Sir Gibbie Part 48

A young woman--it was Donal's eldest sister, but he knew nothing of her--opened the door to him, and showed him up the stair to his old study. There a great fire was burning; but, beyond that, everything, even to the trifles on his writing table, was just as when last he left the house. His chair stood in its usual position by the fire, and wine and biscuits were on a little table near.

"Very considerate!" he said to himself. "I trust the major does not mean to keep me waiting, though. Deuced hard to have to leave a place like this!"

Weary with his journey he fell into a doze, dreamed of his dead wife, woke suddenly, and heard the door of the room open. There was Major Culsalmon entering with outstretched hand! and there was a lady--his wife doubtless! But how young the major was! he had imagined him a man in middle age at least!--Bless his soul! was he never to get rid of this impostor fellow! it was not the major! it was the rascal calling himself Sir Gilbert Galbraith!--the half-witted wretch his fool of a daughter insisted on marrying!

Here he was, ubiquitous as Satan! And--bless his soul again! there was the minx, Jenny! looking as if the place was her own! The silly tears in her eyes too!--It was all too absurd! He had just been dreaming of his dead wife, and clearly that was it! he was not awake yet!

He tried hard to wake, but the dream mastered him.

"Jenny!" he said, as the two stood for a moment regarding him, a little doubtfully, but with smiles of welcome, "what is the meaning of this? I did not know Major Culsalmon had invited you! And what is this person doing here?"

"Papa," replied Ginevra, with a curious smile, half merry, half tearful, "this person is my husband, Sir Gilbert Galbraith of Glashruach; and you are at home in your own study again."

"Will you never have done masquerading, Jenny?" he returned. "Inform Major Culsalmon that I request to see him immediately."

He turned towards the fire, and took up a newspaper. They thought it better to leave him. As he sat, by degrees the truth grew plain to him. But not one other word on the matter did the man utter to the day of his death. When dinner was announced, he walked straight from the dining-room door to his former place at the foot of the table. But Robina Grant was equal to the occasion. She caught up the dish before him, and set it at the side. There Gibbie seated himself; and, after a moment's hesitation, Ginevra placed herself opposite her husband.

The next day Gibbie provided him with something to do. He had the chest of papers found in the Auld Hoose o' Galbraith carried into his study, and the lawyer found both employment and interest for weeks in deciphering and arranging them. Amongst many others concerning the property, its tenures, and boundaries, appeared some papers which, a.s.sociated and compared, threw considerable doubt on the way in which portions of it had changed hands, and pa.s.sed from those of Gibbie's ancestors into those of Ginevra's--who were lawyers as well as Galbraiths; and the laird was keen of scent as any nose-hound after dishonesty in other people. In the course of a fortnight he found himself so much at home in his old quarters, and so much interested in those papers and his books, that when Sir Gilbert informed him Ginevra and he were going back to the city, he p.r.o.nounced it decidedly the better plan, seeing he was there himself to look after affairs.

For the rest of the winter, therefore, Mr. Galbraith played the grand seigneur as before among the tenants of Glashruach.

CHAPTER LXII.

THE BURN.

The moment they were settled in the Auld Hoose, Gibbie resumed the habits of the former winter, which Mistress Croale's failure had interrupted. And what a change it was to Ginevra--from imprisonment to ministration! She found difficulties at first, as may readily be believed. But presently came help. As soon as Mistress Croale heard of their return, she went immediately to Lady Galbraith, one morning while Sir Gibbie was at college, literally knelt at her feet, and with tears told her the whole tale, beseeching her intercession with Sir Gibbie.

"I want naething," she insisted, "but his fawvour, an' the licht o'

his bonnie c.o.o.ntenance."

The end of course was that she was gladly received again into the house, where once more she attended to all the princ.i.p.al at least of her former duties. Before she died, there was a great change and growth in her: she was none of those before whom pearls must not be cast.

Every winter, for many years, Sir Gilbert and Lady Galbraith occupied the Auld Hoose; which by degrees came at length to be known as the refuge of all that were in honest distress, the salvation of all in themselves such as could be helped, and a covert for the night to all the houseless, of whatever sort, except those drunk at the time. Caution had to be exercised, and judgment used; the caution was tender and the judgment stern. The next year they built a house in a sheltered spot on Glashgar, and thither from the city they brought many invalids, to spend the summer months under the care of Janet and her daughter Robina, whereby not a few were restored sufficiently to earn their bread for a time thereafter.

The very day the session was over, they returned to Glashruach, where they were received by the laird, as he was still called, as if they had been guests. They found Joseph, the old butler, reinstated, and Angus again acting as gamekeeper. Ginevra welcomed Joseph, but took the first opportunity of telling Angus that for her father's sake Sir Gilbert allowed him to remain, but on the first act of violence he should at once be dismissed, and probably prosecuted as well. Donal's eldest brother was made bailiff.

