Ye dee eneuch for me, Sir Gilbert, a'ready; an' though I wad be obleeged to you as I wad to my mither hersel', to cleed me gien Iwarna dacent, I winna tak your siller nor naebody ither's to gang fine.Na, na; I'll weir the claes oot, an' we s' dee better wi' the neist.An' for that bonnie wuman, Mistress Scletter, ye can tell her, 'at by the time I hae onything to say to the warl', it winna be my claes 'at'll haud fowk ohn hearkent; an' gien she considers them 'at I hae noo, ower sair a disgrace till her gran' rooms, she maun jist no inveet me, an' I'll no come; for I canna presently help them.But the neist session, whan I hae better, for I'm sure to get wark eneuch in atween, I'll come an' shaw mysel', an' syne she can dee as she likes."This high tone of liberty, so free from offence either given or taken, was thoroughly appreciated by both Mr.and Mrs.Sclater, and they did not cease to invite him.A little talk with the latter soon convinced him that there was neither assumption nor lack of patriotism in speaking the language of the people among whom he found himself; and as he made her his model in the pursuit of the accomplishment, he very soon spoke a good deal better English than Mr.Sclater.But with Gibbie, and even with the dainty Ginevra, he could not yet bring himself to talk anything but his mother-tongue.
"I cannot mak my moo'," he would say, "to speyk onything but the nat'ral tongue o' poetry till sic a bonnie cratur as Miss Galbraith;an' for yersel', Gibbie--man! I wad be ill willin' to bigg a stane wa' atween me an' the bonnie days whan Angus Mac Pholp was the deil we did fear, an' Hornie the deil we didna.--Losh, man! what wad come o' me gien I hed to say my prayers in English! I doobt gien 't wad come oot prayin' at a'!"I am well aware that most Scotch people of that date tried to say their prayers in English, but not so Janet or Robert, and not so had they taught their children.I fancy not a little unreality was thus in their case avoided.
"What will you do when you are a minister?" asked Gibbie on his fingers.
"Me a minnister?" echoed Donal."Me a minnister!" he repeated.
"Losh, man! gien I can save my ain sowl, it'll be a' 'at I'm fit for, ohn lo'dent it wi' a haill congregation o' ither fowk's.Na, na; gien I can be a schuilmaister, an' help the bairnies to be guid, as my mither taucht mysel', an' hae time to read, an' a feow shillin's to buy buiks aboot Aigypt an' the Holy Lan', an' a full an' complete edition o' Plato, an' a Greek Lexicon--a guid ane, an'
a Jamieson's Dictionar', haith, I'll be a hawpy man! An' gien Idinna like the schuilmaisterin', I can jist tak to the wark again, whilk I cudna dee sae weel gien I had tried the preachin': fowk wad ca' me a stickit minister! Or maybe they'll gie me the sheep to luik efter upo' Glashgar, whan they're ower muckle for my father, an' that wad weel content me.Only I wad hae to bigg a bit mair to the hoosie, to haud my buiks: I maun hae buiks.I wad get the newspapers whiles, but no aften, for they're a sair loss o' precious time.Ye see they tell ye things afore they're sure, an' ye hae to spen' yer time the day readin' what ye'll hae to spen' yer time the morn readin' oot again; an' ye may as weel bide till the thing's sattled a wee.I wad jist lat them fecht things oot 'at thoucht they saw hoo they oucht to gang; an' I wad gie them guid mutton to haud them up to their dreary wark, an' maybe a sangy noo an' than 'at wad help them to drap it a'thegither.""But wouldn't you like to have a wife, Donal, and children, like your father and mother?" spelt Gibbie.
"Na, na; nae wife for me, Gibbie!" answered the philosopher."Wha wad hae aither a pure schuilmaister or a shepherd?--'cep' it was maybe some lass like my sister Nicie, 'at wadna ken Euclid frae her hose, or Burns frae a mill-dam, or conic sections frae the hole i'
the great peeramid."
"I don't like to hear you talk like that, Donal," said Gibbie."What do you say to mother?""The mither's no to be said aboot," answerd Donal."She's ane by hersel', no ane like ither fowk.Ye wadna think waur o' the angel Gabriel 'at he hedna jist read Homer clean throu', wad ye?""If I did," answered Gibbie, "he would only tell me there was time enough for that."When they met on a Friday evening, and it was fine, they would rove the streets, Gibbie taking Donal to the places he knew so well in his childhood, and enjoying it the more that he could now tell him so much better what he remembered.The only place he did not take him to was Jink Lane, with the house that had been Mistress Croale's.He did take him to the court in the Widdiehill, and show him the Auld Hoose o' Galbraith, and the place under the stair where his father had worked.The shed was now gone; the neighbours had by degrees carried it away for firewood.The house was occupied still as then by a number of poor people, and the door was never locked, day or night, any more than when Gibbie used to bring his father home.He took Donal to the garret where they had slept--one could hardly say lived, and where his father died.The door stood open, and the place was just as they had left it.A year or two after, Gibbie learned how it came to be thus untenanted: it was said to be haunted.Every Sunday Sir George was heard at work, making boots for his wee Gibbie from morning to night; after which, when it was dark, came dreadful sounds of supplication, as of a soul praying in hell-fire.For a while the house was almost deserted in consequence.
"Gien I was you, Sir Gilbert," said Donal, who now and then remembered Mrs.Sclater's request--they had come down, and looking at the outside of the house, had espied a half-obliterated stone-carving of the Galbraith arms--"Gien I was you, Sir Gilbert, Iwad gar Maister Scletter keep a sherp luik oot for the first chance o' buyin' back this hoose.It wad be a great peety it sud gang to waur afore ye get it.Eh! sic tales as this hoose cud tell!""How am I to do that, Donal? Mr.Sclater would not mind me.The money's not mine yet, you know," said Gibbie.