she would have her +honest part in the salvation! And now at last she believed she had him +safe.</p> + +<p>Gibbie had fallen asleep, but he now woke and she gave him his dinner; +then <i>redd up</i>, and took her Bible. Gibbie had lain down again, and she +thought he was asleep.</p> + +<p>Angus grew more and more uncomfortable, both in body and in mind. He +knew he was hated throughout the country, and had hitherto rather +enjoyed the knowledge; but now he judged that the popular feeling, by +no means a mere prejudice, would tell against him committed for trial. +He knew also that the magistrate to whom Robert had betaken himself, +was not over friendly with his master, and certainly would not listen +to any intercession from him. At length, what with pain, hunger, and +fear, his pride began to yield, and, after an hour had passed in utter +silence, he condescended to parley.</p> + +<p>“Janet Grant,” he said, “lat me gang, an’ I’ll trouble you or yours no +more.”</p> + +<p>“Wadna ye think me some fule to hearken till ye?” suggested Janet.</p> + +<p>“I’ll sweir ony lawfu’ aith ’at ye like to lay upo’ me,” protested +Angus, “’at I’ll dee whatever ye please to require o’ me.”</p> + +<p>“I dinna doobt ye wad sweir; but what neist?” said Janet.</p> + +<p>“What neist but ye’ll lowse my han’s?” rejoined Angus.</p> + +<p>“It’s no mainner o’ use mentionin’ ’t,” replied Janet; “for, as ye +ken, I’m un’er authority, an’ yersel’ h’ard my man tell me to tak unco +percaution no to lat ye gang; for verily, Angus, ye hae conduckit +yersel’ this day more like ane possessed wi’ a legion, than the douce +faimily man ’at ye’re supposit by the laird, yer maister, to be.”</p> + +<p>“Was ever man,” protested Angus “made sic a fule o’, an’ sae misguidit, +by a pair o’ auld cottars like you an’ Robert Grant!”</p> + +<p>“Wi’ the help o’ the Lord, by means o’ the dog,” supplemented Janet. “I +wuss frae my hert I hed the great reid draigon i’ yer place, an’ I wad +watch him bonnie, I can tell ye, Angus MacPholp. I wadna be clear aboot +giein’ <i>him</i> his denner, Angus.”</p> + +<p>“Lat me gang, wuman, wi’ yer reid draigons! I’ll hairm naebody. The +puir idiot’s no muckle the waur, an’ I’ll tak mair tent whan I fire +anither time.”</p> + +<p>“Wiser fowk nor me maun see to that,” answered Janet.</p> + +<p>“Hoots, wuman! it was naething but an accident.”</p> + +<p>“I kenna; but it’ll be seen what Gibbie says.”</p> + +<p>“Awva! his word’s guid for naething.”</p> + +<p>“For a penny, or a thoosan’ poun’.”</p> + +<p>“My wife ’ll be oot o’ her wuts,” pleaded Angus.</p> + +<p>“Wad ye like a drink o’ milk?” asked Janet, rising.</p> + +<p>“I wad that,” he answered.</p> + +<p>She filled her little teapot with milk, and he drank it from the spout, +hoping she was on the point of giving way.</p> + +<p>“Noo,” she said, when he had finished his draught, “ye maun jist mak +the best o’ it, Angus. Ony gait, it’s a guid lesson in patience to ye, +an’ that ye haena had ower aften, I’m thinkin’—Robert’ll be here er +lang.”</p> + +<p>With these words she set down the teapot, and went out: it was time to +milk her cow.</p> + +<p>In a little while Gibbie rose, tried to walk, but failed, and getting +down on his hands and knees, crawled out after her. Angus caught a +glimpse of his face as he crept past him, and then first recognized +the boy he had lashed. Not compunction, but an occasional pang of +dread lest he should have been the cause of his death, and might come +upon his body in one of his walks, had served so to fix his face in +his memory, that, now he had a near view of him, pale with suffering +and loss of blood and therefore more like his former self, he knew him +beyond a doubt. With a great shoot of terror he concluded that the +idiot had been lying there silently gloating over his revenge, waiting +only till Janet should be out of sight, and was now gone after some +instrument wherewith to take it. He pulled and tugged at his bonds, but +only to find escape absolutely hopeless. In gathering horror, he lay +moveless at last, but strained his hearing towards every sound.</p> + +<p>Not only did Janet often pray with Gibbie, but sometimes as she +read, her heart would grow so full, her soul be so pervaded with the +conviction, perhaps the consciousness, of the presence of the man who +had said he would be always with his friends, that, sitting there on +her stool, she would begin talking to him out of the very depth of +her life, just as if she saw him in Robert’s chair in the ingle-neuk, +at home in her cottage as in the house where Mary sat at his feet and +heard his word. Then would Gibbie listen indeed, awed by very gladness. +He never doubted that Jesus was there, or that Janet saw him all the +time although he could not.</p> + +<p>This custom of praying aloud, she had grown into so long before Gibbie +came to her, and he was so much and such a child, that his presence +was no check upon the habit. It came in part from the intense reality +of her belief, and was in part a willed fostering of its intensity. +She never imagined that words were necessary; she believed that God +knew her every thought, and that the moment she lifted up her heart, +it entered into communion with him; but the very sound of the words +she spoke seemed to make her feel nearer to the man who, being the +eternal Son of the Father, yet had ears to hear and lips to speak, like +herself. To talk to him aloud, also kept her thoughts together, helped +her to feel the fact of the things she contemplated, as well as the +reality of his presence.</p> + +<p>Now the byre was just on the other side of the turf wall against which +was the head of Gibbie’s bed, and through the wall Gibbie had heard her +voice, with that something in the tone of it which let him understand +she was not talking to Crummie, but to Crummie’s maker; and it was +therefore he had got up and gone after her. For there was no reason, so +far as he knew or imagined, why he should not hear, as so many times +before, what she was saying to the Master. He supposed that as she +could not well speak to him in the presence of a man like Angus, she +had gone out to the byre to have her talk with him there. He crawled +to the end of the cottage so silently that she heard no sound of his +approach. He would not go into the byre, for that might disturb her, +for she would have to look up to know that it was only Gibbie; he +would listen at the door. He found it wide open, and peeping in, saw +Crummie chewing away, and Janet on her knees with her forehead leaning +against the cow and her hands thrown up over her shoulder. She spoke +in such a voice of troubled entreaty as he had never heard from her +before, but which yet woke a strange vibration of memory in his deepest +heart.—Yes, it was his father’s voice it reminded him of! So had he +cried in prayer the last time he ever heard him speak. What she said +was nearly this:</p> + +<p>“O Lord, gien ye wad but say what ye wad hae deen! Whan a body disna +ken yer wull, she’s jist driven to distraction. Thoo knows, my Maister, +as weel ’s I can tell ye, ’at gien ye said till me, ‘That man’s gauin’ +to cut yer thro’t: tak the tows frae him, an’ lat him up,’ I wad rin +to dee ’t. It’s no revenge, Lord; it’s jist ’at I dinna ken. The man’s +dune me no ill, ’cep as he’s sair hurtit yer bonnie Gibbie. It’s Gibbie +’at has to forgie ’im, an’ syne me. But my man tellt me no to lat him +up, an’ hoo am I to be a wife sic as ye wad hae, O Lord, gien I dinna +dee as my man tellt me! It wad ill befit me to lat my auld Robert gang +sae far wantin’ his denner, a’ for naething. What wad he think whan +he cam hame! Of coorse, Lord, gien ye tellt me, that wad mak a’ the +differ, for ye’re Robert’s maister as weel ’s mine, an’ your wull wad +saitisfee him jist as weel ’s me. I wad fain lat him gang, puir chiel! +but I daurna. Lord, convert him to the trowth. Lord, lat him ken what +hate is.—But eh, Lord! I wuss ye wad tell me what to du. Thy wull’s +the beginnin’ an’ mids an’ en’ o’ a’ thing to me. I’m wullin’ eneuch +to lat him gang, but he’s Robert’s pris’ner an’ Gibbie’s enemy; he’s +no my pris’ner an’ no my enemy, an’ I dinna think I hae the richt. An’ +wha kens but he micht gang shottin’ mair fowk yet, ’cause I loot him +gang!—But he canna shot a hare wantin’ thy wull, O Jesus, the Saviour +o’ man an’ beast; an’ ill wad I like to hae a han’ i’ the hangin’ o’ +’im. He may deserve ’t, Lord, I dinna ken; but I’m thinkin’ ye made him +no sae weel tempered—as my Robert, for enstance.”</p> + +<p>Here her voice ceased, and she fell a moaning.</p> + +<p>Her trouble was echoed in dim pain from Gibbie’s soul. That the +prophetess who knew everything, the priestess who was at home in the +very treasure-house of the great king, should be thus abandoned to +dire perplexity, was a dreadful, a bewildering fact. But now first he +understood the real state of the affair in the purport of the old man’s +absence; also how he was himself potently concerned in the business: +if the offence had been committed against Gibbie, then with Gibbie lay +the power, therefore the duty of forgiveness. But verily Gibbie’s merit +and his grace were in inverse ratio. Few things were easier to him +than to love his enemies, and his merit in obeying the commandment was +small indeed. No enemy had as yet done him, in his immediate person, +the wrong he could even imagine it hard to forgive. No sooner had Janet +ceased than he was on his way back to the cottage: on its floor lay one +who had to be waited upon with forgiveness.</p> + +<p>Wearied with futile struggles, Angus found himself compelled to abide +his fate, and was lying quite still when Gibbie re-entered. The boy +thought he was asleep, but on the contrary he was watching his every +motion, full of dread. Gibbie went hopping upon one foot to the hole +in the wall where Janet kept the only knife she had. It was not there. +He glanced round, but could not see it. There was no time to lose. +Robert’s returning steps might be heard any moment, and poor Angus +might be hanged—only for shooting Gibbie! He hopped up to him and +examined the knots that tied his hands: they were drawn so tight—in +great measure by his own struggles—and so difficult to reach from +their position, that he saw it would take him a long time to undo them. +Angus thought, with fresh horror, he was examining them to make sure +they would hold, and was so absorbed in watching his movements that +he even forgot to curse, which was the only thing left him. Gibbie +looked round again for a moment, as if in doubt, then darted upon the +tongs—there was no poker—and thrust them into the fire, caught up the +asthmatic old bellows, and began to blow the peats. Angus saw the first +action, heard the second, and a hideous dismay clutched his very heart: +the savage fool was about to take his revenge in pinches with the +red hot tongs! He looked for no mercy—perhaps felt that he deserved +none. Manhood held him silent until he saw him take the implement of +torture from the fire, glowing, not red but white hot, when he uttered +such a terrific yell, that Gibbie dropped the tongs—happily not the +hot ends—on his own bare foot, but caught them up again instantly, +and made a great hop to Angus: if Janet had heard that yell and came +in, all would be spoilt. But the faithless keeper began to struggle +so fiercely, writhing with every contortion, and kicking with every +inch, left possible to him, that Gibbie hardly dared attempt anything +for dread of burning him, while he sent yell after yell “as fast as +mill-wheels strike.” With a sudden thought Gibbie sprang to the door +and locked it, so that Janet should not get in, and Angus, hearing the +bolt, was the more convinced that his purpose was cruel, and struggled +and yelled, with his eyes fixed on the glowing tongs, now fast cooling +in Gibbie’s hand. If instead of glowering at the tongs, he had but +lent one steadfast regard to the face of the boy whom he took for a +demoniacal idiot, he would have seen his supposed devil smile the +sweetest of human, troubled, pitiful smiles. Even then, I suspect, +however, his eye being evil, he would have beheld in the smile only the +joy of malice in the near prospect of a glut of revenge.</p> + +<p>In the mean time Janet, in her perplexity, had, quite forgetful of the +poor cow’s necessities, abandoned Crummie, and wandered down the path +as far as the shoulder her husband must cross ascending from the other +side: thither, a great rock intervening, so little of Angus’s cries +reached, that she heard nothing through the deafness of her absorbing +appeal for direction to her shepherd, the master of men.</p> + +<p>Gibbie thrust the tongs again into the fire, and while blowing it, +bethought him that it might give Angus confidence if he removed the +chain from his neck. He laid down the bellows, and did so. But to Angus +the action seemed only preparatory to taking him by the throat with +the horrible implement. In his agony and wild endeavour to frustrate +the supposed intent, he struggled harder than ever. But now Gibbie was +undoing the rope fastened round the chest. This Angus did not perceive, +and when it came suddenly loose in the midst of one of his fierce +straining contortions, the result was that he threw his body right over +his head, and lay on his face for a moment confused. Gibbie saw his +advantage. He snatched his clumsy tool out of the fire, seated himself +on the corresponding part of Angus’s person, and seizing with the tongs +the rope between his feet, held on to both, in spite of his heaves and +kicks. In the few moments that passed while Gibbie burned through a +round of the rope, Angus imagined a considerable number of pangs; but +when Gibbie rose and hopped away, he discovered that his feet were at +liberty, and scrambled up, his head dizzy, and his body reeling. But +such was then the sunshine of delight in Gibbie’s countenance that +even Angus stared at him for a moment—only, however, with a vague +reflection on the inconsequentiality of idiots, to which succeeded the +impulse to take vengeance upon him for his sufferings. But Gibbie still +had the tongs, and Angus’s hands were still tied. He held them out to +him. Gibbie pounced upon the knots with hands and teeth. They occupied +him some little time, during which Angus was almost compelled to take +better cognizance of the face of the savage; and dull as he was to the +good things of human nature, he was yet in a measure subdued by what +he there looked upon rather than perceived; while he could scarcely +mistake the hearty ministration of his teeth and nails! The moment his +hands were free, Gibbie looked up at him with a smile, and Angus did +not even box his ears. Holding by the wall, Gibbie limped to the door +and opened it. With a nod meant for thanks, the gamekeeper stepped out, +took up his gun from where it leaned against the wall, and hurried away +down the hill. A moment sooner and he would have met Janet; but she had +just entered the byre again to milk poor Crummie.</p> + +<p>When she came into the cottage, she stared with astonishment to see +no Angus on the floor. Gibbie, who had lain down again in much pain, +made signs that he had let him go: whereupon such a look of relief came +over her countenance that he was filled with fresh gladness, and was if +possible more satisfied still with what he had done.</p> + +<p>It was late before Robert returned—alone, weary, and disappointed. The +magistrate was from home; he had waited for him as long as he dared; +but at length, both because of his wife’s unpleasant position, and the +danger to himself if he longer delayed his journey across the mountain, +seeing it threatened a storm, and there was no moon, he set out. That +he too was relieved to find no Angus there, he did not attempt to +conceal. The next day he went to see him, and told him that, to please +Gibbie, he had consented to say nothing more about the affair. Angus +could not help being sullen, but he judged it wise to behave as well as +he could, kept his temper therefore, and said he was sorry he had been +so hasty, but that Robert had punished him pretty well, for it would +be weeks before he recovered the blow on the head he had given him. So +they parted on tolerable terms, and there was no further persecution of +Gibbie from that quarter.</p> + +<p>It was some time before he was able to be out again, but no hour spent +with Janet was lost.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII.<br><span class="small">A VOICE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>That winter the old people were greatly tried with rheumatism; for not +only were the frosts severe, but there was much rain between. Their +children did all in their power to minister to their wants, and Gibbie +was nurse as well as shepherd. He who when a child had sought his +place in the live universe by attending on drunk people and helping +them home through the midnight streets, might have felt himself +promoted considerably in having the necessities of such as Robert +and Janet to minister to, but he never thought of that. It made him +a little mournful sometimes to think that he could not read to them. +Janet, however, was generally able to read aloud. Robert, being also +asthmatic, suffered more than she, and was at times a little impatient.</p> + +<p>Gibbie still occupied his heather-bed on the floor, and it was part of +his business, as nurse, to keep up a good fire on the hearth: peats, +happily, were plentiful. Awake for this cause, he heard in the middle +of one night, the following dialogue between the husband and wife.</p> + +<p>“I’m growin’ terrible auld, Janet,” said Robert. “It’s a sair thing, +this auld age, an’ I canna bring mysel’ content wi’ ’t. Ye see I haena +been used till ’t.”</p> + +<p>“That’s true, Robert,” answered Janet. “Gien we had been born auld, we +micht by this time hae been at hame wi’ ’t. But syne what wad hae come +o’ the gran’ delicht o’ seein’ auld age rin hirplin awa frae the face +o’ the Auncient o’ Days?”</p> + +<p>“I wad fain be contentit wi’ my lot, thouch,” persisted Robert; “but +whan I fin’ mysel’ sae helpless like, I canna get it oot o’ my heid ’at +the Lord has forsaken me, an’ left me to mak an ill best o’ ’t wantin’ +him.”</p> + +<p>“I wadna lat sic a thoucht come intil my heid, Robert, sae lang as I +kenned I cudna draw breath nor wag tongue wantin’ him, for in him we +leeve an’ muv an’ hae oor bein’. Gien he be the life o’ me, what for +sud I trible mysel’ aboot that life?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, lass! but gien ye hed this ashmy, makin’ a’ yer breist as gien +’twar lined wi’ the san’ paper ’at they hed been lichtin’ a thoosan’ +or twa lucifer spunks upo’—ye micht be driven to forget ’at the Lord +was yer life—for I can tell ye it’s no like haein <i>his</i> breith i’ yer +nostrils.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, my bonnie laad!” returned Janet with infinite tenderness, “I +micht weel forget it! I doobt I wadna be half sae patient as yersel’; +but jist to help to haud ye up, I s’ tell ye what I think I wad +ettle efter. I wad say to mysel’, Gien he be the life o’ me, I hae +no business wi’ ony mair o’ ’t nor he gies me. I hae but to tak ae +breath, be ’t hard, be ’t easy, ane at a time, an’ lat him see to the +neist himsel’. Here I am, an’ here’s him; an’ ’at he winna lat ’s ain +wark come to ill, that I’m weel sure o’. An’ ye micht jist think to +yersel’, Robert, ’at as ye <i>are</i> born intil the warl’, an’ here ye are +auld intil ’t—ye may jist think, I say, ’at hoo ye’re jist new-born +an auld man, an’ beginnin’ to grow yoong, an’ ’at that’s yer business. +For naither you nor me can be that far frae hame, Robert, an’ whan we +win there, we’ll be yoong eneuch, I’m thinkin’; an’ no ower yoong, for +we’ll hae what they say ye canna get doon here—a pair o’ auld heids +upo’ yoong shoothers.”</p> + +<p>“Eh! but I wuss I may hae ye there, Janet, for I kenna what I wad do +wantin’ ye. I wad be unco stray up yon’er, gien I had to gang my lane, +an’ no you to refar till, ’at kens the w’ys o’ the place.”</p> + +<p>“I ken no more aboot the w’ys o’ the place nor yersel’, Robert, though +I’m thinkin’ they’ll be unco quaiet an’ sensible, seein’ ’at a’ there +maun be gentle fowk. It’s eneuch to me ’at I’ll be i’ the hoose o’ +my Maister’s father; an’ my Maister was weel content to gang to that +hoose; an’ it maun be somethin’ by ordinar’ ’at was fit for <i>him</i>. But +puir simple fowk like oorsel’s ’ill hae no need to hing doon the heid +an’ luik like gowks ’at disna ken mainners. Bairns are no expeckit to +ken a’ the w’ys o’ a muckle hoose ’at they hae never been intil i’ +their lives afore.”</p> + +<p>“It’s no that a’thegither ’at tribles me, Janet; it’s mair ’at I’ll be +expeckit to sing an’ luik pleased-like, an’ I div not ken hoo it’ll be +poassible, an’ you naegait ’ithin my sicht or my cry, or the hearin’ o’ +my ears.”</p> + +<p>“Div ye believe this, Robert—’at we’re a’ ane, jist ane, in Christ +Jesus?”</p> + +<p>“I canna weel say. I’m no denyin’ naething ’at the buik tells me; ye +ken me better nor that, Janet; but there’s mony a thing it says ’at I +dinna ken whether I believe ’t ’at my ain han’, or whether it be only +at a’ thing ’at ye believe, Janet, ’s jist to me as gien I believet it +mysel’; an’ that’s a sair thoucht, for a man canna be savet e’en by the +proxy o’ ’s ain wife.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, ye’re jist muckle whaur I fin’ mysel’ whiles, Robert; an’ I +comfort mysel’ wi’ the houp ’at we’ll <i>ken</i> the thing there, ’at maybe +we’re but tryin’ to believe here. But ony gait, ye hae pruv’t weel ’at +you an’ me’s ane, Robert. Noo we ken frae Scriptur’ ’at the Maister cam +to mak aye ane o’ them ’at was at twa; an’ we ken also ’at he conquered +Deith; sae he wad never lat Deith mak the ane ’at he had made ane intil +twa again: it’s no rizon to think it. For oucht I ken, what luiks like +a gangin’ awa may be a comin’ nearer. An’ there may be w’ys o’ comin’ +nearer till ane anither up yon’er ’at we ken naething aboot doon here. +There’s that laddie, Gibbie: I canna but think ’at gien he hed the +tongue to speyk, or aiven gien he cud mak ony soon’ wi’ sense intil ’t, +like singin’, say, he wad fin’ himsel’ nearer till ’s nor he can i’ the +noo. Wha kens but them ’at’s singin’ up there afore the throne, may +sing so bonnie, ’at, i’ the pooer o’ their braw thouchts, their verra +sangs may be like laidders for them to come doon upo’, an’ hing aboot +them ’at they hae left ahin’ them, till the time comes for them to gang +an’ jine them i’ the green pasturs aboot the tree o’ life.”</p> + +<p>More of like talk followed, but these words concerning appropinquation +in song, although their meaning was not very clear, took such a hold of +Gibbie that he heard nothing after, but fell asleep thinking about them.</p> + +<p>In the middle of the following night, Janet woke her husband.</p> + +<p>“Robert! Robert!” she whispered in his ear, “hearken. I’m thinkin’ yon +maun be some wee angel come doon to say, ‘I ken ye, puir fowk.’”</p> + +<p>Robert, scarce daring to draw his breath, listened with his heart in +his mouth. From somewhere, apparently within the four walls of the +cottage, came a low lovely sweet song—something like the piping of a +big bird, something like a small human voice.</p> + +<p>“It canna be an angel,” said Robert at length, “for it’s singin’ ‘My +Nannie’s Awa.’”</p> + +<p>“An’ what for no an angel?” returned Janet. “Isna that jist what ye +micht be singin’ yersel’, efter what ye was sayin’ last nicht? I’m +thinkin’ there maun be a heap o’ yoong angels up there, new deid, +singin’, ‘My Nannie’s Awa.’”</p> + +<p>“Hoots, Janet! ye ken there’s naither merryin’ nor giein’ in merriage +there.”</p> + +<p>“Wha was sayin’ onything aboot merryin’ or giein’ in merriage, Robert? +Is that to say ’at you an’ me’s to be no more to ane anither nor ither +fowk? Nor it’s no to say ’at, ’cause merriage is no the w’y o’ the +country, ’at there’s to be naething better i’ the place o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>“What garred the Maister say onything aboot it than?”</p> + +<p>“Jist ’cause they plaguit him wi’ speirin’. He wad never hae opened +his moo’ anent it—it wasna ane o’ his subjec’s—gien it hadna been +’at a wheen pride-prankit beuk-fowk ’at didna believe there was ony +angels, or speerits o’ ony kin’, but said ’at a man ance deid was aye +an’ a’thegither deid, an’ yet preten’it to believe in God himsel’ for +a’ that, thoucht to bleck (<i>nonplus</i>) the Maister wi’ speirin’ whilk o’ +saiven a puir body ’at had been garred merry them a’, wad be the wife +o’ whan they gat up again.”</p> + +<p>“A body micht think it wad be left to hersel’ to say,” suggested +Robert. “She had come throu’ eneuch to hae some claim to be considert.”</p> + +<p>“She maun hae been a richt guid ane,” said Janet, “gien ilk ane o’ +the saiven wad be wantin’ her again. But I s’ warran’ she kenned weel +eneuch whilk o’ them was her ain. But, Robert, man, this is jokin’—no +’at it’s your wyte (<i>blame</i>)—an’ it’s no becomin’, I doobt, upo’ sic a +sarious subjec’. An’ I’m feart—ay! there!—I thoucht as muckle!—the +wee sangie’s drappit itsel’ a’thegither, jist as gien the laverock had +fa’ntit intil ’ts nest. I doobt we’ll hear nae mair o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>As soon as he could hear what they were saying, Gibbie had stopped to +listen; and now they had stopped also, and there was an end.</p> + +<p>For weeks he had been picking out tunes on his Pan’s-pipes, also, he +had lately discovered that, although he could not articulate, he could +produce tones, and had taught himself to imitate the pipes. Now, to his +delight, he had found that the noises he made were recognized as song +by his father and mother. From that time he was often heard crooning to +himself. Before long he began to look about the heavens for airs—to +suit this or that song he came upon, or heard from Donal.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII.<br><span class="small">THE WISDOM OF THE WISE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Change, meantime, was in progress elsewhere, and as well upon the foot +as high on the side of Glashgar—change which seemed all important +to those who felt the grind of the glacier as it slipped. Thomas +Galbraith, of Glashruach, Esquire, whom no more than any other could +negation save, was not enfranchised from folly, or lifted above belief +in a lie, by his hatred to what he called superstition: he had long +fallen into what will ultimately prove the most degrading superstition +of all—the worship of Mammon, and was rapidly sinking from deep to +lower deep. First of all, this was the superstition of placing hope +and trust in that which, from age to age, and on the testimony of all +sorts of persons who have tried it, has been proved to fail utterly; +next, such was the folly of the man whose wisdom was indignant with the +harmless imagination of simple people for daring flutter its wings upon +his land, that he risked what he loved best in the world, even better +than Mammon, the approbation of fellow worshippers, by investing in +Welsh gold mines.</p> + +<p>The property of Glashruach was a good one, but not nearly so large as +it had been, and he was anxious to restore it to its former dimensions. +The rents were low, and it could but tardily widen its own borders, +while of money he had little and no will to mortgage. To increase his +money, that he might increase his property, he took to speculation, but +had never had much success until that same year, when he disposed of +certain shares at a large profit—nothing troubled by the conviction +that the man who bought them—in ignorance of many a fact which the +laird knew—must in all probability be ruined by them. He counted this +success, and it gave him confidence to speculate further. In the mean +time, with what he had thus secured, he reannexed to the property a +small farm which had been for some time in the market, but whose sale +he had managed to delay. The purchase gave him particular pleasure, +because the farm not only marched with his home-grounds, but filled up +a great notch in the map of the property between Glashruach and the +Mains, with which also it marched. It was good land, and he let it at +once, on his own terms, to Mr. Duff.</p> + +<p>In the spring, affairs looked rather bad for him, and in the month of +May, he considered himself compelled to go to London: he had a faith +in his own business-faculty quite as foolish as any superstition in +Gormgarnet. There he fell into the hands of a certain man, whose +true place would have been in the swell mob, and not in the House of +Commons—a fellow who used his influence and facilities as member of +Parliament in promoting bubble companies. He was intimate with an elder +brother of the laird, himself member for a not unimportant borough—a +man, likewise, of principles that love the shade; and between them they +had no difficulty in making a tool of Thomas Galbraith, as chairman +of a certain aggregate of iniquity, whose designation will not, in +some families, be forgotten for a century or so. During the summer, +therefore, the laird was from home, working up the company, hoping +much from it, and trying hard to believe in it—whipping up its cream, +and perhaps himself taking the froth, certainly doing his best to make +others take it, for an increase of genuine substance. He devoted the +chamber of his imagination to the service of Mammon, and the brownie he +kept there played him fine pranks.</p> + +<p>A smaller change, though of really greater importance in the end, +was, that in the course of the winter, one of Donal’s sisters was +engaged by the housekeeper at Glashruach, chiefly to wait upon Miss +Galbraith. Ginevra was still a silent, simple, unconsciously retiring, +and therewith dignified girl, in whom childhood and womanhood had begun +to interchange hues, as it were with the play of colours in a dove’s +neck. Happy they in whom neither has a final victory! Happy also all +who have such women to love! At one moment Ginevra would draw herself +up—<i>bridle</i> her grandmother would have called it—with involuntary +recoil from doubtful approach; the next, Ginny would burst out in a +merry laugh at something in which only a child could have perceived +the mirth-causing element; then again the woman would seem suddenly +to re-enter and rebuke the child, for the sparkle would fade from her +eyes, and she would look solemn, and even a little sad. The people +about the place loved her, but from the stillness on the general +surface of her behaviour, the far away feeling she gave them, and the +impossibility of divining how she was thinking except she chose to +unbosom herself, they were all a little afraid of her as well. They did +not acknowledge, even to themselves, that her evident conscientiousness +bore no small part in causing that slight uneasiness of which they +were aware in her presence. Possibly it roused in some of them such a +dissatisfaction with themselves as gave the initiative to dislike of +her.</p> + +<p>In the mind of her new maid, however, there was no strife, therefore +no tendency to dislike. She was thoroughly well-meaning, like the +rest of her family, and finding her little mistress dwell in the same +atmosphere, the desire to be acceptable to her awoke at once, and grew +rapidly in her heart. She was the youngest of Janet’s girls, about four +years older than Donal, not clever, but as sweet as honest, and full +of divine service. Always ready to think others better than herself, +the moment she saw the still face of Ginevra, she took her for a little +saint, and accepted her as a queen, whose will to her should be law. +Ginevra, on her part, was taken with the healthy hue and honest eyes of +the girl, and neither felt any dislike to her touching her hair, nor +lost her temper when she was awkward and pulled it. Before the winter +was over, the bond between them was strong.</p> + +<p>One principal duty required of Nicie—her parents had named her after +the mother of St. Paul’s Timothy—was to accompany her mistress every +fine day to the manse, a mile and a half from Glashruach. For some time +Ginevra had been under the care of Miss Machar, the daughter of the +parish clergyman, an old gentleman of sober aspirations, to whom the +last century was the Augustan age of English literature. He was genial, +gentle, and a lover of his race, with much reverence for, and some +faith in, a Scotch God, whose nature was summed up in a series of words +beginning with <i>omni</i>. Partly that the living was a poor one, and her +father old and infirm, Miss Machar, herself middle-aged, had undertaken +the instruction of the little heiress, never doubting herself mistress +of all it was necessary a lady should know. By nature she was romantic, +but her romance had faded a good deal. Possibly had she read the new +poets of her age, the vital flame of wonder and hope might have kept +not a little of its original brightness in her heart; but under her +father’s guidance, she had never got beyond the Night Thoughts, and the +Course of Time. Both intellectually and emotionally, therefore, Miss +Machar had withered instead of ripening. As to her spiritual carriage, +she thought too much about being a lady to be thoroughly one. The +utter graciousness of the ideal lady would blush to regard itself. She +was both gentle and dignified; but would have done a nature inferior +to Ginevra’s injury by the way she talked of things right and wrong +as becoming or not becoming in a lady of position such as Ginevra +would one day find herself. What lessons she taught her she taught +her well. Her music was old-fashioned, of course; but I have a fancy +that perhaps the older the music one learns first, the better; for the +deeper is thereby the rooting of that which will have the atmosphere +of the age to blossom in. But then to every lover of the truth, a true +thing is dearer because it is old-fashioned, and dearer because it is +new-fashioned: and true music, like true love, like all truth, laughs +at the god Fashion, because it knows him to be but an ape.</p> + +<p>Every day, then, except Saturday and Sunday, Miss Machar had for two +years been in the habit of walking or driving to Glashruach, and there +spending the morning hours; but of late her father had been ailing, +and as he was so old that she could not without anxiety leave him +when suffering from the smallest indisposition, she had found herself +compelled either to give up teaching Ginevra, or to ask Mr. Galbraith +to allow her to go, when such occasion should render it necessary, to +the manse. She did the latter; the laird had consented; and thence +arose the duty required of Nicie. Mr. Machar’s health did not improve +as the spring advanced, and by the time Mr. Galbraith left for London, +he was confined to his room, and Ginevra’s walk to the manse for +lessons had settled into a custom.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX.<br><span class="small">THE BEAST-BOY.</span></h2></div> + +<p>One morning they found, on reaching the manse, that the minister was +very unwell, and that in consequence Miss Machar could not attend to +Ginevra; they turned, therefore, to walk home again. Now the manse, +upon another root of Glashgar, was nearer than Glashruach to Nicie’s +home, and many a time as she went and came, did she lift longing +eyes to the ridge that hid it from her view. This morning, Ginevra +observed that, every other moment, Nicie was looking up the side of +the mountain, as if she saw something unusual upon it—occasionally, +indeed, when the winding of the road turned their backs to it, stopping +and turning round to gaze.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter with you, Nicie?” she asked. “What are you looking +at up there?”</p> + +<p>“I’m won’erin’ what my mother’ll be deein’,” answered Nicie: “she’s up +there.”</p> + +<p>“Up there!” exclaimed Ginny, and, turning, stared at the mountain too, +expecting to perceive Nicie’s mother somewhere upon the face of it.</p> + +<p>“Na, na, missie! ye canna see her,” said the girl; “she’s no in sicht. +She’s ower ayont there. Only gien we war up whaur ye see yon twa three +sheep again’ the lift (<i>sky</i>), we cud see the bit hoosie whaur her an’ +my father bides.”</p> + +<p>“How I <i>should</i> like to see your father and mother, Nicie!” exclaimed +Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“Weel, I’m sure they wad be richt glaid to see yersel’, missie, ony +time ’at ye likit to gang an’ see them.”</p> + +<p>“Why shouldn’t we go now, Nicie? It’s not a dangerous place, is it?”</p> + +<p>“No, missie. Glashgar’s as quaiet an’ weel-behaved a hill as ony in a’ +the cweentry,” answered Nicie, laughing. “She’s some puir, like the +lave o’ ’s, an’ hasna muckle to spare, but the sheep get a feow nibbles +upon her, here an’ there; an’ my mither manages to keep a coo, an’ get +plenty o’ milk frae her tee.”</p> + +<p>“Come, then, Nicie. We have plenty of time. Nobody wants either you or +me, and we shall get home before any one misses us.”</p> + +<p>Nicie was glad enough to consent; they turned at once to the hill, and +began climbing. But Nicie did not know this part of it nearly so well +as that which lay between Glashruach and the cottage, and after they +had climbed some distance, often stopping and turning to look down on +the valley below, the prospect of which, with its streams and river, +kept still widening and changing as they ascended, they arrived at a +place where the path grew very doubtful, and she could not tell in +which of two directions they ought to go.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take this way, and you take that, Nicie,” said Ginevra, “and if +I find there is no path my way, I will come back to yours; and if you +find there is no path your way, you will come back to mine.”</p> + +<p>It was a childish proposal, and one to which Nicie should not have +consented, but she was little more than a child herself. Advancing a +short distance in doubt, and the path re-appearing quite plainly, she +sat down, expecting her little mistress to return directly. No thought +of anxiety crossed her mind: how should one, in broad sunlight, on a +mountain-side, in the first of summer, and with the long day before +them? So, there sitting in peace, Nicie fell into a maidenly reverie, +and so there Nicie sat for a long time, half dreaming in the great +light, without once really thinking about anything. All at once she +came to herself: some latent fear had exploded in her heart: yes! what +could have become of her little mistress? She jumped to her feet, and +shouted “Missie! Missie Galbraith! Ginny!” but no answer came back. The +mountain was as still as at midnight. She ran to the spot where they +had parted, and along the other path: it was plainer than that where +she had been so idly forgetting herself. She hurried on, wildly calling +as she ran.</p> + +<p>In the mean time Ginevra, having found the path indubitable, and +imagining it led straight to the door of Nicie’s mother’s cottage, +and that Nicie would be after her in a moment, thinking also to have +a bit of fun with her, set off dancing and running so fast, that by +the time Nicie came to herself, she was a good mile from her. What a +delight it was to be thus alone upon the grand mountain! with the earth +banished so far below, and the great rocky heap climbing and leading +and climbing up and up towards the sky!</p> + +<p>Ginny was not in the way of thinking much about God. Little had been +taught her concerning him, and nothing almost that was pleasant to +meditate upon—nothing that she could hide in her heart, and be +dreadfully glad about when she lay alone in her little bed, listening +to the sound of the burn that ran under her window. But there was in +her soul a large wilderness ready for the voice that should come crying +to prepare the way of the king.</p> + +<p>The path was after all a mere sheep-track, and led her at length into +a lonely hollow in the hill-side, with a swampy peat-bog at the bottom +of it. She stopped. The place looked unpleasant, reminding her of how +she always felt when she came unexpectedly upon Angus MacPholp. She +would go no further alone; she would wait till Nicie overtook her. +It must have been just in such places that the people possessed with +devils—only Miss Machar always made her read the word, <i>demons</i>—ran +about! As she thought thus, a lone-hearted bird uttered a single, +wailing cry, strange to her ear. The cry remained solitary, unanswered, +and then first suddenly she felt that there was nobody there but +herself, and the feeling had in it a pang of uneasiness. But she was a +brave child; nothing frightened her much except her father; she turned +and went slowly back to the edge of the hollow: Nicie must by this time +be visible.</p> + +<p>In her haste and anxiety, however, Nicie had struck into another +sheep-track, and was now higher up the hill; so that Ginny could see no +living thing nearer than in the valley below: far down there—and it +was some comfort, in the desolation that now began to invade her—she +saw upon the road, so distant that it seemed motionless, a cart with +a man in it, drawn by a white horse. Never in her life before had she +felt that she was alone. She had often felt lonely, but she had always +known where to find the bodily presence of somebody. Now she might cry +and scream the whole day, and nobody answer! Her heart swelled into her +throat, then sank away, leaving a wide hollow. It was so eerie! But +Nicie would soon come, and then all would be well.</p> + +<p>She sat down on a stone, where she could see the path she had come a +long way back. But “<i>never and never</i>” did any Nicie appear. At last +she began to cry. This process with Ginny was a very slow one, and +never brought her much relief. The tears would mount into her eyes, +and remain there, little pools of Baca, a long time before the crying +went any further. But with time the pools would grow deeper, and swell +larger, and at last, when they had become two huge little lakes, the +larger from the slowness of their gathering, two mighty tears would +tumble over the edges of their embankments, and roll down her white +mournful cheeks. This time many more followed, and her eyes were fast +becoming fountains, when all at once a verse she had heard the Sunday +before at church seemed to come of itself into her head: “Call upon me +in the time of trouble and I will answer thee.” It must mean that she +was to ask God to help her: was that the same as saying prayers? But +she wasn’t good, and he wouldn’t hear anybody that wasn’t good. Then, +if he was only the God of the good people, what was to become of the +rest when they were lost on mountains? She had better try; it could +not do much harm. Even if he would not hear her, he would not surely +be angry with her for calling upon him when she was in such trouble. +So thinking, she began to pray to what dim distorted reflection of God +there was in her mind. They alone pray to the real God, the maker of +the heart that prays, who know his son Jesus. If our prayers were heard +only in accordance with the idea of God to which we seem to ourselves +to pray, how miserably would our infinite wants be met! But every +honest cry, even if sent into the deaf ear of an idol, passes on to the +ears of the unknown God, the heart of the unknown Father.</p> + +<p>“O God, help me home again,” cried Ginevra, and stood up in her great +loneliness to return.</p> + +<p>The same instant she spied, seated upon a stone, a little way off, but +close to her path, the beast-boy. There could be no mistake. He was +just as she had heard him described by the children at the gamekeeper’s +cottage. That was his hair sticking all out from his head, though the +sun in it made it look like a crown of gold or a shining mist. Those +were his bare arms, and that was dreadful indeed! Bare legs and feet +she was used to; but bare arms! Worst of all, making it absolutely +certain he was the beast-boy, he was playing upon a curious kind of +whistling thing, making dreadfully sweet music to entice her nearer +that he might catch her and tear her to pieces! Was this the answer God +sent to the prayer she had offered in her sore need—the beast-boy? She +asked him for protection and deliverance, and here was the beast-boy! +She asked him to help her home, and there, right in the middle of her +path, sat the beast-boy, waiting for her! Well, it was just like what +they said about him on Sundays in the churches, and in the books Miss +Machar made her read! But the horrid creature’s music should not have +any power over her! She would rather run down to the black water, +glooming in those holes, and be drowned, than the beast-boy should have +her to eat!</p> + +<p>Most girls would have screamed, but such was not Ginny’s natural mode +of meeting a difficulty. With fear, she was far more likely to choke +than to cry out. So she sat down again and stared at him. Perhaps he +would go away when he found he could not entice her. He did not move, +but kept playing on his curious instrument. Perhaps, by returning into +the hollow, she could make a circuit, and so pass him, lower down the +hill. She rose at once and ran.</p> + +<p>Now Gibbie had seen her long before she saw him, but, from experience, +was afraid of frightening her. He had therefore drawn gradually near, +and sat as if unaware of her presence. Treating her as he would a bird +with which he wanted to make better acquaintance, he would have her +get accustomed to the look of him before he made advances. But when he +saw her run in the direction of the swamp, knowing what a dangerous +place it was, he was terrified, sprung to his feet, and darted off to +get between her and the danger. She heard him coming like the wind +at her back, and, whether from bewilderment, or that she did intend +throwing herself into the water to escape him, instead of pursuing her +former design, she made straight for the swamp. But was the beast-boy +ubiquitous? As she approached the place, there he was, on the edge of +a great hole half full of water, as if he had been sitting there for +an hour! Was he going to drown her in that hole? She turned again, +and ran towards the descent of the mountain. But there Gibbie feared +a certain precipitous spot; and, besides, there was no path in that +direction. So Ginevra had not run far before again she saw him right in +her way. She threw herself on the ground in despair, and hid her face. +After thus hunting her as a cat might a mouse, or a lion a man, what +could she look for but that he would pounce upon her, and tear her to +pieces? Fearfully expectant of the horrible grasp, she lay breathless. +But nothing came. Still she lay, and still nothing came. Could it be +that she was dreaming? In dreams generally the hideous thing never +arrived. But she dared not look up. She lay and lay, weary and still, +with the terror slowly ebbing away out of her. At length to her ears +came a strange sweet voice of singing—such a sound as she had never +heard before. It seemed to come from far away: what if it should be an +angel God was sending, in answer after all to her prayer, to deliver +her from the beast-boy! He would of course want some time to come, and +certainly no harm had happened to her yet. The sound grew and grew, and +came nearer and nearer. But although it was song, she could distinguish +no vowel-melody in it, nothing but a tone-melody, a crooning, as it +were, ever upon one vowel in a minor key. It came quite near at length, +and yet even then had something of the far away sound left in it. It +was like the wind of a summer night inside a great church bell in a +deserted tower. It came close, and ceased suddenly, as if, like a +lark, the angel ceased to sing the moment he lighted. She opened her +eyes and looked up. Over her stood the beast-boy, gazing down upon +her! Could it really be the beast-boy? If so, then he was fascinating +her, to devour her the more easily, as she had read of snakes doing to +birds; but she could not believe it. Still—she could not take her eyes +off him—that was certain. But no marvel! From under a great crown of +reddish gold, looked out two eyes of heaven’s own blue, and through the +eyes looked out something that dwells behind the sky and every blue +thing. What if the angel, to try her, had taken to himself the form +of the beast-boy? No beast-boy could sing like what she had heard, or +look like what she now saw! She lay motionless, flat on the ground, her +face turned sideways upon her hands, and her eyes fixed on the heavenly +vision. Then a curious feeling began to wake in her of having seen him +before—somewhere, ever so long ago—and that sight of him as well +as this had to do with misery—with something that made a stain that +would not come out. Yes—it was the very face, only larger, and still +sweeter, of the little naked child whom Angus had so cruelly lashed! +That was ages ago, but she had not forgotten, and never could forget +either the child’s back, or the lovely innocent white face that he +turned round upon her. If it was indeed he, perhaps he would remember +her. In any case, she was now certain he would not hurt her.</p> + +<p>While she looked at him thus, Gibbie’s face grew grave: seldom was his +grave when fronting the face of a fellow-creature, but now he too was +remembering, and trying to recollect; as through a dream of sickness +and pain he saw a face like the one before him, yet not the same.</p> + +<p>Ginevra recollected first, and a sweet slow diffident smile crept like +a dawn up from the depth of her under-world to the sky of her face, but +settled in her eyes, and made two stars of them. Then rose the very sun +himself in Gibbie’s, and flashed a full response of daylight—a smile +that no woman, girl, or matron, could mistrust.</p> + +<p>From brow to chin his face was radiant. The sun of this world had made +his nest in his hair, but the smile below it seemed to dim the aureole +he wore. Timidly yet trustingly Ginevra took one hand from under her +cheek, and stretched it up to him. He clasped it gently. She moved, and +he helped her to rise.</p> + +<p>“I’ve lost Nicie,” she said.</p> + +<p>Gibbie nodded, but did not look concerned.</p> + +<p>“Nicie is my maid,” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>Gibbie nodded several times. He knew who Nicie was rather better than +her mistress.</p> + +<p>“I left her away back there, a long, long time ago, and she has never +come to me,” she said.</p> + +<p>Gibbie gave a shrill loud whistle that startled her. In a few seconds, +from somewhere unseen, a dog came bounding to him over stones and +heather. How he spoke to the dog, or what he told him to do, she had +not an idea; but the next instant Oscar was rushing along the path she +had come, and was presently out of sight. So full of life was Gibbie, +so quick and decided was his every motion, so full of expression his +every glance and smile, that she had not yet begun to wonder he had +not spoken; indeed she was hardly yet aware of the fact. She knew him +now for a mortal, but, just as it had been with Donal and his mother, +he continued to affect her as a creature of some higher world, come +down on a mission of good-will to men. At the same time she had, oddly +enough, a feeling as if the beast-boy were still somewhere not far off, +held aloof only by the presence of the angel who had assumed his shape.</p> + +<p>Gibbie took her hand, and led her towards the path she had left; she +yielded without a movement of question. But he did not lead her far +in that direction; he turned to the left up the mountain. It grew +wilder as they ascended. But the air was so thin and invigorating, the +changes so curious and interesting, as now they skirted the edge of a +precipitous rock, now scrambled up the steepest of paths by the help of +the heather that nearly closed over it, and the reaction of relief from +the terror she had suffered so exciting, that she never for a moment +felt tired. Then they went down the side of a little burn—a torrent +when the snow was dissolving, and even now a good stream, whose dance +and song delighted her: it was the same, as she learned afterwards, to +whose song under her window she listened every night in bed, trying in +vain to make out the melted tune. Ever after she knew this, it seemed, +as she listened, to come straight from the mountain to her window, +with news of the stars and the heather and the sheep. They crossed the +burn and climbed the opposite bank. Then Gibbie pointed, and there was +the cottage, and there was Nicie coming up the path to it, with Oscar +bounding before her! The dog was merry, but Nicie was weeping bitterly. +They were a good way off, with another larger burn between; but Gibbie +whistled, and Oscar came flying to him. Nicie looked up, gave a cry, +and like a sheep to her lost lamb came running.</p> + +<p>“Oh, missie!” she said, breathless, as she reached the opposite bank of +the burn, and her tone had more than a touch of sorrowful reproach in +it, “what garred ye rin awa?”</p> + +<p>“There <i>was</i> a road, Nicie, and I thought you would come after me.”</p> + +<p>“I was a muckle geese, missie; but eh! I’m glaid I hae gotten ye. Come +awa an’ see my mither.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Nicie. We’ll tell her all about it. You see I haven’t got a +mother to tell, so I will tell yours.”</p> + +<p>From that hour Nicie’s mother was a mother to Ginny as well.</p> + +<p>“Anither o’ ’s lambs to feed!” she said to herself.</p> + +<p>If a woman be a mother she may have plenty of children.</p> + +<p>Never before had Ginny spent such a happy day, drunk such milk as +Crummie’s, or eaten such cakes as Janet’s. She saw no more of Gibbie: +the moment she was safe, he and Oscar were off again to the sheep, for +Robert was busy cutting peats that day, and Gibbie was in sole charge. +Eager to know about him, Ginevra gathered all that Janet could tell of +his story, and in return told the little she had seen of it, which was +the one dreadful point.</p> + +<p>“Is he a good boy, Mistress Grant?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“The best boy ever I kenned—better nor my ain Donal, an’ he was the +best afore him,” answered Janet.</p> + +<p>Ginny gave a little sigh, and wished she were good.</p> + +<p>“Whan saw ye Donal?” asked Janet of Nicie.</p> + +<p>“No this lang time—no sin I was here last,” answered Nicie, who did +not now get home so often as the rest.</p> + +<p>“I was thinkin’,” returned her mother, “ye sud ’maist see him noo frae +the back o’ the muckle hoose; for he was tellin’ me he was wi’ the +nowt’ i’ the new meadow upo’ the Lorrie bank, ’at missie’s papa boucht +frae Jeames Glass.”</p> + +<p>“Ow, is he there?” said Nicie. “I’ll maybe get sicht, gien I dinna get +word o’ him. He cam ance to the kitchie-door to see me, but Mistress +MacFarlane wadna lat him in. She wad hae nae loons comin’ aboot the +place she said. I said ’at hoo he was my brither. She said, says she, +that was naething to her, an’ she wad hae no brithers. My sister micht +come whiles, she said, gien she camna ower aften; but lasses had +naething to dee wi’ brithers. Wha was to tell wha was or wha wasna +my brither? I tellt her ’at a’ my brithers was weel kenned for douce +laads; an’ she tellt me to haud my tongue, an’ no speyk up; an’ I cud +hae jist gi’en her a guid cloot o’ the lug—I was that angert wi’ her.”</p> + +<p>“She’ll be soary for ’t some day,” said Janet, with a quiet smile; “an’ +what a body’s sure to be soary for, ye may as weel forgie them at ance.”</p> + +<p>“Hoo ken ye, mither, she’ll be soary for ’t?” asked Nicie, not very +willing to forgive Mistress MacFarlane.</p> + +<p>“’Cause the Maister says ’at we’ll hae to pey the uttermost fardin’. +There’s naebody ’ill be latten aff. We maun dee oor neeper richt.”</p> + +<p>“But michtna the Maister himsel’ forgie her?” suggested Nicie, a little +puzzled.</p> + +<p>“Lassie,” said her mother solemnly, “ye dinna surely think ’at the +Lord’s forgifness is to lat fowk aff ohn repentit? That wad be a +strange fawvour to grant them! He winna hurt mair nor he can help; but +the grue (<i>horror</i>) maun mak w’y for the grace. I’m sure it was sae +whan I gied you yer whups, lass. I’ll no say aboot some o’ the first +o’ ye, for at that time I didna ken sae weel what I was aboot, an’ was +mair angert whiles nor there was ony occasion for—tuik my beam to dang +their motes. I hae been sair tribled aboot it, mony’s the time.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, mither!” said Nicie, shocked at the idea of her reproaching +herself about anything concerning her children, “I’m weel sure there’s +no ane o’ them wad think, no to say <i>say</i>, sic a thing.”</p> + +<p>“I daursay ye’re richt there, lass. I think whiles a woman’s bairns are +like the God they cam frae—aye ready to forgie her onything.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra went home with a good many things to think about.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX.<br><span class="small">THE LORRIE MEADOW.</span></h2></div> + +<p>It was high time, according to agricultural economics, that Donal Grant +should be promoted a step in the ranks of labour. A youth like him was +fit for horses and their work, and looked idle in a field with cattle. +But Donal was not ambitious, at least in that direction. He was more +and more in love with books, and learning and the music of thought +and word; and he knew well that no one doing a man’s work upon a farm +could have much time left for study—certainly not a quarter of what +the herd-boy could command. Therefore, with his parents’ approval, he +continued to fill the humbler office, and receive the scantier wages +belonging to it.</p> + +<p>The day following their adventure on Glashgar, in the afternoon, Nicie +being in the grounds with her little mistress, proposed that they +should look whether they could see her brother down in the meadow of +which her mother had spoken. Ginevra willingly agreed, and they took +their way through the shrubbery to a certain tall hedge which divided +the grounds from a little grove of larches on the slope of a steep bank +descending to the Lorrie, on the other side of which lay the meadow. It +was a hawthorn hedge, very old, and near the ground very thin, so that +they easily found a place to creep through. But they were no better on +the other side, for the larches hid the meadow. They went down through +them, therefore, to the bank of the little river—the largest tributary +of the Daur from the roots of Glashgar.</p> + +<p>“There he is!” cried Nicie.</p> + +<p>“I see him,” responded Ginny, “—with his cows all about the meadow.”</p> + +<p>Donal sat a little way from the river, reading.</p> + +<p>“He’s aye at ’s buik!” said Nicie.</p> + +<p>“I wonder what book it is,” said Ginny.</p> + +<p>“That wad be ill to say,” answered Nicie. “Donal reads a hantle o’ +buiks—mair, his mither says, nor she doobts he can weel get the guid +o’.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think it’s Latin, Nicie?”</p> + +<p>“Ow! I daursay. But no; it canna be Laitin—for, leuk! he’s lauchin’, +an’ he cudna dee that gien ’twar Laitin. I’m thinkin’ it’ll be a story: +there’s a heap o’ them prentit noo, they tell me. Or ’deed maybe it +may be a sang. He thinks a heap o’ sangs. I h’ard my mither ance say +she was some feart Donal micht hae ta’en to makin’ sangs himsel’; no +’at there was ony ill i’ that, she said, gien there wasna ony ill i’ +the sangs themsel’s; but it was jist some trifflin’ like, she said, +an’ they luikit for better frae Donal, wi’ a’ his buik lear, an’ his +Euclid—or what ca’ they ’t?—nor makin’ sangs.”</p> + +<p>“What’s Euclid, Nicie?”</p> + +<p>“Ye may weel speir, missie! but I hae ill tellin’ ye. It’s a keerious +name till a buik, an’ min’s me o’ naething but whan the lid o’ yer e’e +yeuks (<i>itches</i>); an’ as to what lies atween the twa brods o’ ’t, I ken +no more nor the man i’ the meen.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to ask Donal what book he has got,” said Ginny.</p> + +<p>“I’ll cry till ’im, an’ ye can speir,” said Nicie.—“Donal!—Donal!”</p> + +<p>Donal looked up, and seeing his sister, came running to the bank of the +stream.</p> + +<p>“Canna ye come ower, Donal?” said Nicie. “Here’s Miss Galbraith wants +to speir ye a quest’on.”</p> + +<p>Donal was across in a moment, for here the water was nowhere over a +foot or two in depth.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Donal! you’ve wet your feet!” cried Ginevra.</p> + +<p>Donal laughed.</p> + +<p>“What ill ’ill that dee me, mem?”</p> + +<p>“None, I hope,” said Ginny; “but it might, you know.”</p> + +<p>“I micht hae been droont,” said Donal.</p> + +<p>“Nicie,” said Ginny, with dignity, “your brother is laughing at me.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, mem,” said Donal, apologetically. “I was only so glaid to see +you an’ Nicie ’at I forgot my mainners.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” returned Ginny, quite satisfied, “would you mind telling me +what book you were reading?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a buik o’ ballants,” answered Donal. “I’ll read ane o’ them till +ye, gien ye like, mem.”</p> + +<p>“I should like very much,” responded Ginny. “I’ve read all my own books +till I’m tired of them, and I don’t like papa’s books.—And, do you +know, Donal!”—Here the child-woman’s voice grew solemn sad—“—I’m +very sorry, and I’m frightened to say it; and if you weren’t Nicie’s +brother, I couldn’t say it to you;—but I am very tired of the Bible +too.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a peety, mem,” replied Donal. “I wad hae ye no tell onybody +that; for them ’at likes ’t no a hair better themsel’s, ’ill tak ye for +waur nor a haithen for sayin’ ’t. Jist gang ye up to my mither, an’ +tell <i>her</i> a’ aboot it. She’s aye fair to a’ body, an’ never thinks ill +o’ onybody ’at says the trowth—whan it’s no for contrariness. She says +’at a heap o’ ill comes o’ fowk no speykin’ oot what they ken, or what +they’re thinkin’, but aye guissin’ at what they dinna ken, an’ what +ither fowk’s thinkin’.”</p> + +<p>“Ay!” said Nicie, “it wad be a gey cheenged warl’ gien fowk gaed to my +mither, an’ did as she wad hae them. She says fowk sud never tell but +the ill they ken o’ themsel’s, an’ the guid they ken o’ ither fowk; an’ +that’s jist the contrar’, ye ken, missie, to what fowk maist dis dee.”</p> + +<p>A pause naturally followed, which Ginny broke.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you told me the <i>name</i> of the book you were reading, +Donal,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Gien ye wad sit doon a meenute, mem,” returned Donal, “—here’s a +bonnie gowany spot—I wad read a bit till ye, an’ see gien ye likit it, +afore I tellt ye the name o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>She dropped at once on the little gowany bed, gathered her frock about +her ankles, and said,</p> + +<p>“Sit down, Nicie. It’s so kind of Donal to read something to us! I +wonder what it’s going to be.”</p> + +<p>She uttered everything in a deliberate, old-fashioned way, with precise +articulation, and a certain manner that an English mother would have +called priggish, but which was only the outcome of Scotch stiffness, +her father’s rebukes, and her own sense of propriety.</p> + +<p>Donal read the ballad of <i>Kemp Owen</i>.</p> + +<p>“I think—I think—I don’t think I understand it,” said Ginevra. “It is +very dreadful, and—and—I don’t know what to think. Tell me about it, +Donal.—Do <i>you</i> know what it means, Nicie?”</p> + +<p>“No ae glimp, missie,” answered Nicie.</p> + +<p>Donal proceeded at once to an exposition. He told them that the serpent +was a lady, enchanted by a wicked witch, who, after she had changed +her, twisted her three times round the tree, so that she could not undo +herself, and laid the spell upon her that she should never have the +shape of a woman, until a knight kissed her as often as she was twisted +round the tree. Then, when the knight did come, at every kiss a coil of +her body unwound itself, until, at the last kiss, she stood before him +the beautiful lady she really was.</p> + +<p>“What a good, kind, brave knight!” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“But it’s no true, ye ken, missie,” said Nicie, anxious that she should +not be misled. “It’s naething but Donal’s nonsense.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense here, nonsense there!” said Donal, “I see a heap o’ sense +intil ’t. But nonsense or no, Nicie, its nane o’ <i>my</i> nonsense: I wuss +it war. It’s hun’ers o’ years auld, that ballant, I s’ warran’.”</p> + +<p>“It’s <i>beautiful</i>,” said Ginevra, with decision and dignity. “I hope he +married the lady, and they lived happy ever after.”</p> + +<p>“I dinna ken, mem. The man ’at made the ballant, I daursay, thoucht him +weel payed gien the bonnie leddy said <i>thank ye</i> till him.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! but, Donal, that wouldn’t be enough!—Would it, Nicie?”</p> + +<p>“Weel, ye see, missie,” answered Nicie, “he but gae her three +kisses—that wasna sae muckle to wur (<i>lay out</i>) upon a body.”</p> + +<p>“But a serpent!—a serpent’s mouth, Nicie!”</p> + +<p>Here, unhappily, Donal had to rush through the burn without +leave-taking, for Hornie was attempting a trespass; and the two girls, +thinking it was time to go home, rose, and climbed to the house at +their leisure.</p> + +<p>The rest of the day Ginevra talked of little else than the serpent lady +and the brave knight, saying now and then what a nice boy that Donal +of Nicie’s was. Nor was more than the gentlest hint necessary to make +Nicie remark, the next morning, that perhaps, if they went down again +to the Lorrie, Donal might come, and bring the book. But when they +reached the bank and looked across, they saw him occupied with Gibbie. +They had their heads close together over a slate, upon which now the +one, now the other, seemed to be drawing. This went on and on, and they +never looked up. Ginny would have gone home, and come again in the +afternoon, but Nicie instantly called Donal. He sprang to his feet and +came to them, followed by Gibbie. Donal crossed the burn, but Gibbie +remained on the other side, and when presently Donal took his “buik o’ +ballants” from his pocket, and the little company seated themselves, +stood with his back to them, and his eyes on the <i>nowt</i>. That morning +they were not interrupted.</p> + +<p>Donal read to them for a whole hour, concerning which reading, and +Ginevra’s reception of it, Nicie declared she could not see what +for they made sic a wark aboot a wheen auld ballants, ane efter +anither.—“They’re no half sae bonnie as the paraphrases, Donal,” she +said.</p> + +<p>After this, Ginevra went frequently with Nicie to see her mother, and +learned much of the best from her. Often also they went down to the +Lorrie, and had an interview with Donal, which was longer or shorter as +Gibbie was there or not to release him.</p> + +<p>Ginny’s life was now far happier than it had ever been. New channels +of thought and feeling were opened, new questions were started, new +interests awaked; so that, instead of losing by Miss Machar’s continued +inability to teach her, she was learning far more than she could give +her, learning it, too, with the pleasure which invariably accompanies +true learning.</p> + +<p>Little more than child as she was, Donal felt from the first the charm +of her society; and she by no means received without giving, for his +mental development was greatly expedited thereby. Few weeks passed +before he was her humble squire, devoted to her with all the chivalry +of a youth for a girl whom he supposes as much his superior in kind as +she is in worldly position; his sole advantage, in his own judgment, +and that which alone procured him the privilege of her society, +being, that he was older, and therefore knew a little more. So potent +and genial was her influence on his imagination, that, without once +thinking of her as their object, he now first found himself capable of +making verses—such as they were; and one day, with his book before +him—it was Burns, and he had been reading the Gowan poem to Ginevra +and his sister—he ventured to repeat, as if he read them from the +book, the following: they halted a little, no doubt, in rhythm, neither +were perfectly rimed, but for a beginning, they had promise. Gibbie, +who had thrown himself down on the other bank, and lay listening, at +once detected the change in the tone of his utterance, and before he +ceased had concluded that he was not reading them, and that they were +his own.</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rin, burnie! clatter;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the sea win:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gien I was a watter,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sae wad I rin.</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blaw, win’, caller, clean!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Here an’ hyne awa:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gien I was a win’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wadna I blaw!</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shine, auld sun,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shine strang an’ fine:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gien I was the sun’s son,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Herty I wad shine.</span><br> +</p> +<p>Hardly had he ended, when Gibbie’s pipes began from the opposite side +of the water, and, true to time and cadence and feeling, followed with +just the one air to suit the song—from which Donal, to his no small +comfort, understood that one at least of his audience had <i>received</i> +his lilt. If the poorest nature in the world responds with the tune +to the mightiest master’s song, he knows, if not another echo should +come back, that he has uttered a true cry. But Ginevra had not received +it, and being therefore of her own mind, and not of the song’s, was +critical. It is of the true things it does not, perhaps cannot receive, +that human nature is most critical.</p> + +<p>“That one is nonsense, Donal,” she said. “Isn’t it now? How could a man +be a burn, or a wind, or the sun? But poets are silly. Papa says so.”</p> + +<p>In his mind Donal did not know which way to look; physically, he +regarded the ground. Happily at that very moment Hornie caused a +diversion, and Gibbie understood what Donal was feeling too well to +make even a pretence of going after her. I must, to his praise, record +the fact that, instead of wreaking his mortification upon the cow, +Donal spared her several blows out of gratitude for the deliverance +her misbehaviour had wrought him. He was in no haste to return to his +audience. To have his first poem <i>thus</i> rejected was killing. She was +but a child who had so unkindly criticized it, but she was the child +he wanted to please; and for a few moments life itself seemed scarcely +worth having. He called himself a fool, and resolved never to read +another poem to a girl so long as he lived. By the time he had again +walked through the burn, however, he was calm and comparatively wise, +and knew what to say.</p> + +<p>“Div ye hear yon burn efter ye gang to yer bed, mem?” he asked Ginevra, +as he climbed the bank, pointing a little lower down the stream to the +mountain brook which there joined it.</p> + +<p>“Always,” she answered. “It runs right under my window.”</p> + +<p>“What kin’ o’ a din dis ’t mak?” he asked again.</p> + +<p>“It is different at different times,” she answered. “It sings and +chatters in summer, and growls and cries and grumbles in winter, or +after rain up in Glashgar.”</p> + +<p>“Div ye think the burn’s ony happier i’ the summer, mem?”</p> + +<p>“No, Donal; the burn has no life in it, and therefore can’t be happier +one time than another.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, mem, I wad jist like to speir what waur it is to fancy yersel’ +a burn, than to fancy the burn a body, ae time singin’ an’ chatterin’, +an’ the neist growlin’ an’ grum’lin’.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but, Donal, <i>can</i> a man be a burn?”</p> + +<p>“Weel, mem, <i>no</i>—at least no i’ this warl’, an’ at ’is ain wull. But +whan ye’re lyin’ hearkenin’ to the burn, did ye never imaigine yersel’ +rinnin’ doon wi’ ’t—doon to the sea?”</p> + +<p>“No, Donal; I always fancy myself going up the mountain where it comes +from, and running about wild there in the wind, when all the time I +know I’m safe and warm in bed.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, maybe that’s better yet—I wadna say,” answered Donal; “but +jist the nicht, for a cheenge like, ye turn an’ gang doon wi’ ’t—i’ +yer thouchts, I mean. Lie an’ hearken herty till ’t the nicht, whan +ye’re i’ yer bed; hearken an’ hearken till the soon’ rins awa wi’ ye +like, an’ ye forget a’ aboot yersel’, an’ think yersel’ awa wi’ the +burn, rinnin’, rinnin’, throu’ this an’ throu’ that, throu’ stanes an’ +birks an’ bracken, throu’ heather, an’ plooed lan’ an’ corn, an’ wuds +an’ gairdens, aye singin’, an’ aye cheengin’ yer tune accordin’, till +it wins to the muckle roarin’ sea, an’ ’s a’ tint. An’ the first nicht +’at the win’ ’s up an’ awa, dee the same, mem, wi’ the win’. Get up +upo’ the back o’ ’t, like, as gien it was yer muckle horse, an’ jist +ride him to the deith; an’ efter that, gien ye dinna maybe jist wuss +’at ye was a burn or a blawin’ win’—aither wad be a sair loss to the +universe—ye wunna, I’m thinkin’, be sae ready to fin’ fau’t wi’ the +chiel ’at made yon bit sangie.”</p> + +<p>“Are you vexed with me, Donal?—I’m <i>so</i> sorry!” said Ginevra, taking +the earnestness of his tone for displeasure.</p> + +<p>“Na, na, mem. Ye’re ower guid an’ ower bonnie,” answered Donal, “to be +a vex to onybody; but it <i>wad</i> be a vex to hear sic a cratur as you +speykin’ like ane o’ the fules o’ the warl’, ’at believe i’ naething +but what comes in at the holes i’ their heid.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra was silent. She could not quite understand Donal, but she felt +she must be wrong somehow; and of this she was the more convinced when +she saw the beautiful eyes of Gibbie fixed in admiration, and brimful +of love, upon Donal.</p> + +<p>The way Donal kept his vow never to read another poem of his own to a +girl, was to proceed that very night to make another for the express +purpose, as he lay awake in the darkness.</p> + +<p>The last one he ever read to her in that meadow was this:</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What gars ye sing, said the herd laddie,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What gars ye sing sae lood?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To tice them oot o’ the yaird, laddie,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The worms, for my daily food.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ aye he sang, an’ better he sang,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">An’ the worms creepit in an’ oot;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ ane he tuik, an’ twa he loot gang,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">But still he carolled stoot.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It’s no for the worms, sir, said the herd,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They comena for yer sang.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Think ye sae, sir? answered the bird,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Maybe ye’re no i’ the wrang.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But aye &c.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sing ye yoong sorrow to beguile</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or to gie auld fear the flegs?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Na, quo’ the mavis; it’s but to wile</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My wee things oot o’ her eggs.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ aye &c.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The mistress is plenty for that same gear,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Though ye sangna ear’ nor late.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It’s to draw the deid frae the moul’ sae drear,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ open the kirkyaird gate.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ aye &c.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Na, na; it’s a better sang nor yer ain,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Though ye hae o’ notes a feck,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’At wad mak auld Barebanes there sae fain</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As to lift the muckle sneck!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But aye &c.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Better ye sing nor a burn i’ the mune,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nor a wave ower san’ that flows,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor a win’ wi’ the glintin’ stars abune,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ aneth the roses in rows;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ aye &c.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I’ll speir ye nae mair, sir, said the herd.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I fear what ye micht say neist.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye wad but won’er the mair, said the bird,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To see the thouchts i’ my breist.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And aye he sang, an’ better he sang,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">An’ the worms creepit in an’ oot;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">An’ ane he tuik, an’ twa he loot gang,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But still he carolled stoot.</span><br> +</p> +<p>I doubt whether Ginevra understood this song better than the first, +but she was now more careful of criticizing; and when by degrees it +dawned upon her that he was the maker of these and other verses he +read, she grew half afraid of Donal, and began to regard him with big +eyes; he became, from a herd-boy, an unintelligible person, therefore +a wonder. For, brought thus face to face with the maker of verses, she +could not help trying to think how he did the thing; and as she felt +no possibility of making verses herself, it remained a mystery and an +astonishment, causing a great respect for the poet to mingle with the +kindness she felt towards Nicie’s brother.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI.<br><span class="small">THEIR REWARD.</span></h2></div> + +<p>By degrees Gibbie had come to be well known about the Mains and +Glashruach. Angus’s only recognition of him was a scowl in return for +his smile; but, as I have said, he gave him no farther annoyance, and +the tales about the beast-loon were dying out from Daurside. Jean Mavor +was a special friend to him: for she knew now well enough who had been +her brownie, and made him welcome as often as he showed himself with +Donal. Fergus was sometimes at home; sometimes away; but he was now +quite a fine gentleman, a student of theology, and only condescendingly +cognizant of the existence of Donal Grant. All he said to him when he +came home a master of arts, was, that he had expected better of him: +he ought to be something more than herd by this time. Donal smiled and +said nothing. He had just finished a little song that pleased him, +and could afford to be patronized. I am afraid, however, he was not +contented with that, but in his mind’s eye measured Fergus from top to +toe.</p> + +<p>In the autumn, Mr. Galbraith returned to Glashruach, but did not remain +long. His schemes were promising well, and his self-importance was +screwed yet a little higher in consequence. But he was kinder than +usual to Ginevra. Before he went he said to her that, as Mr. Machar +had sunk into a condition requiring his daughter’s constant attention, +he would find her an English governess as soon as he reached London; +meantime she must keep up her studies by herself as well as she could. +Probably he forgot all about it, for the governess was not heard of at +Glashruach, and things fell into their old way. There was no spiritual +traffic between the father and daughter, consequently Ginevra never +said anything about Donal or Gibbie, or her friendship for Nicie. He +had himself to blame altogether; he had made it impossible for her to +talk to him. But it was well he remained in ignorance, and so did not +put a stop to the best education she could at this time of her life +have been having—such as neither he nor any friend of his could have +given her.</p> + +<p>It was interrupted, however, by the arrival of the winter—a wild time +in that region, fierce storm alternating with the calm of death. After +howling nights, in which it seemed as if all the <i>polter-geister</i> of +the universe must be out on a disembodied lark, the mountains stood +there in the morning solemn still, each with his white turban of snow +unrumpled on his head, in the profoundest silence of blue air, as if +he had never in his life passed a more thoughtful, peaceful time than +the very last night of all. To such feet as Ginevra’s the cottage on +Glashgar was for months almost as inaccessible as if it had been in +Sirius. More than once the Daur was frozen thick; for weeks every beast +was an absolute prisoner to the byre, and for months was fed with straw +and turnips and potatoes and oilcake. Then was the time for stories; +and often in the long dark, while yet it was hours too early for bed, +would Ginevra go with Nicie, who was not much of a <i>raconteuse</i>, to the +kitchen, to get one of the other servants to tell her an old tale. For +even in his own daughter and his own kitchen, the great laird could not +extinguish the accursed superstition. Not a glimpse did Ginevra get all +this time of Donal or of Gibbie.</p> + +<p>At last, like one of its own flowers in its own bosom, the spring +began again to wake in God’s thought of his world; and the snow, like +all other deaths, had to melt and run, leaving room for hope; then +the summer woke smiling, as if she knew she had been asleep; and the +two youths and the two maidens met yet again on Lorrie bank, with the +brown water falling over the stones, the gold nuggets of the broom +hanging over the water, and the young larch-wood scenting the air all +up the brae side between them and the house, which the tall hedge hid +from their view. The four were a year older, a year nearer trouble, +and a year nearer getting out of it. Ginevra was more of a woman, +Donal more of a poet, Nicie as nice and much the same, and Gibbie, if +possible, more a foundling of the universe than ever. He was growing +steadily, and showed such freedom and ease, and his motions were all +so rapid and direct, that it was plain at a glance the beauty of his +countenance was in no manner or measure associated with weakness. The +mountain was a grand nursery for him, and the result, both physical and +spiritual, corresponded. Janet, who, better than anyone else, knew what +was in the mind of the boy, revered him as much as he revered her; the +first impression he made upon her had never worn off—had only changed +its colour a little. More even than a knowledge of the truth, is a +readiness to receive it; and Janet saw from the first that Gibbie’s +ignorance at its worst was but room vacant for the truth: when it came +it found bolt nor bar on door or window, but had immediate entrance. +The secret of this power of reception was, that to see a truth and +to do it was one and the same thing with Gibbie. To know and not do +would have seemed to him an impossibility, as it is in vital idea a +monstrosity.</p> + +<p>This unity of vision and action was the main cause also of a certain +daring simplicity in the exercise of the imagination, which so far from +misleading him reacted only in obedience—which is the truth of the +will—the truth, therefore, of the whole being. He did not do the less +well for his sheep, that he fancied they knew when Jesus Christ was on +the mountain, and always at such times both fed better and were more +frolicsome. He thought Oscar knew it also, and interpreted a certain +look of the dog by the supposition that he had caught a sign of the +bodily presence of his Maker. The direction in which his imagination +ran forward, was always that in which his reason pointed; and so long +as Gibbie’s fancies were bud-blooms upon his obedience, his imagination +could not be otherwise than in harmony with his reason. Imagination is +a poor root, but a worthy blossom, and in a nature like Gibbie’s its +flowers cannot fail to be lovely. For no outcome of a man’s nature is +so like himself as his imaginations, except it be his fancies, indeed. +Perhaps his imaginations show what he is meant to be, his fancies what +he is making of himself.</p> + +<p>In the summer, Mr. Galbraith, all unannounced, reappeared at +Glashruach, but so changed that, startled at the sight of him, Ginevra +stopped midway in her advance to greet him. The long thin man was now +haggard and worn; he looked sourer too, and more suspicious—either +that experience had made him so, or that he was less equal to the +veiling of his feelings in dignified indifference. He was annoyed that +his daughter should recognize an alteration in him, and, turning away, +leaned his head on the hand whose arm was already supported by the +mantelpiece, and took no further notice of her presence; but perhaps +conscience also had something to do with this behaviour. Ginevra knew +from experience that the sight of tears would enrage him, and with all +her might repressed those she felt beginning to rise. She went up to +him timidly, and took the hand that hung by his side. He did not repel +her—that is, he did not push her away, or even withdraw his hand, but +he left it hanging lifeless, and returned with it no pressure upon +hers—which was much worse.</p> + +<p>“Is anything the matter, papa?” she asked with trembling voice.</p> + +<p>“I am not aware that I have been in the habit of communicating with you +on the subject of my affairs,” he answered; “nor am I likely to begin +to do so, where my return after so long an absence seems to give so +little satisfaction.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, papa! I was frightened to see you looking so ill.”</p> + +<p>“Such a remark upon my personal appearance is but a poor recognition of +my labours for your benefit, I venture to think, Jenny,” he said.</p> + +<p>He was at the moment contemplating, as a necessity, the sale of every +foot of the property her mother had brought him. Nothing less would +serve to keep up his credit, and gain time to disguise more than one +failing scheme. Everything had of late been going so badly, that he had +lost a good deal of his confidence and self-satisfaction; but he had +gained no humility instead. It had not dawned upon him yet that he was +not unfortunate, but unworthy. The gain of such a conviction is to a +man enough to outweigh infinitely any loss that even his unworthiness +can have caused him; for it involves some perception of the worthiness +of the truth, and makes way for the utter consolation which the birth +of that truth in himself will bring. As yet Mr. Galbraith was but +overwhelmed with care for a self which, so far as he had to do with the +making of it, was of small value indeed, although in the possibility, +which is the birthright of every creature, it was, not less than that +of the wretchedest of dog-licked Lazaruses, of a value by himself +unsuspected and inappreciable. That he should behave so cruelly to +his one child, was not unnatural to that self with which he was so +much occupied: failure had weakened that command of behaviour which so +frequently gains the credit belonging only to justice and kindness, +and a temper which never was good, but always feeling the chain, was +ready at once to show its ugly teeth. He was a proud man, whose pride +was always catching cold from his heart. He might have lived a hundred +years in the same house with a child that was not his own, without +feeling for her a single movement of affection.