“Is she a sinner?” he asked on his fingers.
Mrs. Sclater nodded.
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.
“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.”
Jane opened the door, Gibbie let her go, and Mrs. Croale went. But on the threshold she turned.
“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 preacht 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.”
“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—”
“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.”
With that she turned and walked down the steps, holding her head high.
“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.