Ah, pity! pity! But even Gibbie might by this time have learned to foresee it! three times already had the same thing happened: the boot would not go on the foot.The real cause of the failure it were useless to inquire.Sir George said that, Sunday being the only day he could give to the boots, before he could finish them, Gibbie's feet had always outgrown the measure.But it may be Sir George was not so good a maker as cobbler.That he meant honestly by the boy I am sure, and not the less sure for the confession I am forced to make, that on each occasion when he thus failed to fit him, he sold the boots the next day at a fair price to a ready-made shop, and drank the proceeds.A stranger thing still was, that, although Gibbie had never yet worn boot or shoe, his father's conscience was greatly relieved by the knowledge that he spent his Sundays in making boots for him.Had he been an ordinary child, and given him trouble, he would possibly have hated him; as it was, he had a great though sadly inoperative affection for the boy, which was an endless good to them both.
After many bootless trials, bootless the feet must remain, and George, laying the failure down in despair, rose from his knees, and left Gibbie seated on the chest more like a king discrowned, than a beggar unshod.And like a king the little beggar bore his pain.He heaved one sigh, and a slow moisture gathered in his eyes, but it did not overflow.One minute only he sat and hugged his desolation--then, missing his father, jumped off the box to find him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking infinitely more disconsolate than Gibbie felt, his head and hands hanging down, a picture of utter dejection.Gibbie bounded to him, climbed on the bed, and nearly strangled him in the sharp embrace of his little arms.Sir George took him on his knees and kissed him, and the tears rose in his dull eyes.He got up with him, carried him to the box, placed him on it once more, and fetched a piece of brown paper from under the bed.From this he tore carefully several slips, with which he then proceeded to take a most thoughtful measurement of the baffling foot.He was far more to be pitied than Gibbie, who would not have worn the boots an hour had they been the best fit in shoedom.The solos of his feet were very nearly equal in resistance to leather, and at least until the snow and hard frost came, he was better without boots.
But now the darkness had fallen, and his joy was at the door.But he was always too much ashamed to begin to drink before the child:
he hated to uncork the bottle before him.What followed was in regular Sunday routine.
"Gang ower to Mistress Croale's, Gibbie," he said, "wi' my compliments."Away ran Gibbie, nothing loath, and at his knock was admitted.
Mistress Croale sat in the parlour, taking her tea, and expecting him.She was always kind to the child.She could not help feeling that no small part of what ought to be spent on him came to her; and on Sundays, therefore, partly for his sake, partly for her own, she always gave him his tea--nominally tea, really blue city-milk--with as much dry bread as he could eat, and a bit of buttered toast from her plate to finish off with.As he ate, he stood at the other side of the table; he looked so miserable in her eyes that, even before her servant, she was ashamed to have him sit with her; but Gibbie was quite content, never thought of sitting, and ate in gladness, every now and then looking up with loving, grateful eyes, which must have gone right to the woman's heart, had it not been for a vague sense she had of being all the time his enemy--and that although she spent much time in persuading herself that she did her best both for his father and him.
When he returned, greatly refreshed, and the boots all but forgotten, he found his father, as he knew he would, already started on the business of the evening.He had drawn the chest, the only seat in the room, to the side of the bed, against which he leaned his back.A penny candle was burning in a stone blacking bottle on the chimney piece, and on the floor beside the chest stood the bottle of whisky, a jug of water, a stoneware mug, and a wineglass.
There was no fire and no kettle, whence his drinking was sad, as became the Scotch Sabbath in distinction from the Jewish.There, however, was the drink, and thereby his soul could live--yea, expand her mouldy wings! Gibbie was far from shocked; it was all right, all in the order of things, and he went up to his father with radiant countenance.Sir George put forth his hands and took him between his knees.An evil wind now swelled his sails, but the cargo of the crazy human hull was not therefore evil.
"Gibbie," he said, solemnly, "never ye drink a drap o' whusky.
Never ye rax oot the han' to the boatle.Never ye drink anything but watter, caller watter, my man."As he said the words, he stretched out his own hand to the mug, lifted it to his lips, and swallowed a great gulp.
"Dinna do't, I tell ye, Gibbie," he repeated.
Gibbie shook his head with positive repudiation.
"That's richt, my man," responded his father with satisfaction.
"Gien ever I see ye pree (taste) the boatle, I'll warstle frae my grave an' fleg ye oot o' the sma' wuts ye hae, my man."Here followed another gulp from the mug.
The threat had conveyed nothing to Gibbie.Even had he understood, it would have carried anything but terror to his father-worshipping heart.
"Gibbie," resumed Sir George, after a brief pause, "div ye ken what fowk'll ca' ye whan I'm deid?"Gibbie again shook his head--with expression this time of mere ignorance.
"They'll ca' ye Sir Gibbie Galbraith, my man," said his father, "an'
richtly, for it'll be no nickname, though some may lauch 'cause yer father was a sutor, an' mair 'at, for a' that, ye haena a shee to yer fut yersel', puir fallow! Heedna ye what they say, Gibbie.
Min' 'at ye're Sir Gibbie, an' hae the honour o' the faimily to haud up, my man--an' that ye can not dee an' drink.This cursit drink's been the ruin o' a' the Galbraiths as far back as I ken.