Before long Gibbie got the other two also about him, and as soon as, with justice, he was able, settled them together upon one of his farms. Every Sat.u.r.day, so long as Janet lived, they met, as in the old times, at the cottage--only with Ginevra in the place of the absent Donal. More to her own satisfaction, after all, than Robert's, Janet went home first,--"to be at han'," she said, "to open the door till him whan he chaps." Then Robert went to his sons below on their farm, where he was well taken care of; but happily he did not remain long behind his wife. That first summer, Nicie returned to Glashruach to wait on Lady Galbraith, was more her friend than her servant, and when she married, was settled on the estate.

For some little time Ginevra was fully occupied in getting her house in order, and furnishing the new part of it. When that was done, Sir Gilbert gave an entertainment to his tenants. The laird preferred a trip to the city, "on business," to the humiliation of being present as other than the greatest; though perhaps he would have minded it less had he ever himself given a dinner to his tenants.

Robert and Janet declined the invitation.

"We're ower auld for makin' merry 'cep' in oor ain herts," said Janet. "But bide ye, my bonny Sir Gibbie, till we're a' up yon'er, an' syne we'll see."

The place of honour was therefore given to Jean Mavor, who was beside herself with joy to see her broonie lord of the land, and be seated beside him in respect and friendship. But her brother said it was "clean ridic'lous;" and not to the last would consent to regard the new laird as other than half-witted, insisting that everything was done by his wife, and that the talk on his fingers was a mere pretence.

When the main part of the dinner was over, Sir Gilbert and his lady stood at the head of the table, and, he speaking by signs and she interpreting, made a little speech together. In the course of it Sir Gibbie took occasion to apologize for having once disturbed the peace of the country-side by acting the supposed part of a broonie, and in relating his adventures of the time, accompanied his wife's text with such graphic ill.u.s.tration of gesture, that his audience laughed at the merry tale till the tears ran down their cheeks.

Then with a few allusions to his strange childhood, he thanked the G.o.d who led him through th.o.r.n.y ways into the very arms of love and peace in the cottage of Robert and Janet Grant, whence, and not from the fortune he had since inherited, came all his peace.

"He desires me to tell you," said Lady Galbraith, "that he was a stranger, and you folk of Daurside took him in, and if ever he can do a kindness to you or yours, he will.--He desires me also to say, that you ought not to be left ignorant that you have a poet of your own, born and bred among you--Donal Grant, the son of Robert and Janet, the friend of Sir Gilbert's heart, and one of the n.o.blest of men. And he begs you to allow me to read you a poem he had from him this very morning--probably just written. It is called The Laverock. I will read it as well as I can. If any of you do not like poetry, he says--I mean Sir Gilbert says--you can go to the kitchen and light your pipes, and he will send your wine there to you."

She ceased. Not one stirred, and she read the verses--which, for the sake of having Donal in at the last of my book, I will print.

Those who do not care for verse, may--metaphorically, I would not be rude--go and smoke their pipes in the kitchen.

THE LAVEROCK. (lark)

THE MAN SAYS:

Laverock i' the lift, (sky) Hae ye nae sang-thrift, 'At ye scatter't sae heigh, an' lat it a' drift?

Wasterfu' laverock!

Dinna ye ken 'At ye hing ower men Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen'?

Hertless laverock!

But up there, you, I' the bow o' the blue, Haud skirlin' on as gien a' war new! (keep shrilling) Toom-heidit laverock! (empty-headed)

Haith! ye're ower blythe: I see a great scythe Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i' the lythe, (shelter) Liltin' laverock!

Eh, sic a soon'!

Birdie, come doon-- Ye're fey to sing sic a merry tune, (death-doomed) Gowkit laverock! (silly)

Come to yer nest; Yer wife's sair prest; She's clean worn oot wi' duin' her best, Rovin' laverock!

Winna ye haud?

Ye're surely mad!

Is there naebody there to gie ye a daud? (blow) Menseless laverock!

Come doon an' conform; Pyke an honest worm, An' hap yer bairns frae the muckle storm, Spendrife laverock!

THE BIRD SINGS:

My nestie it lieth I' the how o' a han'; (hollow) The swing o' the scythe 'Ill miss 't by a span.

The lift it's sae cheerie!

The win' it's sae free!

I hing ower my dearie, An' sing 'cause I see.

My wifie's wee breistie Grows warm wi' my sang, An' ilk crumpled-up beastie Kens no to think lang.

Up here the sun sings, but He only shines there!

Ye haena nae wings, but Come up on a prayer.

THE MAN SINGS: