THE PARLOUR.
The day went on, and went out, its short autumnal brightness quenched in a chilly fog.All along the Widdiehill, the gas was alight in the low-browed dingy shops.To the well-to-do citizen hastening home to the topmost business of the day, his dinner, these looked the abodes of unlovely poverty and mean struggle.Even to those behind their counters, in their back parlours, and in their rooms above, everything about them looked common, to most of them, save the owners, wearisome.But to yon pale-faced student, gliding in the glow of his red gown, through the grey mist back to his lodging, and peeping in at every open door as he passes, they are so full of mystery, that gladly would he yield all he has gathered from books, for one genuine glance of insight into the vital movement of the hearts and households of which those open shops are the sole outward and visible signs.Each house is to him a nest of human birds, over which brood the eternal wings of love and purpose.Only such different birds are hatched from the same nest! And what a nest was then the city itself!--with its university, its schools, its churches, its hospitals, its missions; its homes, its lodging-houses, its hotels, its drinking shops, its houses viler still; its factories, its ships, its great steamers; and the same humanity busy in all!--here the sickly lady walking in the panoply of love unharmed through the horrors of vicious suffering; there the strong mother cursing her own child along half a street with an intensity and vileness of execration unheard elsewhere! The will of the brooding spirit must be a grand one, indeed, to enclose so much of what cannot be its will, and turn all to its purpose of eternal good! Our knowledge of humanity, how much more our knowledge of the Father of it, is moving as yet but in the first elements.
In his shed under the stair it had been dark for some time--too dark for work, that is, and George Galbraith had lighted a candle: he never felt at liberty to leave off so long as a man was recognizable in the street by daylight.But now at last, with a sigh of relief, he rose.The hour of his redemption was come, the moment of it at hand.Outwardly calm, he was within eager as a lover to reach Lucky Croale's back parlour.His hand trembled with expectation as he laid from it the awl, took from between his knees the great boot on the toe of which he had been stitching a patch, lifted the yoke of his leather apron over his head, and threw it aside.With one hasty glance around, as if he feared some enemy lurking near to prevent his escape, he caught up a hat which looked as if it had been brushed with grease, pulled it on his head with both hands, stepped out quickly, closed the door behind him, turned the key, left it in the lock, and made straight for his earthly paradise--but with chastened step.All Mistress Croale's customers made a point of looking decent in the street--strove, in their very consciousness, to carry the expression of being on their way to their tea, not their toddy--or if their toddy, then not that they desired it, but merely that it was their custom always of an afternoon: man had no choice--he must fill space, he must occupy himself; and if so, why not Mistress Croale's the place, and the consumption of whisky the occupation? But alas for their would-be seeming indifference!
Everybody in the lane, almost in the Widdiehill, knew every one of them, and knew him for what he was; knew that every drop of toddy he drank was to him as to a miser his counted sovereign; knew that, as the hart for the water-brooks, so thirsted his soul ever after another tumbler; that he made haste to swallow the last drops of the present, that he might behold the plenitude of the next steaming before him; that, like the miser, he always understated the amount of the treasure he had secured, because the less he acknowledged, the more he thought he could claim.
George was a tall man, of good figure, loosened and bowed.His face was well favoured, but not a little wronged by the beard and dirt of a week, through which it gloomed haggard and white.Beneath his projecting black brows, his eyes gleamed doubtful, as a wood-fire where white ash dims the glow.He looked neither to right nor left, but walked on with moveless dull gaze, noting nothing.
"Yon's his ain warst enemy," said the kindly grocer-wife, as he passed her door.
