“Whaur the Lord wulls,” answered the woman. “Whaur that may be, I confess I’m whiles laith to think. Only gien I was you, Maister Sclater, I wad think twise afore I made ill waur.”
“But hear me, Mistress Croale: it’s not your besotted customers only I have to care for. Your soul is as precious in my sight as any of which I shall have to render an account.”
“As Mistress Bonniman’s, for enstance?” suggested Mrs. Croale, interrogatively, and with just the least trace of pawkiness in the tone.
The city, large as it was, was yet not large enough to prevent a portion of the private affairs of individuals from coming to be treated as public property, and Mrs. Bonniman was a handsome and rich young widow, the rumour of whose acceptableness to Mr. Sclater had reached Mistress Croale’s ear before ever she had seen the minister himself. An unmistakable shadow of confusion crossed his countenance; whereupon with consideration both for herself and him, the woman made haste to go on, as if she had but chosen her instance at merest random.
“Na, na, sir! what my sowl may be in the eyes o’ my Maker, I hae ill tellin’,” she said, “but dinna ye threep upo’ me ’at it’s o’ the same vailue i’ your eyes as the sowl o’ sic a fine, bonnie, winsome leddy as yon. In trowth,” she added, and shook her head mournfully, “I haena had sae mony preevileeges; an’ maybe it’ll be seen till, an’ me passed ower a wheen easier nor some fowk.”
“I wouldn’t have you build too much upon that, Mistress Croale,” said Mr. Sclater, glad to follow the talk down another turning, but considerably more afraid of rousing the woman than he had been before.
The remark drove her behind the categorical stockade of her religious merits.
“I pey my w’y,” she said, with modest firmness. “I put my penny, and whiles my saxpence, intil the plate at the door whan I gang to the kirk—an’ I was jist thinkin’ I wad win there the morn’s nicht at farest, whan I turnt an’ saw ye stan’in there, sir; an’ little I thoucht—but that’s neither here nor there, I’m thinkin’. I tell as feow lees as I can; I never sweir, nor tak the name o’ the Lord in vain, anger me ’at likes; I sell naething but the best whusky; I never hae but broth to my denner upo’ the Lord’s day, an’ broth canna brak the Sawbath, simmerin’ awa upo’ the bar o’ the grate, an’ haudin’ no lass frae the kirk; I confess, gien ye wull be speirin’, ’at I dinna read my buik sae aften as maybe I sud; but, ’deed, sir, tho’ I says ’t ’at sud haud my tongue, ye hae waur folk i’ yer perris nor Benjie Croale’s widow; an’ gien ye wunna hae a drap to weet yer ain whustle for the holy wark ye hae afore ye the morn’s mornin’, I maun gang an’ mak my bed, for the lass is laid up wi’ a bealt thoom, an’ I maunna lat a’ thing gang to dirt an’ green bree; though I’m sure it’s rale kin’ o’ ye to come to luik efter me, an’ that’s mair nor Maister Rennie, honest gentleman, ever did me the fawvour o’, a’ the time he ministered the perris. I haena an ill name wi’ them ’at kens me, sir; that I can say wi’ a clean conscience; an’ ye may ken me weel gien ye wull. An’ there’s jist ae thing mair, sir: I gie ye my Bible-word, ’at never, gien I saw sign o’ repentance or turnin’ upo’ ane o’ them ’at pits their legs aneth my table—Wad ye luik intil the parlour, sir? No!—as I was sayin’, never did I, sin I keepit hoose, an’ never wad I set mysel’ to quench the smokin’ flax; I wad hae no man’s deith, sowl or body, lie at my door.”
“Well, well, Mistress Croale,” said the minister, somewhat dazed by the cataract he had brought upon his brain, and rather perplexed what to say in reply with any hope of reaching her, “I don’t doubt a word of what you tell me; but you know works cannot save us; our best righteousness is but as filthy rags.”
“It’s weel I ken that, Mr. Sclater. An’ I’m sure I’ll be glaid to see ye, sir, ony time ye wad dee me the fawvour to luik in as ye’re passin’ by. It’ll be none to yer shame, sir, for mine’s an honest hoose.”