</p> + +<p>The servants found more change in him than Ginevra did; his relations +with them, if not better conceived than his paternal ones, had been +less evidently defective. Now he found fault with every one, so +that even Joseph dared hardly open his mouth, and said he must give +warning. The day after his arrival, having spent the morning with Angus +walking over certain fields, much desired, he knew, of a neighbouring +proprietor, inwardly calculating the utmost he could venture to ask +for them with a chance of selling, he scolded Ginevra severely on his +return because she had not had lunch, but had waited for him; whereas +a little reflection might have shown him she dared not take it without +him. Naturally, therefore, she could not now eat, because of a certain +sensation in her throat. The instant he saw she was not eating, he +ordered her out of the room: he would have no such airs in his family! +By the end of the week—he arrived on the Tuesday—such a sense of +estrangement possessed Ginevra, that she would turn on the stair and +run up again, if she heard her father’s voice below. Her aversion +to meeting him, he became aware of, and felt relieved in regard to +the wrong he was doing his wife, by reflecting upon her daughter’s +behaviour towards him; for he had a strong constitutional sense of what +was fair, and a conscience disobeyed becomes a cancer.</p> + +<p>In this evil mood he received from some one—all his life Donal +believed it was Fergus—a hint concerning the relations between his +daughter and his tenant’s herd-boy. To describe his feelings at the +bare fact that such a hint was possible, would be more labour than the +result would repay.—What! his own flesh and blood, the heiress of +Glashruach, derive pleasure from the boorish talk of such a companion! +It could not be true, when the mere thought, without the belief of it, +filled him with such indignation! He was overwhelmed with a righteous +disgust. He did himself the justice of making himself certain before +he took measures; but he never thought of doing them the justice of +acquainting himself first with the nature of the intercourse they held. +But it mattered little; for he would have found nothing in that to give +him satisfaction, even if the thing itself had not been outrageous. He +watched and waited, and more than once pretended to go from home: at +last one morning, from the larch-wood, he saw the unnatural girl seated +with her maid on the bank of the river, the cow-herd reading to them, +and on the other side the dumb idiot lying listening. He was almost +beside himself—with what, I can hardly define. In a loud voice of bare +command he called to her to come to him. With a glance of terror at +Nicie she rose, and they went up through the larches together.</p> + +<p>I will not spend my labour upon a reproduction of the verbal torrent of +wrath, wounded dignity, disgust, and contempt, with which the father +assailed his shrinking, delicate, honest-minded woman-child. For Nicie, +he dismissed her on the spot. Not another night would he endure her in +the house, after her abominable breach of confidence! She had to depart +without even a good-bye from Ginevra, and went home weeping in great +dread of what her mother would say.</p> + +<p>“Lassie,” said Janet, when she heard her story, “gien onybody be to +blame it’s mysel’; for ye loot me ken ye gaed whiles wi’ yer bonnie +missie to hae a news wi’ Donal, an’ I saw an’ see noucht ’at’s wrang +intil ’t. But the fowk o’ this warl’ has ither w’ys o’ jeedgin’ o’ +things, an’ I maun bethink mysel’ what lesson o’ the serpent’s wisdom I +hae to learn frae ’t. Ye’re walcome hame, my bonnie lass. Ye ken I aye +keep the wee closet ready for ony o’ ye ’at micht come ohn expeckit.”</p> + +<p>Nicie, however, had not long to occupy the closet, for those of her +breed were in demand in the country.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII.<br><span class="small">PROLOGUE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Ever since he became a dweller in the air of Glashgar, Gibbie, mindful +of his first visit thereto, and of his grand experience on that +occasion, had been in the habit, as often as he saw reason to expect a +thunder-storm, and his duties would permit, of ascending the mountain, +and there on the crest of the granite peak, awaiting the arrival of +the tumult. Everything antagonistic in the boy, everything that could +naturally find relief, or pleasure, or simple outcome, in resistance or +contention, debarred as it was by the exuberance of his loving kindness +from obtaining satisfaction or alleviation in strife with his fellows, +found it wherever he could encounter the forces of Nature, in personal +wrestle with them where possible, and always in wildest sympathy with +any uproar of the elements. The absence of personality in them allowed +the co-existence of sympathy and antagonism in respect of them. Except +those truths awaking delight at once calm and profound, of which so few +know the power, and the direct influence of human relation, Gibbie’s +emotional joy was more stirred by storm than by anything else; and +with all forms of it he was so familiar that, young as he was, he had +unconsciously begun to generalize on its phases.</p> + +<p>Towards the evening of a wondrously fine day in the beginning of +August—a perfect day of summer in her matronly beauty, it began +to rain. All the next day the slopes and stairs of Glashgar were +alternately glowing in sunshine, and swept with heavy showers, driven +slanting in strong gusts of wind from the northwest. How often he was +wet through and dried again that day, Gibbie could not have told. He +wore so little that either took but a few moments, and he was always +ready for a change. The wind and the rain together were cold, but that +only served to let the sunshine deeper into him when it returned.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon there was less sun, more rain, and more wind; and +at last the sun seemed to give it up; the wind grew to a hurricane, +and the rain strove with it which should inhabit the space. The whole +upper region was like a huge mortar, in which the wind was the pestle, +and, with innumerable gyres, vainly ground at the rain. Gibbie drove +his sheep to the refuge of a pen on the lower slope of a valley that +ran at right angles to the wind, where they were sheltered by a rock +behind, forming one side of the enclosure, and dykes of loose stones, +forming the others, at a height there was no tradition of any flood +having reached. He then went home, and having told Robert what he had +done, and had his supper, set out in the early-failing light, to ascend +the mountain. A great thunder-storm was at hand, and was calling him. +It was almost dark before he reached the top, but he knew the surface +of Glashgar nearly as well as the floor of the cottage. Just as he +had fought his way to the crest of the peak in the face of one of the +fiercest of the blasts abroad that night, a sudden rush of fire made +the heavens like the smoke-filled vault of an oven, and at once the +thunder followed, in a succession of single sharp explosions without +any roll between. The mountain shook with the windy shocks, but the +first of the thunder-storm was the worst, and it soon passed. The wind +and the rain continued, and the darkness was filled with the rush of +the water everywhere wildly tearing down the sides of the mountain. +Thus heaven and earth held communication in torrents all the night. +Down the steeps of the limpid air they ran to the hard sides of the +hills, where at once, as if they were no longer at home, and did not +like the change, they began to work mischief. To the ears and heart +of Gibbie their noises were a mass of broken music. Every spring and +autumn the floods came, and he knew them, and they were welcome to him +in their seasons.</p> + +<p>It required some care to find his way down through the darkness and the +waters to the cottage, but as he was neither in fear nor in haste, he +was in little danger, and his hands and feet could pick out the path +where his eyes were useless. When at length he reached his bed, it was +not for a long time to sleep, but to lie awake and listen to the raging +of the wind all about and above and below the cottage, and the rushing +of the streams down past it on every side. To his imagination it was as +if he lay in the very bed of the channel by which the waters of heaven +were shooting to the valleys of the earth; and when he fell asleep at +last, his dream was of the rush of the river of the water of life from +under the throne of God; and he saw men drink thereof, and everyone as +he drank straightway knew that he was one with the Father, and one with +every child of his throughout the infinite universe.</p> + +<p>He woke, and what remained of his dream was love in his heart, and +in his ears the sound of many waters. It was morning. He rose, and, +dressing hastily, opened the door. What a picture of grey storm rose +outspread before him! The wind fiercely invaded the cottage, thick +charged with water-drops, and stepping out he shut the door in haste, +lest it should blow upon the old people in bed and wake them. He could +not see far on any side, for the rain that fell, and the mist and steam +that rose, upon which the wind seemed to have no power; but wherever +he did see, there water was running down. Up the mountain he went—he +could hardly have told why. Once, for a moment, as he ascended, the +veil of the vapour either rose, or was torn asunder, and he saw the +great wet gleam of the world below. By the time he reached the top, +it was as light as it was all the day; but it was with a dull yellow +glare, as if the sun were obscured by the smoke and vaporous fumes of +a burning world which the rain had been sent to quench. It was a wild, +hopeless scene—as if God had turned his face away from the world, and +all Nature was therefore drowned in tears—no Rachel weeping for her +children, but the whole creation crying for the Father, and refusing to +be comforted. Gibbie stood gazing and thinking. Did God like to look +at the storm he made? If Jesus did, would he have left it all and gone +to sleep, when the wind and waves were howling, and flinging the boat +about like a toy between them? He must have been tired, surely! With +what? Then first Gibbie saw that perhaps it tired Jesus to heal people; +that every time what cured man or woman was life that went out of him, +and that he missed it, perhaps—not from his heart, but from his body; +and if it were so, then it was no wonder if he slept in the midst of a +right splendid storm. And upon that Gibbie remembered what St. Matthew +says just before he tells about the storm—that “he cast out the +spirits with his word, and healed all that were sick, that it might be +fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying, Himself took +our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses.”</p> + +<p>That moment it seemed as if he must be himself in some wave-tossed +boat, and not upon a mountain of stone, for Glashgar gave a great +heave under him, then rocked and shook from side to side a little, and +settled down so still and steady, that motion and the mountain seemed +again two ideas that never could be present together in any mind. +The next instant came an explosion, followed by a frightful roaring +and hurling, as of mingled water and stones; and on the side of the +mountain beneath him he saw what, through the mist, looked like a cloud +of smoke or dust rising to a height. He darted towards it. As he drew +nearer, the cloud seemed to condense, and presently he saw plainly +enough that it was a great column of water shooting up and out from +the face of the mountain. It sank and rose again, with the alternation +of a huge pulse: the mountain was cracked, and through the crack, with +every throb of its heart, the life-blood of the great hull of the world +seemed beating out. Already it had scattered masses of gravel on all +sides, and down the hill a river was shooting in sheer cataract, raving +and tearing, and carrying stones and rocks with it like foam. Still and +still it pulsed and rushed and ran, born, like another Xanthus, a river +full-grown, from the heart of the mountain.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Gibbie, in the midst of his astonishment and awful delight, +noted the path of the new stream, and from his knowledge of the face +of the mountain, perceived that its course was direct for the cottage. +Down the hill he shot after it, as if it were a wild beast that his +fault had freed from its cage. He was not terrified. One believing like +him in the perfect Love and perfect Will of a Father of men, as the +fact of facts, fears nothing. Fear is faithlessness. But there is so +little that is worthy the name of faith, that such a confidence will +appear to most not merely incredible but heartless. The Lord himself +seems not to have been very hopeful about us, for he said, When the Son +of man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth? A perfect faith would +lift us absolutely above fear. It is in the cracks, crannies, and gulfy +faults of our belief, the gaps that are not faith, that the snow of +apprehension settles, and the ice of unkindness forms.</p> + +<p>The torrent had already worn for itself a channel: what earth there +was, it had swept clean away to the rock, and the loose stones it had +thrown up aside, or hurled with it in its headlong course. But as +Gibbie bounded along, following it with a speed almost equal to its +own, he was checked in the midst of his hearty haste by the sight, a +few yards away, of another like terror—another torrent issuing from +the side of the hill, and rushing to swell the valley stream. Another +and another he saw, with growing wonder, as he ran; before he reached +home he passed some six or eight, and had begun to think whether a +second deluge of the whole world might not be at hand, commencing this +time with Scotland. Two of them joined the one he was following, and +he had to cross them as he could; the others he saw near and farther +off—one foaming deliverance after another, issuing from the entrails +of the mountain, like imprisoned demons, that, broken from their +bonds, ran to ravage the world with the accumulated hate of dreariest +centuries. Now and then a huge boulder, loosened from its bed by the +trail of this or that watery serpent, would go rolling, leaping, +bounding down the hill before him, and just in time he escaped one +that came springing after him as if it were a living thing that wanted +to devour him. Nor was Glashgar the only torrent-bearing mountain of +Gormgarnet that day, though the rain prevented Gibbie from seeing +anything of what the rest of them were doing. The fountains of the +great deep were broken up, and seemed rushing together to drown the +world. And still the wind was raging, and the rain tumbling to the +earth, rather in sheets than in streams.</p> + +<p>Gibbie at length forsook the bank of the new torrent to take the +nearest way home, and soon reached the point whence first, returning in +that direction, he always looked to see the cottage. For a moment he +was utterly bewildered: no cottage was to be seen. From the top of the +rock against which it was built, shot the whole mass of the water he +had been pursuing, now dark with stones and gravel, now grey with foam, +or glassy in the lurid light.</p> + +<p>“O Jesus Christ!” he cried, and darted to the place. When he came near, +to his amazement there stood the little house unharmed, the very centre +of the cataract! For a few yards on the top of the rock, the torrent +had a nearly horizontal channel, along which it rushed with unabated +speed to the edge, and thence shot clean over the cottage, dropping +only a dribble of rain on the roof from the underside of its half-arch. +The garden ground was gone, swept clean from the bare rock, which made +a fine smooth shoot for the water a long distance in front. He darted +through the drizzle and spray, reached the door, and lifted the latch. +The same moment he heard Janet’s voice in joyful greeting.</p> + +<p>“Noo, noo! come awa, laddie,” she said. “Wha wad hae thoucht we wad +hae to lea’ the rock to win oot o’ the water? We’re but waitin’ you to +gang.—Come, Robert, we’ll awa doon the hill.”</p> + +<p>She stood in the middle of the room in her best gown, as if she had +been going to church, her Bible, a good-sized octavo, under her arm, +with a white handkerchief folded round it, and her umbrella in her hand.</p> + +<p>“He that believeth shall not make haste,” she said, “but he maunna +tempt the Lord, aither. Drink that milk, Gibbie, an’ pit a bannock i’ +yer pooch, an’ come awa.”</p> + +<p>Robert rose from the edge of the bed, staff in hand, ready too. He also +was in his Sunday clothes. Oscar, who could make no change of attire, +but was always ready, and had been standing looking up in his face for +the last ten minutes, wagged his tail when he saw him rise, and got +out of his way. On the table were the remains of their breakfast of +oat-cake and milk—the fire Janet had left on the hearth was a spongy +mass of peat, as wet as the winter before it was dug from the bog, so +they had had no porridge. The water kept coming in splashes down the +<i>lum</i>, the hillocks of the floor were slimy, and in the hollows little +lakes were gathering: the lowest film of the torrent-water ran down the +rock behind, and making its way between rock and roof, threatened soon +to render the place uninhabitable.</p> + +<p>“What’s the eese o’ lo’denin’ yersel’ wi’ the umbrell?” said Robert. +“Ye’ll get it a’ drookit (<i>drenched</i>).”</p> + +<p>“Ow, I’ll jist tak it,” replied Janet, with a laugh in acknowledgment +of her husband’s fun; “it’ll haud the rain ohn blin’t me.”</p> + +<p>“That’s gien ye be able to haud it up. I doobt the win’ ’ll be ower +sair upo’ ’t. I’m thinkin’, though, it’ll be mair to haud yer beuk dry!”</p> + +<p>Janet smiled and made no denial.</p> + +<p>“Noo, Gibbie,” she said, “ye gang an’ lowse Crummie. But ye’ll hae to +lead her. She winna be to caw in sic a win’ ’s this, an’ no plain ro’d +afore her.”</p> + +<p>“Whaur div ye think o’ gauin’?” asked Robert, who, satisfied as usual +with whatever might be in his wife’s mind, had not till this moment +thought of asking her where she meant to take refuge.</p> + +<p>“Ow, we’ll jist mak for the Mains, gien ye be agreeable, Robert,” she +answered. “It’s there we belang till, an’ in wather like this naebody +wad refeese bield till a beggar, no to say Mistress Jean till her ain +fowk.”</p> + +<p>With that she led the way to the door and opened it.</p> + +<p>“His v’ice was like the soon’ o’ mony watters,” she said to herself +softly, as the liquid thunder of the torrent came in the louder.</p> + +<p>Gibbie shot round the corner to the byre, whence through all the roar, +every now and then they had heard the cavernous mooing of Crummie, +piteous and low. He found a stream a foot deep running between her fore +and hind legs, and did not wonder that she wanted to be on the move. +Speedily he loosed her, and fastening the chain-tether to her halter, +led her out. She was terrified at sight of the falling water, and they +had some trouble in getting her through behind it, but presently after, +she was making the descent as carefully and successfully as any of them.</p> + +<p>It was a heavy undertaking for the two old folk to walk all the way +to the Mains, and in such a state of the elements; but where there is +no choice, we do well to make no difficulty. Janet was half troubled +that her mountain, and her foundation on the rock, should have failed +her; but consoled herself that they were but shadows of heavenly +things and figures of the true; and that a mountain or a rock was in +itself no more to be trusted than a horse or a prince or the legs of a +man. Robert plodded on in contented silence, and Gibbie was in great +glee, singing, after his fashion, all the way, though now and then +half-choked by the fierceness of the wind round some corner of rock, +filled with rain-drops that stung like hailstones.</p> + +<p>By and by Janet stopped and began looking about her. This naturally +seemed to her husband rather odd in the circumstances.</p> + +<p>“What are ye efter, Janet?” he said, shouting through the wind from a +few yards off, by no means sorry to stand for a moment, although any +recovering of his breath seemed almost hopeless in such a tempest.</p> + +<p>“I want to lay my umbrell in safity,” answered Janet, “—gien I cud but +perceive a shuitable spot. Ye was richt, Robert, it’s mair w’alth nor I +can get the guid o’.”</p> + +<p>“Hoots! fling ’t frae ye, than, lass,” he returned. “Is this a day to +be thinkin’ o’ warl’s gear?”</p> + +<p>“What for no, Robert?” she rejoined. “Ae day’s as guid ’s anither for +thinkin’ aboot onything the richt gait.”</p> + +<p>“What!” retorted Robert, “—whan we hae ta’en oor lives in oor han’, +an’ can no more than houp we may cairry them throu’ safe!”</p> + +<p>“What’s that ’at ye ca’ oor lives, Robert? The Maister never made +muckle o’ the savin’ o’ sic like ’s them. It seems to me they’re +naething but a kin’ o’ warl’s gear themsel’s.”</p> + +<p>“An’ yet,” argued Robert, “ye’ll tak thoucht aboot an auld umbrell? +Whaur’s yer consistency, lass?”</p> + +<p>“Gien I war tribled aboot my life,” said Janet, “I cud ill spare +thoucht for an auld umbrell. But they baith trible me sae little, ’at +I may jist as weel luik efter them baith. It’s auld an’ casten an’ +bow-ribbit, it’s true, but it wad ill become me to drap it wi’oot a +thoucht, whan him ’at could mak haill loaves, said, ‘Gether up the +fragments ’at naething be lost.’—Na,” she continued, still looking +about her, “I maun jist dee my duty by the auld umbrell; syne come o’ +’t ’at likes, I carena.”</p> + +<p>So saying she walked to the lee side of a rock, and laid the umbrella +close under it, then a few large stones upon it to keep it down.</p> + +<p>I may add, that the same umbrella, recovered, and with two new ribs, +served Janet to the day of her death.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII.<br><span class="small">THE MAINS.</span></h2></div> + +<p>They reached at length the valley road. The water that ran in the +bottom was the Lorrie. Three days ago it was a lively little stream, +winding and changing within its grassy banks—here resting silent +in a deep pool, there running and singing over its pebbles. Now it +had filled and far overflowed its banks, and was a swift river. It +had not yet, so far up the valley, encroached on the road; but the +torrents on the mountain had already in places much injured it, and +with considerable difficulty they crossed some of the new-made gullies. +When they approached the bridge, however, by which they must cross the +Lorrie to reach the Mains, their worst trouble lay before them. For the +enemy, with whose reinforcements they had all the time been descending, +showed himself ever in greater strength the farther they advanced; and +here the road was flooded for a long way on both sides of the bridge. +There was therefore a good deal of wading to be done; but the road was +an embankment, there was little current, and in safety at last they +ascended the rising ground on which the farm-building stood. When they +reached the yard, they sent Gibbie to find shelter for Crummie, and +themselves went up to the house.</p> + +<p>“The Lord preserve ’s!” cried Jean Mavor, with uplifted hands, when she +saw them enter the kitchen.</p> + +<p>“He’ll dee that, mem,” returned Janet, with a smile.</p> + +<p>“But what <i>can</i> he dee? Gien ye be droont oot o’ the hills, what’s to +come o’ his i’ the how? I wad ken that!” said Jean.</p> + +<p>“The watter’s no up to yer door yet,” remarked Janet.</p> + +<p>“God forbid!” retorted Jean, as if the very mention of such a state of +things was too dreadful to be polite. “—But, eh, ye’re weet!”</p> + +<p>“<i>Weet</i>’s no the word,” said Robert, trying to laugh, but failing from +sheer exhaustion, and the beginnings of an asthmatic attack.</p> + +<p>The farmer, hearing their voices, came into the kitchen—a middle-sized +and middle-aged, rather coarse-looking man, with keen eyes, who took +snuff amazingly. His manner was free, with a touch of satire. He was +proud of driving a hard bargain, but was thoroughly hospitable. He had +little respect for person or thing, but showed an occasional touch of +tenderness.</p> + +<p>“Hoots, Rob!” he said roughly as he entered, “I thoucht ye had mair +sense! What’s broucht ye here at sic a time?”</p> + +<p>But as he spoke he held out his snuff-box to the old man.</p> + +<p>“Fell needcessity, sir,” answered Robert, taking a good pinch.</p> + +<p>“Necessity!” retorted the farmer. “Was ye oot o’ meal?”</p> + +<p>“Oot o’ dry meal, I doobt, by this time, sir,” replied Robert.</p> + +<p>“Hoots! I wuss we war a’ in like necessity—weel up upo’ the hill +i’stead o’ doon here upo’ the haugh (<i>river-meadow</i>). It’s jist clean +ridic’lous. Ye sud hae kenned better at your age, Rob. Ye sud hae +thoucht twise, man.”</p> + +<p>“’Deed, sir,” answered Robert, quietly finishing his pinch of snuff, +“there was sma’ need, an’ less time to think, an’ Glashgar bursten, +an’ the watter comin’ ower the tap o’ the bit hoosie as gien ’twar a +muckle owershot wheel, an’ no a place for fowk to bide in. Ye dinna +think Janet an’ me wad be twa sic auld fules as pit on oor Sunday claes +to sweem in, gien we thoucht to see things as we left them whan we +gaed back! Ye see, sir, though the hoose be fun’t upo’ a rock, it’s +maist biggit o’ fells, an’ the foundation’s a’ I luik even to see o’ ’t +again. Whan the force o’ the watter grows less, it’ll come doon upo’ +the riggin’ wi’ the haill weicht o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>“Ay!” said Janet, in a low voice, “the live stanes maun come to the +live rock to bigg the hoose ’at’ll stan’.”</p> + +<p>“What think ye, Maister Fergus, you ’at’s gauin’ to be a minister?” +said Robert, referring to his wife’s words, as the young man looked in +at the door of the kitchen.</p> + +<p>“Lat him be,” interposed his father, blowing his nose with unnecessary +violence; “setna him preachin’ afore ’s time. Fess the whusky, Fergus, +an’ gie auld Robert a dram. Haith! gien the watter be rinnin’ ower the +tap o’ yer hoose, man, it was time to flit. Fess twa or three glaisses, +Fergus; we hae a’ need o’ something ’at’s no watter. It’s perfeckly +ridic’lous!”</p> + +<p>Having taken a little of the whisky, the old people went to change +their clothes for some Jean had provided, and in the mean time she made +up her fire, and prepared some breakfast for them.</p> + +<p>“An’ whaur’s yer dummie?” she asked, as they re-entered the kitchen.</p> + +<p>“He had puir Crummie to luik efter,” answered Janet; “but he micht hae +been in or this time.”</p> + +<p>“He’ll be wi’ Donal i’ the byre, nae doobt,” said Jean: “he’s aye some +shy o’ comin’ in wantin’ an inveet.” She went to the door, and called +with a loud voice across the yard, through the wind and the clashing +torrents, “Donal, sen’ Dummie in till ’s brakfast.”</p> + +<p>“He’s awa till ’s sheep,” cried Donal in reply.</p> + +<p>“Preserve ’s!—the cratur ’ll be lost!” said Jean.</p> + +<p>“Less likly nor ony man aboot the place,” bawled Donal, half angry with +his mistress for calling his friend <i>dummie</i>. “Gibbie kens better what +he’s aboot nor ony twa ’at thinks him a fule ’cause he canna lat oot +sic stuff an’ nonsense as they canna haud in.”</p> + +<p>Jean went back to the kitchen, only half reassured concerning her +brownie, and far from contented with his absence. But she was glad to +find that neither Janet nor Robert appeared alarmed at the news.</p> + +<p>“I wuss the cratur had had some brakfast,” she said.</p> + +<p>“He has a piece in ’s pooch,” answered Janet. “He’s no oonprovidit wi’ +what can be made mair o’.”</p> + +<p>“I dinna richtly un’erstan’ ye there,” said Jean.</p> + +<p>“Ye canna hae failt to remark, mem,” answered Janet, “’at whan the +Maister set himsel’ to feed the hungerin’ thoosan’s, he teuk intil ’s +han’ what there was, an’ vroucht upo’ that to mak mair o’ ’t. I hae +wussed sometimes ’at the laddie wi’ the five barley loaves an’ the twa +sma’ fishes, hadna been there that day. I wad fain ken hoo the Maister +wad hae managed wantin’ onything to begin upo’. As it was, he aye hang +what he did upo’ something his Father had dune afore him.”</p> + +<p>“Hoots!” returned Jean, who looked upon Janet as a lover of conundrums, +“ye’re aye warstlin’ wi’ run k-nots an’ teuch moo’fu’s.”</p> + +<p>“Ow na, no aye,” answered Janet; “—only whiles, whan the speerit o’ +speirin’ gets the upper han’ o’ me for a sizon.”</p> + +<p>“I doobt that same speerit ’ll lead ye far frae the still watters some +day, Janet,” said Jean, stirring the porridge vehemently.</p> + +<p>“Ow, I think not,” answered Janet very calmly. “Whan the Maister +says—<i>what’s that to thee?</i>—I tak care he hasna to say ’t twise, but +jist get up an’ follow him.”</p> + +<p>This was beyond Jean, but she held her peace, for, though she feared +for Janet’s orthodoxy, and had a strong opinion of the superiority +of her own common sense—in which, as in the case of all who pride +themselves in the same, there was a good deal more of the <i>common</i> than +of the <i>sense</i>—she had the deepest conviction of Janet’s goodness, +and regarded her as a sort of heaven-favoured idiot, whose utterances +were somewhat privileged. Janet, for her part, looked upon Jean as “an +honest wuman, wha ’ll get a heap o’ licht some day.”</p> + +<p>When they had eaten their breakfast, Robert took his pipe to the barn, +saying there was not much danger of fire that day; Janet washed up the +dishes, and sat down to her Book; and Jean went out and in, attending +to many things.</p> + +<p>Mean time the rain fell, the wind blew, the water rose. Little could +be done beyond feeding the animals, threshing a little corn in the +barn, and twisting straw ropes for the thatch of the ricks of the +coming harvest—if indeed there was a harvest on the road, for, as +the day went on, it seemed almost to grow doubtful whether any ropes +would be wanted; while already not a few of last year’s ricks, from +farther up the country, were floating past the Mains, down the Daur +to the sea. The sight was a dreadful one—had an air of the day of +judgment about it to farmers’ eyes. From the Mains, to right and left +beyond the rising ground on which the farm buildings stood, everywhere +as far as the bases of the hills, instead of fields was water, yellow +brown, here in still expanse or slow progress, there sweeping along in +fierce current. The quieter parts of it were dotted with trees, divided +by hedges, shaded with ears of corn; upon the swifter parts floated +objects of all kinds.</p> + +<p>Mr. Duff went wandering restlessly from one spot to another, +finding nothing to do. In the gloaming, which fell the sooner that +a rain-blanket miles thick wrapt the earth up from the sun, he came +across from the barn, and, entering the kitchen, dropped, weary with +hopelessness, on a chair.</p> + +<p>“I can weel un’erstan’,” he said, “what for the Lord sud set doon Bony +an’ set up Louy, but what for he sud gar corn grow, an’ syne sen’ a +spate to sweem awa wi’ ’t, that’s mair nor mortal man can see the sense +o’.—Haud yer tongue, Janet. I’m no sayin’ there’s onything wrang; I’m +sayin’ naething but the sair trowth, ’at I canna see the what-for o’ +’t. I canna see the guid o’ ’t till onybody. A’thing’s on the ro’d to +the German Ocean. The lan’ ’s jist miltin’ awa intil the sea!”</p> + +<p>Janet sat silent, knitting hard at a stocking she had got hold of, that +Jean had begun for her brother. She knew argument concerning the uses +of adversity was vain with a man who knew of no life but that which +consisted in eating and drinking, sleeping and rising, working and +getting on in the world: as to such things existing only that they may +subserve a real life, he was almost as ignorant, notwithstanding he was +an elder of the church, as any heathen.</p> + +<p>From being nearly in the centre of its own land, the farm-steading of +the Mains was at a considerable distance from any other; but there +were two or three cottages upon the land, and as the evening drew on, +another aged pair, who lived in one only a few hundred yards from the +house, made their appearance, and were soon followed by the wife of the +foreman with her children, who lived farther off. Quickly the night +closed in, and Gibbie was not come. Robert was growing very uneasy; +Janet kept comforting and reassuring him.</p> + +<p>“There’s ae thing,” said the old man: “Oscar’s wi’ ’im.”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” responded Janet, unwilling, in the hearing of others, to say a +word that might seem to savour of rebuke to her husband, yet pained +that he should go to the dog for comfort—“Ay; he’s a well-made animal, +Oscar! There’s been a fowth o’ sheep-care pitten intil ’im. Ye see +him ’at made ’im, bein’ a shepherd himsel’, kens what’s wantit o’ the +dog.”—None but her husband understood what lay behind the words.</p> + +<p>“Oscar’s no wi’ im,” said Donal. “The dog cam to me i’ the byre, lang +efter Gibbie was awa, greitin’ like, an’ luikin’ for ’im.”</p> + +<p>Robert gave a great sigh, but said nothing.</p> + +<p>Janet did not sleep a wink that night: she had so many to pray for. +Not Gibbie only, but every one of her family was in perils of waters, +all being employed along the valley of the Daur. It was not, she said, +confessing to her husband her sleeplessness, that she was afraid. She +was only “keepin’ them company, an’ haudin’ the yett open,” she said. +The latter phrase was her picture-periphrase for <i>praying</i>. She never +said she <i>prayed</i>; she <i>held the gate open</i>. The wonder is but small +that Donal should have turned out a poet.</p> + +<p>The dawn appeared—but the farm had vanished. Not even heads of growing +corn were anywhere more to be seen. The loss would be severe, and John +Duff’s heart sank within him. The sheep which had been in the mown +clover-field that sloped to the burn, were now all in the corn-yard, +and the water was there with them. If the rise did not soon cease, +every rick would be afloat. There was little current, however, and +not half the danger there would have been had the houses stood a few +hundred yards in any direction from where they were.</p> + +<p>“Tak yer brakfast, John,” said his sister.</p> + +<p>“Lat them tak ’at hungers,” he answered.</p> + +<p>“Tak, or ye’ll no hae the wut to save,” said Jean.</p> + +<p>Thereupon he fell to, and ate, if not with appetite, then with a will +that was wondrous.</p> + +<p>The flood still grew, and still the rain poured, and Gibbie did not +come. Indeed no one any longer expected him, whatever might have become +of him: except by boat the Mains was inaccessible now, they thought. +Soon after breakfast, notwithstanding, a strange woman came to the +door. Jean, who opened it to her knock, stood and stared speechless. +It was a greyhaired woman, with a more disreputable look than her +weather-flouted condition would account for.</p> + +<p>“Gran’ wither for the deuks!” she said.</p> + +<p>“Whaur come <i>ye</i> frae?” returned Jean, who did not relish the freedom +of her address.</p> + +<p>“Frae ower by,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“An’ hoo wan ye here?”</p> + +<p>“Upo’ my twa legs.”</p> + +<p>Jean looked this way and that over the watery waste, and again stared +at the woman in growing bewilderment.—They came afterwards to the +conclusion that she had arrived, probably half-drunk, the night before, +and passed it in one of the outhouses.</p> + +<p>“Yer legs maun be langer nor they luik than, wuman,” said Jean, +glancing at the lower part of the stranger’s person.</p> + +<p>The woman only laughed—a laugh without any laughter in it.</p> + +<p>“What’s yer wull, noo ’at ye <i>are</i> here?” continued Jean with severity. +“Ye camna to the Mains to tell them there what kin’ o’ wather it wis!”</p> + +<p>“I cam whaur I cud win,” answered the woman; “an’ for my wull, that’s +naething to naebody noo—it’s no as it was ance—though, gien I cud get +it, there micht be mair nor me the better for ’t. An’ sae as ye wad +gang the len’th o’ a glaiss o’ whusky—”</p> + +<p>“Ye s’ get nae whusky here,” interrupted Jean, with determination.</p> + +<p>The woman gave a sigh, and half turned away as if she would depart. +But however she might have come, it was plainly impossible she should +depart and live.</p> + +<p>“Wuman,” said Jean, “ken an’ I care naething aboot ye, an’ mair, I +dinna like ye, nor the luik o’ ye; and gien ’t war a fine simmer nicht +’at a body cud lie thereoot, or gang the farther, I wad steek the door +i’ yer face; but that I daurna dee the day again’ my neebour’s soo; sae +ye can come in an’ sit doon an’, my min’ spoken, ye s’ get what’ll haud +the life i’ ye, an’ a puckle strae i’ the barn. Only ye maun jist hae a +quaiet sough, for the gudeman disna like tramps.”</p> + +<p>“Tramps here, tramps there!” exclaimed the woman, starting into high +displeasure; “I wad hae ye ken I’m an honest wuman, an’ no tramp!”</p> + +<p>“Ye sudna luik sae like ane than,” said Jean coolly. “But come yer wa’s +in, an’ I s’ say naething sae lang as ye behave.”</p> + +<p>The woman followed her, took the seat pointed out to her by the fire, +and sullenly ate, without a word of thanks, the cakes and milk handed +her, but seemed to grow better tempered as she ate, though her black +eyes glowed at the food with something of disgust and more of contempt: +she would rather have had a gill of whisky than all the milk on the +Mains. On the other side of the fire sat Janet, knitting away busily, +with a look of ease and leisure. She said nothing, but now and then +cast a kindly glance out of her grey eyes at the woman: there was an +air of the lost sheep about the stranger, which, in whomsoever she +might see it, always drew her affection. “She maun be ane o’ them +the Maister cam to ca’,” she said to herself. But she was careful to +suggest no approach, for she knew the sheep that has left the flock has +grown wild, and is more suspicious and easily startled than one in the +midst of its brethren.</p> + +<p>With the first of the light, some of the men on the farm had set out +to look for Gibbie, well knowing it would be a hard matter to touch +Glashgar. About nine they returned, having found it impossible. One of +them, caught in a current and swept into a hole, had barely escaped +with his life. But they were unanimous that the dummie was better off +in any cave on Glashgar than he would be in the best bed-room at the +Mains, if things went on as they threatened.</p> + +<p>Robert had kept on going to the barn, and back again to the kitchen, +all the morning, consumed with anxiety about the son of his old age; +but the barn began to be flooded, and he had to limit his prayer-walk +to the space between the door of the house and the chair where Janet +sat—knitting busily, and praying with countenance untroubled, amidst +the rush of the seaward torrents, the mad howling and screeching of the +wind, and the lowing of the imprisoned cattle.</p> + +<p>“O Lord,” she said in her great trusting heart, “gien my bonnie man be +droonin’ i’ the watter, or deein’ o’ caul’ on the hill-side, haud ’s +han’. Binna far frae him, O Lord; dinna lat him be fleyt.”</p> + +<p>To Janet, what we call life and death were comparatively small matters, +but she was very tender over suffering and fear. She did not pray half +so much for Gibbie’s life as for the presence with him of him who is +at the deathbed of every sparrow. She went on waiting, and refused to +be troubled. True, she was not his bodily mother, but she loved him +far better than the mother who, in such a dread for her child, would +have been mad with terror. The difference was, that Janet loved up as +well as down, loved down so widely, so intensely, <i>because</i> the Lord +of life, who gives his own to us, was more to her than any child can +be to any mother, and she knew he could not forsake her Gibbie, and +that his presence was more and better than life. She was unnatural, was +she?—inhuman?—Yes, if there be no such heart and source of humanity +as she believed in; if there be, then such calmness and courage and +content as hers are the mere human and natural condition to be hungered +after by every aspiring soul. Not until such condition is mine shall I +be able to regard life as a godlike gift, except in the hope that it +is drawing nigh. Let him who understands, understand better; let him +not say the good is less than perfect, or excuse his supineness and +spiritual sloth by saying to himself that a man can go too far in his +search after the divine, can sell too much of what he has to buy the +field of the treasure. Either there is no Christ of God, or my all is +his.</p> + +<p>Robert seemed at length to have ceased his caged wandering. For a +quarter of an hour he had been sitting with his face buried in his +hands. Janet rose, went softly to him, and said in a whisper:</p> + +<p>“Is Gibbie waur aff, Robert, i’ this watter upo’ Glashgar, nor the +dissiples i’ the boat upo’ yon loch o’ Galilee, an’ the Maister no come +to them? Robert, my ain man! dinna gar the Maister say to you, <i>O ye o’ +little faith! Wharfor did ye doobt?</i> Tak hert, man; the Maister wadna +hae his men be cooards.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re richt, Janet; ye’re aye richt,” answered Robert, and rose.</p> + +<p>She followed him into the passage.</p> + +<p>“Whaur are ye gauin’, Robert?” she said.</p> + +<p>“I wuss I cud tell ye,” he answered. “I’m jist hungerin’ to be my lane. +I wuss I had never left Glashgar. There’s aye room there. Or gien I cud +win oot amo’ the rigs! There’s nane o’ <i>them</i> left, but there’s the +rucks—they’re no soomin’ yet! I want to gang to the Lord, but I maunna +weet Willie Mackay’s claes.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a sair peety,” said Janet, “’at the men fowk disna learn to weyve +stockins, or dee something or ither wi’ their han’s. Mony’s the time +my stockin’ ’s been ’maist as guid ’s a cloaset to me, though I cudna +jist gang intil ’t. But what maitters ’t! A prayer i’ the hert ’s sure +to fin’ the ro’d oot. The hert’s the last place ’at can haud ane in. A +prayin’ hert has nae reef (<i>roof</i>) till ’t.”</p> + +<p>She turned and left him. Comforted by her words, he followed her back +into the kitchen, and sat down beside her.</p> + +<p>“Gibbie ’ill be here mayhap whan least ye luik for him,” said Janet.</p> + +<p>Neither of them caught the wild eager gleam that lighted the face +of the strange woman at those last words of Janet. She looked up at +her with the sharpest of glances, but the same instant compelled her +countenance to resume its former expression of fierce indifference, and +under that became watchful of everything said and done.</p> + +<p>Still the rain fell and the wind blew; the torrents came tearing down +from the hills, and shot madly into the rivers; the rivers ran into the +valleys, and deepened the lakes that filled them. On every side of the +Mains, from the foot of Glashgar to Gormdhu, all was one yellow and +red sea, with roaring currents and vortices numberless. It burrowed +holes, it opened long-deserted channels and water-courses; here it +deposited inches of rich mould, there yards of sand and gravel; here +it was carrying away fertile ground, leaving behind only bare rock or +shingle where the corn had been waving; there it was scooping out the +bed of a new lake. Many a thick soft lawn, of loveliest grass, dotted +with fragrant shrubs and rare trees, vanished, and nothing was there +when the waters subsided but a stony waste, or a gravelly precipice. +Woods and copses were undermined, and trees and soil together swept +into the wash: sometimes the very place was hardly there to say it +knew its children no more. Houses were torn to pieces, and their +contents, as from broken boxes, sent wandering on the brown waste, +through the grey air, to the discoloured sea, whose saltness for a long +way out had vanished with its hue. Haymows were buried to the very +top in sand; others went sailing bodily down the mighty stream—some +of them followed or surrounded, like big ducks, by a great brood +of ricks for their ducklings. Huge trees went past as if shot down +an Alpine slide, cottages, and bridges of stone, giving way before +them. Wooden mills, thatched roofs, great mill-wheels, went dipping +and swaying and hobbling down. From the upper windows of the Mains, +looking towards the chief current, they saw a drift of everything +belonging to farms and dwelling-houses that would float. Chairs and +tables, chests, carts, saddles, chests of drawers, tubs of linen, beds +and blankets, workbenches, harrows, girnels, planes, cheeses, churns, +spinning-wheels, cradles, iron pots, wheel-barrows—all these and many +other things hurried past as they gazed. Everybody was looking, and for +a time all had been silent.</p> + +<p>“Lord save us!” cried Mr. Duff, with a great start, and ran for his +telescope.</p> + +<p>A four-post bed came rocking down the river, now shooting straight for +a short distance, now slowly wheeling, now shivering, struck by some +swifter thing, now whirling giddily round in some vortex. The soaked +curtains were flacking and flying in the great wind—and—yes, the +telescope revealed it!—there was a figure in it! dead or alive the +farmer could not tell, but it lay still!—A cry burst from them all; +but on swept the strange boat, bound for the world beyond the flood, +and none could stay its course.</p> + +<p>The water was now in the stable and cow-houses and barn. A few minutes +more and it would be creeping into the kitchen. The Daur and its +tributary the Lorrie were about to merge their last difference on the +floor of Jean’s parlour. Worst of all, a rapid current had set in +across the farther end of the stable, which no one had as yet observed.</p> + +<p>Jean bustled about her work as usual, nor, although it was so much +augmented, would accept help from any of her guests until it came to +preparing dinner, when she allowed Janet and the foreman’s wife to lend +her a hand. “The tramp-wife” she would not permit to touch plate or +spoon, knife or potato. The woman rose in anger at her exclusion, and +leaving the house waded to the barn. There she went up the ladder to +the loft where she had slept, and threw herself on her straw-bed.</p> + +<p>As there was no doing any work, Donal was out with two of the men, +wading here and there where the water was not too deep, enjoying the +wonder of the strange looks and curious conjunctions of things. None of +them felt much of dismay at the havoc around them: beyond their chests +with their Sunday clothes and at most two clean shirts, neither of the +men had anything to lose worth mentioning; and for Donal, he would +gladly have given even his books for such a <i>ploy</i>.</p> + +<p>“There’s ae thing, mither,” he said, entering the kitchen, covered with +mud, a rabbit in one hand and a large salmon in the other, “we’re no +like to sterve, wi’ sawmon i’ the hedges, an’ mappies i’ the trees!”</p> + +<p>His master questioned him with no little incredulity. It was easy to +believe in salmon anywhere, but rabbits in trees!</p> + +<p>“I catched it i’ the brainches o’ a lairick (<i>larch</i>),” Donal answered, +“easy eneuch, for it cudna rin far, an’ was mair fleyt at the watter +nor at me; but for the sawmon, haith I was ower an’ ower wi’ hit i’ the +watter, efter I gruppit it, er I cud ca’ ’t my ain.”</p> + +<p>Before the flood subsided, not a few rabbits were caught in trees, +mostly spruce-firs and larches. For salmon, they were taken +everywhere—among grass, corn, and potatoes, in bushes, and hedges, and +cottages. One was caught on a lawn with an umbrella; one was reported +to have been found in a press-bed; another, coiled round in a pot +hanging from the crook—ready to be boiled, only that he was alive and +undressed.</p> + +<p>Donal was still being cross-questioned by his master when the strange +woman re-entered. Lying upon her straw, she had seen, through the +fanlight over the stable door, the swiftness of the current there +passing, and understood the danger.</p> + +<p>“I doobt,” she said, addressing no one in particular, “the ga’le o’ the +stable winna stan’ abune anither half-hoor.”</p> + +<p>“It maun fa’ than,” said the farmer, taking a pinch of snuff in +hopeless serenity, and turning away.</p> + +<p>“Hoots!” said the woman, “dinna speyk that gait, sir. It’s no +wice-like. Tak a dram, an’ tak hert, an’ dinna fling the calf efter the +coo. Whaur’s yer boatle, sir?”</p> + +<p>John paid no heed to her suggestion, but Jean took it up.</p> + +<p>“The boatle’s whaur ye s’ no lay han’ upo’ ’t,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Weel, gien ye hae nae mercy upo’ yer whusky, ye sud hae some upo’ yer +horse-beasts, ony gait,” said the woman indignantly.</p> + +<p>“What mean ye by that?” returned Jean, with hard voice, and eye of +blame.</p> + +<p>“Ye micht at the leest gie the puir things a chance,” the woman +rejoined.</p> + +<p>“Hoo wad ye dee that?” said Jean. “Gien ye lowsed them they wad but tak +to the watter wi’ fear, an’ droon the seener.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na, Jean,” interposed the farmer, “they wad tak care o’ themsel’s +to the last, an’ aye haud to the dryest, jist as ye wad yersel’.”</p> + +<p>“Allooin’,” said the stranger, replying to Jean, yet speaking rather as +if to herself, while she thought about something else, “I wad raither +droon soomin’ nor tied by the heid.—But what’s the guid o’ doctrine +whaur there’s onything to be dune?—Ye hae whaur to put them.—What +kin’ ’s the fleers (<i>floors</i>) up the stair, sir?” she asked abruptly, +turning full on her host, with a flash in her deep-set black eyes.</p> + +<p>“Ow, guid dale fleers—what ither?” answered the farmer. “—It’s the +wa’s, wuman, no the fleers we hae to be concernt aboot i’ this wather.”</p> + +<p>“Gien the j’ists be strang, an’ weel set intil the wa’s, what for sudna +ye tak the horse up the stair intil yer bedrooms? It’ll be a’ to the +guid o’ the wa’s, for the weicht o’ the beasts ’ll be upo’ them to haud +them doon, an’ the haill hoose again’ the watter. An’ gien I was you, +I wad pit the best o’ the kye an’ the nowt intil the parlour an’ the +kitchen here. I’m thinkin’ we’ll lowse them a’ else; for the byre wa’s +’ll gang afore the hoose.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Duff broke into a strange laughter.</p> + +<p>“Wad ye no tak up the carpets first, wuman?” he said.</p> + +<p>“I wad,” she answered; “that gangs ohn speirt—<i>gien there was time</i>; +but I tell ye there’s nane; an’ ye’ll buy twa or three carpets for the +price o’ ae horse.”</p> + +<p>“Haith! the wuman’s i’ the richt,” he cried, suddenly waking up to the +sense of the proposal, and shot from the house.</p> + +<p>All the women, Jean making no exception to any help now, rushed to +carry the beds and blankets to the garret.</p> + +<p>Just as Mr. Duff entered the stable from the nearer end, the opposite +gable fell out with a great splash, letting in the wide level vision of +turbidly raging waters, fading into the obscurity of the wind-driven +rain. While he stared aghast, a great tree struck the wall like a +battering-ram, so that the stable shook. The horses, which had been +for some time moving uneasily, were now quite scared. There was not a +moment to be lost. Duff shouted for his men; one or two came running; +and in less than a minute more those in the house heard the iron-shod +feet splashing and stamping through the water, as, one after another, +the horses were brought across the yard to the door of the house. Mr. +Duff led by the halter his favourite Snowball, who was a good deal +excited, plunging and rearing so that it was all he could do to hold +him. He had ordered the men to take the others first, thinking he would +follow more quietly. But the moment Snowball heard the first thundering +of hoofs on the stair, he went out of his senses with terror, broke +from his master, and went plunging back to the stable. Duff darted +after him, but was only in time to see him rush from the further end +into the swift current, where he was at once out of his depth, and +was instantly caught and hurried, rolling over and over, from his +master’s sight. He ran back into the house, and up to the highest +window. From that he caught sight of him a long way down, swimming. +Once or twice he saw him turned heels over head—only to get his neck +up again presently, and swim as well as before. But alas! it was in +the direction of the Daur, which would soon, his master did not doubt, +sweep his carcase into the North Sea. With troubled heart he strained +his sight after him as long as he could distinguish his lessening head, +but it got amongst some wreck, and unable to tell any more whether he +saw it or not, he returned to his men with his eyes full of tears.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV.<br><span class="small">GLASHRUACH.</span></h2></div> + +<p>As soon as Gibbie had found a stall for Crummie, and thrown a great +dinner before her, he turned and sped back the way he had come: there +was no time to lose if he would have the bridge to cross the Lorrie by; +and his was indeed the last foot that ever touched it. Guiding himself +by well-known points yet salient, for he knew the country perhaps +better than any man born and bred in it, he made straight for Glashgar, +itself hid in the rain. Now wading, now swimming, now walking along the +top of a wall, now caught and baffled in a hedge, Gibbie held stoutly +on. Again and again he got into a current, and was swept from his +direction, but he soon made his lee way good, and at length clear of +the level water, and with only the torrents to mind, seated himself on +a stone under a rock a little way up the mountain. There he drew from +his pocket the putty-like mass to which the water had reduced the cakes +with which it was filled, and ate it gladly, eyeing from his shelter +the slanting lines of the rain, and the rushing sea from which he had +just emerged. So lost was the land beneath the water, that he had to +think to be certain under which of the roofs, looking like so many +foundered Noah’s arks, he had left his father and mother. Ah! yonder +were cattle!—a score of heads, listlessly drifting down, all the swim +out of them, their long horns, like bits of dry branches, knocking +together! There was a pig, and there another! And, alas! yonder floated +half a dozen helpless sponges of sheep!</p> + +<p>At sight of these last he started to his feet, and set off up the hill. +It was not so hard a struggle to cross the water, but he had still +to get to the other side of several torrents far more dangerous than +any current he had been in. Again and again he had to ascend a long +distance before he found a possible place to cross at; but he reached +the fold at last.</p> + +<p>It was in a little valley opening on that where lay the tarn. Swollen +to a lake, the waters of it were now at the very gate of the pen. For a +moment he regretted he had not brought Oscar, but the next he saw that +not much could with any help have been done for the sheep, beyond what +they could, if at liberty, do for themselves. Left where they were they +would probably be drowned; if not they would be starved; but if he let +them go, they would keep out of the water, and find for themselves what +food and shelter were to be had. He opened the gate, drove them out and +a little way up the hill, and left them.</p> + +<p>By this time it was about two o’clock, and Gibbie was very hungry. He +had had enough of the water for one day, however, and was not inclined +to return to the Mains. Where could he get something to eat? If the +cottage were still standing—and it might be—he would find plenty +there. He turned towards it. Great was his pleasure when, after another +long struggle, he perceived that not only was the cottage there, but +the torrent gone: either the flow from the mountain had ceased, or the +course of the water had been diverted. When he reached the Glashburn, +which lay between him and the cottage, he saw that the torrent had +found its way into it, probably along with others of the same brood, +for it was frightfully swollen, and went shooting down to Glashruach +like one long cataract. He had to go a great way up before he could +cross it.</p> + +<p>When at length he reached home, he discovered that the overshooting +stream must have turned aside very soon after they left, for the +place was not much worse than then. He swept out the water that lay +on the floor, took the dryest peats he could find, succeeded with the +tinder-box and sulphur-match at the first attempt, lighted a large +fire, and made himself some water-brose—which is not only the most +easily cooked of dishes, but is as good as any for a youth of capacity +for strong food.</p> + +<p>His hunger appeased, he sat resting in Robert’s chair, gradually +drying; and falling asleep, slept for an hour or so. When he woke, he +took his New Testament from the <i>crap o’ the wa’</i>, and began to read.</p> + +<p>Of late he had made a few attempts upon one and another of the +Epistles, but, not understanding what he read, had not found profit, +and was on the point of turning finally from them for the present, when +his eye falling on some of the words of St. John, his attention was +at once caught, and he had soon satisfied himself, to his wonder and +gladness, that his First Epistle was no sealed book any more than his +Gospel. To the third chapter of that Epistle he now turned, and read +until he came to these words: “Hereby perceive we the love of God, +because he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our +lives for the brethren.”</p> + +<p>“What learned him that?” said Gibbie to himself; Janet had taught him +to search the teaching of the apostles for what the Master had taught +them. He thought and thought, and at last remembered “This is my +commandment, that ye love one another as I have loved you.”</p> + +<p>“And here am I,” said Gibbie to himself, “sittin’ here in idleset, wi’ +my fire, an’ my brose, an’ my Bible, and a’ the warl’ aneath Glashgar +lyin’ in a spate (<i>flood</i>)! I canna lay doon my life to save their +sowls; I maun save for them what I can—it may be but a hen or a calf. +I maun dee the warks o’ him ’at sent me—he’s aye savin’ at men.”</p> + +<p>The Bible was back in its place, and Gibbie out of the door the +same moment. He had not an idea what he was going to do. All he yet +understood was, that he must go down the hill, to be where things might +have to be done—and <i>that</i> before the darkness fell. He must go where +there were people. As he went his heart was full of joy, as if he had +already achieved some deliverance. Down the hill he went singing and +dancing. If mere battle with storm was a delight to the boy, what would +not a mortal tussle with the elements for the love of men be? The +thought itself was a heavenly felicity, and made him “happy as a lover.”</p> + +<p>His first definitely directive thought was, that his nearest neighbours +were likely enough to be in trouble—“the fowk at the muckle hoose.” He +would go thither straight.</p> + +<p>Glashruach, as I have already said, stood on one of the roots of +Glashgar, where the mountain settles down into the valley of the Daur. +Immediately outside its principal gate ran the Glashburn; on the other +side of the house, within the grounds, ran a smaller hill-stream, +already mentioned as passing close under Ginevra’s window. Both these +fell into the Lorrie. Between them the mountain sloped gently up for +some little distance, clothed with forest. On the side of the smaller +burn, however, the side opposite the house, the ground rose abruptly. +There also grew firs, but the soil was shallow, with rock immediately +below, and they had not come to much. Straight from the mountain, +between the two streams, Gibbie approached the house, through larches +and pines, raving and roaring in the wind. As he drew nearer, and saw +how high the house stood above the valley and its waters, he began to +think he had been foolish in coming there to find work; but when he +reached a certain point whence the approach from the gate was visible, +he started, stopped and stared. He rubbed his eyes. No; he was not +asleep and dreaming by the cottage fire; the wind was about him, and +the firs were howling and hissing; there was the cloudy mountain, with +the Glashburn, fifty times its usual size, darting like brown lightning +from it; but where was the iron gate with its two stone pillars, +crested with wolf’s-heads? where was the bridge? where was the wall, +and the gravelled road to the house? Had he mistaken his bearings? was +he looking in a wrong direction? Below him was a wide, swift, fiercely +rushing river, where water was none before! No; he made no mistake: +there was the rest of the road, the end of it next the house! That was +a great piece of it that fell frothing into the river and vanished! +Bridge and gate and wall were gone utterly. The burn had swallowed +them, and now, foaming with madness, was roaring along, a great way +within the grounds, and rapidly drawing nearer to the house, tearing to +pieces and devouring all that defended it. There! what a mouthful of +the shrubbery it gobbled up! Slowly, graciously, the tall trees bowed +their heads and sank into the torrent, but the moment they touched it, +shot away like arrows. Would the foundations of the house outstand +it? Were they as strong as the walls of Babylon, yet if the water +undermined them, down they must! Did the laird know that the enemy was +within his gates? Not with all he had that day seen and gone through, +had Gibbie until now gathered any notion of the force of rushing water.</p> + +<p>Rousing himself from his bewildered amazement, he darted down the hill. +If the other burn was behaving in like fashion, then indeed the fate of +the house was sealed. But no; huge and wild as that was also, it was +not able to tear down its banks of rock. From that side the house did +not seem in danger.</p> + +<p>Mr. Galbraith had gone again, leaving Ginevra to the care of Mistress +MacFarlane, with a strict order to both, and full authority to +the latter to enforce it, that she should not set foot across the +threshold on any pretext, or on the smallest expedition, without the +housekeeper’s attendance. He must take Joseph with him, he said, as +he was going to the Duke’s, but she could send for Angus upon any +emergency.</p> + +<p>The laird had of late been so little at home, that the establishment +had been much reduced; Mistress MacFarlane did most of the cooking +herself; had quarrelled with the housemaid and not yet got another; +and, Nicie dismissed, and the kitchen maid gone to visit her mother, +was left alone in the house with her Mistress, if such we can call +her who was really her prisoner. At this moment, however, she was +not alone, for on the other side of the fire sat Angus, not thither +attracted by any friendship for the housekeeper, but by the glass of +whisky of which he sipped as he talked. Many a flood had Angus seen, +and some that had done frightful damage, but never one that had caused +him anxiety; and although this was worse than any of the rest, he had +not yet a notion how bad it really was. For, as there was nothing to +be done out of doors, and he was not fond of being idle, he had been +busy all the morning in the woodhouse, sawing and splitting for the +winter-store, and working the better that he knew what honorarium +awaited his appearance in the kitchen. In the woodhouse he only heard +the wind and the rain and the roar, he saw nothing of the flood; when +he entered the kitchen, it was by the back door, and he sat there +without the smallest suspicion of what was going on in front.</p> + +<p>Ginevra had had no companion since Nicie left her, and her days had +been very dreary, but this day had been the dreariest in her life. +Mistress MacFarlane made herself so disagreeable that she kept away +from her as much as she could, spending most of her time in her own +room, with her needlework and some books of poetry she had found in +the library. But the poetry had turned out very dull—not at all like +what Donal read, and throwing one of them aside for the tenth time that +day, she wandered listlessly to the window, and stood there gazing +out on the wild confusion—the burn roaring below, the trees opposite +ready to be torn to pieces by the wind, and the valley beneath covered +with stormy water. The tumult was so loud, that she did not hear a +gentle knock at her door: as she turned away, weary of everything, she +saw it softly open—and there to her astonishment stood Gibbie—come, +she imagined, to seek shelter, because their cottage had been blown +down.—Calculating the position of her room from what he knew of its +windows, he had, with the experienced judgment of a mountaineer, gone +to it almost direct.</p> + +<p>“You mustn’t come here, Gibbie,” she said, advancing. “Go down to the +kitchen, to Mistress MacFarlane. She will see to what you want.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie made eager signs to her to go with him. She concluded that he +wanted her to accompany him to the kitchen and speak for him; but +knowing that would only enrage her keeper with them both, she shook +her head, and went back to the window. She thought, as she approached +it, there seemed a lull in the storm, but the moment she looked out, +she gave a cry of astonishment, and stood staring. Gibbie had followed +her as softly as swiftly, and looking out also, saw good cause indeed +for her astonishment: the channel of the raging burn was all but dry! +Instantly he understood what it meant. In his impotence to persuade, +he caught the girl in his arms, and rushed with her from the room. She +had faith enough in him by this time not to struggle or scream. He shot +down the stair with her, and out of the front door. Her weight was +nothing to his excited strength. The moment they issued, and she saw +the Glashburn raving along through the lawn, with little more than the +breadth of the drive between it and the house, she saw the necessity of +escape, though she did not perceive half the dire necessity for haste. +Every few moments, a great gush would dash out twelve or fifteen yards +over the gravel and sink again, carrying many feet of the bank with it, +and widening by so much the raging channel.</p> + +<p>“Put me down, Gibbie,” she said; “I will run as fast as you like.”</p> + +<p>He obeyed at once.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” she cried, “Mistress MacFarlane!—I wonder if she knows. Run and +knock at the kitchen window.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie darted off, gave three loud hurried taps on the window, came +flying back, took Ginevra’s hand in his, drew her on till she was at +her full speed, turned sharp to the left round the corner of the house, +and shot down to the empty channel of the burn. As they crossed it, +even to the inexperienced eyes of the girl it was plain what had caused +the phenomenon. A short distance up the stream, the whole facing of +its lofty right bank had slipped down into its channel. Not a tree, +not a shrub, not a bed of moss was to be seen; all was bare wet rock. +A confused heap of mould, with branches and roots sticking out of +it in all directions, lay at its foot, closing the view upward. The +other side of the heap was beaten by the raging burn. They could hear, +though they could not see it. Any moment the barrier might give way, +and the water resume its course. They made haste, therefore, to climb +the opposite bank. In places it was very steep, and the soil slipped +so that often it seemed on its way with them to the bottom, while the +wind threatened to uproot the trees to which they clung, and carry them +off through the air. It was with a fierce scramble they gained the top. +Then the sight was a grand one. The arrested water swirled and beat +and foamed against the landslip, then rushed to the left, through the +wood, over bushes and stones, a raging river, the wind tearing off the +tops of its waves, to the Glashburn, into which it plunged, swelling +yet higher its huge volume. Rapidly it cut for itself a new channel. +Every moment a tree fell and shot with it like a rocket. Looking up its +course, they saw it come down the hillside a white streak, and burst +into boiling brown and roar at their feet. The wind nearly swept them +from their place; but they clung to the great stones, and saw the airy +torrent, as if emulating that below it, fill itself with branches and +leaves and lumps of foam. Then first Ginevra became fully aware of the +danger in which the house was, and from which Gibbie had rescued her. +Augmented in volume and rapidity by the junction of its neighbour, +the Glashburn was now within a yard—so it seemed from that height at +least—of the door. But they must not linger. The nearest accessible +shelter was the cottage, and Gibbie knew it would need all Ginevra’s +strength to reach it. Again he took her by the hand.</p> + +<p>“But where’s Mistress MacFarlane?” she said. “Oh, Gibbie! we mustn’t +leave her.”</p> + +<p>He replied by pointing down to the bed of the stream: there were she +and Angus crossing. Ginevra, was satisfied when she saw the gamekeeper +with her, and they set out, as fast as they could go, ascending the +mountain, Gibbie eager to have her in warmth and safety before it was +dark.</p> + +<p>Both burns were now between them and the cottage, which greatly added +to their difficulties. The smaller burn came from the tarn, and round +that they must go, else Ginevra would never get to the other side of +it; and then there was the Glashburn to cross. It was an undertaking +hard for any girl, especially such for one unaccustomed to exertion; +and what made it far worse was that she had only house-shoes, which +were continually coming off as she climbed. But the excitement of +battling with the storm, the joy of adventure, and the pleasure of +feeling her own strength, sustained her well for a long time; and in +such wind and rain, the absence of bonnet and cloak was an advantage, +so long as exertion kept her warm. Gibbie did his best to tie her +shoes on with strips of her pocket handkerchief; but when at last +they were of no more use, he pulled off his corduroy jacket, tore out +the sleeves, and with strips from the back tied them about her feet +and ankles. Her hair also was a trouble: it would keep blowing in +her eyes, and in Gibbie’s too, and that sometimes with quite a sharp +lash. But she never lost her courage, and Gibbie, though he could not +hearten her with words, was so ready with smile and laugh, was so +cheerful—even merry, so fearless, so free from doubt and anxiety, +while doing everything he could think of to lessen her toil and pain, +that she hardly felt in his silence any lack; while often, to rest her +body, and withdraw her mind from her sufferings, he made her stop and +look back on the strange scene behind them. It was getting dark when +they reached the only spot where he judged it possible to cross the +Glashburn. He carried her over, and then it was all down-hill to the +cottage. Once inside it, Ginevra threw herself into Robert’s chair, and +laughed, and cried, and laughed again. Gibbie blew up the peats, made a +good fire, and put on water to boil; then opened Janet’s drawers, and +having signified to his companion to take what she could find, went to +the cow house, threw himself on a heap of wet straw, worn out, and had +enough to do to keep himself from falling asleep. A little rested, he +rose and re-entered the cottage, when a merry laugh from both of them +went ringing out into the storm: the little lady was dressed in Janet’s +workday garments, and making porridge. She looked very funny. Gibbie +found plenty of milk in the dairy under the rock, and they ate their +supper together in gladness. Then Gibbie prepared the bed in the little +closet for his guest and she slept as if she had not slept for a week.</p> + +<p>Gibbie woke with the first of the dawn. The rain still fell—descending +in spoonfuls rather than drops; the wind kept shaping itself into long +hopeless howls, rising to shrill yells that went drifting away over the +land; and then the howling rose again. Nature seemed in despair. There +must be more for Gibbie to do! He must go again to the foot of the +mountain, and see if there was anybody to help. They might even be in +trouble at the Mains, who could tell!</p> + +<p>Ginevra woke, rose, made herself as tidy as she could, and left her +closet. Gibbie was not in the cottage. She blew up the fire, and, +finding the pot ready beside it, with clean water, set it on to boil. +Gibbie did not come. The water boiled. She took it off, but being +hungry, put it on again. Several times she took it off and put it on +again. Gibbie never came. She made herself some porridge at last. +Everything necessary was upon the table, and as she poured it into the +wooden dish for the purpose, she took notice of a slate beside it, with +something written upon it. The words were, “I will cum back as soon as +I cann.”</p> + +<p>She was alone, then! It was dreadful; but she was too hungry to think +about it. She ate her porridge, and then began to cry. It was very +unkind of Gibbie to leave her, she said to herself. But then he was a +sort of angel, and doubtless had to go and help somebody else. There +was a little pile of books on the table, which he must have left for +her. She began examining them, and soon found something to interest +her, so that an hour or two passed quickly. But Gibbie did not return, +and the day went wearily. She cried now and then, made great efforts +to be patient, succeeded pretty well for a while, and cried again. She +read and grew tired a dozen times; ate cakes and milk, cried afresh, +and ate again. Still Gibbie did not come. Before the day was over, she +had had a good lesson in praying. For here she was, one who had never +yet acted on her own responsibility, alone on a bare mountain-side, in +the heart of a storm which seemed as if it would never cease, and not a +creature knew where she was but the dumb boy, and he had left her! If +he should never come back, what would become of her? She could not find +her way down the mountain; and if she could, where was she to go, with +all Daurside under water? She would soon have eaten up all the food in +the cottage, and the storm might go on for ever, who could tell? Or who +could tell whether, when it was over, and she got down to the valley +below, she should not find it a lifeless desert, everybody drowned, and +herself the only person left alive in the world?</p> + +<p>Then the noises were terrible. She seemed to inhabit noise. Through +the general roar of wind and water and rain every now and then came +a sharper sound, like a report or crack, followed by a strange low +thunder, as it seemed. They were the noises of stones carried down by +the streams, grinding against each other, and dashed stone against +stone; and of rocks falling and rolling, and bounding against their +fast-rooted neighbours. When it began to grow dark, her misery seemed +more than she could bear; but then, happily, she grew sleepy, and slept +the darkness away.</p> + +<p>With the new light came new promise and fresh hope. What should we +poor humans do without our God’s nights and mornings? Our ills are all +easier to help than we know—except the one ill of a central self, +which God himself finds it hard to help.—It no longer rained so +fiercely; the wind had fallen; and the streams did not run so furious +a race down the sides of the mountain. She ran to the burn, got some +water to wash herself—she could not spare the clear water, of which +there was some still left in Janet’s pails—and put on her own clothes, +which were now quite dry. Then she got herself some breakfast, and +after that tried to say her prayers, but found it very difficult, for, +do what she might to model her slippery thoughts, she could not help, +as often as she turned herself towards him, seeing God like her father, +the laird.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV.<br><span class="small">THE WHELP.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Gibbie sped down the hill through a worse rain than ever. The morning +was close, and the vapours that filled it were like smoke burned to the +hue of the flames whence it issued. Many a man that morning believed +another great deluge begun, and all measures relating to things of +this world lost labour. Going down his own side of the Glashburn, the +nearest path to the valley, the gamekeeper’s cottage was the first +dwelling on his way. It stood a little distance from the bank of the +burn, opposite the bridge and gate, while such things were.</p> + +<p>It had been with great difficulty, for even Angus did not know the +mountain so well as Gibbie, that the gamekeeper reached it with the +housekeeper the night before. It was within two gunshots of the house +of Glashruach, yet to get to it they had to walk miles up and down +Glashgar. A mountain in storm is as hard to cross as a sea. Arrived, +they did not therefore feel safe. The tendency of the Glashburn was +indeed away from the cottage, as the grounds of Glashruach sadly +witnessed; but a torrent is double-edged, and who could tell? The +yielding of one stone in its channel might send it to them. All night +Angus watched, peering out ever again into the darkness, but seeing +nothing save three lights that burned above the water—one of them, +he thought, at the Mains. The other two went out in the darkness, but +that only in the dawn. When the morning came, there was the Glashburn +meeting the Lorrie in his garden. But the cottage was well built, and +fit to stand a good siege, while any moment the waters might have +reached their height. By breakfast time, however, they were round it +from behind. There is nothing like a flood for revealing the variations +of surface, the dips and swells of a country. In a few minutes they +were isolated, with the current of the Glashburn on one side, and that +of the Lorrie in front. When he saw the water come in at front and back +doors at once, Angus ordered his family up the stair: the cottage had a +large attic, with dormer windows, where they slept. He himself remained +below for some time longer, in that end of the house where he kept +his guns and fishing-tackle; there he sat on a table, preparing nets +for the fish that would be left in the pools; and not until he found +himself afloat did he take his work to the attic.</p> + +<p>There the room was hot, and they had the window open. Mistress MacPholp +stood at it, looking out on the awful prospect, with her youngest +child, a sickly boy, in her arms. He had in his a little terrier-pup, +greatly valued of the gamekeeper. In a sudden outbreak of peevish +wilfulness, he threw the creature out of the window. It fell on the +slooping roof, and before it could recover itself, being too young to +have the full command of four legs, rolled off.</p> + +<p>“Eh! the doggie’s i’ the watter!” cried Mistress MacPholp in dismay.</p> + +<p>Angus threw down everything with an ugly oath, for he had given strict +orders not one of the children should handle the whelp, jumped up, and +got out on the roof. From there he might have managed to reach it, so +high now was the water, had the little thing remained where it fell, +but already it had swam a yard or two from the house. Angus, who was a +fair swimmer and an angry man, threw off his coat, and plunged after +it, greatly to the delight of the little one, caught the pup with his +teeth by the back of the neck, and turned to make for the house. Just +then a shrub, swept from the hill, caught him in the face, and so +bewildered him, that, before he got rid of it, he had blundered into +the edge of the current, which seized and bore him rapidly away. He +dropped the pup, and struck out for home with all his strength. But he +soon found the most he could do was to keep his head above water, and +gave himself up for lost. His wife screamed in agony. Gibbie heard her +as he came down the hill, and ran at full speed towards the cottage.</p> + +<p>About a hundred yards from the house, the current bore Angus straight +into a large elder tree. He got into the middle of it, and there +remained trembling, the weak branches breaking with every motion he +made, while the stream worked at the roots, and the wind laid hold of +him with fierce leverage. In terror, seeming still to sink as he sat, +he watched the trees dart by like battering-rams in the swiftest of +the current: the least of them diverging would tear the elder tree +with it. Brave enough in dealing with poachers, Angus was not the man +to gaze with composure in the face of a sure slow death, against which +no assault could be made. Many a man is courageous because he has not +conscience enough to make a coward of him, but Angus had not quite +reached that condition, and from the branches of the elder tree showed +a pale, terror-stricken visage. Amidst the many objects on the face of +the water, Gibbie, however, did not distinguish it, and plunging in +swam round to the front of the cottage to learn what was the matter. +There the wife’s gesticulations directed his eyes to her drowning +husband.</p> + +<p>But what was he to do? He could swim to the tree well enough, and, he +thought, back again, but how was that to be made of service to Angus? +He could not save him by main force—there was not enough of that +between them. If he had a line, and there must be plenty of lines in +the cottage, he would carry him the end of it to haul upon—that would +do. If he could send it to him that would be better still, for then +he could help at the other end, and would be in the right position, +up stream, to help farther, if necessary, for down the current alone +was the path of communication open. He caught hold of the eaves, and +scrambled on to the roof. But in the folly and faithlessness of her +despair, the woman would not let him enter. With a curse caught from +her husband, she struck him from the window, crying,</p> + +<p>“Ye s’ no come in here, an’ my man droonin’ yon’er! Gang till ’im, ye +cooard!”</p> + +<p>Never had poor Gibbie so much missed the use of speech. On the slope +of the roof he could do little to force an entrance, therefore threw +himself off it to seek another, and betook himself to the windows +below. Through that of Angus’s room, he caught sight of a floating +anker cask. It was the very thing!—and there on the walls hung a +quantity of nets and cordage! But how to get in? It was a sash-window, +and of course swollen with the wet, therefore not to be opened; and +there was not a square in it large enough to let him through. He swam +to the other side, and crept softly on to the roof, and over the ridge. +But a broken slate betrayed him. The woman saw him, rushed to the +fire-place, caught up the poker, and darted back to defend the window.</p> + +<p>“Ye s’ no come in here, I tell ye,” she screeched, “an’ my man stickin’ +i’ yon boortree buss!”</p> + +<p>Gibbie advanced. She made a blow at him with the poker. He caught it, +wrenched it from her grasp, and threw himself from the roof. The next +moment they heard the poker at work, smashing the window.</p> + +<p>“He’ll be in an’ murder ’s a’!” cried the mother, and ran to the stair, +while the children screamed and danced with terror.</p> + +<p>But the water was far too deep for her. She returned to the attic, +barricaded the door, and went again to the window to watch her drowning +husband.</p> + +<p>Gibbie was inside in a moment, and seizing the cask, proceeded to +attach to it a strong line. He broke a bit from a fishing-rod, secured +the line round the middle of it with a notch, put the stick through +the bunghole in the bilge, and corked up the hole with a net-float. +Happily he had a knife in his pocket. He then joined strong lines +together until he thought he had length enough, secured the last end +to a bar of the grate, and knocked out both sashes of the window with +an axe. A passage thus cleared, he floated out first a chair, then a +creepie, and one thing after another, to learn from what point to start +the barrel. Seeing and recognizing them from above, Mistress MacPholp +raised a terrible outcry. In the very presence of her drowning husband, +such a wanton dissipation of her property roused her to fiercest wrath, +for she imagined Gibbie was emptying her house with leisurely revenge. +Satisfied at length, he floated out his barrel, and followed with the +line in his hand, to aid its direction if necessary. It struck the +tree. With a yell of joy Angus laid hold of it, and hauling the line +taut, and feeling it secure, committed himself at once to the water, +holding by the barrel, and swimming with his legs, while Gibbie, away +to the side with a hold of the rope, was swimming his hardest to draw +him out of the current. But a weary man was Angus, when at length he +reached the house. It was all he could do to get himself in at the +window, and crawl up the stair. At the top of it he fell benumbed on +the floor.