“An’ noo,” remarked Donal, “he’ll be thinkin’ ’t a’ ower again, as he rins aboot the toon this verra meenute, luikin’ for me!”
“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.”
Donal explained that he knew neither the name of the street nor of the people where he was lodging.
“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.
But scarcely had he begun his description of the house when she cried,
“Hoots, man! it’s at Lucky Murkison’s ye are, i’ the Wuddiehill. Come awa, an’ I s’ tak ye hame in a jiffey.”
So saying, she rose, took the candle, showed him down the stair, and followed.
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.
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.
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 houff 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.