DONAL'S LODGING.
Donal had not accompanied Mr.Sclater and his ward, as he generally styled him, to the city, but continued at the Mains until another herd-boy should be found to take his place.All were sorry to part with him, but no one desired to stand in the way of his good fortune by claiming his service to the end of his half-year.It was about a fortnight after Gibbie's departure when he found himself free.His last night he spent with his parents on Glashgar, and the next morning set out in the moonlight to join the coach, with some cakes and a bit of fresh butter tied up in a cotton handkerchief.He wept at leaving them, nor was too much excited with the prospect before him to lay up his mother's parting words in his heart.For it is not every son that will not learn of his mother.He who will not goes to the school of Gideon.Those last words of Janet to her Donal were, "Noo, min' yer no a win'le strae (a straw dried on its root), but a growin' stalk 'at maun luik till 'ts corn."When he reached the spot appointed, there already was the cart from the Mains, with his kist containing all his earthly possessions.
They did not half fill it, and would have tumbled about in the great chest, had not the bounty of Mistress Jean complemented its space with provision--a cheese, a bag of oatmeal, some oatcakes, and a pound or two of the best butter in the world; for now that he was leaving them, a herd-boy no more, but a colliginer, and going to be a gentleman, it was right to be liberal.The box, whose ponderosity was unintelligible to its owner, having been hoisted, amid the smiles of the passengers, to the mid region of the roof of the coach, Donal clambered after it, and took, for the first time in his life, his place behind four horses--to go softly rushing through the air towards endless liberty.It was to the young poet an hour of glorious birth--in which there seemed nothing too strange, nothing but what should have come.I fancy, when they die, many will find themselves more at home than ever they were in this world.But Donal is not the subject of my story, and I must not spend upon him.
I will only say that his feelings on this grand occasion were the less satisfactory to himself, that, not being poet merely, but philosopher as well, he sought to understand them: the mere poet, the man-bird, would have been content with them in themselves.But if he who is both does not rise above both by learning obedience, he will have a fine time of it between them.
The streets of the city at length received them with noise and echo.
At the coach-office Mr.Sclater stood waiting, welcomed him with dignity rather than kindness, hired a porter with his truck whom he told where to take the chest, said Sir Gilbert would doubtless call on him the next day, and left him with the porter.
It was a cold afternoon, the air half mist, half twilight.Donal followed the rattling, bumping truck over the stones, walking close behind it, almost in the gutter.They made one turning, went a long way through the narrow, sometimes crowded, Widdiehill, and stopped.
The man opened a door, returned to the truck, and began to pull the box from it.Donal gave him effective assistance, and they entered with it between them.There was just light enough from a tallow candle with a wick like a red-hot mushroom, to see that they were in what appeared to Donal a house in most appalling disorder, but was in fact a furniture shop.The porter led the way up a dark stair, and Donal followed with his end of the trunk.At the top was a large room, into which the last of the day glimmered through windows covered with the smoke and dust of years, showing this also full of furniture, chiefly old.A lane through the furniture led along the room to a door at the other end.To Donal's eyes it looked a dreary place; but when the porter opened the other door, he saw a neat little room with a curtained bed, a carpeted floor, a fire burning in the grate, a kettle on the hob, and the table laid for tea: this was like a bit of a palace, for he had never in his life even looked into such a chamber.The porter set down his end of the chest, said "Guid nicht to ye," and walked out, leaving the door open.
Knowing nothing about towns and the ways of them, Donal was yet a little surprised that there was nobody to receive him.He approached the fire, and sat down to warm himself, taking care not to set his hobnailed shoes on the grandeur of the little hearthrug.
A few moments and he was startled by a slight noise, as of suppressed laughter.He jumped up.One of the curtains of his bed was strangely agitated.Out leaped Gibbie from behind it, and threw his arms about him.
"Eh, cratur! ye gae me sic a fleg!" said Donal."But, losh! they hae made a gentleman o' ye a'ready!" he added, holding him at arms length, and regarding him with wonder and admiration.
A notable change had indeed passed upon Gibbie, mere externals considered, in that fortnight.He was certainly not so picturesque as before, yet the alteration was entirely delightful to Donal.
Perhaps he felt it gave a good hope for the future of his own person.Mrs.Sclater had had his hair cut; his shirt was of the whitest of linen, his necktie of the richest of black silk, his clothes were of the newest cut and best possible fit, and his boots perfect: the result was altogether even to her satisfaction.In one thing only was she foiled: she could not get him to wear gloves.He had put on a pair, but found them so miserably uncomfortable that, in merry wrath, he pulled them off on the way home, and threw them--"The best kid!" exclaimed Mrs.Sclater--over the Pearl Bridge.
Prudently fearful of over-straining her influence, she yielded for the present, and let him go without.