</p> + +<p>By the time that, repentant and grateful, Mistress MacPholp bethought +herself of Gibbie, not a trace of him was to be seen; and Angus, +contemplating his present experience in connection with that of Robert +Grant’s cottage, came to the conclusion that he must be an emissary +of Satan who on two such occasions had so unexpectedly rescued him. +Perhaps the idea was not quite so illogical as it must seem; for +how should such a man imagine any other sort of messenger taking an +interest in his life? He was confirmed in the notion when he found that +a yard of the line remained attached to the grate, but the rest of it +with the anker was gone—fit bark for the angel he imagined Gibbie, to +ride the stormy waters withal. While they looked for him in the water +and on the land, Gibbie was again in the room below, carrying out a +fresh thought. With the help of the table, he emptied the cask, into +which a good deal of water had got. Then he took out the stick, corked +the bunghole tight, laced the cask up in a piece of net, attached the +line to the net, and wound it about the cask by rolling the latter +round and round, took the cask between his hands, and pushed from the +window straight into the current of the Glashburn. In a moment it had +swept him to the Lorrie. By the greater rapidity of the former he got +easily across the heavier current of the latter, and was presently in +water comparatively still, swimming quietly towards the Mains, and +enjoying his trip none the less that he had to keep a sharp look-out: +if he should have to dive to avoid any drifting object, he might lose +his barrel. Quickly now, had he been so minded, he could have returned +to the city—changing vessel for vessel, as one after another went to +pieces. Many a house-roof offered itself for the voyage; now and then +a great water-wheel, horizontal and helpless, devoured of its element. +Once he saw a cradle come gyrating along, and, urging all his might, +intercepted it, but hardly knew whether he was more sorry or relieved +to find it empty. When he was about half-way to the Mains, a whole +fleet of ricks bore down upon him. He boarded one, and scrambled to the +top of it, keeping fast hold of the end of his line, which unrolled +from the barrel as he ascended. From its peak he surveyed the wild +scene. All was running water. Not a human being was visible, and but +a few house-roofs, of which for a moment it was hard to say whether +or not they were of those that were afloat. Here and there were the +tops of trees, showing like low bushes. Nothing was uplifted except +the mountains. He drew near the Mains. All the ricks in the yard were +bobbing about, as if amusing themselves with a slow contradance; but +they were as yet kept in by the barn, and a huge old hedge of hawthorn. +What was that cry from far away? Surely it was that of a horse in +danger! It brought a lusty equine response from the farm. Where could +horses be with such a depth of water about the place? Then began a +great lowing of cattle. But again came the cry of the horse from afar, +and Gibbie, this time recognizing the voice as Snowball’s, forgot +the rest. He stood up on the very top of the rick and sent his keen +glance round on all sides. The cry came again and again, so that he was +satisfied in what direction he must look. The rain had abated a little, +but the air was so thick with vapour that he could not tell whether it +was really an object he seemed to see white against the brown water, +far away to the left, or a fancy of his excited hope: it <i>might</i> be +Snowball on the turn-pike road, which thereabout ran along the top of +a high embankment. He tumbled from the rick, rolled the line about the +barrel, and pushed vigorously for what might be the horse.</p> + +<p>It took him a weary hour—in so many currents was he caught, one after +the other, all straining to carry him far below the object he wanted +to reach: an object it plainly was before he had got half-way across, +and by and by as plainly it was Snowball—testified to ears and eyes +together. When at length he scrambled on the embankment beside him, the +poor, shivering, perishing creature gave a low neigh of delight: he +did not know Gibbie, but he was a human being. He was quite cowed and +submissive, and Gibbie at once set about his rescue. He had reasoned +as he came along that, if there were beasts at the Mains, there must +be room for Snowball, and thither he would endeavour to take him. He +tied the end of the line to the remnant of the halter on his head, the +other end being still fast to the barrel, and took to the water again. +Encouraged by the power upon his head, the pressure, namely, of the +halter, the horse followed, and they made for the Mains. It was a long +journey, and Gibbie had not breath enough to sing to Snowball, but +he made what noise he could, and they got slowly along. He found the +difficulties far greater now that he had to look out for the horse as +well as for himself. None but one much used to the water could have +succeeded in the attempt, or could indeed have stood out against its +weakening influence and the strain of the continued exertion together +so long. At length his barrel got water-logged, and he sent it adrift.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI.<br><span class="small">THE BRANDER.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Mistress Croale was not, after all, the last who arrived at the Mains. +But that the next arrival was accounted for, scarcely rendered it less +marvellous than hers.—Just after the loss of Snowball, came floating +into the farmyard, over the top of the gate, with such astonishment +of all who beheld that each seemed to place more confidence in his +neighbour’s eyes than in his own, a woman on a raft, with her four +little children seated around her, holding the skirt of her gown above +her head and out between her hands for a sail. She had made the raft +herself, by tying some bars of a paling together, and crossing them +with what other bits of wood she could find—a <i>bran’er</i> she called +it, which is Scotch for a gridiron, and thence for a grating. Nobody +knew her. She had come down the Lorrie. The farmer was so struck with +admiration of her invention, daring, and success, that he vowed he +would keep the brander as long as it would stick together; and as it +could not be taken into the house, he secured it with a rope to one of +the windows.</p> + +<p>When they had the horses safe on the first floor, they brought the +cattle into the lower rooms; but it became evident that if they were to +have a chance, they also must be got up to the same level. Thereupon +followed a greater tumult than before—such a banging of heads and hind +quarters, of horns and shoulders, against walls and partitions, such +a rushing and thundering, that the house seemed in more danger from +within than from without; for the cattle were worse to manage than the +horses, and one moment stubborn as a milestone, would the next moment +start into a frantic rush. One poor wretch broke both her horns clean +off against the wall, at a sharp turn of the passage; and after two or +three more accidents, partly caused by over-haste in the human mortals, +Donal begged that the business should be left to him and his mother. +His master consented, and it was wonderful what Janet contrived to +effect by gentleness, coaxing, and suggestion. When Hornie’s turn came, +Donal began to tie ropes to her hind hoofs. Mr. Duff objected.</p> + +<p>“Ye dinna ken her sae weel as I dee, sir,” answered Donal. “She wad caw +her horns intil a man-o-war ’at angert her. An’ up yon’er ye cudna get +a whack at her, for hurtin’ ane ’at didna deserve ’t. I s’ dee her no +mischeef, I s’ warran’. Ye jist lea’ her to me, sir.”</p> + +<p>His master yielded. Donal tied a piece of rope round each hind +pastern—if cows have pasterns—and made a loop at the end. The moment +she was at the top of the stair, he and his mother dropped each a loop +over a horn.</p> + +<p>“Noo, she’ll naither stick nor fling (<i>gore nor kick</i>),” said Donal: +she could but bellow, and paw with her fore-feet.</p> + +<p>The strangers were mostly in Fergus’s bedroom; the horses were all in +their owner’s; and the cattle were in the remaining rooms. Bursts of +talk amongst the women were followed by fits of silence: who could tell +how long the flood might last!—or indeed whether the house might not +be undermined before morning, or be struck by one of those big things +of which so many floated by, and give way with one terrible crash! Mr. +Duff, while preserving a tolerably calm exterior, was nearly at his +wits’ end. He would stand for half an hour together, with his hands +in his pockets, looking motionless out of a window, murmuring now and +then to himself, “This is clean ridic’lous!” But when anything had +to be done, he was active enough. Mistress Croale sat in a corner, +very quiet, and looking not a little cowed. There was altogether more +water than she liked. Now and then she lifted her lurid black eyes to +Janet, who stood at one of the windows, knitting away at her master’s +stocking, and casting many a calm glance at the brown waters and the +strange drift that covered them; but if Janet turned her head and +made a remark to her, she never gave back other than curt if not rude +reply. In the afternoon Jean brought the whisky bottle. At sight of +it, Mistress Croale’s eyes shot flame. Jean poured out a glassful, +took a sip, and offered it to Janet. Janet declining it, Jean, invaded +possibly by some pity of her miserable aspect, offered it to Mistress +Croale. She took it with affected coolness, tossed it off at a gulp, +and presented the glass—not to the hand from which she had taken it, +but to Jean’s other hand, in which was the bottle. Jean cast a piercing +look into her greedy eyes, and taking the glass from her, filled it, +and presented it to the woman who had built and navigated the brander. +Mistress Croale muttered something that sounded like a curse upon +scrimp measure, and drew herself farther back into the corner, where +she had seated herself on Fergus’s portmanteau.</p> + +<p>“I doobt we hae an Ahchan i’ the camp—a Jonah intil the ship!” said +Jean to Janet, as she turned, bottle and glass in her hands, to carry +them from the room.</p> + +<p>“Na, na; naither sae guid nor sae ill,” replied Janet. “Fowk ’at’s +been ill-guidit, no kennin’ whaur their help lies, whiles taks to the +boatle. But this is but a day o’ punishment, no a day o’ judgment yet, +an’ I’m thinkin’ the warst’s nearhan’ ower.—Gien only Gibbie war here!”</p> + +<p>Jean left the room, shaking her head, and Janet stood alone at the +window as before. A hand was laid on her arm. She looked up. The black +eyes were close to hers, and the glow that was in them gave the lie to +the tone of indifference with which Mistress Croale spoke.</p> + +<p>“Ye hae mair nor ance made mention o’ ane conneckit wi’ ye, by the name +o’ Gibbie,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” answered Janet, sending for the serpent to aid the dove; “an’ +what may be yer wull wi’ him?”</p> + +<p>“Ow, naething,” returned Mistress Croale. “I kenned ane o’ the name +lang syne ’at was lost sicht o’.”</p> + +<p>“There’s Gibbies here an’ Gibbies there,” remarked Janet, probing her.</p> + +<p>“Weel I wat!” she answered peevishly, for she had had whisky enough +only to make her cross, and turned away, muttering however in an +undertone, but not too low for Janet to hear, “but there’s nae mony wee +Sir Gibbies, or the warl’ wadna be sae dooms like hell.”</p> + +<p>Janet was arrested in her turn: could the fierce, repellent, +whisky-craving woman be the mother of her gracious Gibbie? Could she +be, and look so lost? But the loss of him had lost her perhaps. Anyhow +God was his Father, whoever was the mother of him.</p> + +<p>“Hoo cam ye to tyne yer bairn, wuman?” she asked.</p> + +<p>But Mistress Croale was careful also, and had her reasons.</p> + +<p>“He ran frae the bluidy han’,” she said enigmatically.</p> + +<p>Janet recalled how Gibbie came to her, scored by the hand of cruelty. +Were there always innocents in the world, who in their own persons, by +the will of God, unknown to themselves, carried on the work of Christ, +filling up that which was left behind of the sufferings of their +Master—women, children, infants, idiots—creatures of sufferance, with +souls open to the world to receive wrong, that it might pass and cease? +little furnaces they, of the consuming fire, to swallow up and destroy +by uncomplaining endurance—the divine destruction!</p> + +<p>“Hoo cam he by the bonnie nickname?” she asked at length.</p> + +<p>“Nickname!” retorted Mistress Croale fiercely; “I think I hear ye! His +ain name an’ teetle by law an’ richt, as sure’s ever there was a King +Jeames ’at first pat his han’ to the makin’ o’ baronets!—as it’s aften +I hae h’ard Sir George, the father o’ ’im, tell the same.”</p> + +<p>She ceased abruptly, annoyed with herself, as it seemed, for having +said so much.</p> + +<p>“Ye wadna be my lady yersel’, wad ye, mem?” suggested Janet in her +gentlest voice.</p> + +<p>Mistress Croale made her no answer. Perhaps she thought of the days +when she alone of women did the simplest of woman’s offices for Sir +George. Anyhow, it was one thing to rush of herself to the verge of her +secret, and quite another to be fooled over it.</p> + +<p>“Is ’t lang sin ye lost him?” asked Janet, after a bootless pause.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” she answered, gruffly and discourteously, in a tone intended to +quench interrogation.</p> + +<p>But Janet persisted.</p> + +<p>“Wad ye ken ’im again gien ye saw ’im?”</p> + +<p>“Ken ’im? I wad ken ’im gien he had grown a gran’father. Ken ’im, quo’ +she! Wha ever kenned ’im as I did, bairn ’at he was, an’ wadna ken ’im +gien he war deid an’ an angel made o’ ’im!—But weel I wat, it’s little +differ that wad mak!”</p> + +<p>She rose in her excitement, and going to the other window, stood gazing +vacantly out upon the rushing sea. To Janet it was plain she knew more +about Gibbie than she was inclined to tell, and it gave her a momentary +sting of apprehension.</p> + +<p>“What was aboot him ye wad ken sae weel?” she asked in a tone of +indifference, as if speaking only through the meshes of her work.</p> + +<p>“I’ll ken them ’at speirs afore I tell,” she replied sullenly.—But the +next instant she screamed aloud, “Lord God Almichty! yon’s <i>him</i>! yon’s +himsel’!” and, stretching out her arms, dashed a hand through a pane, +letting in an eddying swirl of wind and water, while the blood streamed +unheeded from her wrist.</p> + +<p>The same moment Jean entered the room. She heard both the cry and the +sound of the breaking glass.</p> + +<p>“Care what set the beggar-wife!” she exclaimed. “Gang frae the window, +ye randy.”</p> + +<p>Mistress Croale took no heed. She stood now staring from the window +still as a statue except for the panting motion of her sides. At +the other window stood Janet, gazing also, with blessed face. For +there, like a triton on a sea-horse, came Gibbie through the water on +Snowball, swimming wearily.</p> + +<p>He caught sight of Janet at the window, and straightway his countenance +was radiant with smiles. Mistress Croale gave a shuddering sigh, drew +back from her window, and betook herself again to her dark corner. Jean +went to Janet’s window, and there beheld the triumphal approach of her +brownie, saving from the waters the lost and lamented Snowball. She +shouted to her brother.</p> + +<p>“John! John! here’s yer Snawba’; here’s yer Snawba’.”</p> + +<p>John ran to her call, and, beside himself with joy when he saw his +favourite come swimming along, threw the window wide, and began to bawl +the most unnecessary directions and encouragements, as if the exploit +had been brought thus far towards a happy issue solely through him, +while from all the windows Gibbie was welcomed with shouts and cheers +and congratulations.</p> + +<p>“Lord preserve ’s!” cried Mr. Duff, recognizing the rider at last, +“it’s Rob Grant’s innocent! Wha wad hae thoucht it?”</p> + +<p>“The Lord’s babes an’ sucklin’s are gey cawpable whiles,” remarked +Janet to herself.—She believed Gibbie had more faculty than any of her +own, Donal included, nor did she share the prevalent prejudice of the +city that heart and brains are mutually antagonistic; for in her own +case she had found that her brains were never worth much to her until +her heart took up the education of them. But the intellect is, so much +oftener than by love, seen and felt to be sharpened by necessity and +greed, that it is not surprising such a prejudice should exist.</p> + +<p>“Tak ’im roon’ to the door.”—“Whaur got ye ’im?”—“Ye wad best get ’im +in at the window upo’ the stair.”—“He’ll be maist hungert.”—“Ye’ll +be some weet, I’m thinkin’!”—“Come awa up the stair, an’ tell ’s +a’ aboot it.”—A score of such conflicting shouts assailed Gibbie +as he approached, and he replied to them all with the light of his +countenance.</p> + +<p>When they arrived at the door, they found a difficulty waiting them: +the water was now so high that Snowball’s head rose above the lintel; +and, though all animals can swim, they do not all know how to dive. +A tumult of suggestions immediately broke out. But Donal had already +thrown himself from a window with a rope, and swum to Gibbie’s +assistance; the two understood each other, and heeding nothing the +rest were saying, held their own communications. In a minute the rope +was fastened round Snowball’s body, and the end of it drawn between +his fore-legs and through the ring of his head-stall, when Donal swam +with it to his mother who stood on the stair, with the request that, as +soon as she saw Snowball’s head under the water, she would pull with +all her might, and draw him in at the door. Donal then swam back, and +threw his arms round Snowball’s neck from below, while the same moment +Gibbie cast his whole weight on it from above: the horse was over head +and ears in an instant, and through the door in another. With snorting +nostrils and blazing eyes his head rose in the passage, and in terror +he struck out for the stair. As he scrambled heavily up from the water, +his master and Robert seized him, and with much petting and patting and +gentling, though there was little enough difficulty in managing him +now, conducted him into the bedroom to the rest of the horses. There he +was welcomed by his companions, and immediately began devouring the hay +upon his master’s bedstead. Gibbie came close behind him, was seized by +Janet at the top of the stair, embraced like one come alive from the +grave, and led, all dripping as he was, into the room where the women +were. The farmer followed soon after with the whisky, the universal +medicine in those parts, of which he offered a glass to Gibbie, but +the innocent turned from it with a curious look of mingled disgust and +gratefulness: his father’s life had not been all a failure; he had +done what parents so rarely effect—handed the general results of his +experience to his son. The sight and smell of whisky were to Gibbie a +loathing flavoured with horror.</p> + +<p>The farmer looked back from the door as he was leaving the room: Gibbie +was performing a wild circular dance of which Janet was the centre, +throwing his limbs about like the toy the children call a jumping Jack, +which ended suddenly in a motionless ecstasy upon one leg. Having +regarded for a moment the rescuer of Snowball with astonishment, John +Duff turned away with the reflection, how easy it was and natural for +those who had nothing, and therefore could lose nothing, to make merry +in others’ adversity. It did not once occur to him that it was the joy +of having saved that caused Gibbie’s merriment thus to overflow.</p> + +<p>“The cratur’s a born idiot!” he said afterwards to Jean; “an’ it’s +jist a mervel what he’s cawpable o’!—But, ’deed, there’s little to +cheese atween Janet an’ him! They’re baith tarred wi’ the same stick.” +He paused a moment, then added, “They’ll dee weel eneuch i’ the ither +warl’, I doobtna, whaur naebody has to haud aff o’ themsel’s.”</p> + +<p>That day, however, Gibbie had proved that a man <i>may</i> well afford both +to have nothing, and to take no care of himself, seeing he had, since +he rose in the morning, rescued a friend, a foe, and a beast of the +earth. Verily, he might stand on one leg!</p> + +<p>But when he told Janet that he had been home, and had found the cottage +uninjured and out of danger, she grew very sober in the midst of her +gladness. She could say nothing there amongst strangers, but the dread +arose in her bosom that, if indeed she had not like Peter denied her +Master before men, she had like Peter yielded homage to the might +of the elements in his ruling presence; and she justly saw the same +faithlessness in the two failures.</p> + +<p>“Eh!” she said to herself, “gien only I had been prayin’ i’stead o’ +rinnin’ awa, I wad hae been there whan he turnt the watter aside! I wad +hae seen the mirricle! O my Maister! what think ye o’ me noo?”</p> + +<p>For all the excitement Mistress Croale had shown at first view of +Gibbie, she sat still in her dusky corner, made no movement towards +him, nor did anything to attract his attention, only kept her eyes +fixed upon him; and Janet in her mingled joy and pain forgot her +altogether. When at length it recurred to her that she was in the room, +she cast a somewhat anxious glance towards the place she had occupied +all day. It was empty; and Janet was perplexed to think how she had +gone unseen. She had crept out after Mr. Duff, and probably Janet saw +her, but as one of those who seeing, see not, and immediately forget.</p> + +<p>Just as the farmer left the room, a great noise arose among the cattle +in that adjoining; he set down the bottle on a chair that happened to +be in the passage, and ran to protect the partitions. Exultation would +be a poor word wherewith to represent the madness of the delight that +shot its fires into Mistress Croale’s eyes when she saw the bottle +actually abandoned within her reach. It was to her as the very key of +the universe. She darted upon it, put it to her lips, and <i>drank</i>. Yet +she took heed, thought while she drank, and did not go beyond what she +could carry. Little time such an appropriation required. Noiselessly +she set the bottle down, darted into a closet containing a solitary +calf, and there stood looking from the open window in right innocent +fashion, curiously contemplating the raft attached to it, upon which +she had seen the highland woman arrive with her children.</p> + +<p>At supper-time she was missing altogether. Nobody could with certainty +say when he had last seen her. The house was searched from top to +bottom, and the conclusion arrived at was, that she must have fallen +from some window and been drowned—only, surely she would at least have +uttered one cry! Examining certain of the windows to know whether she +might not have left some sign of such an exit, the farmer discovered +that the brander was gone.</p> + +<p>“Losh!” cried the orra man, with a face bewildered to shapelessness, +like that of an old moon rising in a fog, “yon’ll be her I saw an hoor +ago, hyne doon the watter!”</p> + +<p>“Ye muckle gowk!” said his master, “hoo cud she win sae far ohn gane to +the boddom?”</p> + +<p>“Upo’ the bran’er, sir,” answered the orra man. “I tuik her for a +muckle dog upo’ a door. The wife maun be a witch!”</p> + +<p>John Duff stared at the man with his mouth open, and for half a minute +all were dumb. The thing was incredible, yet hardly to be controverted. +The woman was gone, the raft was gone, and something strange that +might be the two together had been observed about the time, as near as +they could judge, when she ceased to be observed in the house. Had the +farmer noted the change in the level of the whisky in his bottle, he +might have been surer of it—except indeed the doubt had then arisen +whether they might not rather find her at the foot of the stair when +the water subsided.</p> + +<p>Mr. Duff said the luck changed with the return of Snowball; his sister +said, with the departure of the beggar-wife. Before dark the rain had +ceased, and it became evident that the water had not risen for the last +half-hour. In two hours more it had sunk a quarter of an inch.</p> + +<p>Gibbie threw himself on the floor beside his mother’s chair, she +covered him with her grey cloak, and he fell fast asleep. At dawn, he +woke with a start. He had dreamed that Ginevra was in trouble. He made +Janet understand that he would return to guide them home as soon as the +way was practicable, and set out at once.</p> + +<p>The water fell rapidly. Almost as soon as it was morning, the people +at the Mains could begin doing a little towards restoration. But from +that day forth, for about a year, instead of the waters of the Daur and +the Lorrie, the house was filled with the gradually subsiding flood +of Jean’s lamentations over her house-gear—one thing after another, +and twenty things together. There was scarcely an article she did not, +over and over, proclaim utterly ruined, in a tone apparently indicating +ground of serious complaint against some one who did not appear, though +most of the things, to other eyes than hers, remained seemingly about +as useful as before. In vain her brother sought to comfort her with +the assurance that there were worse losses at Culloden; she answered, +that if he had not himself been specially favoured in the recovery of +Snowball, he would have made a much worse complaint about him alone +than she did about all her losses; whereupon, being an honest man, and +not certain that she spoke other than the truth, he held his peace. But +he never made the smallest acknowledgment to Gibbie for the saving of +the said Snowball: what could an idiot understand about gratitude? and +what use was money to a boy who did not set his life at a pin’s fee? +But he always spoke kindly to him thereafter, which was more to Gibbie +than anything he could have given him; and when a man is content, his +friends may hold their peace.</p> + +<p>The next day Jean had her dinner strangely provided. As her brother +wrote to a friend in Glasgow, she “found at the back of the house, +and all lying in a heap, a handsome dish of trout, a pike, a hare, +a partridge, and a turkey, with a dish of potatoes, and a dish of +turnips, all brought down by the burn, and deposited there for the +good of the house, except the turkey, which, alas! was one of her own +favourite flock.”<a id="fna3" href="#fn3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> +<div class="footnote"> +<p class="footnote" id="fn3"><a href="#fna3">[3]</a> See Sir Thomas Dick Lauder’s account of the Morayshire Floods in +1829 (1st Ed., p. 181)—an enchanting book, especially to one whose +earliest memories are interwoven with water-floods. For details in such +kind here given, I am much indebted to it. Again and again, as I have +been writing, has it rendered me miserable—my tale showing so flat +and poor beside Sir Thomas’s narrative. Known to me from childhood, it +wakes in me far more wonder and pleasure now, than it did even in the +days when the marvel of things came more to the surface.</p> + +</div> + +<p>In the afternoon, Gibbie re-appeared at the Mains, and Robert and Janet +set out at once to go home with him. It was a long journey for them—he +had to take them so many rounds. They rested at several houses, and +saw much misery on their way. It was night before they arrived at the +cottage. They found it warm and clean and tidy: Ginevra had, like a +true lady, swept the house that gave her shelter: <i>that</i> ladies often +do; and perhaps it is yet more their work in the world than they fully +understand. For Ginevra, it was heavenly bliss to her to hear their +approaching footsteps; and before she left them she had thoroughly +learned that the poorest place where the atmosphere is love, is more +homely, and by consequence more heavenly, than the most beautiful even, +where law and order are elements supreme.</p> + +<p>“Eh, gien I had only had faith an’ bidden!” said Janet to herself as +she entered; and to the day of her death she never ceased to bemoan her +too hasty desertion of “the wee hoosie upo’ the muckle rock.”</p> + +<p>As to the strange woman’s evident knowledge concerning Gibbie, she +could do nothing but wait—fearing rather than hoping; but she had got +so far above time and chance, that nothing really troubled her, and she +could wait quietly. At the same time it did not seem likely they would +hear anything more of the woman herself: no one believed she could have +gone very far without being whelmed, or <i>whumled</i> as they said, in the +fierce waters.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII.<br><span class="small">MR. SCLATER.</span></h2></div> + +<p>It may be remembered that, upon Gibbie’s disappearance from the city, +great interest was felt in his fate, and such questions started +about the boy himself as moved the Rev. Clement Sclater to gather +all the information at which he could arrive concerning his family +and history. That done, he proceeded to attempt interesting in his +unknown fortunes those relatives of his mother whose existence and +residences he had discovered. In this, however, he had met with no +success. At the house where she was born, there was now no one but +a second cousin, to whom her brother, dying unmarried, had left the +small estate of the Withrops, along with the family contempt for her +husband, and for her because of him, inasmuch as, by marrying him, +she had brought disgrace upon herself, and upon all her people. So +said the cousin to Mr. Sclater, but seemed himself nowise humbled by +the disgrace he recognized, indeed almost claimed. As to the orphan, +he said, to speak honestly (as he did at least that once), the more +entirely he disappeared, the better he would consider it—not that +personally he was the least concerned in the matter; only if, according +to the Scripture, there were two more generations yet upon which had +to be visited the sins of Sir George and Lady Galbraith, the greater +the obscurity in which they remained, the less would be the scandal. +The brother who had taken to business, was the senior partner in +a large ship-building firm at Greenock. This man, William Fuller +Withrop by name—Wilful Withrop the neighbours had nicknamed him—was +a bachelor, and reputed rich. Mr. Sclater did not hear of him what +roused very brilliant hopes. He was one who would demand more reason +than reasonable for the most reasonable of actions that involved +parting with money; yet he had been known to do a liberal thing for +a public object. Waste was so wicked that any other moral risk was +preferable. Of the three, he would waste mind and body rather than +estate. Man was made neither to rejoice nor to mourn, but to possess. +To leave no stone unturned, however, Mr. Sclater wrote to Mr. Withrop. +The answer he received was, that, as the sister, concerning whose +child he had applied to him, had never been anything but a trouble to +the family; as he had no associations with her memory save those of +misery and disgrace; as, before he left home, her name had long ceased +to be mentioned among them; and as her own father had deliberately +and absolutely disowned her because of her obstinate disobedience +and wilfulness, it could hardly be expected of him, and indeed would +ill become him, to show any lively interest in her offspring. Still, +although he could not honestly pretend to the smallest concern about +him, he had, from pure curiosity, made inquiry of correspondents with +regard to the boy; from which the resulting knowledge was, that he was +little better than an idiot, whose character, education, and manners, +had been picked up in the streets. Nothing, he was satisfied, could be +done for such a child, which would not make him more miserable, as well +as more wicked, than he was already. Therefore, &c., &c., &c.</p> + +<p>Thus failing, Mr. Sclater said to himself he had done all that could be +required of him—and he had indeed taken trouble. Nor could anything +be asserted, he said further to himself, as his duty in respect of +this child, that was not equally his duty in respect of every little +wanderer in the streets of his parish. That a child’s ancestors had +been favoured above others, and had so misused their advantages that +their last representative was left in abject poverty, could hardly +be a reason why that child, born, in more than probability, with the +same evil propensities which had ruined them, should be made an elect +object of favour. Who was he, Clement Sclater, to intrude upon the +divine prerogative, and presume to act on the doctrine of election! +Was a child with a <i>Sir</i> to his name, anything more in the eyes of God +than a child without a name at all? Would any title—even that of Earl +or Duke, be recognized in the kingdom of heaven? His relatives ought +to do something: they failing, of whom could further requisition be +made? There were vessels to honour and vessels to dishonour: to which +class this one belonged, let God in his time reveal. A duty could not +be passed on. It could not become the duty of the minister of a parish, +just because those who ought and could, would not, to spend time and +money, to the neglect of his calling, in hunting up a boy whom he would +not know what to do with if he had him, a boy whose home had been with +the dregs of society.</p> + +<p>In justice to Mr. Sclater, it must be mentioned that he did not know +Gibbie, even by sight. There remains room, however, for the question, +whether, if Mr. Sclater had not been the man to change his course as he +did afterwards, he would not have acted differently from the first.</p> + +<p>One morning, as he sat at breakfast with his wife, late Mrs. Bonniman, +and cast, as is, I fear, the rude habit of not a few husbands, not a +few stolen glances, as he ate, over the morning paper, his eye fell +upon a paragraph announcing the sudden death of the well-known William +Fuller Withrop, of the eminent ship-building firm of Withrop and +Playtell, of Greenock. Until he came to the end of the paragraph, his +cup of coffee hung suspended in mid air. Then down it went untasted, he +jumped from his seat, and hurried from the room. For the said paragraph +ended with the remark, that the not unfrequent incapacity of the ablest +of business men for looking the inevitable in the face with coolness +sufficient to the making of a will, was not only a curious fact, but +in the individual case a pity, where two hundred thousand pounds was +concerned. Had the writer been a little more philosophical still, he +might have seen that the faculty for making money by no means involves +judgment in the destination of it, and that the money may do its part +for good and evil without, just as well as with, a will at the back of +it.</p> + +<p>But though this was the occasion, it remains to ask what was the +cause of the minister’s precipitancy. Why should Clement Sclater +thereupon spring from his chair in such a state of excitement that +he set his cup of coffee down upon its side instead of its bottom, +to the detriment of the tablecloth, and of something besides, more +unquestionably the personal property of his wife? Why was it that, +heedless of her questions, backed although they were both by just anger +and lawful curiosity, he ran straight from the room and the house, +nor stayed until, at one and the same moment, his foot was on the top +step of his lawyer’s door, and his hand upon its bell? No doubt it was +somebody’s business, and perhaps it might be Mr. Sclater’s, to find +the heirs of men who died intestate; but what made it so indubitably, +so emphatically, so individually, so pressingly Mr. Sclater’s, that +he forgot breakfast, tablecloth, wife, and sermon, all together, that +he might see to this boy’s rights? Surely if they were rights, they +could be in no such imminent danger as this haste seemed to signify. +Was it only that he might be the first in the race to right him?—and +if so, then again, why? Was it a certainty indisputable, that any boy, +whether such an idle tramp as the minister supposed this one to be +or not, would be redeemed by the heirship to the hugest of fortunes? +Had it, some time before this, become at length easier for a rich boy +to enter into the kingdom of heaven? Or was it that, with all his +honesty, all his religion, all his churchism, all his protestantism, +and his habitual appeal to the word of God, the minister was yet a most +reverential worshipper of Mammon,—not the old god mentioned in the +New Testament, of course, but a thoroughly respectable modern Mammon, +decently dressed, perusing a subscription list! No doubt justice ought +to be done, and the young man over at Roughrigs was sure to be putting +in a false claim, but where were the lawyers, whose business it was? +There was no need of a clergyman to remind them of their duty where +the picking of such a carcase was concerned. Had Mr. Sclater ever +conceived the smallest admiration or love for the boy, I would not have +made these reflections; but, in his ignorance of him and indifference +concerning him, he believed there would at least be trouble in proving +him of approximately sound mind and decent intellect. What, then, I +repeat and leave it, did all this excitement on the part of one of the +iron pillars of the church indicate?</p> + +<p>From his lawyer he would have gone at once to Mistress Croale—indeed +I think he would have gone to her first, to warn her against imparting +what information concerning Gibbie she might possess to any other +than himself, but he had not an idea where she might even be heard +of. He had cleansed his own parish, as he thought, by pulling up the +tare, contrary to commandment, and throwing it into his neighbour’s, +where it had taken root, and grown a worse tare than before; until at +length, she who had been so careful over the manners and morals of her +drunkards, was a drunkard herself and a wanderer, with the reputation +of being a far worse woman than she really was. For some years now +she had made her living, one poor enough, by hawking small household +necessities; and not unfrequently where she appeared, the housewives +bought of her because her eyes, and her nose, and an undefined sense +of evil in her presence, made them shrink from the danger of offending +her. But the real cause of the bad impression she made was, that she +was sorely troubled with what is, by huge discourtesy, called a bad +conscience—being in reality a conscience doing its duty so well that +it makes the whole house uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>On her next return to the Daurfoot, as the part of the city was called +where now she was most at home, she heard the astounding and welcome +news that Gibbie had fallen heir to a large property, and that the +reward of one hundred pounds—a modest sum indeed, but where was the +good of wasting money, thought Mr. Sclater—had been proclaimed by +tuck of drum, to any one giving such information as should lead to the +discovery of Sir Gilbert Galbraith, commonly known as <i>wee Sir Gibbie</i>. +A description of him was added, and the stray was so <i>kenspeckle</i>, that +Mistress Croale saw the necessity of haste to any hope of advantage. +She had nothing to guide her beyond the fact of Sir George’s habit, in +his cups, of referring to the property on Daurside, and the assurance +that with the said habit Gibbie must have been as familiar as herself. +With this initiative, as she must begin somewhere, and could prosecute +her business anywhere, she filled her basket and set out at once for +Daurside. There, after a good deal of wandering hither and thither, and +a search whose fruitlessness she probably owed to too great caution, +she made the desired discovery unexpectedly and marvellously, and left +behind her in the valley the reputation of having been on more familiar +terms with the flood and the causes of it, than was possible to any but +one who kept company worse than human.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br><span class="small">THE MUCKLE HOOSE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The next morning, Janet felt herself in duty bound to make inquiry +concerning those interested in Miss Galbraith. She made, therefore, the +best of her way with Gibbie to the <i>Muckle Hoose</i>, but, as the latter +expected, found it a ruin in a wilderness. Acres of trees and shrubbery +had disappeared, and a hollow waste of sand and gravel was in their +place. What was left of the house stood on the edge of a red gravelly +precipice of fifty feet in height, at whose foot lay the stones of the +kitchen-wing, in which had been the room whence Gibbie carried Ginevra. +The newer part of the house was gone from its very roots; the ancient +portion, all innovation wiped from it, stood grim, desolated, marred, +and defiant as of old. Not a sign of life was about the place; the +very birds had fled. Angus had been there that same morning, and had +locked or nailed up every possible entrance: the place looked like a +ruin of centuries. With difficulty they got down into the gulf, with +more difficulty crossed the burn, clambered up the rocky bank on the +opposite side, and knocked at the door of the gamekeeper’s cottage. But +they saw only a little girl, who told them her father had gone to find +the laird, that her mother was ill in bed, and Mistress MacFarlane on +her way to her own people.</p> + +<p>It came out afterwards that when Angus and the housekeeper heard +Gibbie’s taps at the window, and, looking out, saw nobody there, but +the burn within a few yards of the house, they took the warning for +a supernatural interference to the preservation of their lives, and +fled at once. Passing the foot of the stair, Mistress MacFarlane +shrieked to Ginevra to come, but ran on without waiting a reply. +They told afterwards that she left the house with them, and that, +suddenly missing her, they went back to look for her, but could find +her nowhere, and were just able to make their second escape with their +lives, hearing the house fall into the burn behind them. Mistress +MacFarlane had been severe as the law itself against lying among the +maids, but now, when it came to her own defence where she knew her self +wrong, she lied just like one of the wicked.</p> + +<p>“My dear missie,” said Janet, when they got home, “ye maun write to yer +father, or he’ll be oot o’ ’s wuts aboot ye.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra wrote therefore to the duke’s, and to the laird’s usual address +in London as well; but he was on his way from the one place to the +other when Angus overtook him, and received neither letter.</p> + +<p>Now came to the girl a few such days of delight, of freedom, of life, +as she had never even dreamed of. She roamed Glashgar with Gibbie, the +gentlest, kindest, most interesting of companions. Wherever his sheep +went, she went too, and to many places besides—some of them such +strange, wild, terrible places, as would have terrified her without +him. How he startled her once by darting off a rock like a seagull, +straight, head-foremost, into the Death-pot! She screamed with horror, +but he had done it only to amuse her; for, after what seemed to her a +fearful time, he came smiling up out of the terrible darkness. What a +brave, beautiful boy he was! He never hurt anything, and nothing ever +seemed to hurt him. And what a number of things he knew! He showed her +things on the mountain, things in the sky, things in the pools and +streams wherever they went. He did better than tell her about them; +he made her see them, and then the things themselves told her. She +was not always certain she saw just what he wanted her to see, but +she always saw something that made her glad with knowledge. He had a +New Testament Janet had given him, which he carried in his pocket, +and when she joined him, for he was always out with his sheep hours +before she was up, she would generally find him seated on a stone, or +lying in the heather, with the little book in his hand, looking solemn +and sweet. But the moment he saw her, he would spring merrily up to +welcome her. It were indeed an argument against religion as strong as +sad, if one of the children the kingdom specially claims, could not be +possessed by the life of the Son of God without losing his simplicity +and joyousness. Those of my readers will be the least inclined to doubt +the boy, who, by obedience, have come to know its reward. For obedience +alone holds wide the door for the entrance of the spirit of wisdom. +There was as little to wonder at in Gibbie as there was much to love +and admire, for from the moment when, yet a mere child, he heard there +was such a one claiming his obedience, he began to turn to him the +hearing ear, the willing heart, the ready hand. The main thing which +rendered this devotion more easy and natural to him than to others was, +that, more than in most, the love of man had in him prepared the way of +the Lord. He who so loved the sons of men was ready to love the Son of +Man the moment he heard of him; love makes obedience a joy; and of him +who obeys, all heaven is the patrimony—he is fellow-heir with Christ.</p> + +<p>On the fourth day, the rain, which had been coming and going, finally +cleared off, the sun was again glorious, and the farmers began to hope +a little for the drying and ripening of some portion of their crops. +Then first Ginevra asked Gibbie to take her down to Glashruach; she +wanted to see the ruin they had described to her. When she came near, +and notions changed into visible facts, she neither wept nor wailed. +She felt very miserable, it is true, but it was at finding that the +evident impossibility of returning thither for a long time, woke in her +pleasure and not pain. So utterly altered was the look of everything, +that had she come upon it unexpectedly, she would not have recognized +either place or house. They went up to a door. She seemed never to +have seen it; but when they entered, she knew it as one from the hall +into a passage, which, with what it led to being gone, the inner had +become an outer door. A quantity of sand was heaped up in the hall, +and the wainscot was wet and swelled and bulging. They went into the +dining-room. It was a miserable sight—the very picture of the soul +of a drunkard. The thick carpet was sodden—spongy like a bed of moss +after heavy rains; the leather chairs looked diseased; the colour was +all gone from the table; the paper hung loose from the walls; and +everything lay where the water, after floating it about, had let it +drop as it ebbed.</p> + +<p>She ascended the old stone stair which led to her father’s rooms above, +went into his study, in which not a hair was out of its place, and +walked towards the window to look across to where once had been her own +chamber. But as she approached it, there, behind the curtain, she saw +her father, motionless, looking out. She turned pale, and stood. Even +at such a time, had she known he was in the house, she would not have +dared set her foot in that room. Gibbie, who had followed and entered +behind her, preceived her hesitation, saw and recognized the back of +the laird, knew that she was afraid of her father, and stood also +waiting he knew not what.</p> + +<p>“Eh!” he said to himself, “hers is no like mine! Nae mony has had +fathers sae guid ’s mine.”</p> + +<p>Becoming aware of a presence, the laird half turned, and seeing +Gibbie, imagined he had entered in a prowling way, supposing the place +deserted. With stately offence he asked him what he wanted there, and +waved his dismissal. Then first he saw another, standing white-faced, +with eyes fixed upon him. He turned pale also, and stood staring at +her. The memory of that moment ever after disgraced him in his own +eyes: for one instant of unreasoning weakness, he imagined he saw a +ghost—believed what he said he knew to be impossible. It was but one +moment, but it might have been more, had not Ginevra walked slowly up +to him, saying in a trembling voice, as if she expected the blame of +all that had happened, “I couldn’t help it, papa.” He took her in his +arms, and, for the first time since the discovery of her atrocious +familiarity with Donal, kissed her. She clung to him, trembling now +with pleasure as well as apprehension. But, alas! there was no impiety +in the faithlessness that pronounced such a joy too good to endure, +and the end came yet sooner than she feared. For, when the father +rose erect from her embrace, and was again the laird, there, to his +amazement, still stood the odd-looking, outlandish intruder, smiling +with the most impertinent interest! Gibbie had forgotten himself +altogether, beholding what he took for a thorough reconciliation.</p> + +<p>“Go away, boy. You have nothing to do here,” said the laird, anger +almost overwhelming his precious dignity.</p> + +<p>“Oh, papa!” cried Ginevra, clasping her hands, “that’s Gibbie! He saved +my life. I should have been drowned but for him.”</p> + +<p>The laird was both proud and stupid, therefore more than ordinarily +slow to understand what he was unprepared to hear.</p> + +<p>“I am much obliged to him,” he said haughtily; “but there is no +occasion for him to wait.”</p> + +<p>At this point his sluggish mind began to recall something:—why, this +was the very boy he saw in the meadow with her that morning!—He turned +fiercely upon him where he lingered, either hoping for a word of adieu +from Ginevra, or unwilling to go while she was uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>“Leave the house instantly,” he said, “or I will knock you down.”</p> + +<p>“O papa!” moaned Ginevra wildly—it was the braver of her that she was +trembling from head to foot—“don’t speak so to Gibbie. He is a good +boy. It was he that Angus whipped so cruelly—long ago: I have never +been able to forget it.”</p> + +<p>Her father was confounded at her presumption: how dared she expostulate +with him! She had grown a bold, bad girl! Good heavens! Evil +communications!</p> + +<p>“If he does not get out of this directly,” he cried, “I will have him +whipped again. Angus!”</p> + +<p>He shouted the name, and its echo came back in a wild tone, altogether +strange to Ginevra. She seemed struggling in the meshes of an evil +dream. Involuntarily she uttered a cry of terror and distress. Gibbie +was at her side instantly, putting out his hand to comfort her. She was +just laying hers on his arm, scarcely knowing what she did, when her +father seized him, and dashed him to the other side of the room. He +went staggering backwards, vainly trying to recover himself, and fell, +his head striking against the wall. The same instant Angus entered, saw +nothing of Gibbie where he lay, and approached his master. But when +he caught sight of Ginevra, he gave a gasp of terror that ended in a +broken yell, and stared as if he had come suddenly on the verge of the +bottomless pit, while all round his head his hair stood out as if he +had been electrified. Before he came to himself, Gibbie had recovered +and risen. He saw now that he could be of no service to Ginevra, and +that his presence only made things worse for her. But he saw also that +she was unhappy about him, and that must not be. He broke into such a +merry laugh—and it had need to be merry, for it had to do the work +of many words of reassurance—that she could scarcely refrain from a +half-hysterical response as he walked from the room. The moment he was +out of the house, he began to sing; and for many minutes, as he walked +up the gulf hollowed by the Glashburn, Ginevra could hear the strange, +other-world voice, and knew it was meant to hold communion with her and +comfort her.</p> + +<p>“What do you know of that fellow, Angus!” asked his master.</p> + +<p>“He’s the verra deevil himsel’, sir,” muttered Angus, whom Gibbie’s +laughter had in a measure brought to his senses.</p> + +<p>“You will see that he is sent off the property at once—and for good, +Angus,” said the laird. “His insolence is insufferable. The scoundrel!”</p> + +<p>On the pretext of following Gibbie, Angus was only too glad to leave +the room. Then Mr. Galbraith upon his daughter.</p> + +<p>“So, Jenny!” he said, with his loose lips pulled out straight, “that +is the sort of companion you choose when left to yourself!—a low, +beggarly, insolent scamp!—scarcely the equal of the brutes he has the +charge of!”</p> + +<p>“They’re sheep, papa!” pleaded Ginevra, in a wail that rose almost to a +scream.</p> + +<p>“I do believe the girl is an idiot!” said her father, and turned from +her contemptuously.</p> + +<p>“I think I am, papa,” she sobbed. “Don’t mind me. Let me go away, and +I will never trouble you any more.” She would go to the mountain, she +thought, and be a shepherdess with Gibbie.</p> + +<p>Her father took her roughly by the arm, pushed her into a closet, +locked the door, went and had his luncheon, and in the afternoon, +having borrowed Snowball, took her just as she was, drove to meet the +mail coach, and in the middle of the night was set down with her at the +principal hotel in the city, whence the next morning he set out early +to find a school where he might leave her and his responsibility with +her.</p> + +<p>When Gibbie knew himself beyond the hearing of Ginevra, his song died +away, and he went home sad. The gentle girl had stepped at once from +the day into the dark, and he was troubled for her. But he remembered +that she had another father besides the laird, and comforted himself.</p> + +<p>When he reached home, he found his mother in serious talk with a +stranger. The tears were in her eyes, and had been running down her +cheeks, but she was calm and dignified as usual.</p> + +<p>“Here he comes!” she said as he entered. “The will o’ the Lord be +dune—noo an’ for ever-mair! I’m at his biddin’.—An’ sae’s Gibbie.”</p> + +<p>It was Mr. Sclater. The witch had sailed her brander well.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX.<br><span class="small">DAUR STREET.</span></h2></div> + +<p>One bright afternoon, towards the close of the autumn, the sun shining +straight down one of the wide clean stony streets of the city, with +a warmth which he had not been able to impart to the air, a company +of school-girls, two and two in long file, mostly with innocent, and, +for human beings, rather uninteresting faces, was walking in orderly +manner, a female grenadier at its head, along the pavement, more than +usually composed, from having the sun in their eyes. Amongst the faces +was one very different from the rest, a countenance almost solemn and a +little sad, of still, regular features, in the eyes of which by loving +eyes might have been read uneasy thought patiently carried, and the +lack of some essential to conscious well-being. The other girls were +looking on this side and that, eager to catch sight of anything to +trouble the monotony of the daily walk; but the eyes of this one were +cast down, except when occasionally lifted in answer to words of the +schoolmistress, the grenadier, by whose side she was walking. They were +lovely brown eyes, trustful and sweet, and although, as I have said, +a little sad, they never rose, even in reply to the commonest remark, +without shining a little. Though younger than not a few of them, and +very plainly dressed, like all the others—I have a suspicion that +Scotch mothers dress their girls rather too plainly, which tends to the +growth of an undue and degrading love of dress—she was not so girlish, +was indeed, in some respects, more of a young woman than even the +governess who walked by the side of them.</p> + +<p>Suddenly came a rush, a confusion, a fluttering of the doves, whence +or how none seemed to know, a gentle shriek from several of the girls, +a general sense of question and no answer; but, as their ruffled +nerves composed themselves a little, there was the vision of the +schoolmistress poking the point of her parasol at a heedless face, +radiant with smiles, that of an odd-looking lad, as they thought, who +had got hold of one of the daintily gloved hands of her companion, laid +a hand which, considered conventionally, was not that of a gentleman, +upon her shoulder, and stood, without a word, gazing in rapturous +delight.</p> + +<p>“Go away, boy! What do you mean by such impertinence?” cried the +outraged Miss Kimble, changing her thrust, and poking in his chest +the parasol with which she had found it impossible actually to assail +his smiling countenance.—Such a strange looking creature! He could +not be in his sound senses, she thought. In the momentary mean time, +however, she had failed to observe that, after the first start and +following tremor, her companion stood quite still, and was now looking +in the lad’s face with roseate cheeks and tear-filled eyes, apparently +forgetting to draw her hand from his, or to move her shoulder from +under his caress. The next moment, up, with hasty yet dignified step, +came the familiar form of their own minister, the Rev. Clement Sclater, +who, with reproof in his countenance, which was red with annoyance and +haste, laid his hands on the lad’s shoulders to draw him from the prey +on which he had pounced.</p> + +<p>“Remember, you are not on a hill-side, but in a respectable street,” +said the reverend gentleman, a little foolishly.</p> + +<p>The youth turned his head over his shoulder, not otherwise changing his +attitude, and looked at him with some bewilderment. Then, not he, but +the young lady spoke.</p> + +<p>“Gibbie and I are old friends,” she said, and reaching up laid her free +hand in turn on his shoulder, as if to protect him—for, needlessly, +with such grace and strength before her, the vision of an old horror +came rushing back on the mind of Ginevra.</p> + +<p>Gibbie had darted from his companion’s side some hundred yards off. +The cap which Mr. Sclater had insisted on his wearing had fallen as +he ran, and he had never missed it; his hair stood out on all sides +of his head, and the sun behind him shone in it like a glory, just +as when first he appeared to Ginevra in the peat-moss, like an angel +standing over her. Indeed, while to Miss Kimble and the girls he was +“<i>a mad-like object</i>” in his awkward ill-fitting clothes, made by a +village tailor in the height of the village fashion, to Ginevra he +looked hardly less angelic now than he did then. His appearance, judged +without prejudice, was rather that of a sailor boy on shore than a +shepherd boy from the hills.</p> + +<p>“Miss Galbraith!” said Miss Kimble, in the tone that indicates nostrils +distended, “I am astonished at you! What an example to the school! +I never knew you misbehave yourself before! Take your hand from +this—this—very strange looking person’s shoulder directly.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra obeyed, but Gibbie stood as before.</p> + +<p>“Remove your hand, boy, instantly,” cried Miss Kimble, growing more and +more angry, and began knocking the hand on the girl’s shoulder with her +parasol, which apparently Gibbie took for a joke, for he laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>“Pray do not alarm yourself, ma’am,” said Mr. Sclater, slowly +recovering his breath: he was not yet quite sure of Gibbie, or +confident how best he was to be managed; “this young—<i>gentleman</i> is +Sir Gilbert Galbraith, my ward.—Sir Gilbert, this lady is Miss Kimble. +You must have known her father well—the Rev. Matthew Kimble of the +next parish to your own?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie smiled. He did not nod, for that would have meant that he did +know him, and he did not remember having ever even heard the name of +the Rev. Matthew Kimble.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said the lady, who had ceased her battery, and stood bewildered +and embarrassed—the more that by this time the girls had all gathered +round, staring and wondering.</p> + +<p>Ginevra’s eyes too had filled with wonder; she cast them down, and a +strange smile began to play about her sweet strong mouth. All at once +she was in the middle of a fairy tale, and had not a notion what was +coming next. Her dumb shepherd boy a baronet!—and, more wonderful +still, a Galbraith! She must be dreaming in the wide street! The last +she had seen of him was as he was driven from the house by her father, +when he had just saved her life. That was but a few weeks ago, and +here he was, called Sir Gilbert Galbraith! It was a delicious bit of +wonderment.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said Miss Kimble a second time, recovering herself a little, +“I see! A relative, Miss Galbraith! I did not understand. That of +course sets everything right—at least—even then—the open street, +you know!—You will understand, Mr. Sclater.—I beg your pardon, Sir +Gilbert. I hope I did not hurt you with my parasol!”</p> + +<p>Gibbie again laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said Miss Kimble confused, and annoyed with herself for +being so, especially before her girls. “I should be sorry to have hurt +you.—Going to college, I presume, Sir Gilbert?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie looked at Mr. Sclater.</p> + +<p>“He is going to study with me for a while first,” answered the minister.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to hear it. He could not do better,” said Miss Kimble. +“Come, girls.”</p> + +<p>And with friendly farewells, she moved on, her train after her, +thinking with herself what a boor the young fellow was—the +young—baronet?—Yes, he must be a baronet; he was too young to have +been knighted already. But where ever could he have been brought up?</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater had behaved judiciously, and taken gentle pains to satisfy +the old couple that they must part with Gibbie. One of the neighbouring +clergy knew Mr. Sclater well, and with him paid the old people a +visit, to help them to dismiss any lingering doubt that he was the +boy’s guardian legally appointed. To their own common sense indeed it +became plain that, except some such story was true, there could be +nothing to induce him to come after Gibbie, or desire to take charge +of the outcast; but they did not feel thoroughly satisfied until Mr. +Sclater brought Fergus Duff to the cottage, to testify to him as being +what he pretended. It was a sore trial, but amongst the griefs of +losing him, no fear of his forgetting them was included. Mr. Sclater’s +main difficulty was with Gibbie himself. At first he laughed at the +absurdity of his going away from his father and mother and the sheep. +They told him he was Sir Gilbert Galbraith. He answered on his slate, +as well as by signs which Janet at least understood perfectly, that +he had told them so, and had been so all the time, “and what differ +does that mak?” he added. Mr. Sclater told him he was—or would be, at +least, he took care to add, when he came of age—a rich man as well as +a baronet.</p> + +<p>“Writch men,” wrote Gibbie, “dee as they like, and Ise bide.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater told him it was only poor boys who could do as they +pleased, for the law looked after boys like him, so that, when it came +into their hands, they might be capable of using their money properly. +Almost persuaded at length that he had no choice, that he could no +longer be his own master, until he was one and twenty, he turned and +looked at Janet, his eyes brimful of tears. She gave him a little nod. +He rose and went out, climbed the crest of Glashgar, and did not return +to the cottage till midnight.</p> + +<p>In the morning appeared on his countenance signs of unusual resolve. +Amid the many thoughts he had had the night before, had come the +question—what he would do with the money when he had it—first of all +what he could do for Janet and Robert and everyone of their family; and +naturally enough to a Scotch boy, the first thing that occurred to him +was, to give Donal money to go to college like Fergus Duff. In that he +knew he made no mistake. It was not so easy to think of things for the +rest, but <i>that</i> was safe. Had not Donal said twenty times he would +not mind being a herd all his life, if only he could go to college +first? But then he began to think what a long time it was before he +would be one and twenty, and what a number of things might come and go +before then: Donal might by that time have a wife and children, and +he could not leave them to go to college! Why should not Mr. Sclater +manage somehow that Donal should go at once? It was now the end almost +of October, and the college opened in November. Some other rich person +would lend them the money, and he would pay it, with compound interest, +when he got his. Before he went to bed, he got his slate, and wrote as +follows:</p> + +<p>“my dear minister, If you will teak Donal too, and lett him go to the +kolledg, I will go with you as seens ye like; butt if ye will not, I +will runn away.”</p> + +<p>When Mr. Sclater, who had a bed at the gamekeeper’s, appeared the next +morning, anxious to conclude the business, and get things in motion for +their departure, Gibbie handed him the slate the moment he entered the +cottage, and while he read, stood watching him.</p> + +<p>Now Mr. Sclater was a prudent man, and always looked ahead, therefore +apparently took a long time to read Gibbie’s very clear, although +unscholarly communication; before answering it, he must settle the +probability of what Mrs. Sclater would think of the proposal to take +<i>two</i> savages into her house together, where also doubtless the +presence of this Donal would greatly interfere with the process of +making a gentleman of Gibbie. Unable to satisfy himself, he raised his +head at length, unconsciously shaking it as he did so. That instant +Gibbie was out of the house. Mr. Sclater, perceiving the blunder he had +made, hurried after him, but he was already out of sight. Returning +in some dismay, he handed the slate to Janet, who, with sad, resigned +countenance, was <i>baking</i>. She rubbed the oatmeal dough from her hands, +took the slate, and read with a smile.</p> + +<p>“Ye maunna tak Gibbie for a young cowt, Maister Sclater, an’ think to +brak him in,” she said, after a thoughtful pause, “or ye’ll hae to +learn yer mistak. There’s no eneuch o’ himsel’ in him for ye to get a +grip o’ ’im by that han’le. He aye kens what he wad hae, an’ he’ll aye +get it, as sure ’s it’ll aye be richt. As anent Donal, Donal’s my ain, +an’ I s’ say naething. Sit ye doon, sir; ye’ll no see Gibbie the day +again.”</p> + +<p>“Is there no means of getting at him, my good woman?” said Mr. Sclater, +miserable at the prospect of a day utterly wasted.</p> + +<p>“I cud gie ye sicht o’ ’im, I daursay, but what better wad ye be for +that? Gien ye hed a’ the lawyers o’ Embrough at yer back, ye wadna +touch Gibbie upo’ Glashgar.”</p> + +<p>“But you could persuade him, I am sure, Mistress Grant. You have only +to call him in your own way, and he will come at once.”</p> + +<p>“What wad ye hae me perswaud him till, sir? To onything ’at’s richt, +Gibbie wants nae perswaudin’; an’ for this ’at’s atween ye, the laddies +are jist verra brithers, an’ I hae no richt to interfere wi’ what the +tane wad for the tither, the thing seemin’ to me rizon eneuch.”</p> + +<p>“What sort of lad is this son of yours? The boy seems much attached to +him!”</p> + +<p>“He’s a laddie ’at’s been gi’en ower till ’s buik sin ever I learnt +him to read mysel’,” Janet answered. “But he’ll be here the nicht, +I’m thinkin’, to see the last o’ puir Gibbie, an’ ye can jeedge for +yersel’.”</p> + +<p>It required but a brief examination of Donal to satisfy Mr. Sclater +that he was more than prepared for the university. But I fear me +greatly the time is at hand when such as Donal will no more be able +to enter her courts. Unwise and unpatriotic are any who would rather +have a few prime scholars sitting about the wells of learning, than see +those fountains flow freely for the poor, who are yet the strength of a +country. It is better to have many upon the high road of learning, than +a few even at its goal, if that were possible.</p> + +<p>As to Donal’s going to Mr. Sclater’s house, Janet soon relieved him.</p> + +<p>“Na, na, sir,” she said; “it wad be to learn w’ys ’at wadna be fittin’ +a puir lad like him.”</p> + +<p>“It would be much safer for him,” said Mr. Sclater, but incidentally.</p> + +<p>“Gien I cudna lippen my Donal till ’s ain company an’ the hunger for +better, I wad begin to doobt wha made the warl’,” said his mother; and +Donal’s face flushed with pleasure at her confidence. “Na, he maun get +a garret roomie some gait i’ the toon, an’ there haud till ’s buik; an +ye’ll lat Gibbie gang an’ see him whiles whan he can be spared. There +maun be many a dacent wuman ’at wad be pleased to tak him in.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater seemed to himself to foresee no little trouble in his +new responsibility, but consoled himself that he would have more +money at his command, and in the end would sit, as it were, at the +fountain-head of large wealth. Already, with his wife’s property, he +was a man of consideration; but he had a great respect for money, and +much overrated its value as a means of doing even what he called good: +religious people generally do—with a most unchristian dulness. We are +not told that the Master made the smallest use of money for his end. +When he paid the temple-rate, he did it to avoid giving offence; and +he defended the woman who divinely wasted it. Ten times more grace and +magnanimity would be needed, wisely and lovingly to avoid making a +fortune, than it takes to spend one for what are called good objects +when it is made.</p> + +<p>When they met Miss Kimble and her “young ladies,” they were on their +way from the coach-office to the minister’s house in Daur Street. +Gibbie knew every corner, and strange was the swift variety of thoughts +and sensations that went filing through his mind. Up this same street +he had tended the wavering steps of a well-known if not highly +respected town-councillor! that was the door, where, one cold morning +of winter, the cook gave him a cup of hot coffee and a roll! What happy +days they were, with their hunger and adventure! There had always been +food and warmth about the city, and he had come in for his share! The +Master was in its streets as certainly as on the rocks of Glashgar. +Not one sheep did he lose sight of, though he could not do so much for +those that would not follow, and had to have the dog sent after them!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL<br><span class="small">MRS. SCLATER.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Gibbie was in a dream of mingled past and future delights, when his +conductor stopped at a large and important-looking house, with a flight +of granite steps up to the door. Gibbie had never been inside such a +house in his life, but when they entered, he was not much impressed. +He did look with a little surprise, it is true, but it was down, not +up: he felt his feet walking soft, and wondered for a moment that there +should be a field of grass in a house. Then he gave a glance round, +thought it was a big place, and followed Mr. Sclater up the stair +with the free mounting step of the Glashgar shepherd. Forgetful and +unconscious, he walked into the drawing-room with his bonnet on his +head. Mrs. Sclater rose when they entered, and he approached her with a +smile of welcome to the house which he carried, always full of guests, +in his bosom. He never thought of looking to her to welcome him. She +shook hands with him in a doubtful kind of way.</p> + +<p>“How do you do, Sir Gilbert?” she said. “Only ladies are allowed to +wear their caps in the drawing-room, you know,” she added, in a tone of +courteous and half-rallying rebuke, speaking from a flowery height of +conscious superiority.</p> + +<p>What she meant by the drawing-room, Gibbie had not an idea. He looked +at her head, and saw no cap; she had nothing upon it but a quantity +of beautiful black hair; then suddenly remembered his bonnet; he knew +well enough bonnets had to be taken off in house or cottage: he had +never done so because he never had worn a bonnet. But it was with a +smile of amusement only that he now took it off. He was so free from +selfishness that he knew nothing of shame. Never a shadow of blush +at his bad manners tinged his cheek. He put the cap in his pocket, +and catching sight of a footstool by the corner of the chimney-piece, +was so strongly reminded of his creepie by the cottage-hearth, which, +big lad as he now was, he had still haunted, that he went at once and +seated himself upon it. From this coign of vantage he looked round the +room with a gentle curiosity, casting a glance of pleasure every now +and then at Mrs. Sclater, to whom her husband, in a manner somewhat +constrained because of his presence, was recounting some of the +incidents of his journey, making choice, after the manner of many, of +the most commonplace and uninteresting.</p> + +<p>Gibbie had not been educated in the relative grandeur of things of this +world, and he regarded the things he now saw just as things, without +the smallest notion of any power in them to confer superiority by being +possessed: can a slave knight his master? The reverend but poor Mr. +Sclater was not above the foolish consciousness of importance accruing +from the refined adjuncts of a more needy corporeal existence; his wife +would have felt out of her proper sphere had she ceased to see them +around her, and would have lost some of her <i>aplomb</i>; but the divine +idiot Gibbie was incapable even of the notion that they mattered a +straw to the life of any man. Indeed, to compare man with man was no +habit of his; hence it cannot be wonderful that stone hearth and steel +grate, clay floor and Brussels carpet were much the same to him. Man +was the one sacred thing. Gibbie’s unconscious creed was a powerful +leveller, but it was a leveller up, not down. The heart that revered +the beggar could afford to be incapable of homage to position. His +was not one of those contemptible natures which have no reverence +because they have no aspiration, which think themselves fine because +they acknowledge nothing superior to their own essential baseness. To +Gibbie every man was better than himself. It was for him a sudden and +strange descent—from the region of poetry and closest intercourse with +the strong and gracious and vital simplicities of Nature, human and +other, to the rich commonplaces, amongst them not a few fashionable +vulgarities, of an ordinary well-appointed house, and ordinary +well-appointed people; but, however bedizened, humanity was there; and +he who does not love human more than any other nature has not life in +himself, does not carry his poetry in him, as Gibbie did, therefore +cannot find it except where it has been shown to him. Neither was a +common house like this by any means devoid of any things to please +him. If there was not the lovely homeliness of the cottage which at +once gave all it had, there was a certain stateliness which afforded +its own reception; if there was little harmony, there were individual +colours that afforded him delight—as for instance, afterwards, the +crimson covering the walls of the dining-room, whose colour was of +that soft deep-penetrable character which a flock paper alone can +carry. Then there were pictures, bad enough most of them, no doubt, in +the eyes of the critic, but endlessly suggestive, therefore endlessly +delightful to Gibbie. It is not the man who knows most about Nature +that is hardest to please, however he may be hardest to satisfy, with +the attempt to follow her. The accomplished poet will derive pleasure +from verses which are a mockery to the soul of the unhappy mortal whose +business is judgment—the most thankless of all labours, and justly so. +Certain fruits one is unable to like until he has eaten them in their +perfection; after that, the reminder in them of the perfect will enable +him to enjoy even the inferior a little, recognizing their kind—always +provided he be not one given to judgment—a connoisseur, that is, one +who cares less for the truth than for the knowing comparison of one +embodiment of it with another. Gibbie’s regard then, as it wandered +round the room, lighting on this colour, and that texture, in curtain, +or carpet, or worked screen, found interest and pleasure. Amidst the +mere upholstery of houses and hearts, amidst the common life of the +common crowd, he was, and had to be, what he had learned to be amongst +the nobility and in the palace of Glashgar.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater, late Mrs. Bonniman, was the widow of a merchant who +had made his money in foreign trade, and to her house Mr. Sclater +had <i>flitted</i> when he married her. She was a well-bred woman, much +the superior of her second husband in the small duties and graces of +social life, and, already a sufferer in some of his not very serious +<i>grossièretés</i>, regarded with no small apprehension the arrival of one +in whom she expected the same kind of thing in largely exaggerated +degree. She did not much care to play the mother to a bear cub, she +said to her friends, with a good-humoured laugh. “Just think,” she +added, “with such a childhood as the poor boy had, what a mass of +vulgarity must be lying in that uncultivated brain of his! It is no +small mercy, as Mr. Sclater says, that our ears at least are safe. Poor +boy!”—She was a woman of about forty, rather tall, of good complexion +tending to the ruddy, with black smooth shining hair parted over a +white forehead, black eyes, nose a little aquiline, good mouth, and +fine white teeth—altogether a handsome woman—some notion of whose +style may be gathered from the fact that, upon the testimony of her +cheval glass, she preferred satin to the richest of silks, and almost +always wore it. Now and then she would attempt a change, but was always +defeated and driven back into satin. She was precise in her personal +rules, but not stiff in the manners wherein she embodied them: these +were indeed just a little florid and wavy, a trifle profuse in their +grace. She kept an excellent table, and every appointment about the +house was <i>in good style</i>—a favourite phrase with her. She was her own +housekeeper, an exact mistress, but considerate, so that her servants +had no bad time of it. She was sensible, kind, always responsive to +appeal, had scarcely a thread of poetry or art in her upper texture, +loved fair play, was seldom in the wrong, and never confessed it when +she was. But when she saw it, she took some pains to avoid being so +in a similar way again. She held hard by her own opinion; was capable +of a mild admiration of truth and righteousness in another; had one +or two pet commandments to which she paid more attention than to the +rest; was a safe member of society, never carrying tales; was kind +with condescension to the poor, and altogether a good wife for a +minister of Mr. Sclater’s sort. She knew how to hold her own with any +who would have established superiority. A little more coldness, pride, +indifference, and careless restraint, with just a touch of rudeness, +would have given her the freedom of the best society, if she could +have got into it. Altogether it would not have been easy to find one +who could do more for Gibbie in respect for the social <i>rapports</i> +that seemed to await him. Even some who would gladly themselves have +undertaken the task, admitted that he might have fallen into much less +qualified hands. Her husband was confident that, if anybody could, his +wife would make a gentleman of Sir Gilbert; and he ought to know, for +she had done a good deal of polishing upon him.</p> + +<p>She was now seated on a low chair at the other side of the fire, +leaning back at a large angle, slowly contemplating out of her black +eyes the lad on the footstool, whose blue eyes she saw wandering about +the room, in a manner neither vague nor unintelligent, but showing +more of interest than of either surprise or admiration. Suddenly he +turned them full upon her; they met hers, and the light rushed into +them like a torrent, breaking forth after its way in a soulful smile. +I hope my readers are not tired of the mention of Gibbie’s smiles: I +can hardly avoid it; they were all Gibbie had for the small coin of +intercourse; and if my readers care to be just, they will please to +remember that they have been spared many a <i>he said</i> and <i>she said</i>. +Unhappily for me there is no way of giving the delicate differences of +those smiles. Much of what Gibbie perhaps felt the more that he could +not say it, had got into the place where the smiles are made, and, +like a variety of pollens, had impregnated them with all shades and +colours of expression, whose varied significance those who had known +him longest, dividing and distinguishing, had gone far towards being +able to interpret. In that which now shone on Mrs. Sclater, there was +something, she said the next day to a friend, which no woman could +resist, and which must come of his gentle blood. If she could have seen +a few of his later ancestors at least, she would have doubted if they +had anything to do with that smile beyond its mere transmission from +“the first stock-father of gentleness.” She responded, and from that +moment the lady and the shepherd lad were friends.</p> + +<p>Now that a real introduction had taken place between them, and in her +answering smile Gibbie had met the lady herself, he proceeded, in +most natural sequence, without the smallest shyness or suspicion of +rudeness, to make himself acquainted with the phenomena presenting her. +As he would have gazed upon a rainbow, trying perhaps to distinguish +the undistinguishable in the meeting and parting of its colours, only +that here behind was the all-powerful love of his own, he began to +examine the lady’s face and form, dwelling and contemplating with eyes +innocent as any baby’s. This lasted; but did not last long before it +began to produce in the lady a certain uncertain embarrassment, a +something she did not quite understand, therefore could not account +for, and did not like. Why should she mind eyes such as those making +acquaintance with what a whole congregation might see any Sunday at +church, or for that matter, the whole city on Monday, if it pleased to +look upon her as she walked shopping in Pearl-street? Why indeed? Yet +she began to grow restless, and feel as if she wanted to let down her +veil. She could have risen and left the room, but she had “no notion” +of being thus put to flight by her bear-cub; she was ashamed that a +woman of her age and experience should be so foolish; and besides, she +wanted to come to an understanding with herself as to what herself +meant by it. She did not feel that the boy was rude; she was not angry +with him as with one taking a liberty; yet she did wish he would not +look at her like that; and presently she was relieved.</p> + +<p>Her hands, which had been lying all the time in her lap, white upon +black, had at length drawn and fixed Gibbie’s attention. They were very +lady-like hands, long-fingered, and with the orthodox long-oval nails, +each with a quarter segment of a pale rising moon at the root—hands +nearly faultless, and, I suspect, considered by their owner entirely +such—but a really faultless hand, who has ever seen?—To Gibbie’s eyes +they were such beautiful things, that, after a moment or two spent in +regarding them across the length of the hairy hearthrug, he got up, +took his footstool, crossed with it to the other side of the fire, set +it down by Mrs. Sclater, and reseated himself. Without moving more than +her fine neck, she looked down on him curiously, wondering what would +come next; and what did come next was, that he laid one of his hands on +one of those that lay in the satin lap; then, struck with the contrast +between them, burst out laughing. But he neither withdrew his hand, +nor showed the least shame of the hard, brown, tarry-seamed, strong, +though rather small prehensile member, with its worn and blackened +nails, but let it calmly remain outspread, side by side with the white, +shapely, spotless, gracious and graceful thing, adorned, in sign of +the honour it possessed in being the hand of Mrs. Sclater,—it was her +favourite hand,—with a half hoop of fine blue-green turkises, and a +limpid activity of many diamonds. She laughed also—who could have +helped it? that laugh would have set silver bells ringing in responsive +sympathy!—and patted the lumpy thing which, odd as the fact might +be, was also called a hand, with short little pecking pats; she did +not altogether like touching so painful a degeneracy from the ideal. +But his very evident admiration of hers, went far to reconcile her to +his,—as was but right, seeing a man’s admirations go farther to denote +him truly, than the sort of hands or feet either he may happen to have +received from this or that vanished ancestor. Still she found his +presence—more than his proximity—discomposing, and was glad when Mr. +Sclater, who, I forgot to mention, had left the room, returned and took +Gibbie away to show him his, and instruct him what changes he must make +upon his person in preparation for dinner.</p> + +<p>When Mrs. Sclater went to bed that night she lay awake a good while +thinking, and her main thought was—what could be the nature of the +peculiar feeling which the stare of the boy had roused in her? Nor +was it long before she began to suspect that, unlike her hand beside +his, she showed to some kind of disadvantage beside the shepherd lad. +Was it dissatisfaction then with herself that his look had waked? She +was aware of nothing in which she had failed or been in the wrong +of late. She never did anything to be called wrong—by herself, +that is, or indeed by her neighbours. She had never done anything +<i>very</i> wrong, she thought; and anything wrong she had done, was now +far away and so nearly forgotten, that it seemed to have left her +almost quite innocent; yet the look of those blue eyes, searching, +searching, without seeming to know it, made her feel something like +the discomfort of a dream of expected visitors, with her house not +quite in a condition to receive them. She must see to her hidden house. +She must take dust-pan and broom and go about a little. For there are +purifications in which king and cowboy must each serve himself. The +things that come out of a man are they that defile him, and to get +rid of them, a man must go into himself, be a convict, and scrub the +floor of his cell. Mrs. Sclater’s cell was very tidy and respectable +for a cell, but no human consciousness can be <i>clean</i>, until it lies +wide open to the eternal sun, and the all-potent wind; until, from a +dim-lighted cellar it becomes a mountain-top.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLI">CHAPTER XLI.<br><span class="small">INITIATION.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater’s first piece of business the following morning was to +take Gibbie to the most fashionable tailor in the city, and have him +measured for such clothes as she judged suitable for a gentleman’s +son. As they went through the streets, going and returning, the +handsome lady walking with the youth in the queer country-made clothes, +attracted no little attention, and most of the inhabitants who saw +them, having by this time heard of the sudden importance of their +old acquaintance, wee Sir Gibbie, and the search after him, were not +long in divining the secret of the strange conjunction. But although +Gibbie seemed as much at home with the handsome lady as if she had +been his own mother, and walked by her side with a step and air as +free as the wind from Glashgar, he felt anything but comfortable in +his person. For here and there Tammy Breeks’s seams came too close +to his skin, and there are certain kinds of hardship which, though +the sufferer be capable of the patience of Job, will yet fret. Gibbie +could endure cold or wet or hunger, and sing like a mavis; he had borne +pain upon occasion with at least complete submission; but the tight +arm-holes of his jacket could hardly be such a decree of Providence +as it was rebellion to interfere with; and therefore I do not relate +what follows, as a pure outcome of that benevolence in him which was +yet equal to the sacrifice of the best fitting of garments. As they +walked along Pearl-street, the handsomest street of the city, he +darted suddenly from Mrs. Sclater’s side, and crossed to the opposite +pavement. She stood and looked after him wondering, hitherto he had +broken out in no vagaries! As he ran, worse and worse! he began tugging +at his jacket, and had just succeeded in getting it off as he arrived +at the other side, in time to stop a lad of about his own size, who was +walking bare-footed and in his shirt sleeves—if <i>shirt</i> or <i>sleeves</i> +be a term applicable to anything visible upon him. With something of +the air of the tailor who had just been waiting upon himself, but with +as much kindness and attention as if the boy had been Donal Grant +instead of a stranger, he held the jacket for him to put on. The lad +lost no time in obeying, gave him one look and nod of gratitude, and +ran down a flight of steps to a street below, never doubting his +benefactor an idiot, and dreading some one to whom he belonged would +be after him presently to reclaim the gift. Mrs. Sclater saw the +proceeding with some amusement and a little foreboding. She did not +mourn the fate of the jacket; had it been the one she had just ordered, +or anything like it, the loss would have been to her not insignificant: +but was the boy altogether in his right mind? She in her black satin +on the opposite pavement, and the lad scudding down the stair in the +jacket, were of similar mind concerning the boy, who, in shirt sleeves +indubitable, now came bounding back across the wide street. He took +his place by her side as if nothing had happened, only that he went +along swinging his arms as if he had just been delivered from manacles. +Having for so many years roamed the streets with scarcely any clothes +at all, he had no idea of looking peculiar, and thought nothing more of +the matter.