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.
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 radiant youth, watching near.The slow night passed.
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.
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.
