“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.”
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.
“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.”
“They’re like to see deils ony gait er lang,” retorted the minister, relapsing into the vernacular for a moment.
“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.”
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.
“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!”
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.
“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!”
“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?”