</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Sclater soon began to find that even in regard to social +externals, she could never have had a readier pupil. He watched her +so closely, and with such an appreciation of the difference in things +of the kind between her and her husband, that for a short period he +was in danger of falling into habits of movement and manipulation +too dainty for a man, a fault happily none the less objectionable in +the eyes of his instructress, that she, on her own part, carried the +feminine a little beyond the limits of the natural. But here also she +found him so readily set right, that she imagined she was going to +do anything with him she pleased, and was not a little proud of her +conquest, and the power she had over the young savage. She had yet to +discover that Gibbie had his own ideas too, that it was the general +noble teachableness and affection of his nature that had brought about +so speedy an understanding between them in everything wherein he saw +she could show him the better way, but that nowhere else would he +feel bound or inclined to follow her injunctions. Much and strongly +as he was drawn to her by her ladyhood, and the sense she gave him +of refinement and familiarity with the niceties, he had no feeling +that she had authority over him. So neglected in his childhood, so +absolutely trusted by the cottagers, who had never found in him the +slightest occasion for the exercise of authority, he had not an idea +of owing obedience to any but the One. Gifted from the first with a +heart of devotion, the will of the Master set the will of the boy +upon the throne of service, and what he had done from inclination +he was now capable of doing against it, and would most assuredly do +against it if ever occasion should arise: what other obedience was +necessary to his perfection? For his father and mother and Donal he had +reverence—profound and tender, and for no one else as yet among men; +but at the same time something far beyond respect for every human shape +and show. He would not, could not make any of the social distinctions +which to Mr. and Mrs. Sclater seemed to belong to existence itself, +and their recognition essential to the living of their lives; whence +it naturally resulted that upon occasion he seemed to them devoid of +the first rudiments of breeding, without respect or any notion of +subordination.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater was conscientious in his treatment of him. The very day +following that of their arrival, he set to work with him. He had been a +tutor, was a good scholar, and a sensible teacher, and soon discovered +how to make the most of Gibbie’s facility in writing. He was already +possessed of a little Latin, and after having for some time accustomed +him to translate from each language into the other, the minister began +to think it might be of advantage to learning in general, if at least +half the boys and girls at school, and three parts of every Sunday +congregation, were as dumb as Sir Gilbert Galbraith. When at length +he set him to Greek, he was astonished at the avidity with which he +learned it! He had hardly got him over <i>τύπτω</i>, when he found him one +day so intent upon the Greek Testament, that, exceptionally keen of +hearing as he was, he was quite unaware that anyone had entered the +room.</p> + +<p>What Gibbie made of Mr. Sclater’s prayers, either in congregational or +family devotion, I am at some loss to imagine. Beside his memories of +the direct fervid outpouring and appeal of Janet, in which she seemed +to talk face to face with God, they must have seemed to him like the +utterances of some curiously constructed wooden automaton, doing its +best to pray, without any soul to be saved, any weakness to be made +strong, any doubt to be cleared, any hunger to be filled. What can be +less like religion than the prayers of a man whose religion is his +profession, and who, if he were not “in the church,” would probably +never pray at all? Gibbie, however, being the reverse of critical, +must, I can hardly doubt, have seen in them a good deal more than was +there—a pitiful faculty to the man who cultivates that of seeing in +everything less than is there.</p> + +<p>To Mrs. Sclater, it was at first rather depressing, and for a time +grew more and more painful, to have a live silence by her side. But +when she came into rapport with the natural utterance of the boy, his +presence grew more like a constant speech, and that which was best in +her was not unfrequently able to say for the boy what he would have +said could he have spoken: the nobler part of her nature was in secret +alliance with the thoughts and feelings of Gibbie. But this relation +between them, though perceptible, did not become at all plain to her +until after she had established more definite means of communication. +Gibbie, for his part, full of the holy simplicities of the cottage, had +a good many things to meet which disappointed, perplexed, and shocked +him. Middling good people are shocked at the wickedness of the wicked; +Gibbie, who knew both so well, and what ought to be expected, was +shocked only at the wickedness of the righteous. He never came quite +to understand Mr. Sclater: the inconsistent never can be <i>understood</i>. +That only which has absolute reason in it can be understood of man. +There is a bewilderment about the very nature of evil which only he who +made us capable of evil that we might be good, can comprehend.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII.<br><span class="small">DONAL’S LODGING.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Donal had not accompanied Mr. Sclater and his ward, as he generally +styled him, to the city, but continued at the Mains until another +herd-boy should be found to take his place. All were sorry to part +with him, but no one desired to stand in the way of his good fortune +by claiming his service to the end of his half-year. It was about a +fortnight after Gibbie’s departure when he found himself free. His last +night he spent with his parents on Glashgar, and the next morning set +out in the moonlight to join the coach, with some cakes and a bit of +fresh butter tied up in a cotton handkerchief. He wept at leaving them, +nor was too much excited with the prospect before him to lay up his +mother’s parting words in his heart. For it is not every son that will +not learn of his mother. He who will not goes to the school of Gideon. +Those last words of Janet to her Donal were, “Noo, min’ yer no a win’le +strae (<i>a straw dried on its root</i>), but a growin’ stalk ’at maun luik +till ’ts corn.”</p> + +<p>When he reached the spot appointed, there already was the cart from +the Mains, with his <i>kist</i> containing all his earthly possessions. +They did not half fill it, and would have tumbled about in the great +chest, had not the bounty of Mistress Jean complemented its space with +provision—a cheese, a bag of oatmeal, some oatcakes, and a pound or +two of the best butter in the world; for now that he was leaving them, +a herd-boy no more, but a <i>colliginer</i>, and going to be a gentleman, it +was right to be liberal. The box, whose ponderosity was unintelligible +to its owner, having been hoisted, amid the smiles of the passengers, +to the mid region of the roof of the coach, Donal clambered after +it, and took, for the first time in his life, his place behind four +horses—to go softly rushing through the air towards endless liberty. +It was to the young poet an hour of glorious birth—in which there +seemed nothing too strange, nothing but what should have come. I fancy, +when they die, many will find themselves more at home than ever they +were in this world. But Donal is not the subject of my story, and I +must not spend upon him. I will only say that his feelings on this +grand occasion were the less satisfactory to himself, that, not being +poet merely, but philosopher as well, he sought to understand them: +the mere poet, the man-bird, would have been content with them in +themselves. But if he who is both does not rise above both by learning +obedience, he will have a fine time of it between them.</p> + +<p>The streets of the city at length received them with noise and echo. At +the coach-office Mr. Sclater stood waiting, welcomed him with dignity +rather than kindness, hired a porter with his truck whom he told where +to take the chest, said Sir Gilbert would doubtless call on him the +next day, and left him with the porter.</p> + +<p>It was a cold afternoon, the air half mist, half twilight. Donal +followed the rattling, bumping truck over the stones, walking close +behind it, almost in the gutter. They made one turning, went a long way +through the narrow, sometimes crowded, Widdiehill, and stopped. The +man opened a door, returned to the truck, and began to pull the box +from it. Donal gave him effective assistance, and they entered with it +between them. There was just light enough from a tallow candle with a +wick like a red-hot mushroom, to see that they were in what appeared to +Donal a house in most appalling disorder, but was in fact a furniture +shop. The porter led the way up a dark stair, and Donal followed with +his end of the trunk. At the top was a large room, into which the last +of the day glimmered through windows covered with the smoke and dust of +years, showing this also full of furniture, chiefly old. A lane through +the furniture led along the room to a door at the other end. To Donal’s +eyes it looked a dreary place; but when the porter opened the other +door, he saw a neat little room with a curtained bed, a carpeted floor, +a fire burning in the grate, a kettle on the hob, and the table laid +for tea: this was like a bit of a palace, for he had never in his life +even looked into such a chamber. The porter set down his end of the +chest, said “Guid nicht to ye,” and walked out, leaving the door open.</p> + +<p>Knowing nothing about towns and the ways of them, Donal was yet a +little surprised that there was nobody to receive him. He approached +the fire, and sat down to warm himself, taking care not to set his +hobnailed shoes on the grandeur of the little hearthrug. A few moments +and he was startled by a slight noise, as of suppressed laughter. He +jumped up. One of the curtains of his bed was strangely agitated. Out +leaped Gibbie from behind it, and threw his arms about him.</p> + +<p>“Eh, cratur! ye gae me sic a fleg!” said Donal. “But, losh! they hae +made a gentleman o’ ye a’ready!” he added, holding him at arm’s length, +and regarding him with wonder and admiration.</p> + +<p>A notable change had indeed passed upon Gibbie, mere externals +considered, in that fortnight. He was certainly not so picturesque as +before, yet the alteration was entirely delightful to Donal. Perhaps +he felt it gave a good hope for the future of his own person. Mrs. +Sclater had had his hair cut; his shirt was of the whitest of linen, +his necktie of the richest of black silk, his clothes were of the +newest cut and best possible fit, and his boots perfect: the result was +altogether even to her satisfaction. In one thing only was she foiled: +she could not get him to wear gloves. He had put on a pair, but found +them so miserably uncomfortable that, in merry wrath, he pulled them +off on the way home, and threw them—“The best kid!” exclaimed Mrs. +Sclater—over the Pearl Bridge. Prudently fearful of over-straining her +influence, she yielded for the present, and let him go without.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater also had hitherto exercised prudence in his demands upon +Gibbie—not that he desired anything less than unlimited authority with +him, but, knowing it would be hard to enforce, he sought to establish +it by a gradual tightening of the rein, a slow encroachment of law +upon the realms of disordered license. He had never yet refused to +do anything he required of him, had executed entirely the tasks he +set him, was more than respectful, and always ready; yet somehow Mr. +Sclater could never feel that the lad was exactly obeying him. He +thought it over, but could not understand it, and did not like it, for +he was fond of authority. Gibbie in fact did whatever was required +of him from his own delight in meeting the wish expressed, not from +any sense of duty or of obligation to obedience. The minister had no +perception of what the boy was, and but a very small capacity for +appreciating what was best in him, and had a foreboding suspicion that +the time would come when they would differ.</p> + +<p>He had not told him that he was going to meet the coach, but Gibbie was +glad to learn from Mrs. Sclater that such was his intention, for he +preferred meeting Donal at his lodging. He had recognized the place at +once from the minister’s mention of it to his wife, having known the +shop and its owner since ever he could remember himself. He loitered +near until he saw Donal arrive, then crept after him and the porter up +the stair, and when Donal sat down by the fire, got into the room and +behind the curtain.</p> + +<p>The boys had then a jolly time of it. They made their tea, for which +everything was present, and ate as boys know how, Donal enjoying the +rarity of the white bread of the city, Gibbie, who had not tasted +oatmeal since he came, devouring “mother’s cakes.” When they had done, +Gibbie, who had learned much since he came, looked about the room till +he found a bell-rope, and pulled it, whereupon the oddest-looking old +woman, not a hair altered from what Gibbie remembered her, entered, +and, with friendly chatter, proceeded to remove the tray. Suddenly +something arrested her, and she began to regard Gibbie with curious +looks; in a moment she was sure of him, and a torrent of exclamations +and reminiscences and appeals followed, which lasted, the two lads now +laughing, now all but crying for nearly an hour, while, all the time, +the old woman kept doing and undoing about the hearth and the tea +table. Donal asked many questions about his friend, and she answered +freely, except as often as one approached his family, when she would +fall silent, and bustle about as if she had not heard. Then Gibbie +would look thoughtful and strange and a little sad, and a far-away gaze +would come into his eyes, as if he were searching for his father in the +other world.</p> + +<p>When the good woman at length left them, they uncorded Donal’s kist, +discovered the cause of its portentous weight, took out everything, put +the provisions in a cupboard, arranged the few books, and then sat down +by the fire for “a read” together.</p> + +<p>The hours slipped away; it was night; and still they sat and read. It +must have been after ten o’ clock when they heard footsteps coming +through the adjoining room; the door opened swiftly; in walked Mr. +Sclater, and closed it behind him. His look was angry—severe enough +for boys caught card-playing, or drinking, or reading something that +was not divinity on a Sunday. Gibbie had absented himself without +permission, had stayed away for hours, had not returned even when the +hour of worship arrived; and these were sins against the respectability +of his house which no minister like Mr. Sclater could pass by. It +mattered nothing what they were doing! it was all one when it got to +midnight! then it became revelling, and was sinful and dangerous, +vulgar and ungentlemanly, giving the worst possible example to those +beneath them! What could their landlady think?—the very first +night?—and a lodger whom he had recommended? Such was the sort of +thing with which Mr. Sclater overwhelmed the two boys. Donal would +have pleaded in justification, or at least excuse, but he silenced him +peremptorily. I suspect there had been some difference between Mrs. +Sclater and him just before he left: how otherwise could he have so +entirely forgotten his wise resolves anent Gibbie’s gradual subjugation?</p> + +<p>When first he entered, Gibbie rose with his usual smile of greeting, +and got him a chair. But he waved aside the attention with indignant +indifference, and went on with his foolish reproof—unworthy of record +except for Gibbie’s following behaviour. Beaten down by the suddenness +of the storm, Donal had never risen from his chair, but sat glowering +into the fire. He was annoyed, vexed, half-ashamed; with that readiness +of the poetic nature to fit itself to any position, especially one +suggested by an unjust judgment, he felt, with the worthy parson thus +storming at him, almost as if guilty in everything laid to their +joint charge. Gibbie on his feet looked the minister straight in the +face. His smile of welcome, which had suddenly mingled itself with +bewilderment, gradually faded into one of concern, then of pity, and by +degrees died away altogether, leaving in its place a look of question. +More and more settled his countenance grew, while all the time he never +took his eyes off Mr. Sclater’s, until its expression at length was +that of pitiful unconscious reproof, mingled with sympathetic shame. +He had never met anything like this before. Nothing low like this—for +all injustice, and especially all that sort of thing which Janet called +“dingin’ the motes wi’ the beam,” is eternally low—had Gibbie seen +in the holy temple of Glashgar! He had no way of understanding or +interpreting it save by calling to his aid the sad knowledge of evil, +gathered in his earliest years. Except in the laird and Fergus and +the gamekeeper, he had not, since fleeing from Lucky Croale’s houff, +seen a trace of unreasonable anger in any one he knew. Robert or Janet +had never scolded him. He might go and come as he pleased. The night +was sacred as the day in that dear house. His father, even when most +overcome by the wicked thing, had never scolded him!</p> + +<p>The boys remaining absolutely silent, the minister had it all his own +way. But before he had begun to draw to a close, across the blinding +mists of his fog-breeding wrath he began to be aware of the shining +of two heavenly lights, the eyes, namely, of the dumb boy fixed upon +him. They jarred him a little in his onward course; they shook him as +if with a doubt; the feeling undefined slowly grew to a notion, first +obscure, then plain: they were eyes of reproof that were fastened upon +his! At the first suspicion, his anger flared up more fierce than +ever; but it was a flare of a doomed flame; slowly the rebuke told, +was telling; the self-satisfied <i>in-the-rightness</i>—a very different +thing from <i>righteousness</i>—of the man was sinking before the innocent +difference of the boy; he began to feel awkward, he hesitated, he +ceased: for the moment Gibbie, unconsciously, had conquered; without +knowing it, he was the superior of the two, and Mr. Sclater had begun +to learn that he could never exercise authority over him. But the +wordly-wise man will not seem to be defeated even where he knows he +is. If he do give in, he will make it look as if it came of the proper +motion of his own goodness. After a slight pause, the minister spoke +again, but with the changed tone of one who has had an apology made to +him, whose anger is appeased, and who therefore acts the Neptune over +the billows of his own sea. That was the way he would slide out of it.</p> + +<p>“Donal Grant,” he said, “you had better go to bed at once, and get fit +for your work to-morrow. I will go with you to call upon the principal. +Take care you are not out of the way when I come for you.—Get your +cap, Sir Gilbert, and come. Mrs. Sclater was already very uneasy about +you when I left her.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie took from his pocket the little ivory tablets Mrs. Sclater had +given him, wrote the following words, and handed them to the minister:</p> + +<p>“Dear sir, I am going to slepe this night with Donal. The bed is bigg +enuf for 2. Good night, sir.”</p> + +<p>For a moment the minister’s wrath seethed again. Like a volcano, +however, that has sent out a puff of steam, but holds back its lava, +he thought better of it: here was a chance of retiring with grace—in +well-conducted retreat, instead of headlong rout.</p> + +<p>“Then be sure you are home by lesson-time,” he said. “Donal can come +with you. Good night. Mind you don’t keep each other awake.”</p> + +<p>Donal said “Good night, sir,” and Gibbie gave him a serious and +respectful nod. He left the room, and the boys turned and looked at +each other. Donal’s countenance expressed an indignant sense of wrong, +but Gibbie’s revealed a more profound concern. He stood motionless, +intent on the receding steps of the minister. The moment the sound +of them ceased, he darted soundless after him. Donal, who from Mr. +Sclater’s reply had understood what Gibbie had written, was astonished, +and starting to his feet followed him. By the time he reached the +door, Gibbie was past the second lamp, his shadow describing a huge +half-circle around him, as he stole from lamp to lamp after the +minister, keeping always a lamp-post still between them. When the +minister turned a corner, Gibbie made a soundless dart to it, and +peeped round, lingered a moment looking, then followed again. On and +on went Mr. Sclater, and on and on went Gibbie, careful constantly +not to be seen by him; and on and on went Donal, careful to be seen +of neither. They went a long way as he thought, for to the country +boy distance between houses seemed much greater than between dykes or +hedges. At last the minister went up the steps of a handsome house, +took a key from his pocket, and opened the door. From some impulse or +other, as he stepped in, he turned sharp round, and saw Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“Come in,” he said, in a loud authoritative tone, probably taking the +boy’s appearance for the effect of repentance and a desire to return to +his own bed.</p> + +<p>Gibbie lifted his cap, and walked quietly on towards the other end of +Daur-street. Donal dared not follow, for Mr. Sclater stood between, +looking out. Presently however the door shut with a great bang, and +Donal was after Gibbie like a hound. But Gibbie had turned a corner, +and was gone from his sight. Donal turned a corner too, but it was a +wrong corner. Concluding that Gibbie had turned another corner ahead of +him, he ran on and on, in the vanishing hope of catching sight of him +again; but he was soon satisfied he had lost him,—nor him only, but +himself as well, for he had not the smallest idea how to return, even +as far as the minister’s house. It rendered the matter considerably +worse that, having never heard the name of the street where he lodged +but once—when the minister gave direction to the porter, he had +utterly forgotten it. So there he was, out in the night, astray in the +streets of a city of many tens of thousands, in which he had never till +that day set foot—never before having been in any larger abode of men +than a scattered village of thatched roofs. But he was not tired, and +so long as a man is not tired, he can do well, even in pain. But a city +is a dreary place at night, even to one who knows his way in it—much +drearier to one lost—in some respects drearier than a heath—except +there be old mine-shafts in it.</p> + +<p>“It’s as gien a’ the birds o’ a country had creepit intil their bit +eggs again, an’ the day was left bare o’ sang!” said the poet to +himself as he walked. Night amongst houses was a new thing to him. +Night on the hillsides and in the fields he knew well; but this was +like a place of tombs—what else, when all were dead for the night? The +night is the world’s graveyard, and the cities are its catacombs. He +repeated to himself all his own few ballads, then repeated them aloud +as he walked, indulging the fancy that he had a long audience on each +side of him; but he dropped into silence the moment any night-wanderer +appeared. Presently he found himself on the shore of the river, and +tried to get to the edge of the water; but it was low tide, the lamps +did not throw much light so far, the moon was clouded, he got among +logs and mud, and regained the street bemired, and beginning to feel +weary. He was saying to himself what ever was he to do all the night +long, when round a corner a little way off came a woman. It was no use +asking counsel of her, however, or of anyone, he thought, so long as he +did not know even the name of the street he wanted—a street which as +he walked along it had seemed interminable. The woman drew near. She +was rather tall, erect in the back, but bowed in the shoulders, with +fierce black eyes, which were all that he could see of her face, for +she had a little tartan shawl over her head, which she held together +with one hand, while in the other she carried a basket. But those eyes +were enough to make him fancy he must have seen her before. They were +just passing each other, under a lamp, when she looked hard at him, and +stopped.</p> + +<p>“Man,” she said, “I hae set e’en upo’ <i>your</i> face afore!”</p> + +<p>“Gien that be the case,” answered Donal, “ye set e’en upo’ ’t again.”</p> + +<p>“Whaur come ye frae?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“That’s what I wad fain speir mysel’,” he replied. “But, wuman,” he +went on, “I fancy I hae set e’en upo’ your e’en afore—I canna weel say +for yer face. Whaur come <i>ye</i> frae?”</p> + +<p>“Ken ye a place they ca’—Daurside?” she rejoined.</p> + +<p>“Daurside’s a gey lang place,” answered Donal; “an’ this maun be aboot +the tae en’ o’ ’t, I’m thinkin’.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re no far wrang there,” she returned; “an’ ye hae a gey gleg tongue +i’ yer heid for a laad frae Daurside.”</p> + +<p>“I never h’ard ’at tongues war cuttit shorter there nor ither gaits,” +said Donal; “but I didna mean ye ony offence.”</p> + +<p>“There’s nane ta’en, nor like to be,” answered the woman.—“Ken ye a +place they ca’ Mains o’ Glashruach?”</p> + +<p>As she spoke she let go her shawl, and it opened from her face like two +curtains.</p> + +<p>“Lord! it’s the witch-wife!” cried Donal, retreating a pace in his +astonishment.</p> + +<p>The woman burst into a great laugh, a hard, unmusical, but not +unmirthful laugh.</p> + +<p>“Ay!” she said, “was that hoo the fowk wad hae ’t o’ me?”</p> + +<p>“It wasna muckle won’er, efter ye cam wydin’ throu’ watter yairds deep, +an’ syne gaed doon the spate on a bran’er.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, it was the maddest thing!” she returned, with another laugh +which stopped abruptly. “—I wadna dee the like again to save my life. +But the Michty cairried me throu’.—An’ hoo’s wee Sir Gibbie?—Come +in—I dinna ken yer name—but we’re jist at the door o’ my bit garret. +Come quaiet up the stair, an’ tell me a’ aboot it.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, I wadna be sorry to rist a bit, for I hae tint mysel’ +a’thegither, an’ I’m some tiret,” answered Donal. “I but left the Mains +thestreen.”</p> + +<p>“Come in an’ walcome; an whan ye’re ristit, an’ I’m rid o’ my basket, +I’ll sune pit ye i’ the gait o’ hame.”</p> + +<p>Donal was too tired, and too glad to be once more in the company of a +human being, to pursue further explanation at present. He followed her, +as quietly as he could, up the dark stair. When she struck a light, he +saw a little garret-room—better than decently furnished, it seemed to +the youth from the hills, though his mother would have thought it far +from tidy. The moment the woman got a candle lighted, she went to a +cupboard, and brought thence a bottle and a glass. When Donal declined +the whisky she poured out, she seemed disappointed, and setting down +the glass, let it stand. But when she had seated herself, and begun to +relate her adventures in quest of Gibbie, she drew it towards her, and +sipped as she talked. Some day she would tell him, she said, the whole +story of her voyage on the brander, which would make him laugh; it made +her laugh, even now, when it came back to her in her bed at night, +though she was far enough from laughing at the time. Then she told him +a great deal about Gibbie and his father.</p> + +<p>“An’ noo,” remarked Donal, “he’ll be thinkin’ ’t a’ ower again, as he +rins aboot the toon this verra meenute, luikin’ for me!”</p> + +<p>“Dinna ye trible yersel’ aboot him,” said the woman. “He kens the toon +as weel ’s ony rottan kens the drains o’ ’t.—But whaur div ye pit up?” +she added, “for it’s time dacent fowk was gauin’ to their beds.”</p> + +<p>Donal explained that he knew neither the name of the street nor of the +people where he was lodging.</p> + +<p>“Tell me this or that—something—onything aboot the hoose or the fowk, +or what they’re like, an’ it may be ’at I’ll ken them,” she said.</p> + +<p>But scarcely had he begun his description of the house when she cried,</p> + +<p>“Hoots, man! it’s at Lucky Murkison’s ye are, i’ the Wuddiehill. Come +awa, an’ I s’ tak ye hame in a jiffey.”</p> + +<p>So saying, she rose, took the candle, showed him down the stair, and +followed.</p> + +<p>It was past midnight, and the moon was down, but the street-lamps +were not yet extinguished, and they walked along without anything to +interrupt their conversation—chiefly about Sir Gibbie and Sir George. +But perhaps if Donal had known the cause of Gibbie’s escape from the +city, and that the dread thing had taken place in this woman’s house, +he would not have walked quite so close to her.</p> + +<p>Poor Mistress Croale, however, had been nowise to blame for that, and +the shock it gave her had even done something to check the rate of +her downhill progress. It let her see, with a lightning flash from +the pit, how wide the rent now yawned between her and her former +respectability. She continued, as we know, to drink whisky, and was +not unfrequently overcome by it; but in her following life as peddler, +she measured her madness more; and, much in the open air and walking a +great deal, with a basket sometimes heavy, her indulgence did her less +physical harm; her temper recovered a little, she regained a portion +of her self-command; and at the close of those years of wandering, +she was less of a ruin, both mentally and spiritually, than at their +commencement.</p> + +<p>When she received her hundred pounds for the finding of Sir Gibbie, she +rented a little shop in the gallery of the market, where she sold such +things as she had carried about the country, adding to her stock, upon +the likelihood of demand, without respect to unity either conventional +or real, in the character of the wares she associated. The interest +and respectability of this new start in life, made a little fresh +opposition to the inroads of her besetting sin; so that now she did not +consume as much whisky in three days as she did in one when she had +her <i>houff</i> on the shore. Some people seem to have been drinking all +their lives, of necessity getting more and more into the power of the +enemy, but without succumbing at a rapid rate, having even their times +of uplifting and betterment. Mistress Croale’s complexion was a little +clearer; her eyes were less fierce; her expression was more composed; +some of the women who, like her, had shops in the market, had grown a +little friendly with her; and, which was of more valuable significance, +she had come to be not a little regarded by the poor women of the lower +parts behind the market, who were in the way of dealing with her. For +the moment a customer of this class, and she had but few of any other, +appeared at her shop, or covered stall, rather, she seemed in spirit to +go outside the counter and buy with her, giving her the best counsel +she had, now advising the cheaper, now the dearer of two articles; +while now and then one could tell of having been sent by her to another +shop, where, in the particular case, she could do better. A love of +affairs, no doubt, bore a part in this peculiarity, but there is all +the difference between the two ways of embodying activity—to one’s +own advantage only, and—to the advantage of one’s neighbour as well. +For my part, if I knew a woman behaved to her neighbours as Mistress +Croale did to hers, were she the worst of drunkards in between, I could +not help both respecting and loving her. Alas that such virtue is so +portentously scarce! There are so many that are sober for one that is +honest! Deep are the depths of social degradation to which the clean, +purifying light yet reaches, and lofty are the heights of social honour +where yet the light is nothing but darkness. Any thoughtful person who +knew Mistress Croale’s history, would have feared much for her, and +hoped a little: her so-called fate was still undecided. In the mean +time she made a living, did not get into debt, spent an inordinate +portion of her profits in drink, but had regained and was keeping up a +kind and measure of respectability.</p> + +<p>Before they reached the Widdiehill, Donal, with the open heart of the +poet, was full of friendliness to her, and rejoiced in the mischance +that had led him to make her acquaintance.</p> + +<p>“Ye ken, of coorse,” he happened to say, “’at Gibbie’s wi’ Maister +Sclater?”</p> + +<p>“Weel eneuch,” she answered. “I hae seen him tee; but he’s a gran’ +gentleman grown, an’ I wadna like to be affrontit layin’ claim till ’s +acquaintance,—walcome as he ance was to my hoose!”</p> + +<p>She had more reason for the doubt and hesitation she thus expressed +than Donal knew. But his answer was none the less the true one as +regarded his friend.</p> + +<p>“Ye little ken Gibbie,” he said “gien ye think that gait o’ ’im! Gang +ye to the minister’s door and speir for ’im! He’ll be doon the stair +like a shot.—But ’deed maybe he’s come back, an’ ’s i’ my chaumer the +noo! Ye’ll come up the stair an’ see?”</p> + +<p>“Na, I wunna dee that,” said Mistress Croale, who did not wish to face +Mistress Murkison, well known to her in the days of her comparative +prosperity.</p> + +<p>She pointed out the door to him, but herself stood on the other side of +the way till she saw it opened by her old friend in her night-cap, and +heard her make jubilee over his return.</p> + +<p>Gibbie had come home and gone out again to look for him, she said.</p> + +<p>“Weel,” remarked Donal, “there wad be sma’ guid in my gaein’ to luik +for him. It wad be but the sheep gaein’ to luik for the shepherd.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’re richt there,” said his landlady. “A tint bairn sud aye sit doon +an’ sit still.”</p> + +<p>“Weel, ye gang till yer bed, mem,” returned Donal. “Lat me see hoo yer +door works, an’ I’ll lat him in whan he comes.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie came within an hour, and all was well. They made their +communication, of which Donal’s was far the more interesting, had their +laugh over the affair, and went to bed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII.<br><span class="small">THE MINISTER’S DEFEAT.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The minister’s wrath, when he found he had been followed home by +Gibbie who yet would not enter the house, instantly rose in redoubled +strength. He was ashamed to report the affair to Mrs. Sclater just as +it had passed. He was but a married old bachelor, and fancied he must +keep up his dignity in the eyes of his wife, not having yet learned +that, if a man be true, his friends and lovers will see to his dignity. +So his anger went on smouldering all night long, and all through his +sleep, without a touch of cool assuagement, and in the morning he +rose with his temper very feverish. During breakfast he was gloomy, +but would confess to no inward annoyance. What added to his unrest +was, that, although he felt insulted, he did not know what precisely +the nature of the insult was. Even in his wrath he could scarcely set +down Gibbie’s following of him to a glorying mockery of his defeat. +Doubtless, for a man accustomed to deal with affairs, to rule over a +parish—for one who generally had his way in the kirk-session, and to +whom his wife showed becoming respect, it was scarcely fitting that +the rude behaviour of an ignorant country dummy should affect him so +much: he ought to have been above such injury. But the lad whom he so +regarded, had first with his mere looks lowered him in his own eyes, +then showed himself beyond the reach of his reproof by calmly refusing +to obey him, and then became unintelligible by following him like a +creature over whom surveillance was needful! The more he thought of +this last, the more inexplicable it seemed to become, except on the +notion of deliberate insult. And the worst was, that henceforth he +could expect to have no power at all over the boy! If it was like this +already, how would it be in the time to come? If, on the other hand, he +were to re-establish his authority at the cost of making the boy hate +him, then, the moment he was of age, his behaviour would be that of a +liberated enemy: he would go straight to the dogs, and his money with +him!—The man of influence and scheme did well to be annoyed.</p> + +<p>Gibbie made his appearance at ten o’clock, and went straight to the +study, where at that hour the minister was always waiting him. He +entered with his own smile, bending his head in morning salutation. The +minister said “Good morning,” but gruffly, and without raising his eyes +from the last publication of the Spalding Club. Gibbie seated himself +in his usual place, arranged his book and slate, and was ready to +commence—when the minister, having now summoned resolution, lifted his +head, fixed his eyes on him, and said sternly—</p> + +<p>“Sir Gilbert, what was your meaning in following me, after refusing to +accompany me?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie’s face flushed. Mr. Sclater believed he saw him for the first +time ashamed of himself; his hope rose; his courage grew; he augured +victory and a re-established throne: he gathered himself up in dignity, +prepared to overwhelm him. But Gibbie showed no hesitation; he took his +slate instantly, found his pencil, wrote, and handed the slate to the +minister. There stood these words:</p> + +<p>“I thought you was drunnk.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater started to his feet, the hand which held the offending +document uplifted, his eyes flaming, his checks white with passion, +and with the flat of the slate came down a great blow on the top of +Gibbie’s head. Happily the latter was the harder of the two, and the +former broke, flying mostly out of the frame. It took Gibbie terribly +by surprise. Half-stunned, he started to his feet, and for one moment +the wild beast which was in him, as it is in everybody, rushed to the +front of its cage. It would have gone ill then with the minister, had +not as sudden a change followed; the very same instant, it was as if an +invisible veil, woven of gracious air and odour and dew, had descended +upon him; the flame of his wrath went out, quenched utterly; a smile +of benignest compassion overspread his countenance; in his offender +he saw only a brother. But Mr. Sclater saw no brother before him, for +when Gibbie rose he drew back to better his position, and so doing +made it an awkard one indeed. For it happened occasionally that, the +study being a warm room, Mrs. Sclater, on a winter evening, sat there +with her husband, whence it came that on the floor squatted a low +foot-stool, subject to not unfrequent clerical imprecation: when he +stepped back, he trod on the edge of it, stumbled, and fell. Gibbie +darted forward. A part of the minister’s body rested upon the stool, +and its elevation, made the first movement necessary to rising rather +difficult, so that he could not at once get off his back.</p> + +<p>What followed was the strangest act for a Scotch boy, but it must be +kept in mind how limited were his means of expression. He jumped over +the prostrate minister, who the next moment seeing his face bent over +him from behind, and seized, like the gamekeeper, with suspicion born +of his violence, raised his hands to defend himself, and made a blow +at him. Gibbie avoided it, laid hold of his arms inside each elbow, +clamped them to the floor, kissed him on forehead and cheek, and began +to help him up like a child.</p> + +<p>Having regained his legs, the minister stood for a moment, confused and +half-blinded. The first thing he saw was a drop of blood stealing down +Gibbie’s forehead. He was shocked at what he had done. In truth he had +been frightfully provoked, but it was not for a clergyman so to avenge +an insult, and as mere chastisement it was brutal. What would Mrs. +Sclater say to it? The rascal was sure to make his complaint to her! +And there too was his friend, the herd-lad, in the drawing-room with +her!</p> + +<p>“Go and wash your face,” he said, “and come back again directly.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie put his hand to his face, and feeling something wet, looked, and +burst into a merry laugh.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry I have hurt you,” said the minister, not a little relieved +at the sound; “but how dared you write such a—such an insolence? A +clergyman never gets drunk.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie picked up the frame which the minister had dropped in his fall: +a piece of the slate was still sticking in one side, and he wrote upon +it:</p> + +<p><i>I will kno better the next time. I thout it was alwais whisky that +made peeple like that. I begg your pardon, sir.</i></p> + +<p>He handed him the fragment, ran to his own room, returned presently, +looking all right, and when Mr. Sclater would have attended to his +wound, would not let him even look at it, laughing at the idea. Still +further relieved to find there was nothing to attract observation to +the injury, and yet more ashamed of himself, the minister made haste to +the refuge of their work; but it did not require the gleam of the paper +substituted for the slate, to keep him that morning in remembrance of +what he had done; indeed it hovered about him long after the gray of +the new slate had passed into a dark blue.</p> + +<p>From that time, after luncheon, which followed immediately upon +lessons, Gibbie went and came as he pleased. Mrs. Sclater begged he +would never be out after ten o’clock without having let them know that +he meant to stay all night with his friend: not once did he neglect +this request, and they soon came to have perfect confidence not only in +any individual promise he might make, but in his general punctuality. +Mrs. Sclater never came to know anything of his wounded head, and it +gave the minister a sharp sting of compunction, as well as increased +his sense of moral inferiority, when he saw that for a fortnight or +so he never took his favourite place at her feet, evidently that she +should not look down on his head.</p> + +<p>The same evening they had friends to dinner. Already Gibbie was so +far civilized, as they called it, that he might have sat at any +dining-table without attracting the least attention, but that evening +he attracted a great deal. For he could scarcely eat his own dinner for +watching the needs of those at the table with him, ready to spring from +his chair and supply the least lack. This behaviour naturally harassed +the hostess, and at last, upon one of those occasions, the servants +happening to be out of the room, she called him to her side, and said,</p> + +<p>“You were quite right to do that now, Gilbert, but please never do such +a thing when the servants are in the room. It confuses them, and makes +us all uncomfortable.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie heard with obedient ear, but took the words as containing +express permission to wait upon the company in the absence of other +ministration. When therefore the servants finally disappeared, as was +the custom there in small households, immediately after placing the +dessert, Gibbie got up, and, much to the amusement of the guests, +waited on them as quite a matter of course. But they would have +wondered could they have looked into the heart of the boy, and beheld +the spirit in which the thing was done, the soil in which was hid +the root of the service; for to him the whole thing was sacred as an +altar-rite to the priest who ministers. Round and round the table, +deft and noiseless, he went, altogether aware of the pleasure of the +thing, not at all of its oddity—which, however, had he understood it +perfectly, he would not in the least have minded.</p> + +<p>All this may, both in Gibbie and the narrative, seem trifling, but +I more than doubt whether, until our small services are sweet with +divine affection, our great ones, if such we are capable of, will ever +have the true Christian flavour about them. And then such eagerness to +pounce upon every smallest opportunity of doing the will of the Master, +could not fail to further proficiency in the service throughout.</p> + +<p>Presently the ladies rose, and when they had left the room, the host +asked Gibbie to ring the bell. He obeyed with alacrity, and a servant +appeared. She placed the utensils for making and drinking toddy, after +Scotch custom, upon the table. A shadow fell upon the soul of Gibbie: +for the first time since he ran from the city, he saw the well-known +appointments of midnight orgy, associated in his mind with all the +horrors from which he had fled. The memory of old nights in the street, +as he watched for his father, and then helped him home; of his father’s +last prayer, drinking and imploring; of his white, motionless face the +next morning; of the row at Lucky Croale’s, and poor black Sambo’s +gaping throat—all these terrible things came back upon him, as he +stood staring at the tumblers and the wine glasses and the steaming +kettle.</p> + +<p>“What is the girl thinking of!” exclaimed the minister, who had been +talking to his next neighbour, when he heard the door close behind the +servant. “She has actually forgotten the whisky!—Sir Gilbert,” he went +on, with a glance at the boy, “as you are so good, will you oblige me +by bringing the bottle from the sideboard?”</p> + +<p>Gibbie started at the sound of his name, but did not move from the +place. After a moment, the minister, who had resumed the conversation, +thinking he had not heard him, looked up. There, between the foot of +the table and the sideboard, stood Gibbie as if fixed to the floor +gazing out of his blue eyes at the minister—those eyes filmy with +gathering tears, the smile utterly faded from his countenance.—Would +the Master have drunk out of that bottle? he was thinking with +himself. Imagining some chance remark had hurt the boy’s pride, and +not altogether sorry—it gave hope of the gentleman he wanted to make +him—Mr. Sclater spoke again:</p> + +<p>“It’s just behind you, Sir Gilbert—the whisky bottle—that purple one +with the silver top.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie never moved, but his eyes began to run over. A fearful +remembrance of the blow he had given him on the head rushed back on Mr. +Sclater: could it be the consequence of that? Was the boy paralyzed? He +was on the point of hurrying to him, but restrained himself, and rising +with deliberation, approached the sideboard. A nearer sight of the +boy’s face reassured him.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, Sir Gilbert,” he said; “I thought you would not +mind waiting on us as well as on the ladies. It is your own fault, you +know.—There,” he added, pointing to the table; “take your place, and +have a little toddy. It won’t hurt you.”</p> + +<p>The eyes of all the guests were by this time fixed on Gibbie. What +could be the matter with the curious creature? they wondered. His +gentle merriment and quiet delight in waiting upon them, had given a +pleasant concussion to the spirits of the party, which had at first +threatened to be rather a stiff and dull one; and there now was the +boy all at once looking as if he had received a blow, or some cutting +insult which he did not know how to resent!</p> + +<p>Between the agony of refusing to serve, and the impossibility of +putting his hand to unclean ministration, Gibbie had stood as if +spell-bound. He would have thought little of such horrors in Lucky +Croale’s houff, but the sight of the things here terrified him. He felt +as a Corinthian Christian must, catching a sight of one of the elders +of the church feasting in a temple. But the last words of the minister +broke the painful charm. He burst into tears, and darting from the +room, not a little to his guardian’s relief, hurried to his own.</p> + +<p>The guests stared bewildered.</p> + +<p>“He’ll be gone to the ladies,” said their host. “He’s an odd creature. +Mrs. Sclater understands him better than I do. He’s more at home with +her.”</p> + +<p>Therewith he proceeded to tell them his history, and whence the +interest he had in him, not bringing down his narrative beyond the +afternoon of the preceding day.</p> + +<p>The next morning, Mrs. Sclater had a talk with him concerning his whim +of waiting at table, telling him he must not do so again; it was not +the custom for gentlemen to do the things that servants were paid to +do; it was not fair to the servants, and so on—happening to end with +an utterance of mild wonder at his fancy for such a peculiarity. This +exclamation Gibbie took for a question, or at least the expression of a +desire to understand the reason of the thing. He went to a side-table, +and having stood there a moment or two, returned with a New Testament, +in which he pointed out the words, “But I am among you as he that +serveth.” Giving her just time to read them, he took the book again, +and in addition presented the words, “The disciple is not above his +master, but every one that is perfect shall be as his master.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater was as much <i>put out</i> as if he had been guilty of another +and worse indiscretion. The idea of anybody ordering his common doings, +not to say his oddities, by principles drawn from a source far too +sacred to be practically regarded, was too preposterous to have ever +become even a notion to her. Henceforth, however, it was a mote to +trouble her mind’s eye, a mote she did not get rid of until it began to +turn to a glimmer of light. I need hardly add that Gibbie waited at her +dinner-table no more.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV.<br><span class="small">THE SINNER.</span></h2></div> + +<p>No man can order his life, for it comes flowing over him from behind. +But if it lay before us, and we could watch its current approaching +from a long distance, what could we do with it before it had reached +the now? In like wise a man thinks foolishly who imagines he could +have done this and that with his own character and development, if +he had but known this and that in time. Were he as good as he thinks +himself wise he could but at best have produced a fine cameo in very +low relief: with a work in the round, which he is meant to be, he could +have done nothing. The one secret of life and development, is not to +devise and plan, but to fall in with the forces at work—to do every +moment’s duty aright—that being the part in the process allotted to +us; and let come—not what will, for there is no such thing—but what +the eternal Thought wills for each of us, has intended in each of us +from the first. If men would but believe that they are in process +of creation, and consent to be made—let the maker handle them as +the potter his clay, yielding themselves in respondent motion and +submissive hopeful action with the turning of his wheel, they would ere +long find themselves able to welcome every pressure of that hand upon +them, even when it was felt in pain, and sometimes not only to believe +but to recognize the divine end in view, the bringing of a son into +glory; whereas, behaving like children who struggle and scream while +their mother washes and dresses them, they find they have to be washed +and dressed, notwithstanding, and with the more discomfort: they may +even have to find themselves set half naked and but half dried in a +corner, to come to their right minds, and ask to be finished.</p> + +<p>At this time neither Gibbie nor Donal strove against his creation—what +the wise of this world call their fate. In truth Gibbie never did; and +for Donal, the process was at present in a stage much too agreeable +to rouse any inclination to resist. He enjoyed his new phase of life +immensely. If he did not distinguish himself as a scholar, it was not +because he neglected his work, but because he was at the same time +doing that by which alone the water could ever rise in the well he +was digging: he was himself growing. Far too eager after knowledge to +indulge in emulation, he gained no prizes: what had he to do with how +much or how little those around him could eat as compared with himself? +No work noble or lastingly good can come of emulation any more than of +greed: I think the motives are spiritually the same. To excite it is +worthy only of the commonplace vulgar schoolmaster, whose ambition is +to show what fine scholars he can turn out, that he may get the more +pupils. Emulation is the devil-shadow of aspiration. The set of the +current in the schools is at present towards a boundless swamp, but the +wise among the scholars see it, and wisdom is the tortoise which shall +win the race. In the mean time how many, with the legs and the brain +of the hare, will think they are gaining it, while they are losing +things whose loss will make any prize unprized! The result of Donal’s +work appeared but very partially in his examinations, which were honest +and honourable to him; it was hidden in his thoughts, his aspirations, +his growth, and his verse—all which may be seen should I one day tell +Donal’s story. For Gibbie, the minister had not been long teaching +him, before he began to desire to make a scholar of him. Partly from +being compelled to spend some labour upon it, the boy was gradually +developing an unusual facility in expression. His teacher, compact of +conventionalities, would have modelled the result upon some writer +imagined by him a master of style; but the hurtful folly never got +any hold of Gibbie: all he ever cared about was to say what he meant, +and avoid saying something else; to know when he had not said what he +meant, and to set the words right. It resulted that, when people did +not understand what he meant, the cause generally lay with them not +with him; and that, if they sometimes smiled over his mode, it was +because it lay closer to nature than theirs: they would have found it a +hard task to improve it.</p> + +<p>What the fault with his organs of speech was, I cannot tell. His +guardian lost no time in having them examined by a surgeon in high +repute, a professor of the university, but Dr. Skinner’s opinion put +an end to question and hope together. Gibbie was not in the least +disappointed. He had got on very well as yet without speech. It was +not like sight or hearing. The only voice he could not hear was his +own, and that was just the one he had neither occasion nor desire to +hear. As to his friends, those who had known him the longest minded +his dumbness the least. But the moment the defect was understood +to be irreparable, Mrs. Sclater very wisely proceeded to learn the +finger-speech; and as she learned it, she taught it to Gibbie.</p> + +<p>As to his manners, which had been and continued to be her chief care, +a certain disappointment followed her first rapid success: she never +could get them to take on the case-hardening needful for what she +counted the final polish. They always retained a certain simplicity +which she called childishness. It came in fact of childlikeness, +but the lady was not child enough to distinguish the difference—as +great as that between the back and the front of a head. As, then, +the minister found him incapable of <i>forming</i> a style, though time +soon proved him capable of <i>producing</i> one, so the minister’s wife +found him as incapable of putting on company manners of any sort, as +most people are incapable of putting them off—without being rude. It +was disappointing to Mrs. Sclater, but Gibbie was just as content to +appear what he was, as he was unwilling to remain what he was. Being +dumb, she would say to herself he would pass in any society; but if +he had had his speech, she never could have succeeded in making him a +thorough gentleman: he would have always been saying the right thing +in the wrong place. By the wrong place she meant the place where alone +the thing could have any pertinence. In after years, however, Gibbie’s +manners were, whether pronounced such or not, almost universally <i>felt</i> +to be charming. But Gibbie knew nothing of his manners any more than of +the style in which he wrote.</p> + +<p>One night on their way home from an evening party, the minister and his +wife had a small difference, probably about something of as little real +consequence to them as the knowledge of it is to us, but by the time +they reached home, they had got to the very summit of politeness with +each other. Gibbie was in the drawing-room, as it happened, waiting +their return. At the first sound of their voices, he knew, before a +syllable reached him, that something was wrong. When they entered, they +were too much engrossed in difference to heed his presence, and went on +disputing—with the utmost external propriety of words and demeanour, +but with both injury and a sense of injury in every tone. Had they +looked at Gibbie, I cannot think they would have been silenced; but +while neither of them dared turn eyes the way of him, neither had +moral strength sufficient to check the words that rose to the lips. A +discreet, socially wise boy would have left the room, but how could +Gibbie abandon his friends to the fiery darts of the wicked one! He +ran to the side-table before mentioned. With a vague presentiment of +what was coming, Mrs. Sclater, feeling rather than seeing him move +across the room like a shadow, sat in dread expectation; and presently +her fear arrived, in the shape of a large New Testament, and a face of +loving sadness, and keen discomfort, such as she had never before seen +Gibbie wear. He held out the book to her, pointing with a finger to +the words—she could not refuse to let her eyes fall upon them—“Have +salt in yourselves, and have peace one with another.” What Gibbie made +of the salt, I do not know; and whether he understood it or not was of +little consequence, seeing he had it; but the rest of the sentence he +understood so well that he would fain have the writhing yoke-fellows +think of it.</p> + +<p>The lady’s cheeks had been red before, but now they were redder. She +rose, cast an angry look at the dumb prophet, a look which seemed to +say “How dare you suggest such a thing?” and left the room.</p> + +<p>“What have you got there?” asked the minister, turning sharply upon +him. Gibbie showed him the passage.</p> + +<p>“What have <i>you</i> got to do with it?” he retorted, throwing the book on +the table. “Go to bed.”</p> + +<p>“A detestable prig!” you say, reader?—That is just what Mr. and Mrs. +Sclater thought him that night, but they never quarrelled again before +him. In truth, they were not given to quarrelling. Many couples who +love each other more, quarrel more, and with less politeness. For +Gibbie, he went to bed—puzzled, and afraid there must be a beam in his +eye.</p> + +<p>The very first time Donal and he could manage it, they set out together +to find Mistress Croale. Donal thought he had nothing to do but walk +straight from Mistress Murkison’s door to hers, but, to his own +annoyance, and the disappointment of both, he soon found he had not a +notion left as to how the place lay, except that it was by the river. +So, as it was already rather late, they put off their visit to another +time, and took a walk instead.</p> + +<p>But Mistress Croale, haunted by old memories, most of them far from +pleasant, grew more and more desirous of looking upon the object of +perhaps the least disagreeable amongst them: she summoned resolution at +last, went to the market a little better dressed than usual, and when +business there was over, and she had shut up her little box of a shop, +walked to Daur-street to the minister’s house.</p> + +<p>“He’s aften eneuch crossed my door,” she said to herself, speaking of +Mr. Sclater; “an’ though, weel I wat, the sicht o’ ’im never bodit me +onything but ill, I never loot him ken he was less nor walcome; an’ +gien bein’ a minister gies the freedom o’ puir fowk’s hooses, it oucht +in the niffer (<i>exchange</i>) to gie them the freedom o’ his.”</p> + +<p>Therewith encouraging herself, she walked up the steps and rang the +bell. It was a cold, frosty winter evening and as she stood waiting for +the door to be opened, much the poor woman longed for her own fireside +and a dram. Her period of expectation was drawn out not a little +through the fact that the servant whose duty it was to answer the bell +was just then waiting at table: because of a public engagement, the +minister had to dine earlier than usual. They were in the middle of +their soup—cockie-leekie, nice and hot, when the maid informed her +master that a woman was at the door, wanting to see Sir Gilbert.</p> + +<p>Gibbie looked up, put down his spoon, and was rising to go, when the +minister, laying his hand on his arm, pressed him gently back to his +chair, and Gibbie yielded, waiting.</p> + +<p>“What sort of a woman?” he asked the girl.</p> + +<p>“A decent-lookin’ workin’-like body,” she answered. “I couldna see her +verra weel, it’s sae foggy the nicht aboot the door.”</p> + +<p>“Tell her we’re at dinner; she may call again in an hour. Or if she +likes to leave a message—Stay: tell her to come again to-morrow +morning.—I wonder who she is,” he added, turning, he thought, to +Gibbie.</p> + +<p>But Gibbie was gone. He had passed behind his chair, and all he saw +of him was his back as he followed the girl from the room. In his +eagerness he left the door open, and they saw him dart to the visitor, +shake hands with her in evident delight, and begin pulling her towards +the room.</p> + +<p>Now Mistress Croale, though nowise inclined to quail before the +minister, would not willingly have intruded herself upon him, +especially while he sat at dinner with his rather formidable lady; +but she fancied, for she stood where she could not see into the +dining-room, that Gibbie was taking her where they might have a quiet +<i>news</i> together, and, occupied with her bonnet or some other source +of feminine disquiet, remained thus mistaken until she stood on the +threshold, when, looking up, she started, stopped, made an <i>obedience</i> +to the minister, and another to the minister’s lady, and stood +doubtful, if not a little abashed.</p> + +<p>“Not here! my good woman,” said Mr. Sclater, rising. “—Oh, it’s you, +Mistress Croale!—I will speak to you in the hall.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Croale’s face flushed, and she drew back a step. But Gibbie still +held her, and with a look to Mr. Sclater that should have sent straight +to his heart the fact that she was dear to his soul, kept drawing her +into the room; he wanted her to take his chair at the table. It passed +swiftly through her mind that one who had been so intimate both with +Sir George and Sir Gibbie in the old time, and had given the latter his +tea every Sunday night for so long, might surely, even in such changed +circumstances, be allowed to enter the same room with him, however +grand it might be; and involuntarily almost she yielded half a doubtful +step, while Mr. Sclater, afraid of offending Sir Gilbert, hesitated +on the advance to prevent her. How friendly the warm air felt! how +consoling the crimson walls with the soft flicker of the great fire +upon them! how delicious the odour of the cockie-leekie! She could give +up whisky a good deal more easily, she thought, if she had the comforts +of a minister to fall back upon! And this was the same minister who had +once told her that her soul was as precious to him as that of any other +in his parish—and then driven her from respectable Jink Lane to the +disreputable Daurfoot! It all passed through her mind in a flash, while +yet Gibbie pulled and she resisted.</p> + +<p>“Gilbert, come here,” called Mrs. Sclater.</p> + +<p>He went to her side, obedient and trusting as a child.</p> + +<p>“Really, Gilbert, you must not,” she said, rather loud for a whisper. +“It won’t do to turn things upside down this way. If you are to be a +gentleman, and an inmate of <i>my</i> house, you must behave like other +people. I <i>cannot</i> have a woman like that sitting at <i>my</i> table.—Do +you know what sort of a person she is?” Gibbie’s face shone up. He +raised his hands. He was already able to talk a little.</p> + +<p>“Is she a sinner?” he asked on his fingers.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater nodded.</p> + +<p>Gibbie wheeled round, and sprang back to the hall, whither the minister +had, coming down upon her, bows on, like a sea-shouldering whale, in +a manner ejected Mistress Croale, and where he was now talking to her +with an air of confidential condescension, willing to wipe out any +feeling of injury she might perhaps be inclined to cherish at not being +made more welcome: to his consternation, Gibbie threw his arms round +her neck, and gave her a great hug.</p> + +<p>“Sir Gilbert!” he exclaimed, very angry, and the more angry that he +knew he was in the right, “leave Mistress Croale alone, and go back to +your dinner immediately.—Jane, open the door.”</p> + +<p>Jane opened the door, Gibbie let her go, and Mrs. Croale went. But on +the threshold she turned.</p> + +<p>“Weel, sir,” she said, with more severity than pique, and a certain sad +injury not unmingled with dignity, “ye hae stappit ower my door-sill +mony’s the time, an’ that wi’ sairer words i’ yer moo’ nor I ever +mintit at peyin’ ye back; an’ I never said to ye gang. Sae first ye +turnt me oot o’ my ain hoose, an’ noo ye turn me oot o’ yours; an’ +what’s left ye to turn me oot o’ but the hoose o’ the Lord? An’, ’deed, +sir, ye need never won’er gien the likes o’ me disna care aboot gangin’ +to hear a <i>preacht</i> gospel: we wad fain see a practeesed ane! Gien ye +had said to me noo the nicht, ‘Come awa ben, Mistress Croale, an’ tak +a plet o’ cockie-leekie wi’ ’s; it’s a caul’ nicht;’ it’s mysel’ wad +hae been sae upliftit wi’ yer kin’ness, ’at I wad hae gane hame an’ +ta’en—I dinna ken—aiblins a read at my Bible, an’ been to be seen at +the kirk upo’ Sunday I wad—o’ that ye may be sure; for it’s a heap +easier to gang to the kirk nor to read the buik yer lane, whaur ye +canna help thinkin’ upo’ what it says to ye. But noo, as ’tis, I’m awa +hame to the whusky boatle, an’ the sin o’ ’t, gien there be ony in sic +a nicht o’ caul’ an’ fog, ’ill jist lie at your door.”</p> + +<p>“You shall have a plate of soup, and welcome, Mistress Croale!” said +the minister, in a rather stagey tone of hospitality “—Jane, take +Mistress Croale to the kitchen with you, and—”</p> + +<p>“The deil’s tail i’ yer soup!—’At I sud say ’t!” cried Mistress +Croale, drawing herself up suddenly, with a snort of anger: “whan turnt +I beggar? I wad fain be informt! Was ’t yer soup or yer grace I soucht +till, sir? The Lord be atween you an’ me! There’s first ’at ’ll be +last, an’ last ’at ’ll be first. But the tane’s no me, an’ the tither’s +no you, sir.”</p> + +<p>With that she turned and walked down the steps, holding her head high.</p> + +<p>“Really, Sir Gilbert,” said the minister, going back into the +dining-room—but no Gibbie was there!—nobody but his wife, sitting +in solitary discomposure at the head of her dinner-table. The same +instant, he heard a clatter of feet down the steps, and turned quickly +into the hall again, where Jane was in the act of shutting the door.</p> + +<p>“Sir Gilbert’s run oot efter the wuman, sir!” she said.</p> + +<p>“Hoots!” grunted the minister, greatly displeased, and went back to his +wife.</p> + +<p>“Take Sir Gilbert’s plate away,” said Mrs. Sclater to the servant.</p> + +<p>“That’s his New Testament again!” she went on, when the girl had left +the room.</p> + +<p>“My dear! my dear! take care,” said her husband. He had not much notion +of obedience to God, but he had some idea of respect to religion. He +was just an idolater of a Christian shade.</p> + +<p>“Really, Mr. Sclater,” his wife continued, “I had no idea what I was +undertaking. But you gave me no choice. The creature is incorrigible. +But of course he must prefer the society of women like that. They are +the sort he was accustomed to when he received his first impressions, +and how could it be otherwise? You knew how he had been brought up, and +what you had to expect!”</p> + +<p>“Brought up!” cried the minister, and caused his spoonful of +cockie-leekie to rush into his mouth with the noise of the German +<i>schlürfen</i>, then burst into a loud laugh. “You should have seen him +about the streets!—with his trowsers—”</p> + +<p>“<i>Mister</i> Sclater! Then you ought to have known better!” said his wife, +and laying down her spoon, sat back into the embrace of her chair.</p> + +<p>But in reality she was not the least sorry he had undertaken the +charge. She could not help loving the boy, and her words were merely +the foam of vexation, mingled with not a little jealousy, that he had +left her, and his nice hot dinner, to go with the woman. Had she been a +fine lady like herself, I doubt if she would have liked it much better; +but she specially recoiled from coming into rivalry with one in whose +house a horrible murder had been committed, and who had been before the +magistrates in consequence.</p> + +<p>Nothing further was said until the second course was on the table. Then +the lady spoke again:</p> + +<p>“You really must, Mr. Sclater, teach him the absurdity of attempting +to fit every point of his behaviour to—to—words which were of course +quite suitable to the time when they were spoken, but which it is +impossible to take literally now-a-days—as impossible as to go about +the streets with a great horn on your head and a veil hanging across +it.—Why!”—Here she laughed—a laugh the less lady-like that, although +it was both low and musical, it was scornful, and a little shaken +by doubt.—“You saw him throw his arms round the horrid creature’s +neck!—Well, he had just asked me if she was a sinner. I made no doubt +she was. Off with the word goes my gentleman to embrace her!”</p> + +<p>Here they laughed together.</p> + +<p>Dinner over, they went to a missionary meeting, where the one stood and +made a speech and the other sat and listened, while Gibbie was having +tea with Mistress Croale.</p> + +<p>From that day Gibbie’s mind was much exercised as to what he could +do for Mistress Croale, and now first he began to wish he had his +money. As fast as he learned the finger-alphabet he had taught it to +Donal, and, as already they had a good many symbols in use between +them, so many indeed that Donal would often instead of speaking make +use of signs, they had now the means of intercourse almost as free as +if they had had between them two tongues instead of one. It was easy +therefore for Gibbie to impart to Donal his anxiety concerning her, and +his strong desire to help her, and doing so, he lamented in a gentle +way his present inability. This communication Donal judged it wise to +impart in his turn to Mistress Croale.</p> + +<p>“Ye see, mem,” he said in conclusion, “he’s some w’y or anither gotten +’t intil ’s heid ’at ye’re jist a wheen ower free wi’ the boatle. I +kenna. Ye’ll be the best jeedge o’ that yersel’!”</p> + +<p>Mistress Croale was silent for a whole minute by the clock. From the +moment when Gibbie forsook his dinner and his grand new friends to go +with her, the woman’s heart had begun to grow to the boy, and her old +memories fed the new crop of affection.</p> + +<p>“Weel,” she replied at length, with no little honesty, “—I mayna +be sae ill ’s he thinks me, for he had aye his puir father afore ’s +e’en; but the bairn’s richt i’ the main, an’ we maun luik till ’t, an’ +see what can be dune; for eh! I wad be laith to disappint the bonnie +laad!—Maister Grant, gien ever there wis a Christi-an sowl upo’ the +face o’ this wickit warl’, that Christi-an sowl’s wee Sir Gibbie!—an’ +wha cud hae thoucht it! But it’s the Lord’s doin’, an’ mervellous in +oor eyes!—Ow! ye needna luik like that; I ken my Bible no that ill!” +she added, catching a glimmer of surprise on Donal’s countenance. +“But for that Maister Scletter—dod! I wadna be sair upon ’im—but +gien he be fit to caw a nail here an’ a nail there, an fix a sklet +or twa, creepin’ upo’ the riggin’ o’ the kirk, I’m weel sure he’s +nae wise maister-builder fit to lay ony fundation.—Ay! I tellt ye I +kent my beuk no that ill!” she added with some triumph; then resumed: +“What the waur wad he or she or Sir Gibbie hae been though they <i>hed</i> +inveetit me, as I <i>was</i> there, to sit me doon, an’ tak’ a plet o’ their +cockie-leekie wi’ them? There was ane ’at thoucht them ’at was far +waur nor me, guid eneuch company for him; an’ maybe I may sit doon wi’ +him efter a’, wi’ the help o’ my bonnie wee Sir Gibbie.—I canna help +ca’in him <i>wee</i> Sir Gibbie—a’ the toon ca’d ’im that, though haith! +he’ll be a big man or he behaud. An’ for ’s teetle, I was aye ane to +gie honour whaur honour was due, an’ never ance, weel as I kenned him, +did I ca’ his honest father, for gien ever there was an honest man, yon +was him!—never did I ca’ him onything but Sir George, naither mair +nor less, an’ that though he vroucht the hardest at the cobblin’ a’ +the ook, an’ upo’ Setterdays was pleased to hae a guid wash i’ my ain +bedroom, an’ pit on a clean sark o’ my deid man’s—rist his sowl!—no +’at I’m a papist, Maister Grant, an’ aye kent better nor think it was +ony eese prayin’ for them ’at’s gane; for wha is there to pey ony heed +to sic haithenish prayers as that wad be? Na! we maun pray for the +livin’ ’at it may dee some guid till, an’ no for them ’at it’s a’ ower +wi’—the Lord hae mercy upo’ them!”</p> + +<p>My readers may suspect, one for one reason, another for another, +that she had already, before Donal came that evening, been holding +communion with the idol in the three-cornered temple of her cupboard; +and I confess that it was so. But it is equally true that before the +next year was gone, she was a shade better—and that not without +considerable struggle, and more failures than successes.</p> + +<p>Upon one occasion—let those who analyze the workings of the human +mind as they would the entrails of an eight-day clock, explain the +phenomenon I am about to relate, or decline to believe it, as they +choose—she became suddenly aware that she was getting perilously near +the brink of actual drunkenness.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tak but this ae moo’fu’ mair,” she said to herself; “it’s but a +moo’fu’, an’ it’s the last i’ the boatle, an’ it wad be a peety naebody +to get the guid o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>She poured it out. It was nearly half a glass. She took it in one +large mouthful. But while she held it in her mouth to make the most of +it, even while it was between her teeth, something smote her with the +sudden sense that this very moment was the crisis of her fate, that now +the axe was laid to the root of her tree. She dropped on her knees—not +to pray like poor Sir George—but to spout the mouthful of whisky into +the fire. In roaring flame it rushed up the chimney. She started back.</p> + +<p>“Eh!” she cried; “guid God! sic a deevil ’s I maun be, to cairry the +like o’ that i’ my inside!—Lord! I’m a perfec’ byke o’ deevils! My +name, it maun be Legion. What <i>is</i> to become o’ my puir sowl!”</p> + +<p>It was a week before she drank another drop—and then she took her +devils with circumspection, and the firm resolve to let no more of them +enter into her than she could manage to keep in order.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Sclater got over their annoyance as well as they could, +and agreed that in this case no notice should be taken of Gibbie’s +conduct.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV.<br><span class="small">SHOALS AHEAD.</span></h2></div> + +<p>It had come to be the custom that Gibbie should go to Donal every +Friday afternoon about four o’clock, and remain with him till the same +time on Saturday, which was a holiday with both. One Friday, just after +he was gone, the temptation seized Mrs. Sclater to follow him, and, +paying the lads an unexpected visit, see what they were about.</p> + +<p>It was a bright cold afternoon; and in fur tippet and muff, amidst the +snow that lay everywhere on roofs and window-sills and pavements, and +the wind that blew cold as it blows in few places besides, she looked, +with her bright colour and shining eyes, like life itself laughing +at death. But not many of those she met carried the like victory in +their countenances, for the cold was bitter. As she approached the +Widdiehill, she reflected that she had followed Gibbie so quickly, and +walked so fast, that the boys could hardly have had time to settle to +anything, and resolved therefore to make a little round and spend a few +more minutes upon the way. But as, through a neighbouring street, she +was again approaching the Widdiehill, she caught sight of something +which, as she was passing a certain shop, that of a baker known to her +as one of her husband’s parishioners, made her stop and look in through +the glass which formed the upper half of the door. There she saw +Gibbie, seated on the counter, dangling his legs, eating a penny loaf, +and looking as comfortable as possible.—“So soon after luncheon, too!” +said Mrs. Sclater to herself with indignation, reading through the +spectacles of her anger a reflection on her housekeeping. But a second +look revealed, as she had dreaded, far weightier cause for displeasure: +a very pretty girl stood behind the counter, with whose company Gibbie +was evidently much pleased. She was fair of hue, with eyes of gray and +green, and red lips whose smile showed teeth whiter than the whitest +of flour. At the moment she was laughing merrily, and talking gaily to +Gibbie. Clearly they were on the best of terms, and the boy’s bright +countenance, laughter, and eager motions, were making full response to +the girl’s words.</p> + +<p>Gibbie had been in the shop two or three times before, but this was the +first time he had seen his old friend, Mysie, of the amethyst ear-ring. +And now one of them had reminded the other of that episode in which +their histories had run together; from that, Mysie had gone on to other +reminiscences of her childhood in which wee Gibbie bore a part, and +he had, as well as he could, replied with others of his, in which she +was concerned. Mysie was a simple, well-behaved girl, and the entrance +of neither father nor mother would have made the least difference in +her behaviour to Sir Gilbert, though doubtless she was more pleased to +have a chat with him than with her father’s apprentice, who could speak +indeed, but looked dull as the dough he worked in, whereas Gibbie, +although dumb, was radiant. But the faces of people talking often look +more meaningful to one outside the talk-circle than they really are, +and Mrs. Sclater, gazing through the glass, found, she imagined, large +justification of displeasure. She opened the door sharply, and stepped +in. Gibbie jumped from his seat on the counter, and, with a smile of +playful roguery, offered it to her; a vivid blush overspread Mysie’s +fair countenance.</p> + +<p>“I thought you had gone to see Donal,” said Mrs. Sclater, in the tone +of one deceived, and took no notice of the girl.</p> + +<p>Gibbie gave her to understand that Donal would arrive presently, and +they were then going to the point of the pier, that Donal might learn +what the sea was like in a nor’-easter.</p> + +<p>“But why did you make your appointment here?” asked the lady.</p> + +<p>“Because Mysie and I are old friends,” answered the boy on his fingers.</p> + +<p>Then first Mrs. Sclater turned to the girl: having got over her first +indignation, she spoke gently and with a frankness natural to her.</p> + +<p>“Sir Gilbert tells me you are old friends,” she said.</p> + +<p>Thereupon Mysie told her the story of the ear-ring, which had +introduced their present conversation, and added several other little +recollections, in one of which she was drawn into a description, half +pathetic, half humorous, of the forlorn appearance of wee Gibbie, as +he ran about in his truncated trousers. Mrs. Slater was more annoyed, +however, than interested, for, in view of the young baronet’s future, +she would have had all such things forgotten; but Gibbie was full of +delight in the vivid recollections thus brought him of some of the less +painful portions of his past, and appreciated every graphic word that +fell from the girl’s pretty lips.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater took good care not to leave until Donal came. Then the +boys, having asked her if she would not go with them, which invitation +she declined with smiling thanks, took their departure and went to +pay their visit to the German Ocean, leaving her with Mysie—which +they certainly would not have done, could they have foreseen how the +well-meaning lady—nine-tenths of the mischiefs in the world are +well-meant—would hurt the feelings of the gentle-conditioned girl. +For a long time after, as often as Gibbie entered the shop, Mysie left +it and her mother came—a result altogether as Mrs. Sclater would have +had it. But hardly anybody was ever in less danger of falling in love +than Gibbie; and the thing would not have been worth recording, but for +the new direction it caused in Mrs. Sclater’s thoughts: measures, she +judged, must be taken.</p> + +<p>Gladly as she would have centred Gibbie’s boyish affections in herself, +she was too conscientious and experienced not to regard the danger +of any special effort in that direction, and began therefore to cast +about in her mind what could be done to protect him from one at least +of the natural consequences of his early familiarity with things +unseemly—exposure, namely, to the risk of forming low alliances—the +more imminent that it was much too late to attempt any restriction of +his liberty, so as to keep him from roaming the city at his pleasure. +Recalling what her husband had told her of the odd meeting between +the boy and a young lady at Miss Kimble’s school—some relation, she +thought he had said—also the desire to see her again which Gibbie, on +more than one occasion, had shown, she thought whether she could turn +the acquaintance to account. She did not much like Miss Kimble, chiefly +because of her affectations—which, by the way, were caricatures of her +own; but she knew her very well, and there was no reason why she should +not ask her to come and spend the evening, and bring two or three of +the elder girls with her: a little familiarity with the looks, manners, +and dress of refined girls of his own age, would be the best antidote +to his taste for low society, from that of bakers’ daughters downwards.</p> + +<p>It was Mrs. Sclater’s own doing that Gibbie had not again spoken to +Ginevra. Nowise abashed at the thought of the grenadier or her array +of doves, he would have gone, the very next day after meeting them in +the street, to call upon her: it was some good, he thought, of being +a rich instead of a poor boy, that, having lost thereby those whom he +loved best, he had come where he could at least see Miss Galbraith; +but Mrs. Sclater had pretended not to understand where he wanted to +go, and used other artifices besides—well-meant, of course—to keep +him to herself until she should better understand him. After that, +he had seen Ginevra more than once at church, but had had no chance +of speaking to her. For, in the sudden dispersion of its agglomerate +particles, a Scotch congregation is—or was in Gibbie’s time—very +like the well-known vitreous drop called a Prince Rupert’s tear, in +which the mutually repellent particles are held together by a strongly +contracted homogeneous layer—to separate with explosion the instant +the tough skin is broken and vibration introduced; and as Mrs. Sclater +generally sat in her dignity to the last, and Gibbie sat with her, +only once was he out in time to catch a glimpse of the ultimate rank +of the retreating girls. He was just starting to pursue them, when +Mrs. Sclater, perceiving his intention, detained him by requesting +the support of his arm—a way she had, pretending to be weary, or to +have given her ankle a twist, when she wanted to keep him by her side. +Another time he had followed them close enough to see which turn they +took out of Daur-street; but that was all he had learned, and when the +severity of the winter arrived, and the snow lay deep, sometimes for +weeks together, the chances of meeting them were few. The first time +the boys went out together, that when they failed to find Mistress +Croale’s garret, they made an excursion in search of the girls’ school, +but had been equally unsuccessful in that; and although they never +after went for a walk without contriving to pass through some part +of the region in which they thought it must lie, they had never yet +even discovered a house upon which they could agree as presenting +probabilities.</p> + +<p>Mr. Galbraith did not take Miss Kimble into his confidence with respect +to his reasons for so hurriedly placing his daughter under her care: +he was far too reticent, too proud, and too much hurt for that. Hence, +when Mrs. Sclater’s invitation arrived, the schoolmistress was aware of +no reason why Miss Galbraith should not be one of the girls to go with +her, especially as there was her cousin, Sir Gilbert, whom she herself +would like to meet again, in the hope of removing the bad impression +which, in the discharge of her duty, she feared she must have made upon +him.</p> + +<p>One day, then, at luncheon, Mrs. Sclater told Gibbie that some ladies +were coming to tea, and they were going to have supper instead of +dinner. He must put on his best clothes, she said. He did as she +desired, was duly inspected, approved on the whole, and finished off +by a few deft fingers at his necktie, and a gentle push or two from +the loveliest of hands against his hair-thatch, and was seated in the +drawing-room with Mrs. Sclater when the ladies arrived. Ginevra and +he shook hands, she with the sweetest of rose-flushes, he with the +radiance of delighted surprise. But, a moment after, when Mrs. Sclater +and her guests had seated themselves, Gibbie, their only gentleman, +for Mr. Sclater had not yet made his appearance, had vanished from the +room. Tea was not brought until some time after, when Mr. Sclater came +home, and then Mrs. Sclater sent Jane to find Sir Gilbert; but she +returned to say he was not in the house. The lady’s heart sank, her +countenance fell, and all was gloom: her project had miscarried! he was +gone! who could tell whither?