The room was as full as before. Six women were sitting in the middle of the floor teasing out an old hair mattress. There was the same odor of cooking, early as it was, and the same medley of noises, but the people were different. The basket-making cripple was gone, and in his place by the window sat a big Irish beggar-woman, who was keeping up a conversation with some one (a compatriot evidently) in a window of the close behind.
The mistress of the house came forward. She was a decent-looking little woman, but had rather a hard face, expressive of care and anxiety. On recognizing her visitor she curtsied: "The Wisharts, mem? Yes, they're a' in jail."
"All in jail?" echoed Miss Mackenzie. "Will you come outside and speak to me? There are so many people—"
"Eh yes, mem: I'm sure ye fin' the room closs. Eh yes, mem, the Wisharts are a' in the lock-up."
They were standing outside in the passage, and Mrs. Kennedy held the door closed by the latch, which she kept firmly grasped in her hand. It struck Miss Mackenzie as being an odd way to secure privacy for a privileged communication, to fasten the door of their room upon those inside. It was expressive, however.
"Ye see, mem," began the landlady, "Wishart's no a very bad man—jist weak in the heid like—but's wife is jist something awfu', an' I could not let her bide in a decent lodging-house. We hae to dra' the line somewhere, and I dra' it low enough, but she wis far below that. Eh, she's jist terrible! Wishart has a sister in Glasgae verra weel to do, an' I h'ard him say he'd gie the lassie to her if it wer na for the wife. The day the school-board gentleman wis here she came back: she'd been away, ye ken, and she said she'd become a t'otaller, an' so I sed she micht stay; but, ye see, when nicht came on she an' Wishart gaed out thegither, an' jist to celebrate their bein' frien's again she an' him gaed intil a public, an' she got uproarious drunk, an' the polis took her up. Wishart wis no sae bad, sae they let him come hame; but, ye see, he had tasted the drink, an' wanted mair, an' he hadna ony money. Ye see, he'd promised the gentleman who came here that he widna send Baubie oot to sing again. But he did send her oot then to sing for money for him, an' the polis had been put to watch her, an' saw her beg, an' took her up to the office, an' came back here for Wishart. An' so before the day was dune they were a' lockit up thegither."
Such was the story related to Miss Mackenzie. What was to be done with Baubie now? It was hardly fair that she should be sent to a reformatory among criminal children. She had committed no crime, and there was that empty bed at the home for little girls. She determined to attend the sheriff-court on Monday morning and ask to be given the custody of Baubie.
When Monday morning came, ten o'clock saw Miss Mackenzie established in a seat immediately below the sheriff's high bench. The Wisharts were among the first batch tried, and made their appearance from a side-door. Mrs. Wishart came first, stepping along with a resolute, brazen bearing that contrasted with her husband's timid, shuffling gait. She was a gypsy-looking woman, with wandering, defiant black eyes, and her red face had the sign-manual of vice stamped upon it. After her came Baubie, a red-tartan-covered mite, shrinking back and keeping as close to her father as she could. Baubie had favored her mother as to complexion: that was plain. The top of her rough head and her wild brown eyes were just visible over the panel as she stared round her, taking in with composure and astuteness everything that was going on. She was the most self-possessed of her party, for under Mrs. Wishart's active brazenness there could easily be seen fear and a certain measure of remorse hiding themselves; and Wishart seemed to be but one remove from imbecility.
The charges were read with a running commentary of bad language from Mrs. Wishart as her offences were detailed; Wishart blinked in a helpless, pathetic way; Baubie, who seemed to consider herself as associated with him alone in the charge, assumed an air of indifference and sucked her thumb, meantime watching Miss Mackenzie furtively. She felt puzzled to account for her presence there, but it never entered her head to connect that fact with herself in any way.
"Guilty or not guilty?" asked the sheriff-clerk.