"Ay," responded her customer, who kept a shop near by for old furniture, or anything that had been already once possessed--"ay, Idaursay.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 his mither's weel awa' an' canna see't; it wad gar her turn in her grave."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.
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.
"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."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.
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.
"Troth, I didna min' 'at it was Setterday," he answered."I wuss Ihad 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."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.