—perhaps to the baker’s daughter, or to +the horrid woman Croale!</p> + +<p>The case was however very much otherwise. The moment Gibbie ended his +greetings, he had darted off to tell Donal: it was not his custom to +enjoy alone anything sharable.</p> + +<p>The news that Ginevra was at that moment seated in Mrs. Sclater’s +house, at that moment, as his eagerness had misunderstood Gibbie’s, +expecting his arrival, raised such a commotion in Donal’s atmosphere, +that for a time it was but a huddle of small whirlwinds. His heart +was beating like the trample of a trotting horse. He never thought +of inquiring whether Gibbie had been commissioned by Mrs. Sclater to +invite him, or reflected that his studies were not half over for the +night. An instant before the arrival of the blessed fact, he had been +absorbed in a rather abstruse metaphysico-mathematical question; now +not the metaphysics of the universe would have appeared to him worth a +moment’s meditation. He went pacing up and down the room, and seemed +lost to everything. Gibbie shook him at length, and told him, by two +signs, that he must put on his Sunday clothes. Then first shyness, like +the shroud of northern myth that lies in wait in a man’s path, leaped +up, and wrapped itself around him. It was very well to receive ladies +in a meadow, quite another thing to walk into their company in a grand +room, such as, before entering Mrs. Sclater’s, he had never beheld even +in Fairyland or the Arabian Nights. He knew the ways of the one, and +not the ways of the other. Chairs ornate were doubtless poor things to +daisied banks, yet the other day he had hardly brought himself to sit +on one of Mrs. Sclater’s! It was a moment of awful seeming. But what +would he not face to see once more the lovely lady-girl! He bethought +himself that he was no longer a cowherd but a student, and that such +feelings were unworthy of one who would walk level with his fellows. +He rushed to the labours of his toilette, performed severe ablutions, +endued his best shirt—coarse, but sweet from the fresh breezes of +Glashgar, a pair of trousers of buff-coloured fustian stamped over with +a black pattern, an olive-green waistcoat, a blue tailcoat with lappets +behind, and a pair of well-polished shoes, the soles of which in honour +of Sunday were studded with small instead of large knobs of iron, set +a tall beaver hat, which no brushing would make smooth, on the back +of his head, stuffed a silk hankerchief, crimson and yellow, in his +pocket, and declared himself ready.</p> + +<p>Now Gibbie, although he would not have looked so well in his woolly +coat in Mrs. Sclater’s drawing-room as on the rocks of Glashgar, would +have looked better in almost any other than the evening dress, now, +alas! nearly European. Mr. Sclater, on the other hand, would have +looked worse in any other because being less commonplace, it would have +been less like himself; and so long as the commonplace conventional so +greatly outnumber the simply individual, it is perhaps well the present +fashion should hold. But Donal could hardly have put on any clothes +that would have made him look worse, either in respect of himself or +of the surroundings of social life, than those he now wore. Neither of +the boys, however, had begun to think about dress in relation either to +custom or to fitness, and it was with complete satisfaction that Gibbie +carried off Donal to present to the guest of his guardians.</p> + +<p>Donal’s preparations had taken a long time, and before they reached the +house, tea was over and gone. They had had some music; and Mrs. Sclater +was now talking kindly to two of the school-girls, who, seated erect on +the sofa, were looking upon her elegance with awe and envy. Ginevra, +was looking at the pictures of an annual. Mr. Sclater was making Miss +Kimble agreeable to herself. He had a certain gift of talk—depending +in a great measure on the assurance of being listened to, an assurance +which is, alas! nowise the less hurtful to many a clergyman out of the +pulpit, that he may be equally aware no one heeds him in it.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI.<br><span class="small">THE GIRLS.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The door was opened. Donal spent fully a minute rubbing his shoes on +the mat, as diligently as if he had just come out of the cattle-yard, +and then Gibbie led him in triumph up the stair to the drawing-room. +Donal entered in that loose-jointed way which comes of the brains +being as yet all in the head, and stood, resisting Gibbie’s pull on +his arm, his keen hazel eyes looking gently round upon the company, +until he caught sight of the face he sought, when, with the stride of +a sower of corn, he walked across the room to Ginevra. Mrs. Sclater +rose; Mr. Sclater threw himself back and stared; the latter astounded +at the presumption of the youths, the former uneasy at the possible +results of their ignorance. To the astonishment of the company, Ginevra +rose, respect and modesty in every feature, as the youth, clownish +rather than awkward, approached her, and almost timidly held out her +hand to him. He took it in his horny palm, shook it hither and thither +sideways, like a leaf in a doubtful air, then held it like a precious +thing he was at once afraid of crushing by too tight a grasp, and of +dropping from too loose a hold, until Ginevra took charge of it herself +again. Gibbie danced about behind him, all but standing on one leg, +but, for Mrs. Sclater’s sake, restraining himself. Ginevra sat down, +and Donal, feeling very large and clumsy, and wanting to “be naught +a while,” looked about him for a chair, and then first espying Mrs. +Sclater, went up to her with the same rolling, clamping stride, but +without embarrassment, and said, holding out his hand,</p> + +<p>“Hoo are ye the nicht, mem? I sawna yer bonnie face whan I cam in. A +gran’ hoose, like this o’ yours—an’ I’m sure, mem, it cudna be ower +gran’ to fit yersel’, but it’s jist some perplexin’ to plain fowk like +me, ’at’s been used to mair room, an’ less intil ’t.”</p> + +<p>Donal was thinking of the meadow on the Lorrie bank.</p> + +<p>“I was sure of it!” remarked Mrs. Sclater to herself. “One of nature’s +gentlemen! <i>He</i> would soon be taught.”</p> + +<p>She was right; but he was more than a gentleman, and could have taught +her what she could have taught nobody in turn.</p> + +<p>“You will soon get accustomed to our town ways, Mr. Grant. But many +of the things we gather about us are far more trouble than use,” she +replied, in her sweetest tones, and with a gentle pressure of the hand, +which went a long way to set him at his ease. “I am glad to see you +have friends here,” she added.</p> + +<p>“Only ane, mem. Gibbie an’ me—”</p> + +<p>“Excuse me, Mr. Grant, but would you oblige me—of course with <i>me</i> it +is of no consequence, but just for habit’s sake, would you oblige me by +calling Gilbert by his own name—<i>Sir</i> Gilbert, please. I wish him to +get used to it.”</p> + +<p>“Yer wull be ’t, mem.—Weel, as I was sayin’, Sir Gibbie—Sir Gilbert, +that is, mem—an mysel’, we hae kenned Miss Galbraith this lang time, +bein’ o’ the laird’s ain fowk, as I may say.”</p> + +<p>“Will you take a seat beside her, then,” said Mrs. Sclater, and rising, +herself placed a chair for him near Ginevra, wondering how any Scotch +laird, the father of such a little lady as she, could have allowed her +such an acquaintance.</p> + +<p>To most of the company he must have looked very queer. Gibbie, indeed, +was the only one who saw the real Donal. Miss Kimble and her pupils +stared at the distorted reflexion of him in the spoon-bowl of their own +elongated narrowness; Mrs. Sclater saw the possible gentleman through +the loop-hole of a compliment he had paid her; and Mr. Sclater beheld +only the minimum which the reversed telescope of his own enlarged +importance, he having himself come of sufficiently humble origin, made +of him; while Ginevra looked up to him more as one who marvelled at +the grandly unintelligible, than one who understood the relations and +proportions of what she beheld. Nor was it possible she could help +feeling that he was a more harmonious object to the eye both of body +and mind when dressed in his corduroys and blue bonnet, walking the +green fields, with cattle about him, his club under his arm, and a book +in his hand. So seen, his natural dignity was evident; now he looked +undeniably odd. A poet needs a fine house rather than a fine dress to +set him off, and Mrs. Sclater’s drawing-room was neither large nor +beautiful enough to frame this one, especially with his Sunday clothes +to get the better of. To the school ladies, mistress and pupils, he +was simply a clodhopper, and from their report became a treasure of +poverty-stricken amusement to the school. Often did Ginevra’s cheek +burn with indignation at the small insolences of her fellow-pupils. At +first she attempted to make them understand something of what Donal +really was, but finding them unworthy of the confidence, was driven +to betake herself to such a silence as put a stop to their offensive +remarks in her presence.</p> + +<p>“I thank ye, mem,” said Donal, as he took the chair; “ye’re verra +condescendin’.” Then turning to Ginevra, and trying to cross one knee +over the other, but failing from the tightness of certain garments, +which, like David with Saul’s not similarly faulty armour, he had not +hitherto proved, “Weel, mem,” he said, “ye haena forgotten Hornie, I +houp.”</p> + +<p>The other girls must be pardoned for tittering, offensive as is the +habit so common to their class, for the only being they knew by that +name was one to whom the merest reference sets pit and gallery in a +roar. Miss Kimble was shocked—<i>disgusssted</i>, she said afterwards; +and until she learned that the clown was there uninvited, cherished a +grudge against Mrs. Sclater.</p> + +<p>Ginevra smiled him a satisfactory negative.</p> + +<p>“I never read the ballant aboot the worm lingelt roon’ the tree,” +said Donal, making rather a long link in the chain of association, +“ohn thoucht upo’ that day, mem, whan first ye cam doon the brae wi’ +my sister Nicie, an’ I cam ower the burn till ye, an’ ye garred me +lauch aboot weetin’ o’ my feet! Eh, mem! wi’ you afore me there, I +see the blew lift again, an’ the gerse jist lowin’ (<i>flaming</i>) green, +an’ the nowt at their busiest, the win’ asleep, an’ the burn sayin’, +‘Ye need nane o’ ye speyk: I’m here, an’ it’s my business.’ Eh, mem! +whan I think upo’ ’t a’, it seems to me ’at the human hert closed i’ +the mids o’ sic a coffer o’ cunnin’ workmanship, maun be a terrible +precious-like thing.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie, behind Donal’s chair, seemed pulsing light at every pore, but +the rest of the company, understanding his words perfectly, yet not +comprehending a single sentence he uttered, began to wonder whether he +was out of his mind, and were perplexed to see Ginevra listening to him +with such respect. They saw a human offence where she knew a poet. A +word is a word, but its interpretations are many, and the understanding +of a man’s words depends both on what the hearer is, and on what is +his idea of the speaker. As to the pure all things are pure, because +only purity can enter, so to the vulgar all things are vulgar, because +only the vulgar can enter. Wherein then is the commonplace man to be +blamed, for as he is, so must he think? In this, that he consents to +be commonplace, willing to live after his own idea of himself, and +not after God’s idea of him—the real idea, which, every now and then +stirring in him, makes him uneasy with silent rebuke.</p> + +<p>Ginevra said little in reply. She had not much to say. In her world +the streams were still, not vocal. But Donal meant to hold a little +communication with her which none of them, except indeed Gibbie—he did +not mind Gibbie—should understand.</p> + +<p>“I hed sic a queer dream the ither nicht, mem,” he said, “an’ I’ll +jist tell ye ’t.—I thoucht I was doon in an awfu’ kin’ o’ a weet bog, +wi’ dry graivelly-like hills a’ aboot it, an’ naething upo’ them but +a wheen short hunger-like gerse. An’ oot o’ the mids o’ the bog there +grew jist ae tree—a saugh, I think it was, but unco auld—’maist past +kennin’ wi’ age;—an’ roon’ the rouch gnerlet trunk o’ ’t was twistit +three faulds o’ the oogliest, ill-fauredest cratur o’ a serpent ’at +ever was seen. It was jist laithly to luik upo’. I cud describe it +till ye, mem, but it wad only gar ye runkle yer bonnie broo, an’ luik +as I wadna hae ye luik, mem, ’cause ye wadna luik freely sae bonnie +as ye div noo whan ye luik jist yersel’. But ae queer thing was, ’at +atween hit an’ the tree it grippit a buik, an’ I kent it for the buik +o’ ballants. An’ I gaed nearer, luikin’ an’ luikin’, an’ some frichtit. +But I wadna stan’ for that, for that wad be to be caitiff vile, an’ +no true man: I gaed nearer an’ nearer, till I had gotten within a +yaird o’ the tree, whan a’ at ance, wi’ a swing an’ a swirl, I was +three-fauld aboot the tree, an’ the laithly worm was me mesel’; an’ I +was the laithly worm. The verra hert gaed frae me for hoarible dreid, +an’ scunner at mysel’! Sae there I was! But I wasna lang there i’ my +meesery, afore I saw, oot o’ my ain serpent e’en, ’maist blin’t wi’ +greitin’, ower the tap o’ the brae afore me, atween me an’ the lift, +as gien it reacht up to the verra stars, for it wasna day but nicht +by this time aboot me, as weel it micht be,—I saw the bonnie sicht +come up o’ a knicht in airmour, helmet an’ shield an’ iron sheen an’ +a’; but somehoo I kent by the gang an’ the stan’ an’ the sway o’ the +bonnie boady o’ the knicht, ’at it was nae man, but a wuman.—Ye see, +mem, sin I cam frae Daurside, I hae been able to get a grip o’ buiks +’at I cudna get up there; an’ I hed been readin’ Spenser’s Fairy Queen +the nicht afore, a’ yon aboot the lady ’at pat on the airmour o’ a man, +an’ foucht like a guid ane for the richt an’ the trowth—an’ that hed +putten ’t i’ my heid maybe; only whan I saw her, I kent her, an’ her +name wasna Britomart. She had a twistit brainch o’ blew berries aboot +her helmet, an’ they ca’d her Juniper: wasna that queer, noo? An’ she +cam doon the hill wi’ bonnie big strides, no ower big for a stately +wuman, but eh, sae different frae the nipperty mincin’ stippety-stap +o’ the leddies ye see upo’ the streets here! An’ sae she cam doon the +brae. An’ I soucht sair to cry oot—first o’ a’ to tell her gien she +didna luik till her feet, she wad be lairt i’ the bog, an’ syne to beg +o’ her for mercy’s sake to draw her swoord, an’ caw the oogly heid +aff o’ me, an’ lat me dee. Noo I maun confess ’at the ballant o’ Kemp +Owen was rinnin’ i’ the worm-heid o’ me, an’ I cudna help thinkin’ +what, notwithstan’in’ the cheenge o’ han’s i’ the story, lay still to +the pairt o’ the knicht; but hoo was ony man, no to say a mere ugsome +serpent, to mint at sic a thing till a leddy, whether she was in steel +beets an’ spurs or in lang train an’ silver slippers? An’ haith! I +sune fan’ ’at I cudna hae spoken the word, gien I had daured ever sae +stoot. For whan I opened my moo’ to cry till her, I cud dee naething +but shot oot a forkit tongue, an’ cry <i>sss</i>. Mem, it was dreidfu’! Sae +I had jist to tak in my tongue again, an’ say naething, for fear o’ +fleggin’ awa my bonnie leddy i’ the steel claes. An’ she cam an’ cam, +doon an’ doon, an’ on to the bog; an’ for a’ the weicht o’ her airmour +she sankna a fit intil ’t. An’ she cam, an’ she stude, an’ she luikit +at me; an’ I hed seen her afore, an’ kenned her weel. An’ she luikit at +me, an’ aye luikit; an’ I winna say what was i’ the puir worm’s hert. +But at the last she gae a gret sich, an’ a sab, like, an’ stude jist as +gien she was tryin’ sair, but could <i>not</i> mak up her bonnie min’ to yon +’at was i’ the ballant. An’ eh! hoo I grippit the buik atween me an’ +the tree—for there it was—a’ as I saw ’t afore! An’ sae at last she +gae a kin’ o’ a cry, an’ turnt an’ gaed awa, wi’ her heid hingin’ doon, +an’ her swoord trailin’, an’ never turnt to luik ahin’ her, but up the +brae, an’ ower the tap o’ the hill, an’ doon an’ awa; an’ the brainch +wi’ the blew berries was the last I saw o’ her gaein’ doon like the +meen ahin’ the hill. An’ jist wi’ the fell greitin’ I cam to mysel’, +an’ my hert was gaein’ like a pump ’at wad fain pit oot a fire.—Noo +wasna that a queer-like dream?—I’ll no say, mem, but I hae curriet an’ +kaimbt it up a wee, to gar ’t tell better.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra had from the first been absorbed in listening, and her brown +eyes seemed to keep growing larger and larger as he went on. Even the +girls listened and were silent, looking as if they saw a peacock’s +feather in a turkey’s tail. When he ended, the tears rushed from +Ginevra’s eyes—for bare sympathy—she had no perception of personal +intent in the parable; it was long before she saw into the name of the +lady-knight, for she had never been told the English of <i>Ginevra</i>; she +was the simplest, sweetest of girls, and too young to suspect anything +in the heart of a man.</p> + +<p>“O Donal!” she said, “I am very sorry for the poor worm; but it was +naughty of you to dream such a dream.”</p> + +<p>“Hoo’s that, mem?” returned Donal, a little frightened.</p> + +<p>“It was not fair of you,” she replied, “to dream a knight of a lady, +and then dream her doing such an unknightly thing. I am sure if ladies +went out in that way, they would do quite as well, on the whole, as +gentlemen.”</p> + +<p>“I mak <i>nae</i> doobt o’ ’t, mem: haiven forbid!” cried Donal; “but ye see +dreams is sic senseless things ’at they winna be helpit;—an’ that was +hoo I dreemt it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, well, Donal!” broke in the harsh pompous voice of Mr. Sclater, +who, unknown to the poet, had been standing behind him almost the whole +time, “you have given the ladies quite enough of your romancing. That +sort of thing, you know, my man, may do very well round the fire in +the farm kitchen, but it’s not the sort of thing for a drawing-room. +Besides, the ladies don’t understand your word of mouth; they don’t +understand such broad Scotch.—Come with me, and I’ll show you +something you would like to see.”</p> + +<p>He thought Donal was boring his guests, and at the same time preventing +Gibbie from having the pleasure in their society for the sake of which +they had been invited.</p> + +<p>Donal rose, replying,</p> + +<p>“Think ye sae, sir? I thoucht I was in auld Scotlan’ still—here +as weel ’s upo’ Glashgar. But may be my jography buik’s some +auld-fashioned.—Didna ye un’erstan’ me, mem?” he added, turning to +Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“Every word, Donal,” she answered.</p> + +<p>Donal followed his host contented.</p> + +<p>Gibbie took his place, and began to teach Ginevra the finger alphabet. +The other girls found him far more amusing than Donal—first of all +because he could not speak, which was much less objectionable than +speaking like Donal—and funny too, though not so funny as Donal’s +clothes. And then he had such a romantic history! and was a baronet!</p> + +<p>In a few minutes Ginevra knew the letters, and presently she and Gibbie +were having a little continuous <i>talk</i> together, a thing they had +never had before. It was so slow, however, as to be rather tiring. It +was mainly about Donal. But Mrs. Sclater opened the piano, and made a +diversion. She played something brilliant, and then sang an Italian +song in <i>strillaceous</i> style, revealing to Donal’s clownish ignorance +a thorough mastery of caterwauling. Then she asked Miss Kimble to play +something, who declined, without mentioning that she had neither voice +nor ear nor love of music, but said Miss Galbraith should sing—“for +once in a way, as a treat.—That little Scotch song you sing now and +then, my dear,” she added.</p> + +<p>Ginevra rose timidly, but without hesitation, and going to the piano, +sang, to a simple old Scotch air, to which they had been written, the +following verses. Before she ended, the minister, the late herd-boy, +and the dumb baronet were grouped crescent-wise behind the music-stool.</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I dinna ken what’s come ower me!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s a how (<i>hollow</i>) whaur ance was a hert;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I never luik oot afore me,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ a cry winna gar me stert;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s naething nae mair to come ower me,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blaw the win’ frae ony airt. (<i>quarter</i>)</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For i’ yon kirkyaird there’s a hillock,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A hert whaur ance was a how;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ o’ joy there’s no left a mealock—(<i>crumb</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deid aiss (<i>ashes</i>) whaur ance was a low; (<i>flame</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For i’ yon kirkyaird, i’ the hillock,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lies a seed ’at winna grow.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It’s my hert ’at hauds up the wee hillie—</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That’s hoo there’s a how i’ my breist;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It’s awa doon there wi’ my Willie,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gaed wi’ him whan he was releast;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It’s doon i’ the green-grown hillie,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I s’ be efter it neist.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come awa, nichts and mornin’s,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come ooks, years, a’ time’s clan;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye’re walcome ayont a’ scornin’:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tak me till him as fest as ye can.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come awa, nichts an’ mornin’s,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye are wings o’ a michty span!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For I ken he’s luikin’ an’ waitin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Luikin’ aye doon as I clim’:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wad I hae him see me sit greitin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’stead o’ gaein’ to him?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’ll step oot like ane sure o’ a meetin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’ll traivel an’ rin to him.</span><br> +</p> +<p>Three of them knew that the verses were Donal’s. If the poet went home +feeling more like a fellow in blue coat and fustian trowsers, or a +winged genius of the tomb, I leave my reader to judge. Anyhow, he felt +he had had enough for one evening, and was able to encounter his work +again. Perhaps also, when supper was announced, he reflected that his +reception had hardly been such as to justify him in partaking of their +food, and that his mother’s hospitality to Mr. Sclater had not been in +expectation of return. As they went down the stair, he came last and +alone, behind the two whispering school-girls; and when they passed on +into the dining-room, he spilt out of the house, and ran home to the +furniture-shop and his books.</p> + +<p>When the ladies took their leave, Gibbie walked with them. And now at +last he learned where to find Ginevra.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVII">CHAPTER XLVII.<br><span class="small">A LESSON OF WISDOM.</span></h2></div> + +<p>In obedience to the suggestion of his wife, Mr. Sclater did what he +could to show Sir Gilbert how mistaken he was in imagining he could fit +his actions to the words of our Lord. Shocked as even he would probably +have been at such a characterization of his attempt, it amounted +practically to this: Do not waste your powers in the endeavour to +keep the commandments of our Lord, for it cannot be done, and he knew +it could not be done, and never meant it should be done. He pointed +out to him, not altogether unfairly, the difficulties, and the causes +of mistake, with regard to his words; but said nothing to reveal the +spirit and the life of them. Showing more of them to be figures than +at first appeared, he made out the meanings of them to be less, not +more than the figures, his pictures to be greater than their subjects, +his parables larger and more lovely than the truths they represented. +In the whole of his lecture, through which ran from beginning to end a +tone of reproof, there was not one flash of enthusiasm for our Lord, +not a sign that, to his so-called minister, he was a refuge, or a +delight—that he who is the joy of his Father’s heart, the essential +bliss of the universe, was anything to the soul of his creature, who +besides had taken upon him to preach his good news, more than a name to +call himself by—that the story of the Son of God was to him anything +better than the soap and water wherewith to blow theological bubbles +with the tobacco-pipe of his speculative understanding. The tendency +of it was simply to the quelling of all true effort after the knowing +of him through obedience, the quenching of all devotion to the central +good. Doubtless Gibbie, as well as many a wiser man, might now and +then make a mistake in the embodiment of his obedience, but even where +the action misses the command, it may yet be obedience to him who +gave the command, and by obeying, one learns how to obey. I hardly +know, however, where Gibbie blundered, except it was in failing to +recognize the animals before whom he ought not to cast his pearls—in +taking it for granted that, because his guardian was a minister, and +his wife a minister’s wife, they must therefore be the disciples of +the Jewish carpenter, the eternal Son of the Father of us all. Had he +had more of the wisdom of the serpent, he would not have carried them +the New Testament as an ending of strife, the words of the Lord as an +enlightening law; he would perhaps have known that to try too hard to +make people good, is one way to make them worse; that the only way to +make them good is to be good—remembering well the beam and the mote; +that the time for speaking comes rarely, the time for being never +departs.</p> + +<p>But in talking thus to Gibbie, the minister but rippled the air: Gibbie +was all the time pondering with himself where he had met the same kind +of thing, the same sort of person before. Nothing he said had the +slightest effect upon him. He was too familiar with truth to take the +yeasty bunghole of a working barrel for a fountain of its waters. The +unseen Lord and his reported words were to Gibbie realities, compared +with which the very visible Mr. Sclater and his assured utterance were +as the merest seemings of a phantom mood. He had never resolved to +keep the words of the Lord: he just kept them; but he knew amongst the +rest the Lord’s words about the keeping of his words, and about being +ashamed of him before men, and it was with a pitiful indignation he +heard the minister’s wisdom drivel past his ears. What he would have +said, and withheld himself from saying, had he been able to speak, I +cannot tell; I only know that in such circumstances the less said the +better, for what can be more unprofitable than a discussion where but +one of the disputants understands the question, and the other has all +the knowledge? It would have been the eloquence of the wise and the +prudent against the perfected praise of the suckling.</p> + +<p>The effect of it all upon Gibbie was to send him to his room to his +prayers, more eager than ever to keep the commandments of him who had +said, <i>If ye love me</i>. Comforted then and strengthened, he came down to +go to Donal—not to tell him, for to none but Janet could he have made +such a communication. But in the middle of his descent he remembered +suddenly of what and whom Mr. Sclater had all along been reminding him, +and turned aside to Mrs. Sclater to ask her to lend him the Pilgrim’s +Progress. This, as a matter almost of course, was one of the few books +in the cottage on Glashgar—a book beloved of Janet’s soul—and he had +read it again and again. Mrs. Sclater told him where in her room to +find a copy, and presently he had satisfied himself that it was indeed +Mr. Worldly Wiseman whom his imagination had, in cloudy fashion, been +placing side by side with the talking minister.</p> + +<p>Finding his return delayed, Mrs. Sclater went after him, fearing he +might be indulging his curiosity amongst her personal possessions. +Peeping in, she saw him seated on the floor beside her little bookcase, +lost in reading: she stole behind, and found that what so absorbed him +was the conversation between Christian and Worldly—I beg his pardon, +he is nothing without his <i>Mr.</i>—between Christian and Mr. Worldly +Wiseman.</p> + +<p>In the evening, when her husband was telling her what he had said to +“the young Pharisee” in the morning, the picture of Gibbie on the +floor, with the Pilgrim’s Progress and Mr. Worldly Wiseman, flashed +back on her mind, and she told him the thing. It stung him, not that +Gibbie should perhaps have so paralleled him, but that his wife should +so interpret Gibbie. To her, however, he said nothing. Had he been a +better man, he would have been convinced by the lesson; as it was, he +was only convicted, and instead of repenting was offended grievously. +For several days he kept expecting the religious gadfly to come buzzing +about him with his sting, that is, his forefinger, stuck in the +Pilgrim’s Progress, and had a swashing blow ready for him; but Gibbie +was beginning to learn a lesson or two, and if he was not yet so wise +as some serpents, he had always been more harmless than some doves.</p> + +<p>That he had gained nothing for the world was pretty evident to the +minister the following Sunday—from the lofty watchtower of the pulpit +where he sat throned, while the first psalm was being sung. His own pew +was near one of the side doors, and at that door some who were late +kept coming in. Amongst them were a stranger or two, who were at once +shown to seats. Before the psalm ended, an old man came in and stood by +the door—a poor man in mean garments, with the air of a beggar who had +contrived to give himself a Sunday look. Perhaps he had come hoping to +find it warmer in church than at home. There he stood, motionless as +the leech-gatherer, leaning on his stick, disregarded of men—it may +have been only by innocent accident, I do not know. But just ere the +minister must rise for the first prayer, he saw Gibbie, who had heard a +feeble cough, cast a glance round, rise as swiftly as noiselessly, open +the door of the pew, get out into the passage, take the old man by the +hand, and lead him to his place beside the satin-robed and sable-muffed +ministerial consort. Obedient to Gibbie’s will, the old man took the +seat, with an air both of humility and respect, while happily for Mrs. +Sclater’s remnant of ruffled composure, there was plenty of room in +the pew, so that she could move higher up. The old man, it is true, +followed, to make a place for Gibbie, but there was still an interval +between them sufficient to afford space to the hope that none of the +evils she dreaded would fall upon her to devour her. Flushed, angry, +uncomfortable, notwithstanding, her face glowed like a bale-fire to the +eyes of her husband, and, I fear, spoiled the prayer—but that did not +matter much.</p> + +<p>While the two thus involuntarily signalled each other, the boy who +had brought discomposure into both pulpit and pew, sat peaceful as a +summer morning, with the old man beside him quiet in the reverence of +being himself revered. And the minister, while he preached from the +words, <i>Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall</i>, for +the first time in his life began to feel doubtful whether he might not +himself be a humbug. There was not much fear of his falling, however, +for he had not yet stood on his feet.</p> + +<p>Not a word was said to Gibbie concerning the liberty he had taken: +the minister and his wife were in too much dread—not of St. James +and the “poor man in vile raiment,” for they were harmless enough +in themselves, but of Gibbie’s pointing finger to back them. Three +distinct precautions, however, they took; the pew-opener on that side +was spoken to; Mrs. Sclater made Gibbie henceforth go into the pew +before her; and she removed the New Testament from the drawing-room.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII">CHAPTER XLVIII.<br><span class="small">NEEDFULL ODDS AND ENDS.</span></h2></div> + +<p>It will be plain from what I have told, that Donal’s imagination +was full of Ginevra, and his was not an economy whose imagination +could enjoy itself without calling the heart to share. At the same +time, his being in love, if already I may use concerning him that +most general and most indefinite of phrases, so far from obstructing +his study, was in reality an aid to his thinking and a spur to +excellence—not excellence over others, but over himself. There +were moments, doubtless, long moments too, in which he forgot Homer +and Cicero and differential calculus and chemistry, for “the bonnie +lady-lassie,”—that was what he called her to himself; but it was +only, on emerging from the reverie, to attack his work with fresh +vigour. She was so young, so plainly girlish, that as yet there was +no room for dread or jealousy; the feeling in his heart was a kind +of gentle angel-worship; and he would have turned from the idea of +marrying her, if indeed it had ever presented itself, as an irreverent +thought, which he dared not for a moment be guilty of entertaining. It +was besides, an idea too absurd to be indulged in by one who, in his +wildest imaginations, always, through every Protean embodiment, sought +and loved and clung to the real. His chief thought was simply to find +favour in the eyes of the girl. His ideas hovered about her image, but +it was continually to burn themselves in incense to her sweet ladyhood. +As often as a song came fluttering its wings at his casement, the +next thought was Ginevra—and there would be something to give her! I +wonder how many loves of the poets have received their offerings in +correspondent fervour. I doubt if Ginevra, though she read them with +marvel, was capable of appreciating the worth of Donal’s. She was +hardly yet woman enough to do them justice; for the heart of a girl, in +its very sweetness and vagueness, is ready to admire alike the good and +the indifferent, if their outer qualities be similar. It would cause a +collapse in many a swelling of poet’s heart if, while he heard lovely +lips commending his verses, a voice were to whisper in his ear what +certain other verses the lady commended also.</p> + +<p>On Saturday evenings, after Gibbie left him, Donal kept his own private +holiday, which consisted in making verses, or rather in setting himself +in the position for doing so, when sometimes verses would be the +result, sometimes not. When the moon was shining in at the windows of +the large room adjoining, he would put out his lamp, open his door, +and look from the little chamber, glowing with fire-light, into the +strange, eerie, silent waste, crowded with the chaos of dis-created +homes. There scores on scores of things, many of them <i>unco</i>, that is +<i>uncouth</i>, the first meaning of which is <i>unknown</i>, to his eyes, stood +huddled together in the dim light. The light looked weary and faint, as +if with having forced its way through the dust of years on the windows; +and Donal felt as if gazing from a clear conscious present out into a +faded dream. Sometimes he would leave his nest, and walk up and down +among spider-legged tables, tall cabinets, secret-looking bureaus, +worked chairs—yielding himself to his fancies. He was one who needed +no opium, or such-like demon-help, to set him dreaming; he could dream +at his will—only his dreams were brief and of rapid change—probably +not more so, after the clock, than those other artificial ones, in +which, to speculate on the testimony, the feeling of their length +appears to be produced by an infinite and continuous subdivision of +the subjective time. Now he was a ghost come back to flit, hovering +and gliding about sad old scenes, that had gathered a new and a +worse sadness from the drying up of the sorrow which was the heart +of them—his doom, to live thus over again the life he had made so +little of in the body; his punishment, to haunt the world and pace its +streets, unable to influence by the turn of a hair the goings on of its +life,—so to learn what a useless being he had been, and repent of his +self-embraced insignificance. Now he was a prisoner, pining and longing +for life and air and human companionship; that was the sun outside, +whose rays shone thus feebly into his dungeon by repeated reflections. +Now he was a prince in disguise, meditating how to appear again and +defeat the machinations of his foes, especially of the enchanter who +made him seem to the eyes of his subjects that which he was not. But +ever his thoughts would turn again to Ginevra, and ever the poems he +devised were devised as in her presence and for her hearing. Sometimes +a dread would seize him—as if the strange things were all looking at +him, and something was about to happen; then he would stride hastily +back to his own room, close the door hurriedly, and sit down by the +fire. Once or twice he was startled by the soft entrance of his +landlady’s grand-daughter, come to search for something in one of the +cabinets they had made a repository for small odds and ends of things. +Once he told Gibbie that something <i>had</i> looked at him, but he could +not tell what or whence or how, and laughed at himself, but persisted +in his statement.</p> + +<p>He had not yet begun to read his New Testament in the way Gibbie did, +but he thought in the direction of light and freedom, and looked +towards some goal dimly seen in vague grandeur of betterness. His +condition was rather that of eyeless hunger after growth, than of +any conscious aspiration towards less undefined good. He had a large +and increasing delight in all forms of the generous, and shrunk +instinctively from the base, but had not yet concentrated his efforts +towards becoming that which he acknowledged the best, so that he was +hardly yet on the straight path to the goal of such oneness with good +as alone is a man’s peace. I mention these things not with the intent +of here developing the character of Donal, but with the desire that my +readers should know him such as he then was.</p> + +<p>Gibbie and he seldom talked about Ginevra. She was generally +<i>understood</i> between them—only referred to upon needful occasion: +they had no right to talk about her, any more than to intrude on her +presence unseasonably.</p> + +<p>Donal went to Mr. Sclater’s church because Mr. Sclater required it, +in virtue of the position he assumed as his benefactor. Mr. Sclater +in the pulpit was a trial to Donal, but it consoled him to be near +Gibbie, also that he had found a seat in the opposite gallery, whence +he could see Ginevra when her place happened to be not far from the +door of one of the school-pews. He did not get much benefit from Mr. +Sclater’s sermons: I confess he did not attend very closely to his +preaching—often directed against doctrinal errors of which, except +from himself, not one of his congregation had ever heard, or was likely +ever to hear. But I cannot say he would have been better employed in +listening, for there was generally something going on in his mind that +had to go on, and make way for more. I have said <i>generally</i>, for +I must except the times when his thoughts turned upon the preacher +himself, and took forms such as the following. But it might be a lesson +to some preachers to know that a decent lad like Donal may be making +some such verses about one of them while he is preaching. I have known +not a few humble men in the pulpit of whom rather than write such a +thing Donal would have lost the writing hand.</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’Twas a sair sair day ’twas my hap till</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come under yer soon’, Mr. Sclater;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But things maun he putten a stap till,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ sae maun ye, seener or later!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For to hear ye rowtin’ an’ scornin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is no to hark to the river;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ to sit here till brak trowth’s mornin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wad be to be lost for ever.</span><br> +</p> +<p>I confess I have taken a liberty, and changed one word for another +in the last line. He did not show these verses to Gibbie; or indeed +ever find much fault with the preacher in his hearing; for he knew +that while he was himself more open-minded to the nonsense of the +professional gentleman, Gibbie was more open-hearted towards the merits +of the man, with whom he was far too closely associated on week-days +not to feel affection for him; while, on the other hand, Gibbie made +neither head nor tail of his sermons, not having been instructed in +the theological mess that goes with so many for a theriac of the very +essentials of religion; and therefore, for anything he knew, they might +be very wise and good. At first he took refuge from the sermon in his +New Testament; but when, for the third time, the beautiful hand of +the ministerial spouse appeared between him and the book, and gently +withdrew it, he saw that his reading was an offence in her eyes, and +contented himself thereafter with thinking: listening to the absolutely +unintelligible he found impossible. What a delight it would have been +to the boy to hear Christ preached such as he showed himself, such as +in no small measure he had learned him—instead of such as Mr. Sclater +saw him reflected from the tenth or twentieth distorting mirror! They +who speak against the Son of Man oppose mere distortions and mistakes +of him, having never beheld, neither being now capable of beholding, +him; but those who have transmitted to them these false impressions, +those, namely, who preach him without being themselves devoted to him, +and those who preach him having derived their notions of him from other +scources than himself, have to bear the blame that they have such +excuses for not seeking to know him. He submits to be mis-preached, as +he submitted to be lied against while visibly walking the world, but +his truth will appear at length to all: until then, until he is known +as he is, our salvation tarrieth.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater showed herself sincere, after her kind, to Donal as well +as to Gibbie. She had by no means ceased to grow, and already was +slowly bettering under the influences of the New Testament in Gibbie, +notwithstanding she had removed the letter of it from her public +table. She told Gibbie that he must talk to Donal about his dress +and his speech. That he was a lad of no common gifts was plain, she +said, but were he ever so “talented” he could do little in the world, +certainly would never raise himself, so long as he dressed and spoke +ridiculously. The wisest and best of men would be utterly disregarded, +she said, if he did not look and speak like other people. Gibbie +thought with himself this could hardly hold, for there was John the +Baptist; he answered her, however, that Donal could speak very good +English if he chose, but that the affected tone and would-be-fine +pronunciation of Fergus Duff had given him the notion that to speak +anything but his mother-tongue would be unmanly and false. As to his +dress, Donal was poor, Gibbie said, and could not give up wearing any +clothes so long as there was any wear in them. “If you had seen me +once!” he added, with a merry laugh to finish for his fingers.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater spoke to her husband, who said to Gibbie that, if he chose +to provide Donal with suitable garments, he would advance him the +money:—that was the way he took credit for every little sum he handed +his ward, but in his accounts was correct to a farthing.</p> + +<p>Gibbie would thereupon have dragged Donal at once to the tailor; but +Donal was obstinate.</p> + +<p>“Na, na,” he said; “the claes is guid eneuch for him ’at weirs them. Ye +dee eneuch for me, Sir Gilbert, a’ready; an’ though I wad be obleeged +to you as I wad to my mither hersel’, to cleed me gien I warna dacent, +I winna tak your siller nor naebody ither’s to gang fine. Na, na; I’ll +weir the claes oot, an’ we s’ dee better wi’ the neist. An’ for that +bonnie wuman, Mistress Scletter, ye can tell her, ’at by the time I hae +onything to say to the warl’, it winna be my claes ’at’ll haud fowk +ohn hearkent; an’ gien she considers them ’at I hae noo, ower sair a +disgrace till her gran’ rooms, she maun jist no inveet me, an’ I’ll no +come; for I canna presently help them. But the neist session, whan I +hae better, for I’m sure to get wark eneuch in atween, I’ll come an’ +shaw mysel’, an’ syne she can dee as she likes.”</p> + +<p>This high tone of liberty, so free from offence either given or +taken, was thoroughly appreciated by both Mr. and Mrs. Sclater, and +they did not cease to invite him. A little talk with the latter soon +convinced him that there was neither assumption nor lack of patriotism +in speaking the language of the people among whom he found himself; +and as he made her his <i>model</i> in the pursuit of the accomplishment, +he very soon spoke a good deal better English than Mr. Sclater. But +with Gibbie, and even with the dainty Ginevra, he could not yet bring +himself to talk anything but his mother-tongue.</p> + +<p>“I can<i>not</i> mak my moo’,” he would say, “to speyk onything but the +naitral tongue o’ poetry till sic a bonnie cratur as Miss Galbraith; +an’ for yersel’, Gibbie—man! I wad be ill willin’ to bigg a stane wa’ +atween me an’ the bonnie days whan Angus MacPholp was the deil we did +fear, an’ Hornie the deil we didna.—Losh, man! what wad come o’ me +gien I hed to say my prayers in English! I doobt gien ’t wad come oot +prayin’ at a’!”</p> + +<p>I am well aware that most Scotch people of that date tried to say their +prayers in English, but not so Janet or Robert, and not so had they +taught their children. I fancy not a little unreality was thus in their +case avoided.</p> + +<p>“What will you do when you are a minister?” asked Gibbie on his fingers.</p> + +<p>“Me a minnister?” echoed Donal. “Me a minnister!” he repeated. “Losh, +man! gien I can save my ain sowl, it’ll be a’ ’at I’m fit for, ohn +lo’dent it wi’ a haill congregation o’ ither fowks. Na, na; gien I can +be a schuilmaister, an’ help the bairnies to be guid, as my mither +taucht mysel’, an’ hae time to read, an’ a feow shillin’s to buy buiks +aboot Aigypt an’ the Holy Lan’, an’ a full an’ complete edition o’ +Plato, an’ a Greek Lexicon—a guid ane, an’ a Jamieson’s Dictionar’, +haith, I’ll be a hawpy man! An’ gien I dinna like the schuilmaisterin’, +I can jist tak to the wark again, whilk I cudna dee sae weel gien I +had tried the preachin’: fowk wad ca’ me a stickit minister! Or maybe +they’ll gie me the sheep to luik efter upo’ Glashgar, whan they’re ower +muckle for my father, an’ that wad weel content me. Only I wad hae to +bigg a bit mair to the hoosie, to haud my buiks: I maun hae buiks. I +wad get the newspapers whiles, but no aften, for they’re a sair loss o’ +precious time. Ye see they tell ye things afore they’re sure, an’ ye +hae to spen’ yer time the day readin’ what ye’ll hae to spen’ yer time +the morn readin’ oot again; an’ ye may as weel bide till the thing’s +sattled a wee. I wad jist lat them fecht things oot ’at thoucht they +saw hoo they oucht to gang; an’ I wad gie them guid mutton to haud them +up to their dreary wark, an’ maybe a sangie noo an’ than ’at wad help +them to drap it a’thegither.”</p> + +<p>“But wouldn’t you like to have a wife, Donal, and children, like your +father and mother?” spelt Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“Na, na; nae wife for me, Gibbie!” answered the philosopher. “Wha wad +hae aither a pure schuilmaister or a shepherd?—’cep it was maybe some +lass like my sister Nicie, ’at wadna ken Euclid frae her hose, or Burns +frae a mill-dam, or conic sections frae the hole i’ the great peeramid.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t like to hear you talk like that, Donal,” said Gibbie. “What do +you say to mother?”</p> + +<p>“The mither’s no to be said aboot,” answerd Donal. “She’s ane by +hersel’, no ane like ither fowk. Ye wadna think waur o’ the angel +Gabriel ’at he hedna jist read Homer clean throu’, wad ye?”</p> + +<p>“If I did,” answered Gibbie, “he would only tell me there was time +enough for that.”</p> + +<p>When they met on a Friday evening, and it was fine, they would rove +the streets, Gibbie taking Donal to the places he knew so well in his +childhood, and enjoying it the more that he could now tell him so much +better what he remembered. The only place he did not take him to was +Jink Lane, with the house that had been Mistress Croale’s. He did take +him to the court in the Widdiehill, and show him the Auld Hoose o’ +Galbraith, and the place under the stair where his father had worked. +The shed was now gone; the neighbours had by degrees carried it away +for firewood. The house was occupied still as then by a number of poor +people, and the door was never locked, day or night, any more than when +Gibbie used to bring his father home. He took Donal to the garret where +they had slept—one could hardly say lived, and where his father died. +The door stood open, and the place was just as they had left it. A year +or two after, Gibbie learned how it came to be thus untenanted: it was +said to be haunted. Every Sunday Sir George was heard at work, making +boots for his wee Gibbie from morning to night; after which, when it +was dark, came dreadful sounds of supplication, as of a soul praying in +hell-fire. For a while the house was almost deserted in consequence.</p> + +<p>“Gien I was you, Sir Gilbert,” said Donal, who now and then remembered +Mrs. Sclater’s request—they had come down, and looking at the +outside of the house, had espied a half-obliterated stone-carving of +the Galbraith arms—“Gien I was you, Sir Gilbert, I wad gar Maister +Scletter keep a sherp luik oot for the first chance o’ buyin’ back this +hoose. It wad be a great peety it sud gang to waur afore ye get it. Eh! +sic tales as this hoose cud tell!”</p> + +<p>“How am I to do that, Donal? Mr. Sclater would not mind me. The money’s +not mine yet, you know,” said Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“The siller is yours, Gibbie,” answered Donal; “it’s yours as the +kingdom o’ haiven’s yours; it’s only ’at ye canna jist lay yer han’s +upo’ ’t yet. The seener ye lat that Maister Scletter ken ’at ye +ken what ye’re aboot, the better. An’ believe me, whan he comes to +un’erstan’ ’at ye want that hoose koft, he’ll no be a day ohn gane to +somebody or anither aboot it.”</p> + +<p>Donal was right, for within a month the house was bought, and certain +necessary repairs commenced.</p> + +<p>Sometimes on those evenings they took tea with Mistress Croale, and +it was a proud time with her when they went. That night at least the +whisky bottle did not make its appearance.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sclater continued to invite young ladies to the house for Gibbie’s +sake, and when she gave a party, she took care there should be a +proportion of young people in it; but Gibbie, although, of course, +kind and polite to all, did not much enjoy these gatherings. It began +to trouble him a little that he seemed to care less for his kind than +before; but it was only a seeming, and the cause of it was this: he was +now capable of perceiving facts in nature and character which prevented +real contact, and must make advances towards it appear as offensive as +they were useless. But he did not love the less that he had to content +himself, until the kingdom should come nearer, with loving at a more +conscious distance; by loving kindness and truth he continued doing all +he could to bring the kingdom whose end is unity. Hence he had come to +restrain his manner—nothing could have constrained his manners, which +now from the conventional point of view were irreproachable; but if he +did not so often execute a wild dance, or stand upon one leg, the glow +in his eyes had deepened, and his response to any advance was as ready +and thorough, as frank and sweet as ever; his eagerness was replaced +by a stillness from which his eyes took all coldness, and his smile +was as the sun breaking out in a gray day of summer, and turning all +from doves to peacocks. In this matter there was one thing worthy of +note common to Donal and him, who had had the same divine teaching from +Janet: their manners to all classes were the same, they showed the same +respect to the poor, the same ease with the rich.</p> + +<p>I must confess, however, that before the session was over, Donal +found it required all his strength of mind to continue to go to Mrs. +Sclater’s little parties—from kindness she never asked him to her +larger ones; and the more to his praise it was that he did not refuse +one of her invitations. The cause was this: one bright Sunday morning +in February, coming out of his room to go to church, and walking down +the path through the furniture in a dreamy mood, he suddenly saw a +person meeting him straight in the face. “Sic a queer-like chiel!” he +remarked inwardly, stepped on one side to let him pass—and perceived +it was himself reflected from head to foot in a large mirror, which had +been placed while he was out the night before. The courage with which +he persisted, after such a painful enlightenment, in going into company +in those same garments, was right admirable and enviable; but no one +knew of it until its exercise was long over.</p> + +<p>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. I have 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“But gien the Lord lat auld age wither me up,” she said, “he’ll luik +efter the cracks himsel’.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>They almost always called him <i>Sir Gibbie</i>, 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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIX">CHAPTER XLIX.<br><span class="small">THE HOUSELESS.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The minister kept Gibbie hard at work, and by the time Donal’s last +winter came, Gibbie was ready for college also. To please Mr. Sclater +he <i>competed</i> for a bursary, and gained a tolerably good one, but +declined accepting it. His guardian was annoyed, he could not see why +he should refuse what he had “earned.” Gibbie asked him whether it was +the design of the founder of those bursaries that rich boys should have +them. Were they not for the like of Donal? Whereupon Mr. Sclater could +not help remembering what a difference it would have made to him in his +early struggles, if some rich bursar above him had yielded a place—and +held his peace.</p> + +<p>Daur-street being too far from Elphinstone College for a student to +live there, Mr. Sclater consented to Gibbie’s lodging with Donal, +but would have insisted on their taking rooms in some part of the +town—more suitable to the young baronet’s position, he said; but +as there was another room to be had at Mistress Murkison’s, Gibbie +insisted that one who had shown them so much kindness must not be +forsaken; and by this time he seldom found difficulty in having his +way with his guardian. Both he and his wife had come to understand +him better, and nobody could understand Gibbie better without also +understanding better all that was good and true and right: although +they hardly knew the fact themselves, the standard of both of them had +been heightened by not a few degrees since Gibbie came to them; and +although he soon ceased to take direct notice of what in their conduct +distressed him, I cannot help thinking it was not amiss that he uttered +himself as he did at the first; knowing a little his ways of thinking +they came to feel his judgment unexpressed. For Mrs. Sclater, when she +bethought herself that she had said or done something he must count +worldly, the very silence of the dumb boy was a reproof to her.</p> + +<p>One night the youths had been out for a long walk and came back to +the city late, after the shops were shut. Only here and there a light +glimmered in some low-browed little place, probably used in part by +the family. Not a soul was visible in the dingy region through which +they now approached their lodging, when round a corner, moving like +a shadow, came, soft-pacing, a ghostly woman in rags, with a white, +worn face, and the largest black eyes, it seemed to the youths that +they had ever seen—an apparition of awe and grief and wonder. To +compare a great thing to a small, she was to their eyes as a ruined, +desecrated shrine to the eyes of the saint’s own peculiar worshipper. +I may compare her to what I please, great or small—to a sapphire +set in tin, to an angel with draggled feathers; for far beyond all +comparison is that temple of the holy ghost in the desert—a woman in +wretchedness and rags. She carried her puny baby rolled hard in the +corner of her scrap of black shawl. To the youths a sea of trouble +looked out of those wild eyes. As she drew near them, she hesitated, +half-stopped, and put out a hand from under the shawl—stretched out +no arm, held out only a hand from the wrist, white against the night. +Donal had no money. Gibbie had a shilling. The hand closed upon it, +a gleam crossed the sad face, and a murmur of thanks fluttered from +the thin lips as she walked on her way. The youths breathed deep, and +felt a little relieved, but only a little. The thought of the woman +wandering in the dark and the fog and the night, was a sickness at +their hearts. Was it impossible to gather such under the wings of any +night-brooding hen? That Gibbie had gone through so much of the same +kind of thing himself, and had found it endurable enough, did not make +her case a whit the less pitiful in his eyes, and indeed it was widely, +sadly different from his. Along the deserted street, which looked to +Donal like a waterless canal banked by mounds of death, and lighted +by phosphorescent grave-damps, they followed her with their eyes, the +one living thing, fading away from lamp to lamp; and when they could +see her no farther, followed her with their feet; they could not bear +to lose sight of her. But they kept just on the verge of vision, for +they did not want her to know the espial of their love. Suddenly she +disappeared, and keeping their eyes on the spot as well as they could, +they found when they reached it a little shop, with a red curtain, half +torn down, across the glass door of it. A dim oil lamp was burning +within. It looked like a rag-shop, dirty and dreadful. There she stood, +while a woman with a bloated face, looking to Donal like a feeder of +hell-swine, took from some secret hole underneath, a bottle which +seemed to Gibbie the very one his father used to drink from. He would +have rushed in and dashed it from her hand, but Donal withheld him.</p> + +<p>“Hoots!” he said, “we canna follow her a’ nicht; an’ gien we did, what +better wad she be i’ the mornin’? Lat her be, puir thing!”</p> + +<p>She received the whisky in a broken tea-cup, swallowed some of it +eagerly, then, to the horror of the youths, put some of it into the +mouth of her child from her own. Draining the last drops from the cup, +she set it quietly down, turned, and without a word spoken, for she had +paid beforehand, came out, her face looking just as white and thin as +before, but having another expression in the eyes of it. At the sight, +Donal’s wisdom forsook him.</p> + +<p>“Eh, wuman,” he cried, “yon wasna what ye hed the shillin’ for!”</p> + +<p>“Ye said naething,” answered the poor creature, humbly, and walked on, +hanging her head, and pressing her baby to her bosom.</p> + +<p>The boys looked at each other.</p> + +<p>“That wasna the gait yer shillin’ sud hae gane, Gibbie,” said Donal. +“It’s clear it winna dee to gie shillin’s to sic like as her. Wha kens +but the hunger an’ the caul’, an’ the want o’ whusky may be the wuman’s +evil things here, ’at she may ’scape the hellfire o’ the Rich Man +hereafter?”</p> + +<p>He stopped, for Gibbie was weeping. The woman and her child he would +have taken to his very heart, and could do nothing for them. Love +seemed helpless, for money was useless. It set him thinking much, and +the result appeared. From that hour the case of the homeless haunted +his heart and brain and imagination; and as his natural affections +found themselves repelled and chilled in what is called Society, they +took refuge more and more with the houseless and hungry and shivering. +Through them, also, he now, for the first time, began to find grave and +troublous questions mingling with his faith and hope; so that already +he began to be rewarded for his love: to the true heart every doubt is +a door. I will not follow and describe the opening of these doors to +Gibbie, but, as what he discovered found always its first utterance in +action, wait until I can show the result.</p> + +<p>For the time the youths were again a little relieved about the woman: +following her still, to a yet more wretched part of the city, they +saw her knock at a door, pay something, and be admitted. It looked a +dreadful refuge, but she was at least under cover, and shelter, in such +a climate as ours in winter, must be the first rudimentary notion of +salvation. No longer haunted with the idea of her wandering all night +about the comfortless streets, “like a ghost awake in Memphis,” Donal +said, they went home. But it was long before they got to sleep, and in +the morning their first words were about the woman.</p> + +<p>“Gien only we hed my mither here!” said Donal.</p> + +<p>“Mightn’t you try Mr. Sclater?” suggested Gibbie.</p> + +<p>Donal answered with a great roar of laughter.</p> + +<p>“He wad tell her she oucht to tak shame till hersel’,” he said, “an’ +I’m thinkin’ she’s lang brunt a’ her stock o’ that firin’. He wud tell +her she sud work for her livin’, an’ maybe there isna ae turn the puir +thing can dee ’at onybody wad gie her a bawbee for a day o’!—But what +say ye to takin’ advice o’ Miss Galbraith?”</p> + +<p>It was strange how, with the marked distinctions between them, Donal +and Gibbie would every now and then, like the daughters of the Vicar of +Wakefield, seem to change places and parts.</p> + +<p>“God can make praise-pipes of babes and sucklings,” answered Gibbie; +“but it does not follow that they can give advice. Don’t you remember +your mother saying that the stripling David was enough to kill a +braggart giant, but a sore-tried man was wanted to rule the people?”</p> + +<p>It ended in their going to Mistress Croale. They did not lay bare to +her their perplexities, but they asked her to find out who the woman +was, and see if anything could be done for her. They said to themselves +she would know the condition of such a woman, and what would be moving +in her mind, after the experience she had herself had, better at least +than the minister or his lady-wife. Nor were they disappointed. To +be thus taken into counsel revived for Mistress Croale the time of +her dignity while yet she shepherded her little flock of drunkards. +She undertook the task with hearty good will, and carried it out with +some success. Its reaction on herself to her own good was remarkable. +There can be no better auxiliary against our own sins than to help +our neighbour in the encounter with his. Merely to contemplate our +neighbour will recoil upon us in quite another way: we shall see his +faults so black, that we will not consent to believe ours so bad, and +will immediately begin to excuse, which is the same as to cherish them, +instead of casting them from us with abhorrence.</p> + +<p>One day early in the session, as the youths were approaching the gate +of Miss Kimble’s school, a thin, care-worn man, in shabby clothes, came +out, and walked along meeting them. Every now and then he bowed his +shoulders, as if something invisible had leaped upon them from behind, +and as often seemed to throw it off and with effort walk erect. It was +the laird. They lifted their caps, but in return he only stared, or +rather tried to stare, for his eyes seemed able to fix themselves on +nothing. He was now at length a thoroughly ruined man, and had come +to the city to end his days in a cottage belonging to his daughter. +Already Mr. Sclater, who was unweariedly on the watch over the material +interests of his ward, had, through his lawyer, and without permitting +his name to appear, purchased the whole of the Glashruach property. For +the present, however, he kept Sir Gilbert in ignorance of the fact.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_L">CHAPTER L<br><span class="small">A WALK.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The cottage to which Mr. Galbraith had taken Ginevra, stood in a +suburban street—one of those small, well-built stone houses common, +I fancy, throughout Scotland, with three rooms and a kitchen on its +one floor, and a large attic with dormer windows. It was low and +wide-roofed, and had a tiny garden between it and the quiet street. +This garden was full of flowers in summer and autumn, but the tops of a +few gaunt stems of hollyhocks, and the wiry straggling creepers of the +honeysuckle about the eaves, was all that now showed from the pavement. +It had a dwarf wall of granite, with an iron railing on the top, +through which, in the season, its glorious colours used to attract many +eyes, but Mr. Galbraith had had the railing and the gate lined to the +very spikes with boards: the first day of his abode he had discovered +that the passers-by—not to say those who stood to stare admiringly at +the flowers, came much too near his faded but none the less conscious +dignity. He had also put a lock on the gate, and so made of the garden +a sort of propylon to the house. For he had of late developed a +tendency towards taking to earth, like the creatures that seem to have +been created ashamed of themselves, and are always burrowing. But it +was not that the late laird was ashamed of himself in any proper sense. +Of the dishonesty of his doings he was as yet scarcely half conscious, +for the proud man shrinks from repentance, regarding it as disgrace. +To wash is to acknowledge the need of washing. He avoided the eyes of +men for the mean reason that he could no longer appear in dignity as +laird of Glashruach and chairman of a grand company; while he felt as +if something must have gone wrong with the laws of nature that it had +become possible for Thomas Galbraith, of Glashruach, Esq., to live in a +dumpy cottage. He had thought seriously of resuming his patronymic of +Durrant, but reflected that he was too well known to don that cloak of +transparent darkness without giving currency to the idea that he had +soiled the other past longer wearing. It would be imagined, he said, +picking out one dishonesty of which he had not been guilty, that he had +settled money on his wife, and retired to enjoy it.</p> + +<p>His condition was far more pitiful than his situation. Having no +faculty for mental occupation except with affairs, finding nothing +to do but cleave, like a spent sailor, with hands and feet to the +slippery rock of what was once his rectitude, such as it was, trying +to hold it still his own, he would sit for hours without moving—a +perfect creature, temple, god, and worshipper, all in one—only that +the worshipper was hardly content with his god, and that a worm was +gnawing on at the foundation of the temple. Nearly as motionless, her +hands excepted, would Ginevra sit opposite to him, not quieter, but +more peaceful than when a girl, partly because now she was less afraid +of him. He called her, in his thoughts as he sat there, heartless +and cold, but not only was she not so, but it was his fault that she +appeared to him such. In his moral stupidity he would rather have +seen her manifest concern at the poverty to which he had reduced her, +than show the stillness of a contented mind. She was not much given +to books, but what she read was worth reading, and such as turned +into thought while she sat. They are not the best students who are +most dependent on books. What can be got out of them is at best only +material: a man must build his house for himself. She would have read +more, but with her father beside her doing nothing, she felt that to +take a book would be like going into a warm house, and leaving him +out in the cold. It was very sad to her to see him thus shrunk and +withered, and lost in thought that plainly was not thinking. Nothing +interested him; he never looked at the papers, never cared to hear a +word of news. His eyes more unsteady, his lips looser, his neck thinner +and longer, he looked more than ever like a puppet whose strings hung +slack. How often would Ginevra have cast herself on his bosom if she +could have even hoped he would not repel her! Now and then his eyes did +wander to her in a dazed sort of animal-like appeal, but the moment she +attempted response, he turned into a corpse. Still, when it came, that +look was a comfort, for it seemed to witness some bond between them +after all. And another comfort was, that now, in his misery, she was +able, if not to forget those painful thoughts about him which had all +these years haunted her, at least to dismiss them when they came, in +the hope that, as already such a change had passed upon him, further +and better change might follow.</p> + +<p>She was still the same brown bird as of old—a bird of the twilight, +or rather a twilight itself, with a whole night of stars behind it, +of whose existence she scarcely knew, having but just started on +the voyage of discovery which life is. She had the sweetest, rarest +smile—not frequent and flashing like Gibbie’s, but stealing up +from below, like the shadowy reflection of a greater light, gently +deepening, permeating her countenance until it reached her eyes, thence +issuing in soft flame. Always however, an soon as her eyes began to +glow duskily, down went their lids, and down dropt her head like the +frond of a sensitive plant. Her atmosphere was an embodied stillness; +she made a quiet wherever she entered; she was not beautiful, but she +was lovely; and her presence at once made a place such as one would +desire to be in.</p> + +<p>The most pleasant of her thoughts were of necessity those with which +the two youths were associated. How dreary but for them and theirs +would the retrospect of her life have been! Several times every winter +they had met at the minister’s, and every summer she had again and +again seen Gibbie with Mrs. Sclater, and once or twice had had a walk +with them, and every time Gibbie had something of Donal’s to give her. +Twice Gibbie had gone to see her at the school, but the second time she +asked him not to come again, as Miss Kimble did not like it. He gave a +big stare of wonder, and thought of Angus and the laird; but followed +the stare with a swift smile, for he saw she was troubled, and asked +no question, but waited for the understanding of all things that must +come. But now, when or where was she ever to see them more? Gibbie was +no longer at the minister’s, and perhaps she would never be invited +to meet them there again. She dared not ask Donal to call: her father +would be indignant; and for her father’s sake she would not ask Gibbie; +it might give him pain; while the thought that he would of a certainty +behave so differently to him now that he was well-dressed, and mannered +like a gentleman, was almost more unendurable to her than the memory of +his past treatment of him.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Sclater had called upon them the moment they were settled +in the cottage; but Mr. Galbraith would see nobody. When the gate-bell +rang, he always looked out, and if a visitor appeared, withdrew to his +bedroom.</p> + +<p>One brilliant Saturday morning, the second in the session, the ground +hard with an early frost, the filmy ice making fairy caverns and +grottos in the cart-ruts, and the air so condensed with cold that every +breath, to those who ate and slept well, had the life of two, Mrs. +Sclater rang the said bell. Mr. Galbraith peeping from the window, saw +a lady’s bonnet, and went. She walked in, followed by Gibbie, and would +have Ginevra go with them for a long walk. Pleased enough with the +proposal, for the outsides of life had been dull as well as painful of +late, she went and asked her father. If she did not tell him that Sir +Gilbert was with Mrs. Sclater, perhaps she ought to have told him; but +I am not sure, and therefore am not going to blame her. When parents +are not fathers and mothers, but something that has no name in the +kingdom of heaven, they place the purest and most honest of daughters +in the midst of perplexities.</p> + +<p>“Why do you ask me?” returned her father. “My wishes are nothing to any +one now; to you they never were anything.”</p> + +<p>“I will stay at home, if you wish it, papa,—with pleasure,” she +replied, as cheerfully as she could after such a reproach.</p> + +<p>“By no means. If you do, I shall go and dine at the Red Hart,” he +answered—not having money enough in his possession to pay for a dinner +there.</p> + +<p>I fancy he meant to be kind, but, like not a few, alas! took no pains +to look as kind as he was. There are many, however, who seem to delight +in planting a sting where conscience or heart will not let them deny. +It made her miserable for a while of course, but she had got so used +to his way of breaking a gift as he handed it, that she answered only +with a sigh. When she was a child, his ungraciousness had power to +darken the sunlight, but by repetition it had lost force. In haste she +put on her little brown-ribboned bonnet, took the moth-eaten muff that +had been her mother’s, and rejoined Mrs. Sclater and Gibbie, beaming +with troubled pleasure. Life in her was strong, and their society soon +enabled her to forget, not her father’s sadness, but his treatment of +her.</p> + +<p>At the end of the street, they found Donal waiting them—without +greatcoat or muffler, the picture of such health as suffices to its +own warmth, not a mark of the midnight student about him, and looking +very different, in town-made clothes, from the Donal of the mirror. +He approached and saluted her with such an air of homely grace as one +might imagine that of the Red Cross Knight, when, having just put on +the armour of a Christian man, from a clownish fellow he straightway +appeared the goodliest knight in the company. Away they walked together +westward, then turned southward. Mrs. Sclater and Gibbie led, and +Ginevra followed with Donal. And they had not walked far, before +something of the delight of old times on Glashruach began to revive +in the bosom of the too sober girl. In vain she reminded herself that +her father sat miserable at home, thinking of her probably as the +most heartless of girls; the sun, and the bright air like wine in her +veins, were too much for her, Donal had soon made her cheerful, and now +and then she answered his talk with even a little flash of merriment. +They crossed the bridge, high-hung over the Daur, by which on that +black morning Gibbie fled; and here for the first time, with his three +friends about him, he told on his fingers the dire deed of the night, +and heard from Mrs. Sclater that the murderers had been hanged. Ginevra +grew white and faint as she read his fingers and gestures, but it was +more at the thought of what the child had come through, than from the +horror of his narrative. They then turned eastward to the sea, and came +to the top of the rock-border of the coast, with its cliffs rent into +gullies, eerie places to look down into, ending in caverns into which +the waves rushed with bellow and boom. Although so nigh the city, this +was always a solitary place, yet, rounding a rock, they came upon a +young man, who hurried a book into his pocket, and would have gone by +the other side, but perceiving himself recognized, came to meet them, +and saluted Mrs. Sclater, who presented him to Ginevra as the Rev. Mr. +Duff.</p> + +<p>“I have not had the pleasure of seeing you since you were quite a +little girl, Miss Galbraith,” said Fergus.</p> + +<p>Ginevra said coldly she did not remember him. The youths greeted him in +careless student fashion: they had met now and then for a moment about +the college; and a little meaningless talk followed.</p> + +<p>He was to preach the next day—and for several Sundays following—at a +certain large church in the city, at the time without a minister; and +when they came upon him he was studying his sermon—I do not mean the +truths he intended to press upon his audience—those he had mastered +long ago—but his manuscript, <i>studying</i> it in the sense in which +actors use the word, learning it, that is, by heart laboriously, that +the words might come from his lips as much like an extemporaneous +utterance as possible, consistently with not being mistaken for one, +which, were it true as the Bible, would have no merit in the ears of +those who counted themselves judges of the craft. The kind of thing +suited Fergus, whose highest idea of life was <i>seeming</i>. Naturally +capable, he had already made of himself rather a dull fellow; for +when a man spends his energy on appearing to have, he is all the time +destroying what he has, and therein the very means of becoming what he +desires to seem. If he gains his end his success is his punishment.</p> + +<p>Fergus never forgot that he was a clergyman, always carrying himself +according to his idea of the calling; therefore when the interchange +of commonplaces flagged, he began to look about him for some remark +sufficiently tinged with his profession to be suitable for him to make, +and for the ladies to hear as his. The wind was a thoroughly wintry one +from the north-east, and had been blowing all night, so that the waves +were shouldering the rocks with huge assault. Now Fergus’s sermon, +which he meant to use as a spade for the casting of the first turf of +the first parallel in the siege of the pulpit of the North parish, was +upon the vanity of human ambition, his text being the grand verse—<i>And +so I saw the wicked buried, who had come and gone from the place of +the holy</i>; there was no small amount of fine writing in the manuscript +he had thrust into his pocket; and his sermon was in his head when he +remarked, with the wafture of a neatly-gloved hand seawards—</p> + +<p>“I was watching these waves when you found me: they seem to me such a +picture of the vanity of human endeavour! But just as little as those +waves would mind me, if I told them they were wasting their labour +on these rocks, will men mind me, when I tell them to-morrow of the +emptiness of their ambitions.”</p> + +<p>“A present enstance o’ the vainity o’ human endeevour!” said Donal. +“What for sud ye, in that case, gang on preachin’, sae settin’ them an +ill exemple?”</p> + +<p>Duff gave him a high-lidded glance, vouchsafing no reply.</p> + +<p>“Just as those waves,” he continued, “waste themselves in effort, as +often foiled as renewed, to tear down these rocks, so do the men of +this world go on and on, spending their strength for nought.”</p> + +<p>“Hoots, Fergus!” said Donal again, in broadest speech, as if with its +bray he would rebuke not the madness but the silliness of the prophet, +“ye dinna mean to tell me yon jaws (<i>billows</i>) disna ken their business +better nor imaigine they hae to caw doon the rocks?”</p> + +<p>Duff cast a second glance of scorn at what he took for the prosaic +stupidity or poverty-stricken logomachy of Donal, while Ginevra opened +on him big brown eyes, as much as to say, “Donal, who was it set me +down for saying a man couldn’t be a burn?” But Gibbie’s face was +expectant: he knew Donal. Mrs. Sclater also looked interested: she did +not much like Duff, and by this time she suspected Donal of genius. +Donal turned to Ginevra with a smile, and said, in the best English he +could command—</p> + +<p>“Bear with me a moment, Miss Galbraith. If Mr. Duff will oblige me by +answering my question, I trust I shall satisfy you I am no turncoat.”</p> + +<p>Fergus stared. What did his father’s herd-boy mean by talking such +English to the ladies, and such vulgar Scotch to him? Although now +a magistrand—that is, one about to take his degree of Master of +Arts—Donal was still to Fergus the cleaner-out of his father’s +byres—an upstart, whose former position was his real one—towards +him at least, who knew him. And did the fellow challenge him to a +discussion? Or did he presume on the familiarity of their boyhood, and +wish to sport his acquaintance with the popular preacher? On either +supposition, he was impertinent.</p> + +<p>“I spoke poetically,” he said, with cold dignity.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll excuse me, Fergus,” replied Donal, “—for the sake o’ auld +langsyne, whan I was, as I ever will be, sair obligatit till ye—but i’ +that ye say noo, ye’re sair wrang: ye wasna speykin’ poetically, though +I ken weel ye think it, or ye wadna say ’t; an’ that’s what garred me +tak ye up. For the verra essence o’ poetry is trowth, an’ as sune ’s a +word’s no true, it’s no poetry, though it may hae on the cast claes o’ +’t. It’s nane but them ’at kens na what poetry is, ’at blethers aboot +poetic license, an’ that kin’ o’ hen-scraich, as gien a poet was sic a +gowk ’at naebody eedit hoo he lee’d, or whether he gaed wi’ ’s cwite +(<i>coat</i>) hin’ side afore or no.”</p> + +<p>“I am at a loss to understand you—Donal?—yes, Donal Grant. I remember +you very well; and from the trouble I used to take with you to make you +distinguish between the work of the poet and that of the rhymester, I +should have thought by this time you would have known a little more +about the nature of poetry. Personification is a figure of speech in +constant use by all poets.”</p> + +<p>“Ow aye! but there’s true and there’s fause personification; an’ it’s +no ilka poet ’at kens the differ. Ow, I ken! ye’ll be doon upo’ me +wi’ yer Byron,”—Fergus shook his head as at a false impeachment, but +Donal went on—“but even a poet canna mak lees poetry. An’ a man ’at +in ane o’ his gran’est verses cud haiver aboot the birth o’ a yoong +airthquack!—losh! to think o’ ’t growin’ an auld airthquack!—haith, +to me it’s no up till a deuk-quack!—sic a poet micht weel, I grant ye, +be he ever sic a guid poet whan he tuik heed to what he said, he micht +weel, I say, blether nonsense aboot the sea warrin’ again’ the rocks, +an’ sic stuff.”</p> + +<p>“But don’t you see them?” said Fergus, pointing to a great billow that +fell back at the moment, and lay churning in the gulf beneath them. +“Are they not in fact wasting the rocks away by slow degrees?”</p> + +<p>“What comes o’ yer seemile than, anent the vainity o’ their endeevour? +But that’s no what I’m carin’ aboot. What I mainteen is, ’at though +they div weir awa the rocks, that’s nae mair their design nor it’s the +design o’ a yeuky owse to kill the tree whan he rubs hit’s skin an’ his +ain aff thegither.”</p> + +<p>“Tut! nobody ever means, when he personifies the powers of nature, that +they know what they are about.”</p> + +<p>“The mair necessar’ till attreebute till them naething but their rale +design.”</p> + +<p>“If they don’t know what they are about, how can you be so foolish as +talk of their design?”</p> + +<p>“Ilka thing has a design,—an’ gien it dinna ken ’t itsel’, that’s +jist whaur yer true an’ lawfu’ personification comes in. There’s no +rizon ’at a poet sudna attreebute till a thing as a conscious design +that which lies at the verra heart o’ ’ts bein’, the design for which +it’s there. That an’ no ither sud determine the personification ye +gie a thing—for that’s the trowth o’ the thing. Eh, man, Fergus! the +jaws is fechtin’ wi’ nae rocks. They’re jist at their pairt in a gran’ +cleansin’ hermony. They’re at their hoosemaid’s wark, day an’ nicht, +to haud the warl’ clean, an’ gran’; an’ bonnie they sing at it. Gien I +was you, I wadna tell fowk any sic nonsense as yon; I wad tell them ’at +ilk ane ’at disna dee his wark i’ the warl’, an’ dee ’t the richt gait, +’s no the worth o’ a minnin, no to say a whaul, for ilk ane o’ thae +wee craturs dis the wull o’ him ’at made ’im wi’ ilka whisk o’ his bit +tailie, fa’in’ in wi’ a’ the jabble o’ the jaws again’ the rocks, for +it’s a’ ae thing—an’ a’ to haud the muckle sea clean. An’ sae whan I +lie i’ my bed, an’ a’ at ance there comes a wee soughie o’ win’ i’ my +face, an’ I luik up an’ see it was naething but the wings o’ a flittin’ +flee, I think wi’ mysel’ hoo a’ the curses are but blessin’s ’at ye +dinna see intil, an’ hoo ilka midge, an’ flee, an’ muckle dronin’ thing +’at gangs aboot singin’ bass, no to mention the doos an’ the mairtins +an’ the craws an’ the kites an’ the oolets an’ the muckle aigles an’ +the butterflees, is a’ jist haudin’ the air gauin’ ’at ilka defilin’ +thing may be weel turnt ower, an’ brunt clean. That’s the best I got +oot o’ my cheemistry last session. An’ fain wad I haud air an’ watter +in motion aboot me, an’ sae serve my en’—whether by waggin’ wi’ my +wings or whiskin’ wi’ my tail. Eh! it’s jist won’erfu’. Its a’ ae gran’ +consortit confusion o’ hermony an’ order; an’ what maks the confusion +is only jist ’at a’ thing’s workin’ an’ naething sits idle. But awa wi’ +the nonsense o’ ae thing worryin’ an’ fechtin’ at anither!—no till ye +come to beasts an’ fowk, an’ syne ye hae eneuch o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>All the time Fergus had been poking the point of his stick into the +ground, a smile of superiority curling his lip.</p> + +<p>“I hope, ladies, our wits are not quite swept away in this flood of +Doric,” he said.</p> + +<p>“You have a poor opinion of the stability of our brains, Mr. Duff,” +said Mrs. Sclater.</p> + +<p>“I was only judging by myself,” he replied, a little put out. “I can’t +say I understood our friend here. Did you?”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly,” answered Mrs. Sclater.</p> + +<p>At that moment came a thunderous wave with a great <i>bowff</i> into the +hollow at the end of the gully on whose edge they stood.</p> + +<p>“There’s your housemaid’s broom, Donal!” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>They all laughed.</p> + +<p>“Everything depends on how you look at a thing,” said Fergus, and said +no more—inwardly resolving, however, to omit from his sermon a certain +sentence about the idle waves dashing themselves to ruin on the rocks +they would destroy, and to work in something instead about the winds of +the winter tossing the snow. A pause followed.</p> + +<p>“Well, this is Saturday, and tomorrow is my work-day, you know, +ladies,” he said. “If you would oblige me with your address, Miss +Galbraith, I should do myself the honour of calling on Mr. Galbraith.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra told him where they lived, but added she was afraid he must not +expect to see her father, for he had been out of health lately, and +would see nobody.</p> + +<p>“At all events I shall give myself the chance,” he rejoined, and +bidding the ladies good-bye, and nodding to the youths, turned and +walked away.</p> + +<p>For some time there was silence. At length Donal spoke.</p> + +<p>“Poor Fergus!” he said with a little sigh. “He’s a good-natured +creature, and was a great help to me; but when I think of him a +preacher, I seem to see an Egyptian priest standing on the threshold of +the great door at Ipsambul, blowing with all his might to keep out the +Libyan desert; and the four great stone gods, sitting behind the altar, +far back in the gloom, laughing at him.”</p> + +<p>Then Ginevra asked him something which led to a good deal of talk about +the true and false in poetry, and made Mrs. Sclater feel it was not +for nothing she had befriended the lad from the hills in the strange +garments. And she began to think whether her husband might not be +brought to take a higher view of his calling.</p> + +<p>On Monday Fergus went to pay his visit to Mr. Galbraith. As Ginevra had +said, her father did not appear, but Fergus was far from disappointed. +He had taken it into his head that Miss Galbraith sided with him when +that ill-bred fellow made his rude, not to say ungrateful, attack upon +him, and was much pleased to have a talk with her. Ginevra thought it +would not be right to cherish against him the memory of the one sin of +his youth in her eyes, but she could not like him. She did not know +why, but the truth was, she felt, without being able to identify, his +unreality: she thought it was because, both in manners and in dress, so +far as the custom of his calling would permit, he was that unpleasant +phenomenon, a fine gentleman. She had never heard him preach, or she +would have liked him still less; for he was an orator wilful and +prepense, choice of long words, fond of climaxes, and always aware of +the points at which he must wave his arm, throw forward his hands, wipe +his eyes with the finest of large cambric handkerchiefs. As it was, she +was heartily tired of him before he went, and when he was gone, found, +as she sat with her father, that she could not recall a word he had +said. As to what had made the fellow stay so long, she was therefore +positively unable to give her father an answer; the consequence of +which was, that, the next time he called, Mr. Galbraith, much to her +relief, stood the brunt of his approach, and received him. The ice thus +broken, his ingratiating manners, and the full-blown respect he showed +Mr. Galbraith, enabling the weak man to feel himself, as of old, every +inch a laird, so won upon him that, when he took his leave, he gave him +a cordial invitation to repeat his visit.</p> + +<p>He did so, in the evening this time, and remembering a predilection +of the laird’s, begged for a game of backgammon. The result of his +policy was, that, of many weeks that followed, every Monday evening at +least he spent with the laird. Ginevra was so grateful to him for his +attention to her father, and his efforts to draw him out of his gloom, +that she came gradually to let a little light of favour shine upon him. +And if the heart of Fergus Duff was drawn to her, that is not to be +counted to him a fault—neither that, his heart thus drawn, he should +wish to marry her. Had she been still heiress of Glashruach, he dared +not have dreamed of such a thing, but, noting the humble condition to +which they were reduced, the growing familiarity of the father, and the +friendliness of the daughter, he grew very hopeful, and more anxious +than ever to secure the presentation to the North church, which was in +the gift of the city. He could easily have got a rich wife, but he was +more greedy of distinction than of money, and to marry the daughter of +the man to whom he had been accustomed in childhood to look up as the +greatest in the known world, was in his eyes like a patent of nobility, +would be a ratification of his fitness to mingle with the choice of the +land.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LI">CHAPTER LI.<br><span class="small">THE NORTH CHURCH.</span></h2></div> + +<p>It was a cold night in March, cloudy and blowing. Every human body was +turned into a fortress for bare defence of life. There was no snow on +the ground, but it seemed as if there must be snow everywhere else. +There was snow in the clouds overhead, and there was snow in the mind +of man beneath. The very air felt like the quarry out of which the snow +had been dug which was being ground above. The wind felt black, the +sky was black, and the lamps were blowing about as if they wanted to +escape, for the darkness was after them. It was the Sunday following +the induction of Fergus, and this was the meteoric condition through +which Donal and Gibbie passed on their way to the North church, to hear +him preach in the pulpit that was now his own.</p> + +<p>The people had been gathering since long before the hour, and the +youths could find only standing room near the door. Cold as was the +weather, and keen as blew the wind into the church every time a door +was opened, the instant it was shut again it was warm, for the place +was crowded from the very height of the great steep-sloping galleries, +at the back of which the people were standing on the window sills, +down to the double swing-doors, which were constantly cracking open +as if the house was literally too full to hold the congregation. The +aisles also were crowded with people standing, all eager yet solemn, +with granite faces and live eyes. One who did not know better might +well have imagined them gathered in hunger after good tidings from +the kingdom of truth and hope, whereby they might hasten the coming +of that kingdom in their souls and the souls they loved. But it was +hardly that; it was indeed a long way from it, and no such thing: the +eagerness was, in the mass, doubtless with exceptions, to hear the new +preacher, the pyrotechnist of human logic and eloquence, who was about +to burn his halfpenny blue lights over the abyss of truth, and throw +his yelping crackers into it.</p> + +<p>The eyes of the young men went wandering over the crowd, looking for +any of their few acquaintances, but below they mostly fell of course on +the backs of heads. There was, however, no mistaking either Ginevra’s +bonnet or the occiput perched like a capital on the long neck of her +father. They sat a good way in front, about the middle of the great +church. At the sight of them Gibbie’s face brightened, Donal’s turned +pale as death. For, only the last week but one, he had heard of the +frequent visits of the young preacher to the cottage, and of the favour +in which he was held by both father and daughter; and his state of mind +since, had not, with all his philosophy to rectify and support it, been +an enviable one. That he could not for a moment regard himself as a fit +husband for the lady-lass, or dream of exposing himself or her to the +insult which the offer of himself as a son-in-law would bring on them +both from the laird, was not a reflection to render the thought of such +a bag of wind as Fergus Duff marrying her, one whit the less horribly +unendurable. Had the laird been in the same social position as before, +Donal would have had no fear of his accepting Fergus; but misfortune +alters many relations. Fergus’s father was a man of considerable +property, Fergus himself almost a man of influence, and already in +possession of a comfortable income: it was possible to imagine that the +impoverished Thomas Galbraith, late of Glashruach, Esq., might contrive +to swallow what annoyance there could not but in any case be in wedding +his daughter to the son of John Duff, late his own tenant of the Mains. +Altogether Donal’s thoughts were not of the kind to put him in fit +mood—I do not say to gather benefit from the prophesying of Fergus, +but to give fair play to the peddler who now rose to display his loaded +calico and beggarly shoddy over the book-board of the pulpit. But the +congregation listened rapt. I dare not say there was no divine reality +concerned in his utterance, for Gibbie saw many a glimmer through the +rents in his logic and the thin-worn patches of his philosophy; but +it was not such glimmers that fettered the regards of the audience, +but the noisy flow and false eloquence of the preacher. In proportion +to the falsehood in us are we exposed to the falsehood in others. The +false plays upon the false without discord; comes to the false, and is +welcomed as the true; there is no jar, for the false to the false look +the true; darkness takes darkness for light, and great is the darkness. +I will not attempt an account of the sermon; even admirably rendered, +it would be worthless as the best of copies of a bad wall-paper. There +was in it, to be sure, such a glowing description of the city of God +as might have served to attract thither all the diamond-merchants of +Amsterdam; but why a Christian should care to go to such a place, let +him tell who knows; while, on the other hand, the audience appeared +equally interested in his equiponderating description of the place of +misery. Not once did he even attempt to give, or indeed could have +given, the feeblest idea, to a single soul present, of the one terror +of the universe—the peril of being cast from the arms of essential +Love and Life into the bosom of living Death. For this teacher of men +knew nothing whatever but by hearsay, had not in himself experienced +one of the joys or one of the horrors he endeavoured to embody.</p> + +<p>Gibbie was not at home listening to such a sermon; he was distressed, +and said afterwards to Donal he would far rather be subjected to Mr. +Sclater’s <i>isms</i> than Fergus’s <i>ations</i>. It caused him pain too to see +Donal look so scornful, so contemptuous even; while it added to Donal’s +unrest, and swelled his evil mood, to see Mr. Galbraith absorbed. For +Ginevra’s bonnet, it did not once move—but then it was not set at an +angle to indicate either eyes upturned in listening, or cast down in +emotion. Donal would have sacrificed not a few songs, the only wealth +he possessed, for one peep round the corner of that bonnet. He had +become painfully aware, that, much as he had seen of Ginevra, he knew +scarcely anything of her thoughts; he had always talked so much more +to her than she to him, that now, when he longed to know, he could +not even guess what she might be thinking, or what effect such “an +arrangement” of red and yellow would have upon her imagination and +judgment. She could not think or receive what was not true, he felt +sure, but she might easily enough attribute truth where it did not +exist.</p> + +<p>At length the rockets, Roman candles, and squibs were all burnt out, +the would-be “eternal blazon” was over, and the preacher sunk back +exhausted in his seat. The people sang; a prayer, fit pendent to such +a sermon, followed, and the congregation was dismissed—it could not +be with much additional strength to meet the sorrows, temptations, +sophisms, commonplaces, disappointments, dulnesses, stupidities, and +general devilries of the week, although not a few paid the preacher +welcome compliments on his “gran’ discoorse.”</p> + +<p>The young men were out among the first, and going round to another +door, in the church-yard, by which they judged Ginevra and her father +must issue, there stood waiting. The night was utterly changed. The +wind had gone about, and the vapours were high in heaven, broken all +into cloud-masses of sombre grandeur. Now from behind, now upon their +sides, they were made glorious by the full moon, while through their +rents appeared the sky and the ever marvellous stars. Gibbie’s eyes +went climbing up the spire that shot skyward over their heads. Around +its point the clouds and the moon seemed to gather, grouping themselves +in grand carelessness; and he thought of the Son of Man coming in the +clouds of heaven; to us mere heaps of watery vapour, ever ready to +fall, drowning the earth in rain, or burying it in snow; to angel-feet +they might be solid masses whereon to tread attendant upon him, who, +although with his word he ruled winds and seas, loved to be waited +on by the multitude of his own! He was yet gazing, forgetful of the +human tide about him, watching the glory dominant over storm, when +his companion pinched his arm: he looked, and was aware that Fergus, +muffled to the eyes, was standing beside them. He seemed not to see +them, and they were nowise inclined to attract his attention, but gazed +motionless on the church door, an unsealed fountain of souls. What a +curious thing it is to watch an issuing crowd of faces for one loved +one—all so unattractive, provoking, blamable, as they come rolling +round corners, dividing, and flowing away—not one of them the right +one! But at last out she did come—Ginevra, like a daisy among mown +grass! It was really she!—but with her father. She saw Donal, glanced +from him to Gibbie, cast down her sweet eyes, and made no sign. Fergus +had already advanced and addressed the laird.</p> + +<p>“Ah, Mr. Duff!” said Mr. Galbraith; “excuse me, but would you oblige me +by giving your arm to my daughter? I see a friend waiting to speak to +me. I shall overtake you in a moment.”</p> + +<p>Fergus murmured his pleasure, and Ginevra and he moved away together. +The youths for a moment watched the father. He dawdled—evidently +wanted to speak to no one. They then followed the two, walking some +yards behind them. Every other moment Fergus would bend his head +towards Ginevra; once or twice they saw the little bonnet turn upwards +in response or question. Poor Donal was burning with lawless and +foolish indignation: why should the minister muffle himself up like +an old woman in the crowd, and take off the great handkerchief when +talking with the lady? When the youths reached the street where the +cottage stood, they turned the corner after them, and walked quickly up +to them where they stood at the gate waiting for it to be opened.</p> + +<p>“Sic a gran’ nicht!” said Donal, after the usual greetings. “Sir Gibbie +an’ me ’s haein’ a dauner wi’ the mune. Ye wad think she had licht +eneuch to haud the cloods aff o’ her, wad ye no, mem? But na! they’ll +be upon her, an’ I’m feart there’s ae unco black ane yon’er—dinna ye +see ’t—wi’ a straik o’ white, aboot the thrapple o’ ’t?—There—dinna +ye see ’t?” he went on pointing to the clouds about the moon, “—that +ane, I’m doobtin’, ’ill hae the better o’ her or lang—tak her intil +’ts airms, an’ bray a’ the licht oot o’ her. Guid nicht, mem.—Guid +nicht, Fergus. You ministers sudna mak yersels sae like cloods. Ye +sud be cled in white an’ gowd, an’ a’ colours o’ stanes, like the new +Jerooslem ye tell sic tales aboot, an’ syne naebody wad mistak the news +ye bring.”</p> + +<p>Therewith Donal walked on, doubtless for the moment a little relieved. +But before they had walked far, he broke down altogether.</p> + +<p>“Gibbie,” he said, “yon rascal’s gauin’ to merry the leddy-lass! an’ +it drives me mad to think it. Gien I cud but ance see an’ speyk till +her—ance—jist ance! Lord! what ’ll come o’ a’ the gowans upo’ the +Mains, an’ the heather upo’ Glashgar!”</p> + +<p>He burst out crying, but instantly dashed away his tears with +indignation at his weakness.</p> + +<p>“I maun dree my weird,” (<i>undergo my doom</i>), he said, and said no more.</p> + +<p>Gibbie’s face had grown white in the moon-gleams, and his lips +trembled. He put his arm through Donal’s and clung to him, and in +silence they went home. When they reached Donal’s room, Donal entering +shut the door behind him and shut out Gibbie. He stood for a moment +like one dazed, then suddenly coming to himself, turned away, left the +house, and ran straight to Daur-street.</p> + +<p>When the minister’s door was opened to him, he went to that of the +dining-room, knowing Mr. and Mrs. Sclater would then be at supper. +Happily for his intent, the minister was at the moment having his +tumbler of toddy after the labours of the day, an indulgence which, +so long as Gibbie was in the house, he had, ever since that first +dinner-party, taken in private, out of regard, as he pretended to +himself, for the boy’s painful associations with it, but in reality, +to his credit be it told if it may, from a little shame of the thing +itself; and his wife therefore, when she saw Gibbie, rose, and, meeting +him, took him with her to her own little sitting-room, where they had a +long talk, of which the result appeared the next night in a note from +Mrs. Sclater to Gibbie, asking him and Donal to spend the evening of +Tuesday with her.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LII">CHAPTER LII.<br><span class="small">THE QUARRY.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Donal threw everything aside, careless of possible disgrace in the +class the next morning, and, trembling with hope, accompanied Gibbie: +she would be there—surely! It was one of those clear nights in which +a gleam of straw-colour in the west, with light-thinned gray-green +deepening into blue above it, is like the very edge of the axe of the +cold—the edge that reaches the soul. But the youths were warm enough: +they had health and hope. The hospitable crimson room, with its round +table set out for a Scotch tea, and its fire blazing hugely, received +them. And there sat Ginevra by the fire! with her pretty feet on a +footstool before it: in those days ladies wore open shoes, and showed +dainty stockings. Her face looked rosy, but it was from the firelight, +for when she turned it towards them, it showed pale as usual. She +received them, as always, with the same simple sincerity that had been +hers on the bank of the Lorrie burn. But Gibbie read some trouble in +her eyes, for his soul was all touch, and, like a delicate spiritual +seismograph, responded at once to the least tremble of a neighbouring +soul. The minister was not present, and Mrs. Sclater had both to be +the blazing coal, and keep blowing herself, else, however hot it might +be at the smouldering hearth, the little company would have sent up no +flame of talk.</p> + +<p>When tea was over, Gibbie went to the window, got within the red +curtains, and peeped out. Returning presently, he spelled with fingers +and signed with hands to Ginevra that it was a glorious night: would +she not come for a walk? Ginevra looked to Mrs. Sclater.</p> + +<p>“Gibbie wants me to go for a walk,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Certainly, my dear—if you are well enough to go with him,” replied +her friend.</p> + +<p>“I am always well,” answered Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“I can’t go with you,” said Mrs. Sclater, “for I expect my husband +every moment; but what occasion is there, with two such knights to +protect you?”</p> + +<p>She was straining hard on the bit of propriety; but she knew them all +so well! she said to herself. Then first perceiving Gibbie’s design, +Donal cast him a grateful glance, while Ginevra rose hastily, and ran +to put on her outer garments. Plainly to Donal, she was pleased to go.</p> + +<p>When they stood on the pavement, there was the moon, the very cream of +light, ladying it in a blue heaven. It was not all her own, but the +clouds about her were white and attendant, and ever when they came near +her took on her livery—the poor paled-rainbow colours, which are all +her reflected light can divide into: that strange brown we see so often +on her cloudy people must, I suppose, be what the red or the orange +fades to. There was a majesty and peace about her airy domination, +which Donal himself would have found difficult, had he known her state, +to bring into harmony with her aeonian death. Strange that the light of +lovers should be the coldest of all cold things within human ken—dead +with cold, millions of years before our first father and mother +appeared each to the other on the earth! The air was keen but dry. +Nothing could fall but snow; and of anything like it there was nothing +but those few frozen vapours that came softly out of the deeps to wait +on the moon. Between them and behind them lay depth absolute, expressed +in the perfection of nocturnal blues, deep as gentle, the very home of +the dwelling stars. The steps of the youths rang on the pavements, and +Donal’s voice seemed to him so loud and clear that he muffled it all in +gentler meaning. He spoke low, and Ginevra answered him softly. They +walked close together, and Gibbie flitted to and fro, now on this side, +now on that, now in front of them, now behind.</p> + +<p>“Hoo likit ye the sermon, mem?” asked Donal.</p> + +<p>“Papa thought it a grand sermon,” answered Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“An’ yersel’?” persisted Donal.</p> + +<p>“Papa tells me I am no judge,” she replied.</p> + +<p>“That’s as muckle as to say ye didna like it sae weel as he did!” +returned Donal, in a tone expressing some relief.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Duff is very good to my father, Donal,” she rejoined, “and I don’t +like to say anything against his sermon; but all the time I could not +help thinking whether your mother would like this and that; for you +know, Donal, any good there is in me I have got from her, and from +Gibbie—and from you, Donal.”</p> + +<p>The youth’s heart beat with a pleasure that rose to physical pain. Had +he been a winged creature he would have flown straight up; but being a +sober wingless animal, he stumped on with his two happy legs. Gladly +would he have shown her the unreality of Fergus—that he was a poor +shallow creature, with only substance enough to carry show and seeming, +but he felt, just because he had reason to fear him, that it would +be unmanly to speak the truth of him behind his back, except in the +absolute necessity of rectitude. He felt also that, if Ginevra owed her +father’s friend such delicacy, he owed him at least a little silence; +for was he not under more obligation to this same shallow-pated orator, +than to all eternity he could wipe out, even if eternity carried in it +the possibility of wiping out an obligation? Few men understand, but +Donal did, that he who would cancel an obligation is a dishonest man. +I cannot help it that many a good man—good, that is, because he is +growing better—must then be reckoned in the list of the dishonest: he +is in their number until he leaves it.</p> + +<p>Donal remaining silent, Ginevra presently returned him his own question:</p> + +<p>“How did <i>you</i> like the sermon, Donal?”</p> + +<p>“Div ye want me to say, mem?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I do, Donal,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Weel, I wad jist say, in a general w’y, ’at I canna think muckle o’ +ony sermon ’at micht gar a body think mair o’ the precher nor o’ him +’at he comes to prech aboot. I mean, ’at I dinna see hoo onybody was +to lo’e God or his neebour ae jot the mair for hearin’ yon sermon last +nicht.”</p> + +<p>“But might not some be frightened by it, and brought to repentance, +Donal?” suggested the girl.</p> + +<p>“Ou aye; I daur say; I dinna ken. But I canna help thinkin’ ’at what +disna gie God onything like fair play, canna dee muckle guid to men, +an’ may, I doobt, dee a heap o’ ill. It’s a pagan kin’ o’ a thing yon.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just what I was feeling—I don’t say thinking, you know—for +you say we must not say <i>think</i> when we have taken no trouble about it. +I am sorry for Mr. Duff, if he has taken to teaching where he does not +understand.”</p> + +<p>They had left the city behind them, and were walking a wide open road, +with a great sky above it. On its borders were small fenced fields, and +a house here and there with a garden. It was a plain-featured, slightly +undulating country, with hardly any trees—not at all beautiful, +except as every place under the heaven which man has not defiled is +beautiful to him who can see what <i>is</i> there. But this night the earth +was nothing: what was in them and over them was all. Donal felt—as +so many will feel, before the earth, like a hen set to hatch the eggs +of a soaring bird, shall have done rearing broods for heaven—that, +with this essential love and wonder by his side, to be doomed to go on +walking to all eternity would be a blissful fate, were the landscape +turned to a brick-field, and the sky to persistent gray.</p> + +<p>“Wad ye no tak my airm, mem?” he said at length, summoning courage. +“I jist fin’ mysel’ like a horse wi’ a reyn brocken, gaein’ by mysel’ +throu’ the air this gait.”</p> + +<p>Before he had finished the sentence Ginevra had accepted the offer. It +was the first time. His arm trembled. He thought it was her hand.</p> + +<p>“Ye’re no caul’, are ye, mem?” he said.</p> + +<p>“Not the least,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Eh, mem! gien fowk was but a’ made oot o’ the same clay, like, ’at ane +micht say till anither—‘Ye hae me as ye hae yersel’’!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Donal,” rejoined Ginevra; “I wish we were all made of the +poet-clay like you! What it would be to have a well inside, out of +which to draw songs and ballads as I pleased! That’s what you have, +Donal—or, rather, you’re just a draw-well of music yourself.”</p> + +<p>Donal laughed merrily. A moment more and he broke out singing:</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My thoughts are like fireflies, pulsing in moonlight;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My heart is a silver cup, full of red wine;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.</span><br> +</p> +<p>“What’s that, Donal?” cried Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“Ow, naething,” answered Donal. “It was only my hert lauchin’.”</p> + +<p>“Say the words,” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“I canna—I dinna ken them noo,” replied Donal.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Donal! are those lovely words gone—altogether—for ever? Shall I +<i>not</i> hear them again?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll try to min’ upo’ them whan I gang hame,” he said. “I canna the +noo. I can think o’ naething but ae thing.”</p> + +<p>“And what is that, Donal?”</p> + +<p>“Yersel’,” answered Donal.</p> + +<p>Ginevra’s hand lifted just a half of its weight from Donal’s arm, like +a bird that had thought of flying, then settled again.</p> + +<p>“It is very pleasant to be together once more as in the old time, +Donal—though there are no daisies and green fields.—But what place is +that, Donal?”</p> + +<p>Instinctively, almost unconsciously, she wanted to turn the +conversation. The place she pointed to was an opening immediately on +the roadside, through a high bank—narrow and dark, with one side +half lighted by the moon. She had often passed it, walking with her +school-fellows, but had never thought of asking what it was. In the +shining dusk it looked strange and a little dreadful.</p> + +<p>“It’s the muckle quarry, mem,” answered Donal: “div ye no ken that? +That’s whaur ’maist the haill toon cam oot o’. It’s a some eerie kin’ +o’ a place to luik at i’ this licht. I won’er at ye never saw ’t.”</p> + +<p>“I have seen the opening there, but never took much notice of it +before,” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“Come an’ I’ll lat ye see ’t,” rejoined Donal. “It’s weel worth luikin’ +intil. Ye hae nae notion sic a place as ’tis. It micht be amo’ the +grenite muntains o’ Aigypt, though they takna freely sic fine blocks +oot o’ this ane as they tuik oot o’ that at Syene. Ye wadna be fleyt to +come an’ see what the meen maks o’ ’t, wad ye, mem?”</p> + +<p>“No, Donal. I would not be frightened to go anywhere with you. But—”</p> + +<p>“Eh, mem! it maks me richt prood to hear ye say that. Come awa than.”</p> + +<p>So saying, he turned aside, and led her into the narrow passage, cut +through a friable sort of granite. Gibbie, thinking they had gone to +have but a peep and return, stood in the road, looking at the clouds +and the moon, and crooning to himself. By and by, when he found they +did not return, he followed them.</p> + +<p>When they reached the end of the cutting, Ginevra started at sight of +the vast gulf, the moon showing the one wall a ghastly gray, and from +the other throwing a shadow half across the bottom. But a winding road +went down into it, and Donal led her on. She shrunk at first, drawing +back from the profound, mysterious-looking abyss, so awfully still; but +when Donal looked at her, she was ashamed to refuse to go farther, and +indeed almost afraid to take her hand from his arm; so he led her down +the terrace road. The side of the quarry was on one hand, and on the +other she could see only into the gulf.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Donal!” she said at length, almost in a whisper, “this is like a +dream I once had, of going down and down a long roundabout road, inside +the earth, down and down, to the heart of a place full of the dead—the +ground black with death, and between horrible walls.”</p> + +<p>Donal looked at her; his face was in the light reflected from the +opposite gray precipice: she thought it looked white and strange, and +grew more frightened, but dared not speak. Presently Donal again began +to sing, and this is something like what he sang:—</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Death! whaur do ye bide, auld Death?”</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“I bide in ilka breath,”</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quo’ Death.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“No i’ the pyramids,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ no the worms amids,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’Neth coffin-lids;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I bidena whaur life has been,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ whaur ’s nae mair to be dune.”</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Death! whaur do ye bide, auld Death?”</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Wi’ the leevin’, to dee ’at’s laith,”</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quo’ Death.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Wi’ the man an’ the wife</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’At lo’e like life,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But (<i>without</i>) strife;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wi’ the bairns ’at hing to their mither,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ a’ ’at lo’e ane anither.”</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Death! whaur do ye bide, auld Death?”</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Abune an’ aboot an’ aneath,”</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quo’ Death.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“But o’ a’ the airts,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ o’ a’ the pairts,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In herts,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whan the tane to the tither says na,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ the north win’ begins to blaw.”</span><br> +</p> +<p>“What a terrible song, Donal!” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>He made no reply, but went on, leading her down into the pit: he had +been afraid she was going to draw back, and sang the first words her +words suggested, knowing she would not interrupt him. The aspect of the +place grew frightful to her.</p> + +<p>“Are you sure there are no holes—full of water, down there?” she +faltered.</p> + +<p>“Ay, there’s ane or twa,” replied Donal, “but we’ll haud oot o’ them.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra shuddered, but was determined to show no fear: Donal should +not reproach her with lack of faith! They stepped at last on the level +below, covered with granite chips and stones and great blocks. In the +middle rose a confused heap of all sorts. To this, and round to the +other side of it, Donal led her. There shone the moon on the corner of +a pool, the rest of which crept away in blackness under an overhanging +mass. She caught his arm with both hands. He told her to look up. Steep +granite rock was above them all round, on one side dark, on the other +mottled with the moon and the thousand shadows of its own roughness; +over the gulf hung vaulted the blue, cloud-blotted sky, whence the moon +seemed to look straight down upon her, asking what they were about, +away from their kind, in such a place of terror.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Donal caught her hand. She looked in his face. It was not the +moon that could make it so white.</p> + +<p>“Ginevra!” he said, with trembling voice.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Donal,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Ye’re no angry at me for ca’in ye by yer name? I never did it afore.”</p> + +<p>“I always call you Donal,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“That’s naitral. Ye’re a gran’ leddy, an’ I’m naething abune a +herd-laddie.”</p> + +<p>“You’re a great poet, Donal, and that’s much more than being a lady or +a gentleman.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, maybe,” answered Donal listlessly, as if he were thinking of +something far away; “but it winna mak up for the tither; they’re no +upo’ the same side o’ the watter, like. A puir lad like me daurna lift +an ee till a gran’ leddy like you, mem. A’ the warl’ wad but scorn him, +an’ lauch at the verra notion. My time’s near ower at the college, an’ +I see naething for ’t but gang hame an’ fee (<i>hire myself</i>). I’ll be +better workin’ wi’ my han’s nor wi’ my heid whan I hae nae houp left +o’ ever seein’ yer face again. I winna lowse a day aboot it. Gien I +lowse time I may lowse my rizon. Hae patience wi’ me ae meenute, mem; +I’m jist driven to tell ye the trowth. It’s mony a lang sin I hae kent +mysel’ wantin’ you. Ye’re the boady, an’ I’m the shaidow. I dinna +mean nae hyperbolics—that’s the w’y the thing luiks to me i’ my ain +thouchts. Eh, mem, but ye’re bonnie! Ye dinna ken yersel’ hoo bonnie +ye are, nor what a subversion you mak i’ my hert an’ my heid. I cud +jist cut my heid aff, an’ lay ’t aneth yer feet to haud them aff o’ the +caul’ flure.”</p> + +<p>Still she looked him in the eyes, like one bewildered, unable to +withdraw her eyes from his. Her face too had grown white.</p> + +<p>“Tell me to haud my tongue, mem, an’ I’ll haud it,” he said.</p> + +<p>Her lips moved, but no sound came.</p> + +<p>“I ken weel,” he went on, “ye can never luik upo’ me as onything mair +nor a kin’ o’ a human bird, ’at ye wad hing in a cage, an’ gie seeds +an’ bits o’ sugar till, an’ hearken till whan he sang. I’ll never +trouble ye nae mair, an’ whether ye grant me my prayer or no, ye’ll +never see me again. The only differ ’ill be ’at I’ll aither hing my +heid or haud it up for the rest o’ my days. I wad fain ken ’at I wasna +despised, an’ ’at maybe gien things had been different,—but na, I +dinna mean that; I mean naething ’at wad fricht ye frae what I wad hae. +It sudna mean a hair mair nor lies in itsel’.”</p> + +<p>“What is it, Donal?” said Ginevra, half inaudibly, and with effort: she +could scarcely speak for a fluttering in her throat.</p> + +<p>“I cud beseech ye upo’ my k-nees,” he went on, as if she had not +spoken, “to lat me kiss yer bonnie fut; but that ye micht grant for +bare peety, an’ that wad dee me little guid; sae for ance an’ for +a’, till maybe efter we’re a’ ayont the muckle sea, I beseech at the +fawvour o’ yer sweet sowl, to lay upo’ me, as upo’ the lips o’ the +sowl ’at sang ye the sangs ye likit sae weel to hear whan ye was but a +leddy-lassie—ae solitary kiss. It shall be holy to me as the licht; +an’ I sweir by the Trowth I’ll think o’ ’t but as ye think, an’ man nor +wuman nor bairn, no even Gibbie himsel’, sall ken—”</p> + +<p>The last word broke the spell upon Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“But, Donal,” she said, as quietly as when years ago they talked by the +Lorrie side, “would it be right?—a secret with you I could not tell to +<i>any</i> one?—not even if afterwards—”</p> + +<p>Donal’s face grew so ghastly with utter despair that absolute terror +seized her; she turned from him and fled, calling “Gibbie! Gibbie!”</p> + +<p>He was not many yards off, approaching the mound as she came from +behind it. He ran to meet her. She darted to him like a dove pursued +by a hawk, threw herself into his arms, laid her head on his shoulder, +and wept. Gibbie held her fast, and with all the ways in his poor power +sought to comfort her. She raised her face at length. It was all wet +with tears which glistened in the moonlight. Hurriedly Gibbie asked on +his fingers:</p> + +<p>“Was Donal not good to you?”</p> + +<p>“He’s <i>beautiful</i>,” she sobbed; “but I couldn’t, you know, Gibbie, I +couldn’t. I don’t care a straw about position and all that—who would +with a poet?—but I couldn’t, you know, Gibbie. I couldn’t let him +think I might have married him—in any case: could I now, Gibbie?”</p> + +<p>She laid her head again on his shoulder and sobbed. Gibbie did not +well understand her. Donal, where he had thrown himself on a heap of +granite chips, heard and understood, felt and knew and resolved all in +one. The moon shone, and the clouds went flitting like ice-floe about +the sky, now gray in distance, now near the moon and white, now in her +very presence and adorned with her favour on their bosoms, now drifting +again into the gray; and still the two, Ginevra and Gibbie, stood +motionless—Gibbie with the tears in his eyes, and Ginevra weeping as +if her heart would break; and behind the granite blocks lay Donal.</p> + +<p>Again Ginevra raised her head.</p> + +<p>“Gibbie, you must go and look after poor Donal,” she said.</p> + +<p>Gibbie went, but Donal was nowhere to be seen. To escape the two he +loved so well, and be alone as he felt, he had crept away softly into +one of the many recesses of the place. Again and again Gibbie made the +noise with which he was accustomed to call him, but he gave back no +answer, and they understood that wherever he was he wanted to be left +to himself. They climbed again the winding way out of the gulf, and +left him the heart of its desolation.</p> + +<p>“Take me home, Gibbie,” said Ginevra, when they reached the high road.</p> + +<p>As they went, not a word more passed between them. Ginevra was as dumb +as Gibbie, and Gibbie was sadder than he had ever been in his life—not +only for Donal’s sake, but because, in his inexperienced heart, he +feared that Ginevra would not listen to Donal because she could +not—because she had already promised herself to Fergus Duff; and with +all his love to his kind, he could not think it well that Fergus should +be made happy at such a price. He left her at her own door, and went +home, hoping to find Donal there before him.</p> + +<p>He was not there. Hour after hour passed, and he did not appear. At +eleven o’clock, Gibbie set out to look for him, but with little hope +of finding him. He went all the way back to the quarry, thinking it +possible he might be waiting there, expecting him to return without +Ginevra. The moon was now low, and her light reached but a little way +into it, so that the look of the place was quite altered, and the +bottom of it almost dark. But Gibbie had no fear. He went down to +the spot, almost feeling his way, where they had stood, got upon the +heap, and called and whistled many times. But no answer came. Donal +was away, he did not himself know where, wandering wherever the feet +in his spirit led him. Gibbie went home again, and sat up all night, +keeping the kettle boiling, ready to make tea for him the moment he +should come in. But even in the morning Donal did not appear. Gibbie +was anxious—for Donal was unhappy.</p> + +<p>He might hear of him at the college, he thought, and went at the usual +hour. Sure enough, as he entered the quadrangle, there was Donal going +in at the door leading to the moral philosophy class-room. For hours, +neglecting his own class, he watched about the court, but Donal never +showed himself. Gibbie concluded he had watched to avoid him, and had +gone home by Crown-street, and himself returned the usual and shorter +way, sure almost of now finding him in his room—although probably with +the door locked. The room was empty, and Mistress Murkison had not seen +him.</p> + +<p>Donal’s final examination, upon which alone his degree now depended, +came on the next day: Gibbie watched at a certain corner, and unseen +saw him pass—with a face pale but strong, eyes that seemed not to have +slept, and lips that looked the inexorable warders of many sighs. After +that he did not see him once till the last day of the session arrived. +Then in the public room he saw him go up to receive his degree. Never +before had he seen him look grand; and Gibbie knew that there was not +<i>any</i> evil in the world, except wrong. But it had been the dreariest +week he had ever passed. As they came from the public room, he lay in +wait for him once more, but again in vain: he must have gone through +the sacristan’s garden behind.</p> + +<p>When he reached his lodging, he found a note from Donal waiting him, in +which he bade him good-bye, said he was gone to his mother, and asked +him to pack up his things for him: he would write to Mistress Murkison +and tell her what to do with the chest.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIII">CHAPTER LIII.<br><span class="small">A NIGHT-WATCH.</span></h2></div> + +<p>A sense of loneliness, such as in all his forsaken times he had never +felt, overshadowed Gibbie when he read this letter. He was altogether +perplexed by Donal’s persistent avoidance of him. He had done nothing +to hurt him, and knew himself his friend in his sorrow as well as in +his joy. He sat down in the room that had been his, and wrote to him. +As often as he raised his eyes—for he had not shut the door—he saw +the dusty sunshine on the old furniture. It was a bright day, one of +the pursuivants of the yet distant summer, but how dreary everything +looked! how miserable and heartless now Donal was gone, and would never +regard those things any more! When he had ended his letter, almost for +the first time in his life, he sat thinking what he should do next. +It was as if he were suddenly becalmed on the high seas; one wind had +ceased to blow, and another had not begun. It troubled him a little +that he must now return to Mr. Sclater, and once more feel the pressure +of a nature not homogeneous with his own. But it would not be for long.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater had thought of making a movement towards gaining an +extension of his tutelage beyond the ordinary legal period, on the +ground of unfitness in his ward for the management of his property; but +Gibbie’s character and scholarship, and the opinion of the world which +would follow failure, had deterred him from the attempt. In the month +of May, therefore, when, according to the registry of his birth in the +parish book, he would be of age, he would also be, as he expected, his +own master, so far as other mortals were concerned. As to what he would +then do, he had thought much, and had plans, but no one knew anything +of them except Donal—who had forsaken him.</p> + +<p>He was in no haste to return to Daur-street. He packed Donal’s things, +with all the books they had bought together, and committed the chest +to Mistress Murkison. He then told her he would rather not give up his +room just yet, but would like to keep it on for a while, and come and +go as he pleased; to which the old woman replied,</p> + +<p>“As ye wull, Sir Gibbie. Come an’ gang as free as the win’. Mak o’ my +hoose as gien it war yer ain.”</p> + +<p>He told her he would sleep there that night, and she got him his dinner +as usual; after which, putting a Greek book in his pocket, he went out, +thinking to go to the end of the pier and sit there a while. He would +gladly have gone to Ginevra, but she had prevented him when she was +at school, and had never asked him since she left it. But Gibbie was +not <i>ennuyé</i>: the pleasure of his life came from the very roots of his +being, and would therefore run into any channel of his consciousness; +neither was he greatly troubled; nothing could “put rancours in the +vessel of” his “peace;” he was only very hungry after the real presence +of the human; and scarcely had he set his foot on the pavement, when +he resolved to go and see Mistress Croale. The sun, still bright, was +sinking towards the west, and a cold wind was blowing. He walked to the +market, up to the gallery of it, and on to the farther end, greeting +one and another of the keepers of the little shops, until he reached +that of Mistress Croale. She was overjoyed at sight of him, and proud +the neighbours saw the terms they were on. She understood his signs +and finger-speech tolerably, and held her part of the conversation +in audible utterance. She told him that for the week past Donal had +occupied her garret—she did not know why, she said, and hoped nothing +had gone wrong between them. Gibbie signed that he could not tell her +about it there, but would go and take tea with her in the evening.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry I canna be hame sae ear’,” she replied. “I promised to tak +my dish o’ tay wi’ auld Mistress Green—the kail-wife, ye ken, Sir +Gibbie.”—Gibbie nodded and she resumed:—“But gien ye wad tak a lug o’ +a Fin’on haddie wi’ me at nine o’clock, I wad be prood.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie nodded again, and left her.</p> + +<p>All this time he had not happened to discover that the lady who stood +at the next counter, not more than a couple of yards from him, was +Miss Kimble—which was the less surprising in that the lady took +some trouble to hide the fact. She extended her purchasing when she +saw who was shaking hands with the next stall-keeper, but kept her +face turned from him, heard all Mrs. Croale said to him, and went +away asking herself what possible relations except objectionable +ones could exist between such a pair. She knew little or nothing of +Gibbie’s early history, for she had not been a dweller in the city +when Gibbie was known as well as the town-cross to almost every man, +woman, and child in it, else perhaps she might, but I doubt it, have +modified her conclusion. Her instinct was in the right, she said, with +self-gratulation; he was a lad of low character and tastes, just what +she had taken him for the first moment she saw him: his friends could +not know what he was; she was bound to acquaint them with his conduct; +and first of all, in duty to her old pupil, she must let Mr. Galbraith +know what sort of friendships this Sir Gilbert, his nephew, cultivated. +She went therefore straight to the cottage.</p> + +<p>Fergus was there when she rang the bell. Mr. Galbraith looked out, +and seeing who it was, retreated—the more hurriedly that he owed her +money, and imagined she had come to dun him. But when she found to +her disappointment that she could not see him, Miss Kimble did not +therefore attempt to restrain a little longer the pent-up waters of her +secret. Mr. Duff was a minister, and the intimate friend of the family: +she would say what she had seen and heard. Having then first abjured +all love of gossip, she told her tale, appealing to the minister +whether she had not been right in desiring to let Sir Gilbert’s uncle +know how he was going on.</p> + +<p>“I was not aware that Sir Gilbert was a cousin of yours, Miss +Galbraith,” said Fergus.</p> + +<p>Ginevra’s face was rosy red, but it was now dusk, and the fire-light +had friendly retainer-shadows about it.</p> + +<p>“He is not my cousin,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Why, Ginevra! you told me he was your cousin,” said Miss Kimble, with +keen moral reproach.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon; I never did,” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>“I must see your father instantly,” cried Miss Kimble, rising in anger. +“He must be informed at once how much he is mistaken in the young +gentleman he permits to be on such friendly terms with his daughter.”</p> + +<p>“My father does not know him,” rejoined Ginevra; “and I should prefer +they were not brought together just at present.”</p> + +<p>Her words sounded strange even in her own ears, but she knew no way but +the straight one.</p> + +<p>“You quite shock me, Ginevra!” said the school-mistress, resuming her +seat: “you cannot mean to say you cherish acquaintance with a young man +of whom your father knows nothing, and whom you dare not introduce to +him?”</p> + +<p>To explain would have been to expose her father to blame.</p> + +<p>“I have known Sir Gilbert from my childhood,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Is it possible your duplicity reaches so far?” cried Miss Kimble, +assured in her own mind that Ginevra had said he was her cousin.</p> + +<p>Fergus thought it was time to interfere.</p> + +<p>“I know something of the circumstances that led to the acquaintance of +Miss Galbraith with Sir Gilbert,” he said, “and I am sure it would only +annoy her father to have any allusion made to it by one—excuse me, +Miss Kimble—who is comparatively a stranger. I beg you will leave the +matter to me.”</p> + +<p>Fergus regarded Gibbie as a half witted fellow, and had no fear of him. +He knew nothing of the commencement of his acquaintance with Ginevra, +but imagined it had come about through Donal; for, studiously as Mr. +Galbraith had avoided mention of his quarrel with Ginevra because of +the lads, something of it had crept out, and reached the Mains; and in +now venturing allusion to that old story, Fergus was feeling after a +nerve whose vibration, he thought, might afford him some influence over +Ginevra.</p> + +<p>He spoke authoritatively, and Miss Kimble, though convinced it was a +mere pretence of her graceless pupil that her father would not see her, +had to yield, and rose. Mr. Duff rose also, saying he would walk with +her. He returned to the cottage, dined with them, and left about eight +o’clock.</p> + +<p>Already well enough acquainted in the city to learn without difficulty +where Mistress Croale lived, and having nothing very particular to do, +he strolled in the direction of her lodging, and saw Gibbie go into the +house. Having seen him in, he was next seized with the desire to see +him out again; having lain in wait for him as a beneficent brownie, +he must now watch him as a profligate baronet forsooth! To haunt the +low street until he should issue was a dreary prospect—in the east +wind of a March night, which some giant up above seemed sowing with +great handfuls of rain-seed; but having made up his mind, he stood his +ground. For two hours he walked, vaguely cherishing an idea that he was +fulfilling a duty of his calling, as a moral policeman.</p> + +<p>When at length Gibbie appeared, he had some difficulty in keeping +him in sight, for the sky was dark, the moon was not yet up, and +Gibbie walked like a swift shadow before him. Suddenly, as if some +old association had waked the old habit, he started off at a quick +trot. Fergus did his best to follow. As he ran, Gibbie caught sight +of a woman seated on a doorstep, almost under a lamp, a few paces up +a narrow passage, stopped, stepped within the passage, and stood in a +shadow watching her. She had turned the pocket of her dress inside out, +and seemed unable to satisfy herself that there was nothing there but +the hole, which she examined again and again, as if for the last news +of her last coin. Too thoroughly satisfied at length, she put back the +pocket, and laid her head on her hands. Gibbie had not a farthing. Oh, +how cold it was! and there sat his own flesh and blood shivering in it! +He went up to her. The same moment Fergus passed the end of the court. +Gibbie took her by the hand. She started in terror, but his smile +reassured her. He drew her, and she rose. He laid her hand on his arm, +and she went with him. He had not yet begun to think about prudence, +and perhaps, if some of us thought more about right, we should have +less occasion to cultivate the inferior virtue. Perhaps also we should +have more belief that there is One to care that things do not go wrong.</p> + +<p>Fergus had given up the chase, and having met a policeman, was talking +to him, when Gibbie came up with the woman on his arm, and passed +them. Fergus again followed, sure of him now. Had not fear of being +recognized prevented him from passing them and looking, he would have +seen only a poor old thing, somewhere about sixty; but if she had been +beautiful as the morning, of course Gibbie would have taken her all the +same. He was the Gibbie that used to see the drunk people home. Gibbies +like him do not change; they grow.</p> + +<p>After following them through several streets, Fergus saw them stop at +a door. Gibbie opened it with a key which his spy imagined the woman +gave him. They entered, and shut it almost in Fergus’s face, as he +hurried up determined to speak. Gibbie led the poor shivering creature +up the stair, across the chaos of furniture, and into his room, in +the other corner next to Donal’s. To his joy he found the fire was +not out. He set her in the easiest chair he had, put the kettle on, +blew the fire to a blaze, made coffee, cut bread and butter, got out a +pot of marmalade, and ate and drank with his guest. She seemed quite +bewildered and altogether unsure. I believe she took him at last, +finding he never spoke, for half-crazy, as not a few had done, and as +many would yet do. She smelt of drink, but was sober, and ready enough +to eat. When she had taken as much as she would, Gibbie turned down the +bed-clothes, made a sign to her she was to sleep there, took the key +from the outside of the door, and put it in the lock on the inside, +nodded a good-night, and left her, closing the door softly, which he +heard her lock behind him, and going to Donal’s room, where he slept.</p> + +<p>In the morning he knocked at her door, but there was no answer, and +opening it, he found she was gone.</p> + +<p>When he told Mistress Murkison what he had done, he was considerably +astonished at the wrath and indignation which instantly developed +themselves in the good creature’s atmosphere. That her respectable +house should be made a hiding-place from the wind and a covert from +the tempest, was infuriating. Without a moment’s delay, she began a +sweeping and scrubbing, and general cleansing of the room, as if all +the devils had spent the night in it. And then for the first time +Gibbie reflected, that, when he ran about the streets, he had never +been taken home—except once, to be put under the rod and staff of the +old woman. If Janet had been like the rest of them, he would have died +upon Glashgar, or be now wandering about the country, doing odd jobs +for half-pence! He must not do like other people—would not, could +not, dared not be like them! He had had such a thorough schooling in +humanity as nobody else had had! He had been to school in the streets, +in dark places of revelry and crime, and in the very house of light!</p> + +<p>When Mistress Murkison told him that if ever he did the like again, +she would give him notice to quit, he looked in her face: she stared a +moment in return, then threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him.</p> + +<p>“Ye’re the bonniest cratur o’ a muckle idiot ’at ever man saw!” she +cried; “an’ gien ye dinna tak the better care, ye’ll be soopit aff to +haiven afore ye ken whaur ye are or what ye’re aboot.”</p> + +<p>Her feelings, if not her sentiments, experienced a relapse when she +discovered that one of her few silver tea-spoons was gone—which, +beyond a doubt, the woman had taken: she abused her, and again scolded +Gibbie, with much vigour. But Gibbie said to himself, “The woman is not +bad, for there were two more silver spoons on the table.” Even in the +matter of stealing we must think of our own beam before our neighbour’s +mote. It is not easy to be honest. There is many a thief who is less of +a thief than many a respectable member of society. The thief must be +punished, and assuredly the other shall not come out until he has paid +the uttermost farthing. Gibbie, who would have died rather than cast +a shadow of injustice, was not shocked at the woman’s depravity like +Mistress Murkison. I am afraid he smiled. He took no notice either of +her scoldings or her lamentations; but the first week after he came of +age, he carried her a present of a dozen spoons.</p> + +<p>Fergus could not tell Ginevra what he had seen; and if he told her +father, she would learn that he had been playing the spy. To go to Mr. +Sclater would have compromised him similarly. And what great occasion +was there? He was not the fellow’s keeper!</p> + +<p>That same day Gibbie went back to his guardians. At his request Mrs. +Sclater asked Ginevra to spend the following evening with them: he +wanted to tell her about Donal. She accepted the invitation. But in a +village near the foot of Glashgar, Donal had that morning done what +was destined to prevent her from keeping her engagement: he had posted +a letter to her. In an interval of comparative quiet, he had recalled +the verses he sang to her as they walked that evening, and now sent +them—completed in a very different tone. Not a word accompanied them.</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My thouchts are like fire-flies pulsing in moonlight;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My heart like a silver cup full of red wine;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My thouchts are like worms in a starless gloamin’;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My hert like a sponge that’s fillit wi’ gall;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My sowl like a bodiless ghaist sent a roamin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To bide i’ the mirk till the great trumpet call.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But peace be upo’ ye, as deep as ye’re lo’esome!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Brak na an hoor o’ yer fair-dreamy sleep,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To think o’ the lad wi’ a weicht in his bosom,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">’At ance sent a cry till ye oot o’ the deep.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some sharp rocky heicht, to catch a far mornin’</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ayont a’ the nichts o’ this warl’, he’ll clim’;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For nane shall say, Luik! he sank doon at her scornin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wha rase by the han’ she hield frank oot to him.</span><br> +</p> +<p>The letter was handed, with one or two more, to Mr. Galbraith, at the +breakfast table. He did not receive many letters now, and could afford +time to one that was for his daughter. He laid it with the rest by his +side, and after breakfast took it to his room and read it. He could +no more understand it than Fergus could the Epistle to the Romans, +and therefore the little he did understand of it was too much. But he +had begun to be afraid of his daughter: her still dignity had begun +to tell upon him in his humiliation. He laid the letter aside, said +nothing, and waited, inwardly angry and contemptuous. After a while he +began to flatter himself with the hope that perhaps it was but a sort +of impertinent valentine, the writer of which was unknown to Ginevra. +From the moment of its arrival, however, he kept a stricter watch upon +her, and that night prevented her from going to Mrs. Sclater’s. Gibbie, +aware that Fergus continued his visits, doubted less and less that +she had given herself to “The Bledder,” as Donal called the popular +preacher.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIV">CHAPTER LIV.<br><span class="small">OF AGE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>There were no rejoicings upon Gibbie’s attainment of his twenty-first +year. His guardian, believing he alone had acquainted himself with +the date, and desiring in his wisdom to avoid giving him a feeling +of importance, made no allusion to the fact, as would have been most +natural, when they met at breakfast on the morning of the day. But, +urged thereto by Donal, Gibbie had learned the date for himself, +and finding nothing was said, fingered to Mrs. Sclater, “This is my +birthday.”</p> + +<p>“I wish you many happy returns,” she answered, with kind +<i>empressement</i>. “How old are you to-day?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-one,” he answered—by holding up all his fingers twice and then +a forefinger.</p> + +<p>She looked struck, and glanced at her husband, who thereupon, in his +turn, gave utterance to the usual formula of goodwill, and said no +more. Seeing he was about to leave the table, Gibbie, claiming his +attention, spelled on his fingers, very slowly, for Mr. Sclater was +slow at following this mode of communication:</p> + +<p>“If you please, sir, I want to be put in possession of my property as +soon as possible.”</p> + +<p>“All in good time, Sir Gilbert,” answered the minister, with a superior +smile, for he clung with hard reluctance to the last vestige of his +power.</p> + +<p>“But what is good time?” spelled Gibbie with a smile, which, none the +less that it was of genuine friendliness, indicated there might be +difference of opinion on the point.</p> + +<p>“Oh! we shall see,” returned the minister coolly. “These are not things +to be done in a hurry,” he added, as if he had been guardian to twenty +wards in chancery before. “We’ll see in a few days what Mr. Torrie +proposes.”</p> + +<p>“But I want my money at once,” insisted Gibbie. “I have been waiting +for it, and now it is time, and why should I wait still?”</p> + +<p>“To learn patience, if for no other reason, Sir Gilbert,” answered the +minister, with a hard laugh, meant to be jocular. “But indeed such +affairs cannot be managed in a moment. You will have plenty of time to +make a good use of your money, if you should have to wait another year +or two.”</p> + +<p>So saying he pushed back his plate and cup, a trick he had, and rose +from the table.</p> + +<p>“When will you see Mr. Torrie?” asked Gibbie, rising too, and working +his telegraph with greater rapidity than before.</p> + +<p>“By and by,” answered Mr. Sclater, and walked towards the door. But +Gibbie got between him and it.</p> + +<p>“Will you go with me to Mr. Torrie to-day?” he asked.</p> + +<p>The minister shook his head. Gibbie withdrew, seeming a little +disappointed. Mr. Sclater left the room.</p> + +<p>“You don’t understand business, Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sclater.</p> + +<p>Gibbie smiled, got his writing-case, and sitting down at the table, +wrote as follows:—</p> + +<p>“Dear Mr. Sclater,—As you have never failed in your part, how can you +wish me to fail in mine? I am now the one accountable for this money, +which surely has been idle long enough, and if I leave it still unused, +I shall be doing wrong, and there are things I have to do with it which +ought to be set about immediately. I am sorry to seem importunate, but +if by twelve o’clock you have not gone with me to Mr. Torrie, I will +go to Messrs. Hope & Waver, who will tell me what I ought to do next, +in order to be put in possession. It makes me unhappy to write like +this, but I am not a child any longer, and having a man’s work to do, I +cannot consent to be treated as a child. I will do as I say. I am, dear +Mr. Sclater, your affectionate ward, Gilbert Galbraith.”</p> + +<p>He took the letter to the study, and having given it to Mr. Sclater, +withdrew. The minister might have known by this time with what sort of +a youth he had to deal! He came down instantly, put the best face on it +he could, said that if Sir Gilbert was so eager to take up the burden, +he was ready enough to cast it off, and they would go at once to Mr. +Torrie.</p> + +<p>With the lawyer, Gibbie insisted on understanding everything, and that +all should be legally arranged as speedily as possible. Mr. Torrie +saw that, if he did not make things plain, or gave the least cause +for doubt, the youth would most likely apply elsewhere for advice, +and therefore took trouble to set the various points, both as to the +property and the proceedings necessary, before him in the clearest +manner.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said Gibbie, through Mr. Sclater. “Please remember I +am more accountable for this money than you, and am compelled to +understand.”—Janet’s repeated exhortations on the necessity of sending +for the serpent to take care of the dove, had not been lost upon him.</p> + +<p>The lawyer being then quite ready to make him an advance of money, +they went with him to the bank, where he wrote his name, and received +a cheque book. As they left the bank, he asked the minister whether he +would allow him to keep his place in his house till the next session, +and was almost startled at finding how his manner to him was changed. +He assured Sir Gilbert, with a deference and respect both painful and +amusing, that he hoped he would always regard his house as one home, +however many besides he might now choose to have.</p> + +<p>So now at last Gibbie was free to set about realizing a long-cherished +scheme.</p> + +<p>The repairs upon the Auld Hoose o’ Galbraith were now nearly finished. +In consequence of them, some of the tenants had had to leave, and +Gibbie now gave them all notice to quit at their earliest convenience, +taking care, however, to see them provided with fresh quarters, towards +which he could himself do not a little, for several of the houses in +the neighbourhood had been bought for him at the same time with the old +mansion. As soon as it was empty, he set more men to work, and as its +internal arrangements had never been altered, speedily, out of squalid +neglect, caused not a little of old stateliness to reappear. He next +proceeded to furnish at his leisure certain of the rooms, chiefly from +the accumulations of his friend Mistress Murkison. By the time he had +finished, his usual day for going home had arrived: while Janet lived, +the cottage on Glashgar was home. Just as he was leaving, the minister +told him that Glashruach was his. Mrs. Sclater was present, and read in +his eyes what induced her instantly to make the remark: “How could that +man deprive his daughter of the property he had to take her mother’s +name to get!”</p> + +<p>“He had misfortunes,” indicated Gibbie, “and could not help it, I +suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Yes indeed!” she returned, “—misfortunes so great that they amounted +to little less than swindling. I wonder how many he has brought to +grief besides himself! If he had Glashruach once more he would begin it +all over again.”</p> + +<p>“Then I’ll give it to Ginevra,” said Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“And let her father coax her out of it, and do another world of +mischief with it!” she rejoined.</p> + +<p>Gibbie was silent. Mrs. Sclater was right! To give is not always to +bless. He must think of some way. With plenty to occupy his powers of +devising, he set out.</p> + +<p>He would gladly have seen Ginevra before he left, but had no chance. He +had gone to the North church every Sunday for a long time now, neither +for love of Fergus, nor dislike to Mr. Sclater, but for the sake of +seeing his lost friend: had he not lost her when she turned from Donal +to Fergus? Did she not forsake him too when she forsook his Donal? His +heart would rise into his throat at the thought, but only for a moment: +he never pitied himself. Now and then he had from her a sweet sad +smile, but no sign that he might go and see her. Whether he was to see +Donal when he reached Daurside, he could not tell; he had heard nothing +of him since he went; his mother never wrote letters.</p> + +<p>“Na, na; I canna,” she would say. “It wad tak a’ the pith oot o’ me to +vreet letters. A’ ’at I hae to say I sen’ the up-road; it’s sure to win +hame ear’ or late.”</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding his new power, it was hardly, therefore, with his usual +elation, that he took his seat on the coach. But his reception was the +same as ever. At his mother’s persuasion, Donal, he found, instead +of betaking himself again to bodily labours as he had purposed, had +accepted a situation as tutor offered him by one of the professors. He +had told his mother all his trouble.</p> + +<p>“He’ll be a’ the better for ’t i’ the en’,” she said, with a smile of +the deepest sympathy, “though, bein’ my ain, I canna help bein’ wae for +’im. But the Lord was i’ the airthquak, an’ the fire, an’ the win’ that +rave the rocks, though the prophet couldna see ’im. Donal ’ill come oot +o’ this wi’ mair room in ’s hert an’ mair licht in ’s speerit.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie took his slate from the <i>crap o’ the wa’</i> and wrote. “If money +could do anything for him, I have plenty now.”</p> + +<p>“I ken yer hert, my bairn,” replied Janet; “but na; siller’s but a deid +horse for onything ’at smacks o’ salvation. Na; the puir fallow maun +warstle oot o’ the thicket o’ deid roses as best he can—sair scrattit, +nae doobt. Eh! it’s a fearfu’ an’ won’erfu’ thing that drawin’ o’ hert +to hert, an’ syne a great snap, an’ a stert back, an’ there’s miles +atween them! The Lord alane kens the boddom o’ ’t; but I’m thinkin’ +there’s mair intil ’t, an’ a heap mair to come oot o’ ’t ere a’ be +dune, than we hae ony guiss at.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie told her that Glashruach was his. Then first the extent of his +wealth seemed to strike his old mother.</p> + +<p>“Eh! ye’ll be the laird, wull ye, than? Eh, sirs! To think o’ this +hoose an’ a’ bein’ wee Gibbie’s! Weel, it dings a’. The w’ys o’ the +Lord are to be thoucht upon! He made Dawvid a king, an’ Gibbie he’s +made the laird! Blest be his name.”</p> + +<p>“They tell me the mountain is mine,” Gibbie wrote: “your husband shall +be laird of Glashgar if he likes.”</p> + +<p>“Na, na,” said Janet, with a loving look. “He’s ower auld for that. He +micht na dee sae easy for ’t.—Eh! please the Lord, I wad fain gang +wi’ him.—An’ what better wad Robert be to be laird? We pey nae rent +as ’tis, an’ he has as mony sheep to lo’e as he can weel ken ane frae +the ither, noo ’at he’s growin’ auld. I ken naething ’at he lacks, but +Gibbie to gang wi’ ’im aboot the hill. A neebour’s laddie comes an’ +gangs, to help him, but, eh, says Robert, he’s no Gibbie!—But gien +Glashruach be yer ain, my bonnie man, ye maun gang doon there this +verra nicht, and gie a luik to the burn; for the last time I was there, +I thoucht it was creepin’ in aneth the bank some fearsome like for +what’s left o’ the auld hoose, an’ the suner it’s luikit efter maybe +the better. Eh, Sir Gibbie, but ye sud merry the bonnie leddy, an’ tak +her back till her ain hoose.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie gave a great sigh to think of the girl that loved the hill +and the heather and the burns, shut up in the city, and every Sunday +going to the great church—with which in Gibbie’s mind was associated +no sound of glad tidings. To him Glashgar was full of God; the North +church or Mr. Sclater’s church—well, he had tried hard, but had not +succeeded in discovering temple-signs about either.</p> + +<p>The next day he sent to the city for an architect; and within a week +masons and quarrymen were at work, some on the hill blasting blue +boulders and red granite, others roughly shaping the stones, and others +laying the foundation of a huge facing and buttressing wall, which was +to slope up from the bed of the Glashburn fifty feet to the foot of the +castle, there to culminate in a narrow terrace with a parapet. Others +again were clearing away what of the ruins stuck to the old house, in +order to leave it, as much as might be, in its original form. There +was no space left for rebuilding, neither was there any between the +two burns for adding afresh. The channel of the second remained dry, +the landslip continuing to choke it, and the stream to fall into the +Glashburn. But Gibbie would not consent that the burn Ginevra had loved +should sing no more as she had heard it sing. Her chamber was gone, +and could not be restored, but another chamber should be built for +her, beneath whose window it should again run: when she was married to +Fergus, and her father could not touch it, the place should be hers. +More masons were gathered, and foundations blasted in the steep rock +that formed the other bank of the burn. The main point in the building +was to be a room for Ginevra. He planned it himself—with a windowed +turret projecting from the wall, making a recess in the room, and +overhanging the stream. The turret he carried a story higher than the +wall, and in the wall placed a stair leading to its top, whence, over +the roof of the ancient part of the house, might be seen the great +Glashgar, and its streams coming down from heaven, and singing as they +came. Then from the middle of the first stair in the old house, the +wall, a yard and a half thick, having been cut through, a solid stone +bridge, with a pointed arch, was to lead across the burn to a like +landing in the new house—a close passage, with an oriel window on +each side, looking up and down the stream, and a steep roof. And while +these works were going on below, two masons, high on the mountain, were +adding to the cottage a warm bedroom for Janet and Robert.</p> + +<p>The architect was an honest man, and kept Gibbie’s secret, so that, +although he was constantly about the place, nothing disturbed the +general belief that Glashruach had been bought, and was being made +habitable, by a certain magnate of the county adjoining.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LV">CHAPTER LV.<br><span class="small">TEN AULD HOOSE O’ GALBRAITH.</span></h2></div> + +<p>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 “<i>nor drunkards</i>” 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!</p> + +<p>They turned into the close of the Auld Hoose o’ Galbraith.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then they sat down to a nice nondescript meal, also of Gibbie’s own +providing.</p> + +<p>When their meal was ended, he went to a bureau, and brought thence a +paper, plainly written to this effect:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 <i>must</i> 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 <i>was</i> heaven, and the want +of it <i>was</i> hell, she <i>would</i> 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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVI">CHAPTER LVI.<br><span class="small">THE LAIRD AND THE PREACHER.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Since he came to town, Gibbie had seen Ginevra but once—that was in +the North church. She looked so sad and white that his heart was very +heavy for her. Could it be that she repented?—She must have done it to +please her father! If she would marry Donal, he would engage to give +her Glashruach. She should have Glashruach all the same whatever she +did, only it might influence her father. He paced up and down before +the cottage once for a whole night, but no good came of that. He paced +before it from dusk to bedtime again and again, in the poor hope of +a chance of speaking to Ginevra, but he never saw even her shadow on +the white blind. He went up to the door once, but in the dread of +displeasing her, lost his courage, and paced the street the whole +morning instead, but saw no one come out.</p> + +<p>Fergus had gradually become essential to the small remaining happiness +of which the laird was capable. He had gained his favour chiefly +through the respect and kindly attention he showed him. The young +preacher knew little of the laird’s career, and looked upon him as +an unfortunate man, towards whom loyalty now required even a greater +show of respect than while he owned his father’s farm. The impulse +transmitted to him from the devotion of ancestors to the patriarchal +head of the clan, had found blind vent in the direction of the mere +feudal superior, and both the impulse and its object remained. He felt +honoured, even now that he had reached the goal of his lofty desires +and was a popular preacher, in being permitted to play backgammon with +the great man, or to carve a chicken, when the now trembling hands, +enfeebled far more through anxiety and disappointment than from age, +found themselves unequal to the task: the laird had begun to tell long +stories, and drank twice as much as he did a year ago; he was sinking +in more ways than one.</p> + +<p>Fergus at length summoned courage to ask him if he might <i>pay his +addresses</i> to Miss Galbraith. The old man started, cast on him a +withering look, murmured “The heiress of Glashruach!” remembered, threw +himself back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Fergus, on the other +side of the table, sat erect, a dice-box in his hand, waiting a reply. +The father reflected that if he declined what he could not call an +honour, he must lose what was unquestionably a comfort: how was he to +pass <i>all</i> the evenings of the week without the preacher? On the other +hand, if he accepted him, he might leave the miserable cottage, and +go to the manse: from a moral point of view—that was, from the point +of other people’s judgment of him—it would be of consequence to have +a clergyman for a son-in-law. Slowly he raised himself in his chair, +opened his unsteady eyes, which rolled and pitched like boats on a +choppy sea, and said solemnly,</p> + +<p>“You have my permission, Mr. Duff.”</p> + +<p>The young preacher hastened to find Ginevra, but only to meet a +refusal, gentle and sorrowful. He pleaded for permission to repeat his +request after an interval, but she distinctly refused. She did not, +however, succeed in making a man with such a large opinion of himself +hopeless. Disappointed and annoyed he was, but he sought and fancied he +found reasons for her decision which were not unfavourable to himself, +and continued to visit her father as before, saying to him he had not +quite succeeded in drawing from her a favourable answer, but hoped to +prevail. He nowise acted the despairing lover, but made grander sermons +than ever, and, as he came to feel at home in his pulpit, delivered +them with growing force. But delay wrought desire in the laird; and at +length, one evening, having by cross-questioning satisfied himself that +Fergus made no progress, he rose, and going to his desk, handed him +Donal’s verses. Fergus read them, and remarked he had read better, but +the first stanza had a slight flavour of Shelley.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care a straw about their merit or demerit,” said Mr. +Galbraith; “poetry is nothing but spoilt prose. What I want to know +is, whether they do not suggest a reason for your want of success with +Jenny. Do you know the writing?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot say I do. But I think it is very likely that of Donal Grant; +he sets up for the Burns of Daurside.”</p> + +<p>“Insolent scoundrel!” cried the laird, bringing down his fist on the +table, and fluttering the wine glasses. “Next to superstition I hate +romance—with my whole heart I do!” And something like a flash of cold +moonlight on wintred water gleamed over, rather than shot from, his +poor focusless eyes.</p> + +<p>“But, my dear sir,” said Fergus, “if I am to understand these lines—”</p> + +<p>“Yes! if you are to understand where there is no sense whatever!”</p> + +<p>“I think I understand them—if you will excuse me for venturing to say +so; and what I read in them is, that, whoever the writer may be, the +lady, whoever she may be, had refused him.”</p> + +<p>“You cannot believe that the wretch had the impudence to make my +daughter—the heiress of—at least—What! make my daughter an offer! +She would at once have acquainted me with the fact, that he might +receive suitable chastisement. Let me look at the stuff again.”</p> + +<p>“It is quite possible,” said Fergus, “it may be only a poem some friend +has copied for her from a newspaper.”</p> + +<p>While he spoke, the laird was reading the lines, and persuading himself +he understood them. With sudden resolve, the paper held torch-like in +front of him, he strode into the next room, where Ginevra sat.</p> + +<p>“Do you tell me,” he said fiercely, “that you have so far forgotten all +dignity and propriety as to give a dirty cow-boy the encouragement to +make you an offer of marriage? The very notion sets my blood boiling. +You will make me <i>hate</i> you, you—you—unworthy creature!”</p> + +<p>Ginevra had turned white, but looking him straight in the face, she +answered,</p> + +<p>“If that is a letter for me, you know I have not read it.”</p> + +<p>“There! see for yourself.—Poetry!” He uttered the word with contempt +inexpressible.</p> + +<p>She took the verses from his hand and read them. Even with her father +standing there, watching her like an inquisitor, she could not help the +tears coming in her eyes as she read.</p> + +<p>“There is no such thing here, papa,” she said. “They are only +verses—bidding me good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“And what right has any such fellow to bid my daughter good-bye? +Explain that to me, if you please. Of course I have been for many years +aware of your love of low company, but I had hoped as you grew older +you would learn manners: modesty would have been too much to look +for.—If you had nothing to be ashamed of, why did you not tell me of +the unpleasant affair? Is not your father your best friend?”</p> + +<p>“Why should I make both him and you uncomfortable, papa—when there was +not going to be anything more of it?”</p> + +<p>“Why then do you go hankering after him still, and refusing Mr. Duff? +It is true he is not exactly a gentleman by birth, but he is such by +education, by manners, by position, by influence.”</p> + +<p>“Papa, I have already told Mr. Duff, as plainly as I could without +being rude, that I would never let him talk to me so. What lady would +refuse Donal Grant and listen to him!”</p> + +<p>“You are a bold, insolent hussey!” cried her father in fresh rage and +leaving the room, rejoined Fergus.</p> + +<p>They sat silent both for a while—then the preacher spoke.</p> + +<p>“Other communications may have since reached her from the same +quarter,” he said.</p> + +<p>“That is impossible,” rejoined the laird.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that,” insisted Fergus. “There is a foolish—a half-silly +companion of his about the town. They call him Sir Gibbie Galbraith.”</p> + +<p>“Jenny knows no such person.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed she does. I have seen them together.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! you mean the lad the minister adopted! the urchin he took off +the streets!—Sir Gibbie Galbraith!” he repeated sneeringly, but +as one reflecting. “—I do vaguely recall a slanderous rumour in +which a certain female connection of the family was hinted at.—Yes! +that’s where the nickname comes from.—And you think she keeps up a +communication with the clown through him?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t say that, sir. I merely think it possible she may see this +Gibbie occasionally; and I know he worships the cow-boy: it is a +positive feature of his foolishness, and I wish it were the worst.”</p> + +<p>Therewith he told what he heard from Miss Kimble, and what he had seen +for himself on the night when he watched Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“Her very blood must be tainted!” said her father to himself, but +added, “—from her mother’s side;” and his attacks upon her after +this were at least diurnal. It was a relief to his feeling of having +wronged her, to abuse her with justice. For a while she tried hard to +convince him now that this, now that that notion of her conduct, or +of Gibbie’s or Donal’s, was mistaken: he would listen to nothing she +said, continually insisting that the only amends for her past was to +marry according to his wishes; to give up superstition, and poetry, and +cow-boys, and dumb rascals, and settle down into a respectable matron, +a comfort to the gray hairs she was now bringing with sorrow to the +grave. Then Ginevra became absolutely silent; he had taught her that +any reply was but a new start for his objurgation, a knife wherewith +to puncture a fresh gall-bladder of abuse. He stormed at her for her +sullenness, but she persisted in her silence, sorely distressed to find +how dead her heart seemed growing under his treatment of her: what +would at one time have made her utterly miserable, now passed over her +as one of the billows of a trouble that had to be borne, as one of the +throbs of a headache, drawing from her scarcely a sigh. She did not +understand that, her heaven being dark, she could see no individual +cloud against it, that, her emotional nature untuned, discord itself +had ceased to jar.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVII">CHAPTER LVII.<br><span class="small">A HIDING-PLACE FROM THE WIND.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Gibbie found everything at the Auld Hoose in complete order for his +reception: Mistress Croale had been very diligent, and promised well +for a housekeeper—looked well, too, in her black satin and lace, with +her complexion, she justly flattered herself, not a little improved. +She had a good meal ready for him, with every adjunct in proper style, +during the preparation of which she had revelled in the thought that +some day, when she had quite established her fitness for her new +position, Sir Gibbie would certainly invite the minister and his lady +to dine with him, when she, whom they were too proud to ask to partake +of their cockie-leekie, would show them she knew both what a dinner +ought to be, and how to preside at it; and the soup—it should be +cockie-leekie.</p> + +<p>Everything went comfortably. Gibbie was so well up in mathematics, +thanks to Mr. Sclater, that, doing all requisite for honourable +studentship, but having no desire to distinguish himself, he had +plenty of time for more important duty. Now that he was by himself, +as if old habit had returned in the shape of new passion, he roamed +the streets every night. His custom was this: after dinner, which he +had when he came from college, about half-past four, he lay down, fell +asleep in a moment, as he always did, and slept till half-past six; +then he had tea, and after that, studied—not dawdled over his books, +till ten o’clock, when he took his Greek Testament. At eleven he went +out, seldom finally returning before half-past one, sometimes not for +an hour longer—during which time Mistress Croale was in readiness to +receive any guest he might bring home.</p> + +<p>The history of the special endeavour he had now commenced does not +belong to my narrative. Some nights, many nights together, he would +not meet a single wanderer; occasionally he would meet two or three in +the same night. When he found one, he would stand regarding him until +he spoke. If the man was drunk he would leave him: such were not those +for whom he could now do most. If he was sober, he made him signs of +invitation. If he would not go with him, he left him, but kept him in +view, and tried him again. If still he would not, he gave him a piece +of bread, and left him. If he called, he stopped, and by circuitous +ways brought him to the little house at the back. It was purposely +quite dark. If the man was too apprehensive to enter, he left him; if +he followed, he led him to Mistress Croale. If anything suggested the +possibility of helping farther, a possibility turning entirely on the +person’s self, the attempt was set on foot; but in general, after a +good breakfast, Gibbie led him through a dark passage into the darkened +house, and dismissed him from the door by which he had entered. He +never gave money, and never sought such a guest except in the winter. +Indeed, he was never in the city in the summer. Before the session +was over, they had one woman and one girl in a fair way of honest +livelihood, and one small child, whose mother had an infant besides, +and was evidently dying, he had sent “in a present” to Janet, by the +hand of Mistress Murkison. Altogether it was a tolerable beginning, and +during the time, not a word reached him indicating knowledge of his +proceedings, although within a week or two a rumour was rife in the +lower parts of the city, of a mysterious being who went about doing +this and that for poor folk, but, notwithstanding his gifts, was far +from canny.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Sclater could not fail to be much annoyed when they found +he was no longer lodging with Mistress Murkison, but occupying the +Auld Hoose, with “that horrible woman” for a housekeeper; they knew, +however, that expostulation with one possessed by such a headstrong +sense of duty was utterly useless, and contented themselves with +predicting to each other some terrible check, the result of his +ridiculous theory concerning what was required of a Christian—namely, +that the disciple should be as his Master. At the same time Mrs. +Sclater had a sacred suspicion that no real ill would ever befall God’s +innocent, Gilbert Galbraith.</p> + +<p>Fergus had now with his father’s help established himself in the manse +of the North Church, and thither he invited Mr. and Miss Galbraith +to dine with him on a certain evening. Her father’s absolute desire +compelled Ginevra’s assent; she could not, while with him, rebel +absolutely. Fergus did his best to make the evening a pleasant one, and +had special satisfaction in showing the laird that he could provide +both a good dinner and a good bottle of port. Two of his congregation, +a young lawyer and his wife, were the only other guests. The laird +found the lawyer an agreeable companion, chiefly from his readiness to +listen to his old law stories, and Fergus laid himself out to please +the two ladies: secure of the admiration of one, he hoped it might +help to draw the favour of the other. He had conceived the notion that +Ginevra probably disliked his profession, and took pains therefore to +show how much he was a man of the world—talked about Shakspere, and +flaunted rags of quotation in elocutionary style; got books from his +study, and read passages from Byron, Shelley, and Moore—chiefly from +“The Loves of the Angels” of the last, ecstasizing the lawyer’s lady, +and interesting Ginevra, though all he read taken together seemed to +her unworthy of comparison with one of poor Donal’s songs.</p> + +<p>It grew late. The dinner had been at a fashionable hour; they had +stayed an unfashionable time: it was nearly twelve o’clock when guests +and host left the house in company. The lawyer and his wife went one +way, and Fergus went the other with the laird and Ginevra.</p> + +<p>Hearing the pitiful wailing of a child and the cough of a woman, as +they went along a street bridge, they peeped over the parapet, and +saw, upon the stair leading to the lower street, a woman, with a child +asleep in her lap, trying to eat a piece of bread, and coughing as if +in the last stage of consumption. On the next step below sat a man +hushing in his bosom the baby whose cry they had heard. They stood +for a moment, the minister pondering whether his profession required +of him action, and Ginevra’s gaze fixed on the head and shoulders of +the foreshortened figure of the man, who vainly as patiently sought to +soothe the child by gently rocking it to and fro. But when he began a +strange humming song to it, which brought all Glashgar before her eyes, +Ginevra knew beyond a doubt that it was Gibbie. At the sound the child +ceased to wail, and presently the woman with difficulty rose, laying +a hand for help on Gibbie’s shoulder. Then Gibbie rose also, cradling +the infant on his left arm, and making signs to the mother to place the +child on his right. She did so, and turning, went feebly up the stair. +Gibbie followed with the two children, one lying on his arm, the other +with his head on his shoulder, both wretched and pining, with gray +cheeks, and dark hollows under their eyes. From the top of the stair +they went slowly up the street, the poor woman coughing, and Gibbie +crooning to the baby, who cried no more, but now and then moaned. Then +Fergus said to the laird:</p> + +<p>“Did you see that young man, sir? That is the so-called Sir Gilbert +Galbraith we were talking of the other night. They say he has come into +a good property, but you may judge for yourself whether he seems fit to +manage it!”</p> + +<p>Ginevra withdrew her hand from his arm.</p> + +<p>“Good God, Jenny!” exclaimed the laird, “you do not mean to tell <i>me</i> +you have ever spoken to a young man like that?”</p> + +<p>“I know him very well, papa,” replied Ginevra, collectedly.</p> + +<p>“You are incomprehensible, Jenny! If you know him, why do I not know +him? If you had not known good reason to be ashamed of him, you would, +one time or other, have mentioned his name in my hearing.—I ask you, +and I demand an answer,”—here he stopped, and fronted her—“why have +you concealed from me your acquaintance with this—this—person?”</p> + +<p>“Because I thought it might be painful to you, papa,” she answered, +looking in his face.</p> + +<p>“Painful to me! Why should it be painful to me—except indeed that it +breaks my heart as often as I see you betray your invincible fondness +for low company?”</p> + +<p>“Do you desire me to tell you, papa, why I thought it might be painful +to you to make that young man’s acquaintance?”</p> + +<p>“I do distinctly. I command you.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will: that young man, Sir Gilbert Galbraith,—”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense, girl! there is no such Galbraith. It is the merest of +scoffs.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra did not care to argue with him this point. In truth she knew +little more about it than he.</p> + +<p>“Many years ago,” she recommenced, “when I was a child,—Excuse me, Mr. +Duff, but it is quite time I told my father what has been weighing upon +my mind for so many years.”</p> + +<p>“Sir Gilbert!” muttered her father contemptuously.</p> + +<p>“One day,” again she began, “Mr. Fergus Duff brought a ragged little +boy to Glashruach—the most innocent and loving of creatures, who had +committed no crime but that of doing good in secret. I saw Mr. Duff box +his ears on the bridge; and you, papa, gave him over to that wretch, +Angus MacPholp, to whip him—so at least Angus told me, after he had +whipped him till he dropped senseless. I can hardly keep from screaming +now when I think of it.”</p> + +<p>“All this, Jenny, is nothing less than cursed folly. Do you mean to +tell me you have all these years been cherishing resentment against +your own father, for the sake of a little thieving rascal, whom it was +a good deed to fright from the error of his ways? I have no doubt Angus +gave him merely what he deserved.”</p> + +<p>“You must remember, Miss Galbraith, we did not know he was dumb,” said +Fergus, humbly.</p> + +<p>“If you had had any heart,” said Ginevra, “you would have seen in his +face that he was a perfect angelic child. He ran to the mountain, +without a rag to cover his bleeding body, and would have died of cold +and hunger, had not the Grants, the parents of your father’s herd-boy, +Mr. Duff, taken him to their hearts, and been father and mother to +him.”—Ginevra’s mouth was opened at last.—“After that,” she went on, +“Angus, that bad man, shot him like a wild beast, when he was quietly +herding Robert Grant’s sheep. In return Sir Gilbert saved his life in +the flood. And just before the house of Glashruach fell—the part in +which my room was, he caught me up, because he could not speak, and +carried me out of it; and when I told you that he had saved my life, +you ordered him out of the house, and when he was afraid to leave me +alone with you, dashed him against the wall, and sent for Angus to whip +him again. But I should have liked to see Angus try it <i>then</i>!”</p> + +<p>“I do remember an insolent fellow taking advantage of the ruinous state +the house was in to make his way into my study,” said the laird.</p> + +<p>“And now,” Ginevra continued, “Mr. Duff makes question of his wits +because he finds him carrying a poor woman’s children, going to get +them a bed somewhere! If Mr. Duff had run about the streets when he was +a child, like Sir Gilbert, he might not, perhaps, think it so strange +he should care about a houseless woman and her brats!”</p> + +<p>Therewith Ginevra burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“Abominably disagreeable!” muttered the laird. “I always thought she +was an idiot!—Hold your tongue, Jenny! you will wake the street. All +you say may or may not be quite true; I do not say you are telling +lies, or even exaggerating; but I see nothing in it to prove the lad a +fit companion for a young lady. Very much to the contrary. I suppose +he told you he was your injured, neglected, ill-used cousin? He may be +your cousin: you may have any number of such cousins, if half the low +tales concerning your mother’s family be true.”</p> + +<p>Ginevra did not answer him—did not speak another word. When Fergus +left them at their own door, she neither shook hands with him nor bade +him good night.</p> + +<p>“Jenny,” said her father, the moment he was gone, “if I hear of your +once speaking again to that low vagabond,—and now I think of it,” +he cried, interrupting himself with a sudden recollection, “there +was a cobbler-fellow in the town here they used to call Sir Somebody +Galbraith!—that must be his father! Whether the <i>Sir</i> was title or +nickname, I neither know nor care. A title without money is as bad as +a saintship without grace. But this I tell you, that if I hear of your +speaking one word, good or bad, to the fellow again, I will, I swear to +Almighty God, I will turn you out of the house.”</p> + +<p>To Ginevra’s accumulated misery, she carried with her to her room a +feeling of contempt for her father, with which she lay struggling in +vain half the night.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVIII">CHAPTER LVIII.<br><span class="small">THE CONFESSION.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Although Gibbie had taken no notice of the laird’s party, he had +recognized each of the three as he came up the stair, and in Ginevra’s +face read an appeal for deliverance. It seemed to say, “You help +everybody but me! Why do you not come and help me too? Am I to have no +pity because I am neither hungry nor cold?” He did not, however, lie +awake the most of the night, or indeed a single hour of it, thinking +what he should do; long before the poor woman and her children were in +bed, he had made up his mind.</p> + +<p>As soon as he came home from college the next day and had hastily +eaten his dinner, going upon his vague knowledge of law business +lately acquired, he bought a stamped paper, wrote upon it, and put +it in his pocket; then he took a card and wrote on it: <i>Sir Gilbert +Galbraith, Baronet, of Glashruach</i>, and put that in his pocket also. +Thus provided, and having said to Mistress Croale that he should not +be home that night—for he expected to set off almost immediately in +search of Donal, and had bespoken horses, he walked deliberately along +Pearl-street out into the suburb, and turning to the right, rang the +bell at the garden gate of the laird’s cottage. When the girl came, he +gave her his card, and followed her into the house. She carried it into +the room where, dinner over, the laird and the preacher were sitting, +with a bottle of the same port which had pleased the laird at the manse +between them. Giving time, as he judged, and no more, to read the card, +Gibbie entered the room: he would not risk a refusal to see him.</p> + +<p>It was a small room with a round table. The laird sat sideways to the +door; the preacher sat between the table and the fire.</p> + +<p>“What the devil does this mean? A vengeance take him!” cried the laird.</p> + +<p>His big tumbling eyes had required more time than Gibbie had allowed, +so that, when with this exclamation he lifted them from the card, they +fell upon the object of his imprecation standing in the middle of the +room between him and the open door. The preacher, snug behind the +table, scarcely endeavoured to conceal the smile with which he took no +notice of Sir Gilbert. The laird rose in the perturbation of mingled +anger and unpreparedness.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” he said, but it was only a sound, not a word, “to what—may I +ask—have I—I have not the honour of your acquaintance, Mr.—Mr.—” +Here he looked again at the card he held, fumbled for and opened a +double eyeglass, then with deliberation examined the name upon it, +thus gaining time by rudeness, and gathering his force for more, while +Gibbie remained as unembarrassed as if he had been standing to his +tailor for his measure. “Mr.—ah, I see! Galbraith, you say.—To what, +Mr., Mr.”—another look at the card—“Galbraith, do I owe the honour of +this unexpected—and—and—I must say—un-looked-for visit—and at such +an unusual hour for making a business call—for business, I presume, it +must be that brings you, seeing I have not the honour of the slightest +acquaintance with you?”</p> + +<p>He dropped his eyeglass with a clatter against his waistcoat, threw the +card into his finger-glass, raised his pale eyes, and stared at Sir +Gilbert with all the fixedness they were capable of. He had already +drunk a good deal of wine, and it was plain he had, although he was +far from being overcome by it. Gibbie answered by drawing from the +breast-pocket of his coat the paper he had written, and presenting it +like a petition. Mr. Galbraith sneered, and would not have touched it +had not his eye caught the stamp, which from old habit at once drew his +hand. From similar habit, or perhaps to get it nearer the light, he sat +down. Gibbie stood, and Fergus stared at him with insolent composure. +The laird read, but not aloud: I, Gilbert Galbraith, Baronet, hereby +promise and undertake to transfer to Miss Galbraith, only daughter of +Thomas Galbraith, Esq., on the day when she shall be married to Donal +Grant, Master of Arts, the whole of the title deeds of the house and +lands of Glashruach, to have and to hold as hers, with absolute power +to dispose of the same as she may see fit. Gilbert Galbraith, Old House +of Galbraith, Widdiehill, March, etc., etc.</p> + +<p>The laird stretched his neck like a turkeycock, and gobbled +inarticulately, threw the paper to Fergus, and turning on his chair, +glowered at Gibbie. Then suddenly starting to his feet, he cried,</p> + +<p>“What do you mean, you rascal, by daring to insult me in my own house? +Damn your insolent foolery!”</p> + +<p>“A trick! a most palpable trick! and an exceedingly silly one!” +pronounced Fergus, who had now read the paper; “quite as foolish as +unjustifiable! Everybody knows Glashruach is the property of Major +Culsalmon!”—Here the laird sought the relief of another oath or +two.—“I entreat you to moderate your anger, my dear sir,” Fergus +resumed. “The thing is hardly worth so much indignation. Some animal +has been playing the poor fellow an ill-natured trick—putting him +up to it for the sake of a vile practical joke. It is exceedingly +provoking, but you must forgive him. He is hardly to blame, scarcely +accountable, under the natural circumstances.—Get away with you,” he +added, addressing Gibbie across the table. “Make haste before worse +comes of it. You have been made a fool of.”</p> + +<p>When Fergus began to speak, the laird turned, and while he spoke stared +at him with lack-lustre yet gleaming eyes, until he addressed Gibbie, +when he turned on him again as fiercely as before. Poor Gibbie stood +shaking his head, smiling, and making eager signs with hands and arms; +but in the laird’s condition of both heart and brain he might well +forget and fail to be reminded that Gibbie was dumb.</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you speak, you fool?” he cried. “Get out and don’t stand +making faces there. Be off with you, or I will knock you down with a +decanter.”</p> + +<p>Gibbie pointed to the paper, which lay before Fergus, and placed a hand +first on his lips, then on his heart.</p> + +<p>“Damn your mummery!” said the laird, choking with rage. “Go away, or, +by God! I will break your head.”</p> + +<p>Fergus at this rose and came round the table to get between them. But +the laird caught up a pair of nutcrackers, and threw it at Gibbie. +It struck him on the forehead, and the blood spirted from the wound. +He staggered backwards. Fergus seized the laird’s arm, and sought to +pacify him.</p> + +<p>Her father’s loud tones had reached Ginevra in her room; she ran +down, and that instant entered: Gibbie all but fell into her arms. +The moment’s support she gave him, and the look of loving terror she +cast in his face, restored him; and he was again firm on his feet, +pressing her handkerchief to his forehead, when Fergus, leaving the +laird, advanced with the pacific intention of getting him safe from the +house. Ginevra stepped between them. Her father’s rage thereupon broke +loose quite, and was madness. He seized hold of her with violence, and +dragged her from the room. Fergus laid hands upon Gibbie more gently, +and half would have forced, half persuaded him to go. A cry came from +Ginevra: refusing to be sent to her room before Gibbie was in safety, +her father struck her. Gibbie would have darted to her help. Fergus +held him fast, but knew nothing of Gibbie’s strength, and the next +moment found himself on his back upon the table, amidst the crash of +wineglasses and china. Having locked the door, Gibbie sprung to the +laird, who was trying to drag his daughter, now hardly resisting, up +the first steps of the stair, took him round the waist from behind, +swept him to the other room, and there locked him up also. He then +returned to Ginevra where she lay motionless on the stair, lifted her +in his arms, and carried her out of the house, nor stopped until, +having reached the farther end of the street, he turned the corner of +it into another equally quiet.</p> + +<p>The laird and Fergus, when they were released by the girl from their +respective prisons and found that the enemy was gone, imagined that +Ginevra had retired again to her room; and what they did after is not +interesting.</p> + +<p>Under a dull smoky oil-lamp Gibbie stopped. He knew by the tightening +of her arms that Ginevra was coming to herself.</p> + +<p>“Let me down,” she said feebly.</p> + +<p>He did so, but kept his arm round her. She gave a deep sigh, and gazed +bewildered. When she saw him, she smiled.</p> + +<p>“With <i>you</i>, Gibbie!” she murmured. “—But they will be after us!”</p> + +<p>“They shall not touch you,” signified Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“What was it all about?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Gibbie spelled on his fingers,</p> + +<p>“Because I offered to give you Glashruach, if your father would let you +marry Donal.”</p> + +<p>“Gibbie! how could you?” she cried almost in a scream, and pushing +away his arm, turned from him and tried to run, but after two steps, +tottered to the lamp-post, and leaned against it—with such a scared +look!</p> + +<p>“Then come with me and be my sister, Ginevra, and I will take care of +you,” spelled Gibbie. “I can do nothing to take care of you while I +can’t get near you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Gibbie! nobody does like that,” returned Ginevra, “—else I should +be so glad!”</p> + +<p>“There is no other way then that I know. You won’t marry anybody, you +see.”</p> + +<p>“Won’t I, Gibbie? What makes you think that?”</p> + +<p>“Because of course you would never refuse Donal and marry anybody else; +that is not possible.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! don’t tease me, Gibbie.”</p> + +<p>“Ginevra, you don’t mean you would?”</p> + +<p>In the dull light, and with the imperfect means of Gibbie for the +embodiment of his thoughts, Ginevra misunderstood him.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Gibbie,” she said, “I would. I thought it was understood between +us, ever since that day you found me on Glashgar. In my thoughts I have +been yours all the time.”</p> + +<p>She turned her face to the lamp-post. But Gibbie made her look.</p> + +<p>“You do not mean,” he spelled very hurriedly, “that you would marry +<i>me?—Me?</i> I never dreamed of such a thing!”</p> + +<p>“<i>You</i> didn’t mean it then!” said Ginevra, with a cry—bitter but +feeble with despair and ending in a stifled shriek. “What <i>have</i> I been +saying then! I thought I belonged to you! I thought you meant to take +me all the time!” She burst into an agony of sobbing. “Oh me! me! I +have been alone all the time, and did not know it!”</p> + +<p>She sank on the pavement at the foot of the lamp-post, weeping sorely, +and shaken with her sobs. Gibbie was in sad perplexity. Heaven had +opened before his gaze; its colours filled his eyes; its sounds filled +his ears and heart and brain; but the portress was busy crying and +would not open the door. Neither could he get at her to comfort her, +for, her eyes being wanted to cry with, his poor signs were of no use. +Dumbness is a drawback to the gift of consolation.</p> + +<p>It was a calm night early in March, clear overhead, and the heaven +full of stars. The first faint think-odour of spring was in the air. A +crescent moon hung half-way between the zenith and the horizon, clear +as silver in firelight, and peaceful in the consciousness that not much +was required of her yet. Both bareheaded, the one stood under the lamp, +the other had fallen in a heap at its foot; the one was in the seventh +paradise, and knew it; the other was weeping her heart out, yet was in +the same paradise, if she would but have opened her eyes. Gibbie held +one of her hands and stroked it. Then he pulled off his coat and laid +it softly upon her. She grew a little quieter.</p> + +<p>“Take me home, Gibbie,” she said, in a gentle voice. All was over; +there was no use in crying or even in thinking any more.</p> + +<p>Gibbie put his arms round her, and helped her to her feet. She looked +at him, and saw a face glorious with bliss. Never, not even on +Glashgar, in the skin-coat of the beast-boy, had she seen him so like +an angel. And in his eyes was that which triumphed, not over dumbness, +but over speech. It brought the rose-fire rushing into her wan cheeks; +she hid her face on his bosom; and, under the dingy red flame of the +lamp in the stony street, they held each other, as blessed as if they +had been under an orange tree haunted with fire-flies. For they knew +each the heart of the other, and God is infinite.</p> + +<p>How long they stood thus, neither of them knew. The lady would not +have spoken if she could, and the youth could not if he would. But the +lady shivered, and because she shivered, she would have the youth take +his coat. He mocked at cold; made her put her arms in the sleeves, +and buttoned it round her: both laughed to see how wide it was. Then +he took her by the hand, and led her away, obedient as when first he +found her and her heart upon Glashgar. Like two children, holding each +other fast, they hurried along, in dread of pursuit. He brought her to +Daur-street, and gave her into Mrs. Sclater’s arms. Ginevra told her +everything except that her father had struck her, and Gibbie begged +her to keep his wife for him till they could be married. Mrs. Sclater +behaved like a mother to them, sent Gibbie away, and Ginevra to a hot +bath and to bed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIX">CHAPTER LIX.<br><span class="small">CATASTROPHE.</span></h2></div> + +<p>Gibbie went home as if Pearl-street had been the stairs of Glashgar, +and the Auld Hoose a mansion in the heavens. He seemed to float along +the way as one floats in a happy dream, where motion is born at once +of the will, without the intermediating mechanics of nerve, muscle, +and fulcrum. Love had been gathering and ever storing itself in his +heart so many years for this brown dove! now at last the rock was +smitten, and its treasure rushed forth to her service. In nothing was +it changed as it issued, save as the dark, silent, motionless water +of the cavern changes into the sparkling, singing, dancing rivulet. +Gibbie’s was love simple, unselfish, undemanding—not merely asking +for no return, but asking for no recognition, requiring not even that +its existence should be known. He was a rare one, who did not make the +common miserable blunder of taking the shadow cast by love—the desire, +namely, to be loved—for love itself; his love was a vertical sun, +and his own shadow was under his feet. Silly youths and maidens count +themselves martyrs of love, when they are but the pining witnesses +to a delicious and entrancing selfishness. But do not mistake me +through confounding, on the other hand, the desire to be loved—which +is neither wrong nor noble, any more than hunger is either wrong or +noble—and the delight in being loved, to be devoid of which a man must +be lost in an immeasurably deeper, in an evil, ruinous, yea, a fiendish +selfishness. Not to care for love is the still worse reaction from the +self-foiled and outworn greed of love. Gibbie’s love was a diamond +among gem-loves. There are men whose love to a friend is less selfish +than their love to the dearest woman; but Gibbie’s was not a love to +be less divine towards a woman than towards a man. One man’s love is +as different from another’s as the one is himself different from the +other. The love that dwells in one man is an angel, the love in another +is a bird, that in another a hog. Some would count worthless the love +of a man who loved everybody. There would be no distinction in being +loved by such a man!—and distinction, as a guarantee of their own +great worth, is what such seek. There are women who desire to be the +<i>sole</i> object of a man’s affection, and are all their lives devoured +by unlawful jealousies. A love that had never gone forth upon human +being but themselves, would be to them the treasure to sell all that +they might buy. And the man who brought such a love might in truth be +all-absorbed therein himself: the poorest of creatures may well be +absorbed in the poorest of loves. A heart has to be taught to love, +and its first lesson, however well learnt, no more makes it perfect in +love, than the A B C makes a <i>savant</i>. The man who loves most will love +best. The man who throughly loves God and his neighbour is the only +man who will love a woman ideally—who can love her with the love God +thought of between them when he made man male and female. The man, I +repeat, who loves God with his very life, and his neighbour as Christ +loves him, is the man who alone is capable of grand, perfect, glorious +love to any woman. Because Gibbie’s love was towards everything human, +he was able to love Ginevra as Donal, poet and prophet, was not yet +grown able to love her. To that of the most passionate of unbelieving +lovers, Gibbie’s love was as the fire of a sun to that of a forest. +The fulness of a world of love-ways and love-thoughts was Gibbie’s. +In sweet affairs of loving-kindness, he was in his own kingdom, and +sat upon its throne. And it was this essential love, acknowledging +and embracing, as a necessity of its being, everything that could be +loved, which now concentrated its rays on the individual’s individual. +His love to Ginevra stood like a growing thicket of aromatic shrubs, +until her confession set the fire of heaven to it, and the flame that +consumes not, but gives life, arose and shot homeward. He had never +imagined, never hoped, never desired she should love him like that. +She had refused his friend, the strong, the noble, the beautiful, +Donal the poet, and it never could but from her own lips have found +way to his belief that she had turned her regard upon wee Sir Gibbie, +a nobody, who to himself was a mere burning heart running about in +tattered garments. His devotion to her had forestalled every pain with +its antidote of perfect love, had negatived every lack, had precluded +every desire, had shut all avenues of entrance against self. Even if “a +little thought unsound” should have chanced upon an entrance, it would +have found no soil to root and grow in: the soil for the harvest of +pain is that brought down from the peaks of pride by the torrents of +desire. Immeasurably the greater therefore was his delight, when the +warmth and odour of the love that had been from time to him immemorial +passing out from him in virtue of consolation and healing, came back +upon him in the softest and sweetest of flower-waking spring-winds. +Then indeed was his heart a bliss worth God’s making. The sum of +happiness in the city, if gathered that night into one wave, could not +have reached half-way to the crest of the mighty billow tossing itself +heavenward as it rushed along the ocean of Gibbie’s spirit.</p> + +<p>He entered the close of the Auld Hoose. But the excess of his joy had +not yet turned to light, was not yet passing from him in physical +flame: whence then the glow that illumined the court? He looked up. The +windows of Mistress Croale’s bedroom were glaring with light! He opened +the door hurriedly and darted up. On the stair he was met by the smell +of burning, which grew stronger as he ascended. He opened Mistress +Croale’s door. The chintz curtains of her bed were flaming to the +ceiling. He darted to it. Mistress Croale was not in it. He jumped upon +it, and tore down the curtains and tester, trampling them under his +feet upon the blankets. He had almost finished, and, at the bottom of +the bed, was reaching up and pulling at the last of the flaming rags, +when a groan came to his ears. He looked down: there, at the foot of +the bed, on her back upon the floor, lay Mistress Croale in her satin +gown, with red swollen face, wide-open mouth, and half-open eyes, dead +drunk, a heap of ruin. A bit of glowing tinder fell on her forehead. +She opened her eyes, looked up, uttered a terrified cry, closed them, +and was again motionless, except for her breathing. On one side of her +lay a bottle, on the other a chamber-candlestick upset, with the candle +guttered into a mass.</p> + +<p>With the help of the water-jugs, and the bath which stood ready in his +room, he succeeded at last in putting out the fire, and then turned his +attention to Mistress Croale. Her breathing had grown so stertorous +that he was alarmed, and getting more water, bathed her head, and laid +a wet handkerchief on it, after which he sat down and watched her. +It would have made a strange picture: the middle of the night, the +fire-blasted bed, the painful, ugly carcase on the floor, and the sad +yet—I had almost said <i>radiant</i> youth, watching near. The slow night +passed.</p> + +<p>The gray of the morning came, chill and cheerless. Mistress Croale +stirred, moved, crept up rather than rose to a sitting position, and +stretched herself yawning. Gibbie had risen and stood over her. She +caught sight of him; absolute terror distorted her sodden face; she +stared at him, then stared about her, like one who had suddenly waked +in hell. He took her by the arm. She obeyed, rose, and stood, fear +conquering the remnants of drunkenness, with her whisky-scorched eyes +following his every movement, as he got her cloak and bonnet. He put +them on her. She submitted like a child caught in wickedness, and +cowed by the capture. He led her from the house, out into the dark +morning, made her take his arm, and away they walked together, down to +the riverside. She gave a reel now and then, and sometimes her knees +would double under her; but Gibbie was no novice at the task, and +brought her safe to the door of her lodging—of which, in view of such +a possibility, he had been paying the rent all the time. He opened the +door with her pass-key, led her up the stair, unlocked the door of her +garret, placed her in a chair, and left her, closing the doors gently +behind him. Instinctively she sought her bed, fell upon it, and slept +again.</p> + +<p>When she woke, her dim mind was haunted by a terrible vision of +resurrection and damnation, of which the only point she could plainly +recall, was an angel, as like Sir Gibbie as he could look, hanging in +the air above her, and sending out flames on all sides of him, which +burned her up, inside and out, shrivelling soul and body together. +As she lay thinking over it, with her eyes closed, suddenly she +remembered, with a pang of dismay, that she had got drunk and broken +her vow—that was the origin of the bad dream, and the dreadful +headache, and the burning at her heart! She must have water! Painfully +lifting herself upon one elbow, she opened her eyes. Then what a +bewilderment, and what a discovery, slow unfolding itself, were hers! +Like her first parents she had fallen; her paradise was gone; she lay +outside among the thorns and thistles before the gate. From being the +virtual mistress of a great house, she was back in her dreary lonely +garret! Re-exiled in shame from her briefly regained respectability, +from friendship and honourable life and the holding forth of help to +the world, she lay there a sow that had been washed, and washed in +vain! What a sight of disgrace was her grand satin gown—wet, and +scorched, and smeared with candle! and ugh! how it smelt of smoke and +burning and the dregs of whisky! And her lace!—She gazed at her finery +as an angel might on his feathers which the enemy had burned while he +slept on his watch.</p> + +<p>She must have water! She got out of bed with difficulty, then for a +whole hour sat on the edge of it motionless, unsure that she was not +in hell. At last she wept—acrid tears, for very misery. She rose, +took off her satin and lace, put on a cotton gown, and was once more +a decent-looking poor body—except as to her glowing face and burning +eyes, which to bathe she had nothing but tears. Again she sat down, +and for a space did nothing, only suffered in ignominy. At last life +began to revive a little. She rose and moved about the room, staring +at the things in it as a ghost might stare at the grave-clothes on its +abandoned body. There on the table lay her keys; and what was that +under them?—A letter addressed to her. She opened it, and found five +pound-notes, with these words: “I promise to pay to Mrs. Croale five +pounds monthly, for nine months to come. Gilbert Galbraith.” She wept +again. He would never speak to her more! She had lost him at last—her +only friend!—her sole link to God and goodness and the kingdom of +heaven!—lost him for ever!</p> + +<p>The day went on, cold and foggy without, colder and drearier within. +Sick and faint and disgusted, the poor heart had no atmosphere to beat +in save an infinite sense of failure and lost opportunity. She had fuel +enough in the room to make a little fire, and at length had summoned +resolve sufficient for the fetching of water from the street-pump. +She went to the cupboard to get a jug: she could not carry a pailful. +There in the corner stood her demon-friend! her own old familiar, the +black bottle! as if he had been patiently waiting for her all the +long dreary time she had been away! With a flash of fierce joy she +remembered she had left it half-full. She caught it up, and held it +between her and the fading light of the misty window: it was half-full +still!—One glass—a hair of the dog—would set her free from faintness +and sickness, disgust and misery! There was no one to find fault with +her now! She could do as she liked—there was no one to care!—nothing +to take fire!—She set the bottle on the table, because her hand shook, +and went again to the cupboard to get a glass. On the way—borne +upward on some heavenly current from the deeps of her soul, the face +of Gibbie, sorrowful because loving, like the face of the Son of Man, +met her. She turned, seized the bottle, and would have dashed it on the +hearthstone, but that a sudden resolve arrested her lifted arm: Gibbie +should see! She would be strong! That bottle should stand on that shelf +until the hour when she could show it him and say, “See the proof of +my victory!” She drove the cork fiercely in. When its top was level +with the neck, she set the bottle back in its place, and from that hour +it stood there, a temptation, a ceaseless warning, the monument of a +broken but reparable vow, a pledge of hope. It may not have been a +prudent measure. To a weak nature it would have involved certain ruin. +But there are natures that do better under difficulty; there are many +such. And with that fiend-like shape in her cupboard the one ambition +of Mistress Croale’s life was henceforth inextricably bound up: she +would turn that bottle into a witness for her against the judgment she +had deserved. Close by the cupboard door, like a kite or an owl nailed +up against a barn, she hung her soiled and dishonoured satin gown; and +the dusk having now gathered, took the jug, and fetched herself water. +Then, having set her kettle on the fire, she went out with her basket, +and bought bread, and butter. After a good cup of tea and some nice +toast, she went to bed again, much easier both in mind and body, and +slept.</p> + +<p>In the morning she went to the market, opened her shop, and waited for +customers. Pleasure and surprise at her reappearance brought the old +ones quickly back. She was friendly and helpful to them as before; but +the slightest approach to inquiry as to where she had been or what +she had been doing, she met with simple obstinate silence. Gibbie’s +bounty and her faithful abstinence enabled her to add to her stock and +extend her trade. By and by she had the command of a little money; and +when in the late autumn there came a time of scarcity and disease, she +went about among the poor like a disciple of Sir Gibbie. Some said +that, from her knowledge of their ways, from her judgment, and by her +personal ministration of what, for her means, she gave more bountifully +than any, she did more to hearten their endurance, than all the ladies +together who administered money subscribed. It came to Sir Gibbie’s +ears, and rejoiced his heart: his old friend was on the King’s highway +still! In the mean time she saw nothing of him. Not once did he pass +her shop, where often her mental, and not unfrequently her bodily, +attitude was that of a watching lover. The second day, indeed, she saw +him at a little distance, and sorely her heart smote her, for one of +his hands was in a sling; but he crossed to the other side, plainly to +avoid her. She was none the less sure, however, that when she asked +him he would forgive her; and ask him she would, as soon as she had +satisfactory proof of repentance to show him.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LX">CHAPTER LX.<br><span class="small">ARRANGEMENT AND PREPARATION.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The next morning, the first thing after breakfast, Mr. Sclater, +having reflected that Ginevra was under age and they must be careful, +resumed for the nonce, with considerable satisfaction, his office of +guardian, and holding no previous consultation with Gibbie, walked to +the cottage, and sought an interview with Mr. Galbraith, which the +latter accorded with a formality suitable to his idea of his own inborn +grandeur. But his assumption had no effect on nut-headed Mr. Sclater, +who, in this matter at all events, was at peace with his conscience.</p> + +<p>“I have to inform you, Mr. Galbraith,” he began, “that Miss Galbraith—”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said the laird, “I beg your pardon; I was not aware it was my +daughter you wished to see.”</p> + +<p>He rose and rang the bell. Mr. Sclater, annoyed at his manner, held his +peace.</p> + +<p>“Tell your mistress,” said the laird, “that the Rev. Mr. Sclater wishes +to see her.”</p> + +<p>The girl returned with a scared face, and the news that her mistress +was not in her room. The laird’s loose mouth dropped looser.</p> + +<p>“Miss Galbraith did us the honour to sleep at our house last night,” +said Mr. Sclater deliberately.</p> + +<p>“The devil!” cried the laird, relieved. “Why!—What!—Are you aware of +what you are saying, sir?”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly; and of what I saw too. A blow looks bad on a lady’s face.”</p> + +<p>“Good heavens! the little hussey dared to say I struck her?”</p> + +<p>“She did not say so; but no one could fail to see some one had. If you +do not know who did it, I do.”</p> + +<p>“Send her home instantly, or I will come and fetch her,” cried the +laird.</p> + +<p>“Come and dine with us if you want to see her. For the present she +remains where she is. You want her to marry Fergus Duff; she prefers my +ward, Gilbert Galbraith, and I shall do my best for them.”</p> + +<p>“She is under age,” said the laird.</p> + +<p>“That fault will rectify itself as fast in my house as in yours,” +returned the minister. “If you invite the publicity of a legal action, +I will employ counsel, and wait the result.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Sclater was not at all anxious to hasten the marriage; he would +much rather, in fact, have it put off, at least until Gibbie should +have taken his degree. The laird started up in a rage, but the room was +so small that he sat down again. The minister leaned back in his chair. +He was too much displeased with the laird’s behaviour to lighten the +matter for him by setting forth the advantages of having Sir Gibbie for +a son-in-law.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Sclater,” said the laird at length, “I am shocked, unspeakably +shocked, at my daughter’s conduct. To leave the shelter of her father’s +roof, in the middle of the night, and—”</p> + +<p>“About seven o’clock in the evening,” interjected Mr. Sclater.</p> + +<p>“—and take refuge with strangers!” continued the laird.</p> + +<p>“By no means strangers, Mr. Galbraith!” said the minister. “You drive +your daughter from your house, and are then shocked to find she has +taken refuge with friends!”</p> + +<p>“She is an unnatural child. She knows well enough what I think of her, +and what reason she has given me so to think.”</p> + +<p>“When a man happens to be alone in any opinion,” remarked the minister, +“even if the opinion should be of his own daughter, the probabilities +are he is wrong. Every one but yourself has the deepest regard for Miss +Galbraith.”</p> + +<p>“She has always cultivated strangely objectionable friendships,” said +the laird.</p> + +<p>“For my own part,” said the minister, as if heedless of the laird’s +last remark, “although I believe she has no dowry, and there are +reasons besides why the connection should not be desirable, I do not +know a lady I should prefer for a wife to my ward.”</p> + +<p>The minister’s plain speaking was not without effect upon the laird. +It made him uncomfortable. It is only when the conscience is wide +awake and regnant that it can be appealed to without giving a cry for +response. Again he sat silent a while. Then gathering all the pomp and +stiffness at his command,</p> + +<p>“Oblige me by informing my daughter,” he said, “that I request her, for +the sake of avoiding scandal, to return to her father’s house until she +is of age.”</p> + +<p>“And in the mean time you undertake—”</p> + +<p>“I undertake nothing,” shouted the laird, in his feeble, woolly, yet +harsh voice.</p> + +<p>“Then I refuse to carry your message. I will be no bearer of that from +which, as soon as delivered, I should dissuade.”</p> + +<p>“Allow me to ask, are you a minister of the gospel, and stir up a child +against her own father?”</p> + +<p>“I am not here to bandy words with you, Mr. Galbraith. It is nothing +to me what you think of me. If you will engage not to urge your choice +upon Miss Galbraith, I think it probable she will at once return to +you. If not—”</p> + +<p>“I will not force her inclinations,” said the laird. “She knows my +wish, and she ought to know the duty of a daughter.”</p> + +<p>“I will tell her what you say,” answered the minister, and took his +departure.</p> + +<p>When Gibbie heard, he was not at all satisfied with Mr. Sclater’s +interference to such result. He wished to marry Ginevra at once, in +order to take her from under the tyranny of her father. But he was +readily convinced it would be better, now things were understood, that +she should go back to him, and try once more to gain him. The same day +she did go back, and Gibbie took up his quarters at the minister’s.</p> + +<p>Ginevra soon found that her father had not yielded the idea of having +his own way with her, but her spirits and courage were now so good, +that she was able not only to endure with less suffering, but to carry +herself quite differently. Much less afraid of him, she was the more +watchful to minister to his wants, dared a loving liberty now and then +in spite of his coldness, took his objurgations with something of the +gaiety of one who did not or would not believe he meant them, and when +he abused Gibbie, did not answer a word, knowing events alone could set +him right in his idea of him. Rejoiced that he had not laid hold of the +fact that Glashruach was Gibbie’s, she never mentioned the place to +him; for she shrunk with sharpest recoil from the humiliation of seeing +him, upon conviction, turn from Fergus to Gibbie: the kindest thing +they could do for him would be to marry against his will, and save him +from open tergiversation; for no one could then blame him, he would be +thoroughly pleased, and not having the opportunity of self-degradation, +would be saved the cause for self-contempt.</p> + +<p>For some time Fergus kept on hoping. The laird, blinded by his own +wishes, and expecting Gibbie would soon do something to bring public +disgrace upon himself, did not tell him of his daughter’s determination +and self-engagement, while, for her part, Ginevra believed she +fulfilled her duty towards him in the endeavour to convince him by +her conduct that nothing could ever induce her to marry him. So the +remainder of the session passed—the laird urging his objections +against Gibbie, and growing extravagant in his praises of Fergus, while +Ginevra kept taking fresh courage, and being of good cheer. Gibbie went +to the cottage once or twice, but the laird made it so uncomfortable +for them, and Fergus was so rude, that they agreed it would be better +to content themselves with meeting when they had the chance.</p> + +<p>At the end of the month Gibbie went home as usual, telling Ginevra he +must be present to superintend what was going on at Glashruach to get +the house ready for her, but saying nothing of what he was building +there. By the beginning of the winter, they had got the buttress-wall +finished and the coping on it, also the shell of the new house roofed +in, so that the carpenters had been at work all through the frost +and snow, and things had made great progress without any hurry; and +now, since the first day the weather had permitted, the masons were +at work again. The bridge was built, the wall of the old house broken +through, the turret carried aloft. The channel of the little burn they +had found completely blocked by a great stone at the farther edge of +the landslip; up to this stone they opened the channel, protecting it +by masonry against further slip, and by Gibbie’s directions left it +so—after boring the stone, which still turned every drop of the water +aside into the Glashburn, for a good charge of gunpowder. All the +hollow where the latter burn had carried away pine-wood and shrubbery, +gravel drive and lawn, had been planted, mostly with fir trees; and a +weir of strong masonry, a little way below the house, kept the water +back, so that it rose and spread, and formed a still pool just under +the house, reflecting it far beneath. If Ginevra pleased, Gibbie meant +to raise the weir, and have quite a little lake in the hollow. A new +approach had been contrived, and was nearly finished before Gibbie +returned to college.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXI">CHAPTER LXI.<br><span class="small">THE WEDDING.</span></h2></div> + +<p>In the mean time Fergus, dull as he was to doubt his own importance +and success—for did not the public acknowledge both?—yet by degrees +lost heart and hope so far as concerned Ginevra, and at length told the +laird that, much as he valued his society, and was indebted for his +kindness, he must deny himself the pleasure of visiting any more at the +cottage—so plainly was his presence unacceptable to Miss Galbraith. +The laird blustered against his daughter, and expostulated with the +preacher, not forgetting to hint at the ingratitude of forsaking him, +after all he had done and borne in the furthering of his interests: +Jenny must at length come to see what reason and good sense required +of her! But Fergus had at last learned his lesson, and was no longer +to be blinded. Besides, there had lately come to his church a certain +shopkeeper, retired rich, with one daughter; and as his hope of the +dignity of being married to Ginevra faded, he had come to feel the +enticement of Miss Lapraik’s money and good looks—which gained in +force considerably when he began to understand the serious off-sets +there were to the honour of being son-in-law to Mr. Galbraith: a nobody +as was old Lapraik in himself and his position, he was at least looked +upon with respect, argued Fergus; and indeed the man was as honest as +it is possible for any worshipper of Mammon to be. Fergus therefore +received the laird’s expostulations and encouragements with composure, +but when at length, in his growing acidity, Mr. Galbraith reflected on +his birth, and his own condescension in showing him friendship, Fergus +left the house, never to go near it again. Within three months, for +a second protracted courtship was not to be thought of, he married +Miss Lapraik, and lived respectable ever after—took to writing hymns, +became popular afresh through his poetry, and exercised a double +influence for the humiliation of Christianity. But what matter, while +he counted himself fortunate, and thought himself happy! his fame +spread; he had good health; his wife worshipped him; and if he had +had a valet, I have no doubt he would have been a hero to him, thus +climbing the topmost untrodden peak of the world’s greatness.</p> + +<p>When the next evening came, and Fergus did not appear, the laird +fidgeted, then stormed, then sank into a moody silence. When the second +night came, and Fergus did not come, the sequence was the same, with +exasperated symptoms. Night after night passed thus, and Ginevra began +to fear for her father’s reason. She challenged him to play backgammon +with her, but he scorned the proposal. She begged him to teach her +chess, but he scouted the notion of her having wit enough to learn. She +offered to read to him, entreated him to let her do something with him, +but he repelled her every advance with contempt and surliness, which +now and then broke into rage and vituperation.</p> + +<p>As soon as Gibbie returned, Ginevra let him know how badly things were +going with her father. They met, consulted, agreed that the best thing +was to be married at once, made their preparations, and confident that, +if asked, he would refuse his permission, proceeded, for his sake, as +if they had had it.</p> + +<p>One morning, as he sat at breakfast, Mr. Galbraith received from Mr. +Torrie, whom he knew as the agent in the purchase of Glashruach, and +whom he supposed to have bought it for Major Culsalmon, a letter, more +than respectful, stating that matters had come to light regarding the +property which rendered his presence on the spot indispensable for +their solution, especially as there might be papers of consequence in +view of the points in question, in some drawer or cabinet of those he +had left locked behind him. The present owner, therefore, through Mr. +Torrie, begged most respectfully that Mr. Galbraith would sacrifice +two days of his valuable time, and visit Glashruach. The result, he +did not doubt, would be to the advantage of both parties. If Mr. +Galbraith would kindly signify to Mr. Torrie his assent, a carriage and +four, with postilions, that he might make the journey in all possible +comfort, should be at his house the next morning, at ten o’clock, if +that hour would be convenient.</p> + +<p>For weeks the laird had been an unmitigated bore to himself, and the +invitation laid hold upon him by the most projecting handle of his +being, namely, his self-importance. He wrote at once to signify his +gracious assent; and in the evening told his daughter he was going to +Glashruach on business, and had arranged for Miss Kimble to come and +stay with her till his return.</p> + +<p>At nine o’clock the schoolmistress came to breakfast, and at ten a +travelling-carriage with four horses drew up at the door, looking +nearly as big as the cottage. With monstrous stateliness, and a +fur-coat on his arm, the laird descended to his garden gate, and got +into the carriage, which instantly dashed away for the western road, +restoring Mr. Galbraith to the full consciousness of his inherent +grandeur: if he was not exactly laird of Glashruach again, he was +something quite as important. His carriage was just out of the street, +when a second, also with four horses, drew up, to the astonishment +of Miss Kimble, at the garden gate. Out of it stepped Mr. and Mrs. +Sclater! then a young gentleman, whom she thought very graceful until +she discovered it was that low-lived Sir Gilbert! and Mr. Torrie, +the lawyer! They came trooping into the little drawing-room, shook +hands with them both, and sat down, Sir Gilbert beside Ginevra—but +nobody spoke. What could it mean! A morning call? It was too early. +And four horses to a morning call! A pastoral visitation? Four horses +and a lawyer to a pastoral visitation! A business call? There was +Mrs. Sclater! and that Sir Gilbert!—It must after all be a pastoral +visitation, for there was the minister commencing a religious +service!—during which however it suddenly revealed itself to the +horrified spinster that she was part and parcel of a clandestine +wedding! An anxious father had placed her in charge of his daughter, +and this was how she was fulfilling her trust! There was Ginevra being +married in a brown dress! and to that horrid lad, who called himself +a baronet, and hobnobbed with a low market-woman! But, alas! just as +she was recovering her presence of mind, Mr. Sclater pronounced them +husband and wife! She gave a shriek, and cried out, “I forbid the +banns,” at which the company, bride and bridegroom included, broke into +“a loud smile.” The ceremony over, Ginevra glided from the room, and +returned almost immediately in her little brown bonnet. Sir Gilbert +caught up his hat, and Ginevra held out her hand to Miss Kimble. Then +at length the abashed and aggrieved lady found words of her own.</p> + +<p>“Ginevra!” she cried, “you are never going to leave me alone in the +house!—after inviting me to stay with you till your father returned!”</p> + +<p>But the minister answered her.</p> + +<p>“It was her father who invited you, I believe, not Lady Galbraith,” +he said; “and you understood perfectly that the invitation was not +meant to give her pleasure. You would doubtless have her postpone her +wedding-journey on your account, but my lady is under no obligation to +think of you.”—He had heard of her tattle against Sir Gilbert, and +thus rudely showed his resentment.</p> + +<p>Miss Kimble burst into tears. Ginevra kissed her, and said,</p> + +<p>“Never mind, dear Miss Kimble. You could not help it. The whole thing +was arranged. We are going after my father, and we have the best +horses.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Torrie laughed outright.</p> + +<p>“A new kind of runaway marriage!” he cried. “The happy couple pursuing +the obstinate parent with four horses! Ha! ha! ha!”</p> + +<p>“But after the ceremony!” said Mr. Sclater.</p> + +<p>Here the servant ran down the steps with a carpet-bag, and opened +the gate for her mistress. Lady Galbraith got into the carriage; Sir +Gilbert followed; there was kissing and tears at the door of it; Mrs. +Sclater drew back; the postilions spurred their horses; off went the +second carriage faster than the first; and the minister’s party walked +quietly away, leaving Miss Kimble to declaim to the maid of all work, +who cried so that she did not hear a word she said. The schoolmistress +put on her bonnet, and full of indignation carried her news of the +treatment to which she had been subjected to the Rev. Fergus Duff, who +remarked to himself that it was sad to see youth and beauty turn away +from genius and influence to wed money and idiocy, gave a sigh, and +went to see Miss Lapraik.</p> + +<p>Between the second stage and the third, Gibbie and Ginevra came in +sight of their father’s carriage. Having arranged with the postilions +that the two carriages should not change horses at the same places, +they easily passed unseen by him, while, thinking of nothing so little +as their proximity, he sat in state before the door of a village inn.</p> + +<p>Just as Mr. Galbraith was beginning to hope the major had contrived a +new approach to the place, the carriage took an unexpected turn, and he +found presently they were climbing, by a zig-zag road, the height over +the Lorrie burn; but the place was no longer his, and to avoid a sense +of humiliation, he avoided taking any interest in the change.</p> + +<p>A young woman—it was Donal’s eldest sister, but he knew nothing of +her—opened the door to him, and showed him up the stair to his old +study. There a great fire was burning; but, beyond that, everything, +even to the trifles on his writing table, was just as when last he left +the house. His chair stood in its usual position by the fire, and wine +and biscuits were on a little table near.</p> + +<p>“Very considerate!” he said to himself. “I trust the major does not +mean to keep me waiting, though. Deuced hard to have to leave a place +like this!”</p> + +<p>Weary with his journey he fell into a doze, dreamed of his dead wife, +woke suddenly, and heard the door of the room open. There was Major +Culsalmon entering with outstretched hand! and there was a lady—his +wife doubtless! But how young the major was! he had imagined him a man +in middle age at least!—Bless his soul! was he never to get rid of +this impostor fellow! it was not the major! it was the rascal calling +himself Sir Gilbert Galbraith!—the half-witted wretch his fool of +a daughter insisted on marrying! Here he was, ubiquitous as Satan! +And—bless his soul again! there was the minx, Jenny! looking as if the +place was her own! The silly tears in her eyes too!—It was all too +absurd! He had just been dreaming of his dead wife, and clearly that +was it! he was not awake yet!</p> + +<p>He tried hard to wake, but the dream mastered him.</p> + +<p>“Jenny!” he said, as the two stood for a moment regarding him, a little +doubtfully, but with smiles of welcome, “what is the meaning of this? I +did not know Major Culsalmon had invited you! And what is this person +doing here?”</p> + +<p>“Papa,” replied Ginevra, with a curious smile, half merry, half +tearful, “this person is my husband, Sir Gilbert Galbraith of +Glashruach; and you are at home in your own study again.”</p> + +<p>“Will you never have done masquerading, Jenny?” he returned. “Inform +Major Culsalmon that I request to see him immediately.”</p> + +<p>He turned towards the fire, and took up a newspaper. They thought it +better to leave him. As he sat, by degrees the truth grew plain to +him. But not one other word on the matter did the man utter to the day +of his death. When dinner was announced, he walked straight from the +dining-room door to his former place at the foot of the table. But +Robina Grant was equal to the occasion. She caught up the dish before +him, and set it at the side. There Gibbie seated himself; and, after a +moment’s hesitation, Ginevra placed herself opposite her husband.</p> + +<p>The next day Gibbie provided him with something to do. He had the +chest of papers found in the Auld Hoose o’ Galbraith carried into his +study, and the lawyer found both employment and interest for weeks +in deciphering and arranging them. Amongst many others concerning +the property, its tenures, and boundaries, appeared some papers +which, associated and compared, threw considerable doubt on the way +in which portions of it had changed hands, and passed from those of +Gibbie’s ancestors into those of Ginevra’s—who were lawyers as well +as Galbraiths; and the laird was keen of scent as any nose-hound after +dishonesty in other people. In the course of a fortnight he found +himself so much at home in his old quarters, and so much interested in +those papers and his books, that when Sir Gilbert informed him Ginevra +and he were going back to the city, he pronounced it decidedly the +better plan, seeing he was there himself to look after affairs.</p> + +<p>For the rest of the winter, therefore, Mr. Galbraith played the grand +seigneur as before among the tenants of Glashruach.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LXII">CHAPTER LXII.<br><span class="small">THE BURN.</span></h2></div> + +<p>The moment they were settled in the Auld Hoose, Gibbie resumed the +habits of the former winter, which Mistress Croale’s failure had +interrupted. And what a change it was to Ginevra—from imprisonment +to ministration! She found difficulties at first, as may readily be +believed. But presently came help. As soon as Mistress Croale heard of +their return, she went immediately to Lady Galbraith, one morning while +Sir Gibbie was at college, literally knelt at her feet, and with tears +told her the whole tale, beseeching her intercession with Sir Gibbie.</p> + +<p>“I want naething,” she insisted, “but his fawvour, an’ the licht o’ his +bonnie coontenance.”</p> + +<p>The end of course was that she was gladly received again into the +house, where once more she attended to all the principal at least of +her former duties. Before she died, there was a great change and growth +in her: she was none of those before whom pearls must not be cast.</p> + +<p>Every winter, for many years, Sir Gilbert and Lady Galbraith occupied +the Auld Hoose; which by degrees came at length to be known as the +refuge of all that were in honest distress, the salvation of all in +themselves such as could be helped, and a covert for the night to +all the houseless, of whatever sort, except those drunk at the time. +Caution had to be exercised, and judgment used; the caution was tender +and the judgment stern. The next year they built a house in a sheltered +spot on Glashgar, and thither from the city they brought many invalids, +to spend the summer months under the care of Janet and her daughter +Robina, whereby not a few were restored sufficiently to earn their +bread for a time thereafter.</p> + +<p>The very day the session was over, they returned to Glashruach, where +they were received by the laird, as he was still called, as if they +had been guests. They found Joseph, the old butler, reinstated, and +Angus again acting as gamekeeper. Ginevra welcomed Joseph, but took +the first opportunity of telling Angus that for her father’s sake Sir +Gilbert allowed him to remain, but on the first act of violence he +should at once be dismissed, and probably prosecuted as well. Donal’s +eldest brother was made bailiff. Before long Gibbie got the other two +also about him, and as soon as, with justice, he was able, settled +them together upon one of his farms. Every Saturday, so long as Janet +lived, they met, as in the old times, at the cottage—only with Ginevra +in the place of the absent Donal. More to her own satisfaction, after +all, than Robert’s, Janet went home first,—“to be at han’,” she said, +“to open the door till him whan he chaps.” Then Robert went to his sons +below on their farm, where he was well taken care of; but happily he +did not remain long behind his wife. That first summer, Nicie returned +to Glashruach to wait on Lady Galbraith, was more her friend than her +servant, and when she married, was settled on the estate.</p> + +<p>For some little time Ginevra was fully occupied in getting her house +in order, and furnishing the new part of it. When that was done, Sir +Gilbert gave an entertainment to his tenants. The laird preferred a +trip to the city, “on business,” to the humiliation of being present as +other than the greatest; though perhaps he would have minded it less +had he ever himself given a dinner to his tenants.</p> + +<p>Robert and Janet declined the invitation.</p> + +<p>“We’re ower auld for makin’ merry ’cep in oor ain herts,” said Janet. +“But bide ye, my bonnie Sir Gibbie, till we’re a’ up yon’er, an’ syne +we’ll see.”</p> + +<p>The place of honour was therefore given to Jean Mavor, who was beside +herself with joy to see her broonie lord of the land, and be seated +beside him in respect and friendship. But her brother said it was +“clean ridic’lous;” and not to the last would consent to regard the new +laird as other than half-witted, insisting that everything was done by +his wife, and that the talk on his fingers was a mere pretence.</p> + +<p>When the main part of the dinner was over, Sir Gilbert and his lady +stood at the head of the table, and, he speaking by signs and she +interpreting, made a little speech together. In the course of it Sir +Gibbie took occasion to apologize for having once disturbed the peace +of the country-side by acting the supposed part of a <i>broonie</i>, and +in relating his adventures of the time, accompanied his wife’s text +with such graphic illustration of gesture, that his audience laughed +at the merry tale till the tears ran down their cheeks. Then with a +few allusions to his strange childhood, he thanked the God who led him +through thorny ways into the very arms of love and peace in the cottage +of Robert and Janet Grant, whence, and not from the fortune he had +since inherited, came all his peace.</p> + +<p>“He desires me to tell you,” said Lady Galbraith, “that he was a +stranger, and you folk of Daurside took him in, and if ever he can do +a kindness to you or yours, he will.—He desires me also to say, that +you ought not to be left ignorant that you have a poet of your own, +born and bred among you—Donal Grant, the son of Robert and Janet, +the friend of Sir Gilbert’s heart, and one of the noblest of men. And +he begs you to allow me to read you a poem he had from him this very +morning—probably just written. It is called <i>The Laverock</i>. I will +read it as well as I can. If any of you do not like poetry, he says—I +mean Sir Gilbert says—you can go to the kitchen and light your pipes, +and he will send your wine there to you.”</p> + +<p>She ceased. Not one stirred, and she read the verses—which, for the +sake of having Donal in at the last of my book, I will print. Those who +do not care for verse, may—metaphorically, I would not be rude—go and +smoke their pipes in the kitchen.</p> + + +<p class="center">THE LAVEROCK. (<i>lark</i>)</p> + + +<p class="center">THE MAN SAYS:</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Laverock i’ the lift, (<i>sky</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hae ye nae sang-thrift,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’At ye scatter ’t sae heigh, an’ lat it a’ drift?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Wasterfu’ laverock!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dinna ye ken</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’At ye hing ower men</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen’?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Hertless laverock!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But up there, you,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’ the bow o’ the blue,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Haud skirlin’ (<i>keep shrilling</i>) on as gien a’ war new!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Toom-heidit (<i>empty-headed</i>) laverock!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Haith! ye’re ower blythe:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I see a great scythe</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i’ the lythe, (<i>shelter</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Liltin’ laverock!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eh, sic a soon’!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Birdie, come doon—</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye’re fey (<i>death-doomed</i>) to sing sic a merry tune,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Gowkit (<i>silly</i>) laverock!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come to yer nest;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yer wife’s sair prest;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She’s clean worn oot wi’ duin’ her best,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Rovin’ laverock!</span><br> + +<br><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Winna ye haud?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye’re surely mad!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is there naebody there to gie ye a daud? (<i>blow</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Menseless laverock!</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come doon an’ conform;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pyke an honest worm,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ hap yer bairns frae the muckle storm,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Spendrife laverock!</span><br> +</p> + +<p class="center">THE BIRD SINGS:</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My nestie it lieth</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I’ the how (<i>hollow</i>) o’ a han’;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The swing o’ the scythe</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">’Ill miss ’t by a span.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lift it’s sae cheerie!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The win’ it’s sae free!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I hing ower my dearie,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ sing ’cause I see.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My wifie’s wee breistie</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Grows warm wi’ my sang,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ ilk crumpled-up beastie</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Kens no to think lang.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Up here the sun sings, but</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He only shines there!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye haena nae wings, but</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Come up on a prayer.</span><br> + +</p> +<p class="center">THE MAN SINGS:</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye wee daurin’ cratur,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ye rant an’ ye sing</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like an oye (<i>grandchild</i>) o’ auld Natur</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ta’en hame by the King!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye wee feathert priestie,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yer bells i’ yer thro’t.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yer altar yer breistie</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yer mitre forgot—</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Offerin’ an’ Aaron,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ye burn hert an’ brain</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ dertin’ an’ daurin’</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Flee back to yer ain.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye wee minor prophet,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It’s maist my belief</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’At I’m doon i’ Tophet,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ you abune grief!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye’ve deavt (<i>deafened</i>) me an’ daudit, (<i>buffeted</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ ca’d me a fule:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m nearhan’ persuaudit</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To gang to your schule!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For, birdie, I’m thinkin’</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ye ken mair nor me—</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gien ye haena been drinkin’,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An’ sing as ye see.</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye maun hae a sicht ’at</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sees geyan (<i>considerably</i>) far ben; (<i>inwards</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An’ a hert for the micht o’ ’t</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wad sair (<i>serve</i>) for nine men!</span><br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Somebody’s been till</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Roun to ye wha (<i>whisper</i>)</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Said birdies war seen till</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">E’en whan they fa’!</span><br> +</p> + +<p>After the reading of the poem, Sir Gilbert and Lady Galbraith withdrew, +and went towards the new part of the house, where they had their rooms. +On the bridge, over which Ginevra scarcely ever passed without stopping +to look both up and down the dry channel in the rock, she lingered as +usual, and gazed from its windows. Below, the waterless bed of the burn +opened out on the great valley of the Daur; above was the landslip, +and beyond it the stream rushing down the mountain. Gibbie pointed up +to it. She gazed a while, and gave a great sigh. He asked her—their +communication was now more like that between two spirits: even signs +had become almost unnecessary—what she wanted or missed. She looked +in his face and said, “Naething but the sang o’ my burnie, Gibbie.” +He took a small pistol from his pocket, and put it in her hand; then, +opening the window, signed to her to fire it. She had never fired +a pistol, and was a little frightened, but would have been utterly +ashamed to shrink from anything Gibbie would have her do. She held +it out. Her hand trembled. He laid his upon it, and it grew steady. +She pulled the trigger, and dropped the pistol with a little cry. He +signed to her to listen. A moment passed, and then, like a hugely +magnified echo, came a roar that rolled from mountain to mountain, like +a thunder drum. The next instant, the landslip seemed to come hurrying +down the channel, roaring and leaping: it was the mud-brown waters of +the burn, careering along as if mad with joy at having regained their +ancient course. Ginevra stared with parted lips, delight growing to +apprehension as the live thing momently neared the bridge. With tossing +mane of foam, the brown courser came rushing on, and shot thundering +under. They turned, and from the other window saw it tumbling headlong +down the steep descent to the Lorrie. By quick gradations, even as +they gazed, the mud melted away; the water grew clearer and clearer, +and in a few minutes a small mountain-river, of a lovely lucid brown, +transparent as a smoke-crystal, was dancing along under the bridge. It +had ceased its roar and was sweetly singing.</p> + +<p>“Let us see it from my room, Gibbie,” said Ginevra.</p> + +<p>They went up, and from the turret window looked down upon the water. +They gazed until, like the live germ of the gathered twilight, it was +scarce to be distinguished but by abstract motion.</p> + +<p>“It’s my ain burnie,” said Ginevra, “an’ it’s ain auld sang! I’ll +warran’ it hasna forgotten a note o’ ’t! Eh, Gibbie, ye gie me a’ +thing!”</p> + +<p>“<i>Gien I was a burnie, wadna I rin!</i>” sang Gibbie, and Ginevra heard +the words, though Gibbie could utter only the air he had found for them +so long ago. She threw herself into his arms, and hiding her face on +his shoulder, clung silent to her silent husband. Over her lovely bowed +head, he gazed into the cool spring night, sparkling with stars, and +shadowy with mountains. His eyes climbed the stairs of Glashgar to the +lonely peak dwelling among the lights of God; and if upon their way up +the rocks they met no visible sentinels of heaven, he needed neither +ascending stairs nor descending angels, for a better than the angels +was with them.</p> + +<p class="center p4">THE END.</p> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop chap"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 id="GLOSSARY">BROAD SCOTS GLOSSARY</h2> + +<p class="center p2">Note from John Bechard, creator of this Electronic text.</p> + +<p>The following is a list of Scottish words which are found in George +MacDonald’s “Sir Gibbie”. I have compiled this list myself and worked +out the definitions from context with the help of Margaret West, from +Leven in Fife, Scotland, and also by referring to a word list found +in a collection of poems by Robert Burns and “Chamber’s Scots Dialect +Dictionary from the 17th century to the Present” c. 1911. I have tried +to be as thorough as possible given the limited resources and welcome +any feedback on this list which may be wrong (my e-mail address is +JaBBechard@aol.com). This was never meant to be a comprehensive list +of the National Scottish Language, but rather an aid to understanding +some of the conversations in this text which are carried out in the +Broad Scots. I do apologise for any mistakes or omissions. I aimed for +my list to be very comprehensive. As well, it includes words that are +quite obvious to native English speakers, only spelled in such a way to +demonstrate the local pronunciation.</p> + +<p>There is a web site which features the Scottish language, DSL, +or Dictionaries of the Scots Language; and the National Scottish +Dictionary can be consulted if you have access to one.</p> + +<p>This list is a compressed form that consists of three columns for +‘word’, ‘definition’, and ‘additional notes’. It is set up with a comma +between each item and a hard return at the end of each definition. +This means that this section could easily be cut and pasted into its +own text file and imported into a database or spreadsheet as a comma +separated variable file (.csv file). Failing that, you could do a +search and replace for commas in this section (I have not used any +commas in my words, definitions or notes) and replace the commas with +spaces or tabs.</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;" class="big">Word, Definition, Notes</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a’, all; every, also have,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a’ body, everyone; everybody,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a’ thing, everything; anything,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aboot, about,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">absteen, abstain,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">abune, above; up,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">accoont, account,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">accordin’, according,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">accre, acre,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ae, one,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aff, off; away; past; beyond,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">affrontit, affronted; disgraced, also ashamed; shamed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">afore, before; in front of,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aften, often,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">again’, against, opposed to,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">agreeable, in agreement; willing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ahchan, Achan, reference to Joshua 7,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ahin’, behind; after; at the back of,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aiblins, perhaps; possibly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aigles, eagles,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Aigypt, Egypt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ain, own, also one,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aipple, apple,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">airm, arm,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">airmour, armour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">airms, arms, also coat of arms; crest,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">airt, quarter; direction; compass point,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">airthquack, earthquake,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aiss, ashes,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ait, eat,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aiten, eaten,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aith, oath,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aither, either,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aiven, even,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">alane, alone,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">alloo, allow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">allooin’, allowing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Almichty, Almighty; God,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">amids, amidst,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">amo’, among,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">an’, and,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ance, once,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ane, one, also a single person or thing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aneath, beneath; under,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">anent, opposite to; in front of, also concerning,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aneth, beneath; under,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">angert, angered; angry, also grieved,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">anither, another,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">anker, liquid measure of 4 gallons,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a’ready, already,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">arrenge, arrange,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as lang ’s, as long as,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as sune ’s, as soon as,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ashmy, asthma,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’at, that,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">at farest, at the farthest, also at the latest,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ates, hates,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a’thegither, altogether,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a’thing, everything; anything,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’at’ll, that will,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’at’s, that is,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">attreebute, attribute,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">atween, between,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">auld, old,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">auld langsyne, days of long ago, also old friendship,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">auld-fashioned, old-fashioned,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">auncient, ancient,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Aw, I, also all; owning,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">awa, away,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">awfu’, awful,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Awva!, At all!, exclamation of surprise; contempt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">aye, yes; indeed, exclamation of surprise; wonder,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ayont, beyond; after,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bairn, child,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bairnies, little children, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">baith, both,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bale-fire, any large fire; bonfire,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ballant, ballad; song,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">banes, bones,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bannin’, cursing; swearing; abuse; scold,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bannock, round flat griddle-baked cake,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Barebanes, bare bones (i.e. death),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bawbee, half penny,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bealt, festered,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">beastie, beast; animal, diminutive to express sympathy or affection,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">beets, boots,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">behaud, withhold; wait; delay, also behold,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">beirin’, bearing; allowing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">belang, belong,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">believet, believed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ben, in; inside; into; within; inwards, also inner room,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">be ’t, be it,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bethink (oneself), stop to think; reflect,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">beuk, book, also Bible,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bible-word, word of honour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bicker, wooden vessel,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bidden, abided; stayed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bide, endure; bear; remain; live, also desire; wish,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bidena, do not bide; do not stay,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bield, protection; shelter; cover,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bigg, build,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">biggit, built,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bin’, bind,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">binna, be not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">birdie, little bird, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">birk, birch tree,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bit, but; bit, also little-diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blate, over-modest; bashful; shy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blaw, blow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bleck, black; smut, also nonplus; perplex,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bledder, bleater; snipe, also foolish or idle talker,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blether, talk nonsense; babble; boast,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blew, blue,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blin’t, blinded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blude, blood,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bluidy, bloody,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">boady, body,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">boasoms, bosoms,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">boatle, bottle (of whisky),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">boddom, bottom,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bodies, people; fellows; folk,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bodit, boded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">body, person; fellow, also body,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bonnie, good; beautiful; pretty; handsome,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">boortree, shrub elder,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bosky, wild; unfrequented,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bossie, large wooden bowl, serving bowl,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">boucht, bought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bow-ribbit, bent in the ribs,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brackens, bracken; coarse fern,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brae, hill; hillside; high ground by a river,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brainch, branch,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">braird, first sprouting of young grain,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brak, break,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brakfast, breakfast,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bran’er, brander; grating; gridiron; trestle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">braw, beautiful; good; fine, also lovely (girl); handsome (boy),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bray, press; squeeze; push,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bree, brew; whisky; broth; gravy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">breeks, breeches; trousers,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">breist, breast,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">breistie, little breast, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">breith, breath,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bridle, modify,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brither, brother,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brocken, broken,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brods, boards; (book covers),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">broo, brow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">broom, shrub with bright yellow flowers,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">broonie, brownie; benevolent elf,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brose, water; soup; meal,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">broucht, brought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brunt, burned,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">buik, book, also Bible,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bun’le, bundle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">burn, water; stream; brook,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">burnie, little stream, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">bursten, burst,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">buss, bush,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">butterflees, butterflies,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">by ordinar’, out of the ordinary; supernatural,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">byke, hive; swarm; crowd,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">byre, cowshed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ca’, call; name,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ca’d, called,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ca’in, calling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cairry, carry,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">caitiff, coward; cowardly, more of an older English word than Scots,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">caller, fresh; refreshing; cool,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cam, came,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">camna, did not come,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">canna, cannot,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">carena, do not care,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">carolled, sang (carols),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cast, thrown off; discarded (clothes),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">casten, spoilt; worthless; thrown aside,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">catched, caught,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">caul’, cold,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">caup, small wooden bowl,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’cause, because,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">caw, drive; impel; hammer,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cawpable, capable,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’cep, except; but,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">certie, of a truth; certainly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">chaps, knocks; hammers; strikes; raps,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">chaumer, chamber; room,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cheek, side,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cheemistry, chemistry,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cheenge, change,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cheerie, cheery,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cheese, choose,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">chiel, child; young person, term of fondness or intimacy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">chop, shop; store,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">chopdoor, shop door,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">claes, clothes; dress,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">clan, group; class; coterie,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">clappers, door knockers; rattles,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">clean, altogether; entirely, also comely; shapely; empty; clean,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cled, clothed; clad,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cleed, clothe; shelter,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">clim’, climb,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cloaset, (prayer) closet,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cloods, clouds,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cloot, clout; box (ear); beat; slap, also patch; mend,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">closed, enclosed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">closet, room; bedroom,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">coaties, children’s coats or petticoats,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cobblin’, cobbling; shoemaking,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cock-crawin’, crowing of the cock,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">coffer, legacy of wealth; fortune,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">colliginer, college student, also college boy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">colloguin’, associating; conspiring; plotting,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come awa ben, Come on in,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come yer wa’s in, Come on in,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">comena, do not come,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">concernt, concerned,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">conduckit, conducted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">conneckit, connected,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">consaive, conceive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">considert, considered,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">consortit, consorted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">contentit, contented,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">contrar’, contrary,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">coo, cow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cooard, coward,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">coontenance, countenance,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">coorse, coarse, also course</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cottar, farm tenant; cottager,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">couldna, could not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">couples, rafters,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cowt, colt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">crap o’ the wa’, natural shelf between wall and roof,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cratur, creature,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">craw, crow; rook (types of birds),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">creepie, (three legged) stool, a child’s chair,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">creepit, crept; crawled,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">crook, hooked iron chain inside a chimney, for hanging</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">cooking pots on,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cry, call; summon,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cud, could,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cudna, could not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">curriet, curried; dressed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cursit, cursed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cuttit, cut; harvested,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cweentry, country,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cwite, coat,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dacency, decency,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dacent, decent,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dale, deal; fir-or pinewood plank,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">damps, coal-pit gases,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dang, knock; bang; drive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">daud, blow; strike; abuse,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">daudit, buffeted; struck,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dauner, stroll; saunter,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">daur, dare; challenge,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">daurna, dare not; do not dare,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">daursay, dare say,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dawvid, David,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dearie, sweetheart; darling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deavt, deafened,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dee, do, also die,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deed, died, also deed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’deed, indeed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dee’d, died,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deein’, doing, also dying,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deen, done,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deevil, devil,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deevilry, devilry,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deid, dead,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deif, deaf,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deil, devil,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deith, death,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">delicht, delight,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dementit, demented; mad; crazy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">denner, dinner,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dertin’, darting,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deuk-quack, duck quack,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deuks, ducks,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">didna, did not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">differ, difference, also differ,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">din, sound; din,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dingin’, overcoming; wearying; vexing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dinna, do not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dinna fling the calf efter the coo, don’t give up,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">also baby/bathwater,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dirt, worthless persons or things, term of contempt</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dis, does,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">disappint, disappoint,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">discoorse, discourse,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">disna, does not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dissiples, disciples,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">div, do,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dod!, God! (exclamation),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">doggie, little dog, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">doobt, suspect; know; doubt, have an unpleasant conviction,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">doobtna, do not suspect; do not know, also does not doubt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dooms, extremely; exceedingly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">doon, down,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">door-cheek, door-post; threshold,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">door-sill, threshold,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">doos, doves,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">douce, gentle; sensible; sober; prudent,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">doup, bottom; backside; buttocks,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">draigon, dragon, reference to Revelation 12-13,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dram, glass of whisky,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drap, drop; small quantity of,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drappit, dropped,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drappy, little drop; a little (liquor), diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drear, dreary; dreariness; tedium,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dree, endure; undergo; suffer,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dree my weird, undergo my doom,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dreemt, dreamed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dreid, dread,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dreidfu’, dreadful; dreadfully,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drookit, drenched; soaked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">droon, drown,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drop, drop-shaped earring, also drop,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drouth, thirst; dryness, also drought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drouthie, thirsty; dry,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">drucken, drunken; tipsy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">du, do,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">duds, clothes; rags; tatters,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">duin’, doing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dulse, type of seaweed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dummie, little mute person, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dune, done,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dyke, wall of stone or turf,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ear’, early,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ee, eye,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">e’e, eye,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">eedit, heeded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">een, eyes,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">e’en, even; just; simply, also eyes; evening,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">eese, use,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">efter, after; afterwards,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">else, otherwise; at another time; already,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Embrough, Edinburgh,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">en’, end,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">endeevour, endeavour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">eneuch, enough,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">enstance, instance,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">er, ere; before,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ettle, reach; intend; purpose; aim,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">even, even; compare,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ever, before, also ever,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ever-mair, ever more,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">exemple, example,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">expeckit, expected,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fa’, fall; befall,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">failt, failed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">faimily, family,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fain, eager; anxious; fond, also fondly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fa’in’, falling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fallow, fellow; chap,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fallow-feelin’, mutual feeling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fan’, found,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fa’ntit, fainted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fardin’, farthing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">faulds, folds,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fause, false,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fau’t, fault; blame,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fawvour, favour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fearfu’, fearful; easily frightened,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fearsome, terrifying; fearful; awful,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feart, afraid; frightened; scared,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feathert, feathered,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fecht, fight; struggle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feck, value; worth; advantage; majority,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fee, hire oneself out,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feel, foolish, also fool,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fegs, truly, mild oath; exclamation of surprise,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fell, very; potent; keen; harsh; sharp, intensifies; also turf,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fell-dyke, wall made of layers of sod,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fellow-cratur, fellow creature,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fells, sods,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feow, few,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fess, fetch,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fest, fast,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fey, doomed (to death),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fillit, filled,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fin’, find; feel,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fin’on haddie, smoked haddock,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fit, foot; base, also fit; capable; able,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">flax, flax; wick,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">flee, fly (insect),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fleers, floors,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fleg, blow; kick; stroke,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fleggit, blew; kicked; stroked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fleyt, terrified; frightened,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fling, kick; throw,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">flit, shift; remove; depart,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">flure, floor,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">forby, as well; as well as; besides,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">forgie, forgive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">forgi’en, forgiven,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">forgifness, forgiveness,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">forkit, forked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">foucht, fought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fowk, folk,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fowth, plenty; abundance; full measure,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">frae, from,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">frank, generous; lavish, also generously,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fricht, frighten; scare away,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">frichtit, frightened; scared away,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fule, fool,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fulfillt, fulfilled,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fundation, foundation,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fun’t, founded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fut, foot,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gae, gave,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gaed, went,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gaein’, going,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’gain, by; nearly; almost,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gairdens, gardens,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gait, way; fashion, also route; street,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gaits, ways, also routes; streets,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ga’le, gable,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gane, gone,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gang, go; goes; depart; walk,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gang yer wa’s, go on,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gar, cause; make; compel,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gat, got,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gauin’, going,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gear, possessions; money; property, also livestock,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">geese, goose,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">German Ocean, old reference to the English Channel & North Sea,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gerse, grass,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gether, gather,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gey, very; considerable,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">geyan, considerably; somewhat; rather,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ghaist, ghost,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ghem, game (hunted animal),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gie, give,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gied, gave,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">giein’, giving,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gien, if; as if; then; whether,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gi’en, given</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gien’t, if it,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gies, gives,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">girdle, griddle for baking scones, iron disc,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">girnels, granaries; meal-chests,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">glaid, glad,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">glaiss, glass,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">glamour, spell; charm; enchantment,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">glaur, mud; dirt; ooze,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gleg, quick; lively; smart; quick-witted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">glimp, glimpse; glance, also the least degree,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">glintin’, twinkling; glittering,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gloamin’, twilight; dusk,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gnerlet, gnarled,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">goodman, master; husband; head of household,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gowans, daisies,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gowany, flowered with daisies,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gowd, gold,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gowk, cuckoo; fool; blockhead,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gowkit, foolish; silly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">graivelly, gravely,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gran’, grand; capital; first-rate,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gran’est, grandest,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gran’father, grandfather,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">green bree, cesspool, also stagnant pool by a dunghill,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">greitin’, crying; weeping,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">grenite, granite,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gret, great,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">grief, grieve,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">grip, grasp; understand,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">grippit, grasped; understood,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">grue, feeling of horror; tremor,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">grum’lin’, grumbling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">grup, grip; grasp,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gruppit, gripped; grabbed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gudeman, master; husband; head of household,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">guid, good, also God,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">guid-hertit, good-hearted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">guidit, treated; handled; managed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">guiss, guess,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haddie, haddock,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hadna, had not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hae, have; has,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hae a news, talk; gossip,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haein, having,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haein’, having,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haena, have not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haill, whole,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hairm, harm,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Haith!, Faith!, exclamation of surprise,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haithen, heathen,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haiven, heaven,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haiver, talk nonsense,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hale, whole,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">half-hoor, half-hour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hame, home,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">han’, hand,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hang, hanged, also made,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hangt, hanged,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hanks, rope; coil; skein of cotton,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">han’le, handle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hantle, much; large quantity; far,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hap, cover; wrap; shield,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">h’ard, heard,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hark, listen,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">harns, brains,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hasna, does not have,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haud, hold; keep,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hauden, held; kept,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haugh, river-meadow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hause, neck; throat,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hawpy, happy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">haymows, large haystacks,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">heap, very much; heap,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hearken, hearken; hear; listen to,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hearten, encourage,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hech!, Oh!, strange!, a sighing exclamation,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hed, had,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hedna, had not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">heedna, heed not; do not heed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">heicht, height,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">heid, head; heading,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">heigh, high,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">helpit, helped,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hen-scraich, chicken cackle, lit. chicken scream,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">herd, herd-boy; cow-boy, also herd,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hermony, harmony,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hersel’, herself,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hert, heart,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">her ’t, it to her,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hertenin’, enheartening; encouraging,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hertless, heartless,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">herty, heartily; hearty,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hid, had, also hid,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hield, held,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hillie, little hill, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">himsel’, himself,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hin’, hind; backside,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hin’ side afore, back to front,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hing, hang,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hirplin, limping; hobbling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his, has, also his; us (emphatic),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hit, it, emphatic,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hoarible, horrible,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hoo, how,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hoor, hour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hoose, house,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hoosie, little house, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hoots, exclamation of doubt or contempt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hose, stocking,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">houff, haunt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">houp, hope,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">how, hollow; valley; glen,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hum’le, hornless; fingerless,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hun’ers, hundreds,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hunger-like, shrivelled; lacking nutrients,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hungert, starved,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hurtit, hurt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hyne, far (away),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">i’, in; into,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I doobt, I know; I suspect,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I wat, I know; I assure (you),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">idleset, idleness; frivolous amusement,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ilk(a), every; each, also common; ordinary,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ill, bad; evil; hard; harsh, also misfortune; harm,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’ill, will,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ill-fauredest, most unbecoming or unmannerly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ill-guideship, mismanagement; ill-treatment,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ill-guidit, mismanaged; ill-treated,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’im, him,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">imaigine, imagine,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">immorawlity, immorality,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in atween, in the meantime; between,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">informt, informed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ingle-neuk, chimney-corner or recess,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inten’, intend,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inten’it, intended,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">intil, into; in; within,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inveet, invite; invitation,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inveetit, invited,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ir, are,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’is, his,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I s’ awa, I’m off; I’d better go,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ise, I shall,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">isna, is not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">i’stead, instead,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ither, other; another; further,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’ithin, within,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">itsel’, itself,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jabble, ripple; small broken waves,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jaws, billows; splashes; surges,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jeames, James,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jeedge, judge,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jerooslem, Jerusalem,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jine, join,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jints, joints,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jist, just,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">j’ists, joists,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jography, geography,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jooggy, jigger; shot (of whisky),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">justifeed, justified,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kail-wife, woman who sells colewort,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kaimbt, combed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">keepit, kept,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">keerious, curious,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ken, know; be acquainted with; recognise,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kenna, do not know,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kenspeckle, conspicuous, easily recognised from some peculiarity,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kent, known; knew,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">killt, killed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kin’, kind; nature; sort; agreeable, also somewhat; in some degree,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kin’ness, kindness,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kirk, church,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kirkyaird, churchyard,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kist, chest; coffer; box; chest of drawers,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">knicht, knight,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">koft, bought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">kye, cattle; cows,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">laad, lad; boy, term of commendation or reverence,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">laddie, boy, term of affection,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lads, boys, term of commendation or reverence,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">laidders, ladders,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">laird, landed proprietor; squire; lord,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lairick, larch (type of tree),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lairt, stuck fast (in mud or snow),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">laith, loath; unwilling; reluctant,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">laithly, loathsome; foul; repulsive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Laitin, Latin,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lan’, land; country; ground,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lane(s), lone; alone; lonely; solitary,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lang, long; big; large, also slow; tedious,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">langer, longer,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">langsyne, ancient; (old) times; long ago,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lan’s, lands; estates,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lass, girl; young woman, term of address,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lassie, girl, term of endearment,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lat, let; allow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lat gang to dirt an’ green bree, go to pot; go to ruin,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">latten, let; allowed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lauch, laugh,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lave, rest; remainder; others, also leave,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">laverock, lark (type of bird),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lawfu’, lawful,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lea’, leave,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lear, learning; education; lore, also teach,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">learn, learn, also teach,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">learnt, learned, also taught,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leddies, ladies,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leddy, lady,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lee, pasture; fallow ground, also shelter from wind or rain,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lee’d, lied; told lies,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lees, lies,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leest, least,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leeve, live,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leevin’, living; living being,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leevit, lived,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leeward, towards the grassland, also towards the sheltered side,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">len’, lend; give; grant, also loan,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">len’th, length,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leuk, look; watch; appearance,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">licht, light,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lichtin’, lighting,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lickit, thrashed; punished; struck,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lift, load; boost; lift; helping hand, also sky; heavens,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">like, like; likely to; looking as if to, also as it were; as if,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">likesna, does not like,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">likit, liked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">liltin’, singing softly; humming,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lingelt, fastened; fettered; hobbled,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lippen, trust; depend on,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">livin’, living,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’ll, will,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">loch, loch; lake,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lodd, loaded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lo’denin’, loading,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lo’dent, loaded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lo’e, love,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lo’esome, loveable; lovely; winsome,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lood, loud,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">loon, rascal; rogue; ragamuffin,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">loot, let; allowed; permitted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Losh!, corrupt form of ‘Lord’, exclamation of surprise or wonder,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">low, flame,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lowse, loose; free,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lucifer spunks, lucifer-matches,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lug, ear, also shallow wooden dish,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">luik, look,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">luikit, looked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lum, chimney,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lythe, shelter,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mainner, manner,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mainteen, maintain,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mair, more; greater,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mairtins, martins (type of bird),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">maist, most; mostly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’maist, almost,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">maister, master; mister,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">maitter, matter,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mak, make; do,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mankin’, mankind,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mappies, young rabbits, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">maun, must; have to,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">maunna, must not; may not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mavis, song-thrush (type of bird),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mayhap, perhaps; maybe,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mayna, may not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mealock, crumb (of oatcake etc.),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">meen, moon,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">meenute, minute,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">meeserable, miserable,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">meesery, misery,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mem, Ma’am; Miss; Madam,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mendit, mended; healed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">menseless, ill-bred; boorish; unmannerly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mercifu’, merciful; favourable,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">merriage, marriage,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">merry, marry, also merry,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mervel, marvel,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mesel’, myself,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">micht, might,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">michtna, might not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">michty, mighty; God,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">midden, dunghill; manure pile,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">midge, midge; gnat; mosquito,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mids, midst; middle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">miltin’, melting,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">min’, mind; recollection, also recollect; remember,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">minnin, minnow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">min’s, minds; reminds; recollects,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mint, aimed at; intended to; attempted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mintit, minded; remembered,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mirricle, miracle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mischeef, mischief; injury; harm,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">misguidit, wasted; mismanaged; ill-used,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mistak, mistake,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mither, mother,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mony, many,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">moo’, mouth,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">moo’fu’s, mouthfuls,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">motes, motes; specks; crumbs, reference to Matthew 7:3-5,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">moul’, mould; loose earth; top soil,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mould, mould; loose earth; top soil,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">muckle, huge; enormous; big; great; much,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mune, moon,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">muntains, mountains,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">muv, move; affect,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My certie!, Take my word for it!,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">my lane, on my own,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mysel’, myself,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">na, not; by no means,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nae, no; none; not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nae wise, nowise; in no way,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">naebody, nobody; no one,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">naegait, in no wise; nowhere,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">naething, nothing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">naither, neither,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">naitral, natural,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nane, none,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">natur, nature,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nearhan’, nearly; almost; near by,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">necessar’, necessary,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">neebour, neighbour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">needcessity, necessity; state of need,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">needfu’, needful; necessary; needy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">needna, do not need; need not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">neeper, neighbour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">negleckit, neglected,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">neist, next; nearest,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nepkin, large handkerchief,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nestie, little nest, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’neth, beneath; under,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">neuk, nook; recess; interior angle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">news, talk; gossip,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nicht, night; evening,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nick, score; mark (as signature), also cut,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nickum, mischievous and tricky boy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">niffer, exchange; barter,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nigher, nearer; closer,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nipperty, mincing; affected,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">no, not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">noo, now,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nor, than; although; if, also nor,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nor’-easter, northeast wind,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">notwithstan’in’, notwithstanding,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">noucht, nothing; not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nowt, cattle; oxen,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">o’, of; on,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">obleeged, obliged,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">obligatit, obligated; obliged,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">o’er, over; upon; too,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ohn, without; un-, uses past participle not present progressive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ohn expeckit, unexpected,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ony, any,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">onybody, anybody; anyone,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">onything, anything,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oogly, ugly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ook, week,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oolets, owls,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oonprovidit, unprovided,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oor, our,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oor lanes, on our own,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oorsel’s, ourselves,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oot, out,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ootcast, outcast,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">or, before; ere; until; by, also or,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ordinar’, ordinary; usual; natural, also custom; habit,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">orra, odd job (man), also idle; having no settled occupation,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ou, oh,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oucht, anything; all, also ought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ow, oh, exclamation of surprise,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ower, over; upon; too,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">owershot, very fast; racing; exploding,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">owse, ox,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">oye, grandchild; grandson; nephew,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pairt, part,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pale, pointed piece of wood for fencing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">paling, fence of pales,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">passin’, passing; occasional,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pastern, ankle (between hoof and fetlock),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pat, put; made,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pawkiness, shrewdness; cunning,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">peelt, skinned,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">peeramid, pyramid,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">peety, pity,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">percaution, precaution,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">perfec’, perfect; thorough; utter,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">perplexin’, perplexing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">perris, parish,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">persuaudit, persuaded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">perswaud, persuade,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">perswaudit, persuaded,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pey, pay,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pit, put; make,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pitawtas, potatoes,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pitten, put; made,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">plaguit, plagued; troubled,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">plet, plate; dish,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">plooed, ploughed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ploy, amusement; sport; escapade,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">poassible, possible,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pooch, pocket,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pooer, power,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">poun’, pound (sterling),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">practeesed, practised,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">prankit, played tricks on, also played fast and loose with,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">prayt, prayed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">prech, preach,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pree, taste; try; prove; experience,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">preevileeges, privileges,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">prentit, printed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">press-bed, box-bed with doors,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">prest, pressed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">preten’it, pretended,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">priestie, little priest, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pris’ner, prisoner,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">prood, proud,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pruv, prove,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pruv’t, proven; proved,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pu’, pull,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">puckle, small quantity,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">puir, poor,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pump, beer-shop, also pump,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">putten, put,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pyke, pick; pluck,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">quaiet, quiet,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">quaiet sough, quiet tongue,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">quaitet, quieted; silenced,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">quest’ons, questions,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">quo’, swore; said; quoth,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">railly, really,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">raither, rather,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rale, real; true; very,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">randy, rough; wild; riotous, also coarse-tongued; abusive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rant, make merry; revel,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rase, rose,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rave, tore,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rax, extend; overdo it; stretch,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reacht, reached,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">red, rid; free,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">redd, set in order; tidy; clean,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reef, roof,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">refar, refer,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">refeese, refuse,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reid, red,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reik, smoke,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">releast, released,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">repentit, repented,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reyn, rein,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">richt, right; correct, also mend,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">richtly, certainly; positively,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ridic’lous, ridiculous; unseasonable (weather),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">riggin’, ridge; roof,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rigs, ridges (in a ploughed field),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rin, run,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rintherroot, gadabout; homeless vagrant; tramp,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rist, rest,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ristet, rested,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rizon, reason,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ro’d, road; course; way,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">roomie, little room, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">roon’, around; round,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rottan, rat,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rouch, rough,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">roun, whisper,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rowtin’, bellowing; roaring; lowing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rucks, ricks; stacks,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">run k-nots, slip knots (that can not be untied),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">runkle, wrinkle; crease,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’s, us; his; as; is, also has,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">s’, shall,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sab, sob,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sae, so; as,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">safe, safely, also safe,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">safity, safety,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sair, sore; sorely; sad; hard; very; greatly, also serve,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">saitisfee, satisfy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">saiven, seven,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sall, shall,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">san’, sand,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sang, song,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sangie, little song, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sangna, did not sing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sankna, did not sink,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sarious, serious,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sark, shirt,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sattle, settle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">saugh, sallow; willow (type of tree),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">saven, wise; knowledgeable,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">savet, saved,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">savin’, saving, also except,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sawbath, Sabbath,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sawmon, salmon,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sawna, did not see,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sawtan, Satan,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">saxpence, sixpence,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’scape, escape,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scatter’t, scattered,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">schuil, school,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">schuilin’, schooling; education,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">schuilmaister, schoolmaster,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">schuilmaisterin’, schoolmastering; teaching,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scomfished, suffocated; stifled; choked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scoorin’, scampering,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scornin’, mocking; ridiculing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Scotlan’, Scotland,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scrape, scrape; shave,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scrattit, scratched; dug,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scrimp, stunted; sparing, also short in weight or measure,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scunner, disgust; disgusting; revolting,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">scunnerfu’, disgusting; loathsome; sickening,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">seemile, simile,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">seener, sooner,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sen’, send,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">set, set out; start off; become,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">set doon Bony an’ set up Louy, lowers one; exalts another, Psalm 75:7,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">setna, do not set,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Setterday, Saturday,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">settisfaction, satisfaction,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shaidow, shadow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shal’t, shelled,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shaw, show; reveal,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shee, shoe,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sheen, shoes,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sherp, sharp,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shirra’, sheriff,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shoothers, shoulders,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shot, speed; blasting; heavy breakers (sea), also shoot,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shottin’, shooting,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shuitable, suitable,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sic, such; so,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sich, sigh,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sicht, sight,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sids, husks of oats,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">siller, silver; money; wealth,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">simmer, Summer,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sin, since; ago; since then, also sin; sun,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sitten, sat,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sizon, season,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">skirlin’, screaming; singing shrilly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sklet, (school) slate, also roofing slate,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sklet-pike, slate pencil,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sma’, small; little; slight; narrow; young,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">smokin’ flax, smouldering wick, reference to Matthew 12:20,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">snap, sharp blow; sudden stumble,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">snawba’, snowball,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sneck, door-latch; catch (gate),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">snot, small lump (of soot),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">soary, sorry,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">some, somewhat; rather; quite; very, also some,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">somehoo, somehow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">soo, ache; throb,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">soomin’, swimming; floating,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">soon’, sound,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">soopit, swept,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">soucht, sought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sough, sigh; sound of wind; deep breath,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">soughie, little sough, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sowens, sour pudding of oats and water,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sowl, soul,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spak, spoke,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spate, spate; flood,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">speerit, spirit,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">speir, ask about; enquire; question,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">speirin’, asking about; enquiring; questioning,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">speirt, asked about; enquired; questioned,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spen’, spend,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spendrife, spendthrift,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">speyk, speak,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spune, spoon,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spunks, sparks; matches,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spurtle, porridge stick, also wooden rod for turning oatcakes,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stair, stairs,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stan’, stand; stop,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stane, stone; measure of weight, 1 stone = 14 pounds,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stan’in, standing,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stap, stop; stuff, also step,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stappit, stopped; stuffed, also stepped,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">steek, shut; close; push, also stitch (as in clothing),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stert, start; jump with surprise,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sterve, starve,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stick, stick; gore; butt with horns,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stickit, stuck; gored,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stippety-stap, short mincing gait,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stirks, steers,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stoot, stout; healthy; strong; plucky,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">strae, straw,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">straik, streak; stroke; caress,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">strang, strong,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stray, lost; not at home,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stude, stood,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">subjec’, subject,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sud, should,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sudna, should not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sune, soon; early,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">suner, sooner,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sunest, soonest,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">supposit, supposed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sutor, shoemaker; cobbler,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sweem, swim; float,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sweir, swear,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">swoord, sword,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">syne, ago; since; then; at that time, also in (good) time,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’t, it,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tae, toe, also the one,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">taeless, toeless,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ta’en, taken; seized,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tailie, little tail, diminutive,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tak, take; seize,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tak a lug, have a dish,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tak tent, look out; pay attention,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">takna, do not take,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tane, the one,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tap, top; tip; head,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tarn, mountain lake,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">taucht, taught,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tay, tea,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tee, ‘to ye’ i.e. to you, also tea; too; also,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">teetle, title,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tellt, told,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tent, attention; care; heed; notice,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">teuch, tough; hard,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">teuk, took,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">than, then, also than</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thankit, thanked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the day, today,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the morn, tomorrow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the morn’s, tomorrow is,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the nicht, tonight,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the noo, just now,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thegither, together,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">themsel’s, themselves,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thereoot, outside; out there; out-of-doors,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thestreen, last night,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">think, feel; experience; expect; wonder,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Think ye?, Do you think so?,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">this lang time, for a long time,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tho’, though,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thoo, thou; you (God),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thoom, thumb,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thoosan’, thousand,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thouch, though,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thoucht, thought,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thrapple, windpipe; neck,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thraw, throw; turn; twist,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thraw one’s lug, twist one’s ear; punish,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">three-fauld, threefold; three times,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">threep, argue obstinately, also maintain by dint of assertion,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thro’t, throat,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">throt-ro’d, throat, i.e. be drunk,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">throu’, through,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thunner, thunder,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tice, entice; coax,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’tice, entice; coax,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">till, to; till; until; about; at; before,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ting-a-ling, sound of a small bell,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tint, lost; got lost,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tiret, tired,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’tis, it is,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tither, the other,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tod, fox,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">toom, empty; unload,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">toom-heidit, empty headed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">toon, town; village,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tow, rope; string,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">trail, drag forcibly; haul along,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">traivel, travel,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">trible, trouble,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">trifflin’, trifling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">trim’le, tremble,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">trimmin’, beating; scolding,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">troth, truth; indeed, used as an exclamation,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">trowth, truth,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">trustit, trusted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’ts, its,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tuck, beat (drum),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tuik, took,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tum’ler, tumbler; glass (of whisky),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">turnt, turned,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">twa, two; a few,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’twar, it were,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’twarna, it were not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’twas, it was,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">twise, twice,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">twistet, twisted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tyauve, strive; struggle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tyne, lose; get lost,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ugsome, disgusting; frightful; ghastly,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">umbrell, umbrella,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">unco, unknown; odd; strange; uncouth, also very great,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">un’er, under,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">un’erstan’, understand,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">up the stair, upstairs,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">upliftit, uplifted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">upo’, upon; on to; at,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">up-road, road (to heaven),</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">vailue, value,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">vainity, vanity,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">verra, very; true; real,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">v’ice, voice,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">vreet, write,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">vroucht, wrought; worked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wa’, wall, also way</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wad, would,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wadna, would not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wae, woe; sad; sorrowful,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">waggin’, wagging; nodding,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">waitit, waited,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">walcome, welcome,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">w’alth, wealth; abundance,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wan, reached; gained; got,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wantin’, wanting; lacking; without; in want of,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wantit, wanted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">war, were,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wark, work; labour,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warl’, world; worldly goods, also a large number,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warl’s gear, worldly substance,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warna, were not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warran’, warrant; guarantee,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warrin’, warring,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warst, worst,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warstle, wrestle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warstlin’, wrestling,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wa’s, walls, also ways,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">washen, washed,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wasna, was not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wasterfu’, wasteful; extravagant,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">water-brose, oatmeal stirred into boiling, water until thick,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wather, weather,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">watter, water,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">waur, worse, also spend money</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wee, small; little; bit, also short time; while,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weel, well; fine,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weel-behaved, well-behaved,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weet, wet; dew; rain,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weetin’, wetting; getting wet,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weicht, weight,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weir, wear, also hedge; fence; enclosure,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weird, doom; disaster,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weyve, weave; knit,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">weyver, weaver; knitter, also knitter of stockings; spider,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wha, who,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whae’er, whoever,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wha’ll, who will,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whan, when,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wharfor, what for; why; for what reason,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wha’s, who is, also whose</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What ca’ they ye?, What’s your name?,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What for no?, Why not?,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What for?, Why?,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whaten, (on; by) what; what kind of,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what-for, why; reason, also punishment; retribution,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whaul, whale,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whaur, where,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whause, whose,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wheel, eddy; pool; deep still part of the river,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wheen, little; few; number; quantity,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whiles, sometimes; at times; now and then,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whilk, which,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whisht!, Quiet! Silence! Hush!,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whumled, whelmed; overwhelmed; upset,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whup, whip,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whusky, whisky,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">whustle, whistle,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wi’, with,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wice-like, seem wise,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wicket, back-door of a barn,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wickit, wicked,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wifie, little woman, term of endearment,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">willin’est, willingest,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">win, reach; gain; get,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">win’, wind,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">win’le strae, straw or grass dried on its root, weak; unhealthy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">winna, will not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wins, reaches; gains; gets,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">winsome, large; comely,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wi’oot, without,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wires, knitting needles,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wis, was,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wither, weather,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">won’er, wonder; marvel,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">won’erfu’, wonderful; great; large,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">won’erin’, wondering,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">worset, woollen fabric; wool; worsted,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">worum, worm,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wrang, wrong; injured,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">writch, rich,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wuddie, gallows, also willow,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wuds, woods; forests,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wull, will; wish; desire, also astray; stray; wild,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wullin’, willing; wanting,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wuman, woman,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wunna, would not; will not,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wur, lay out,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wuss, wish,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wut, wit; intelligence; sense,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">w’y, way,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wydin’, wading,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wyte, blame; reproach,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yaird, yard,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ye, you; yourself,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">year, years, also year,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ye’ll, you will,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yer, your,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yer lane, on your own,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ye’re, you are,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yersel’, yourself,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ye ’t, it to you,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yett, gate,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yeuks, itches,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yeuky, itchy,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ye’ve, you have,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yon, that; those; that there,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yon’er, yonder; over there; in that place,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yon’ll, that will; that (thing) there will,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yon’s, that is; that (thing) there is,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yoong, young,</span><br> + +</p> +</div> + + + + + + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIR GIBBIE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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