THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

wood, madam,” said I.

      “Ay, sir, or it’s like it would not have been left there; they look a’ they could.”

      “Mr. Treddles’s creditors, you mean?” said I.

      “Na,” replied she dryly, “the creditors of another family, that sweepit cleaner than this poor man’s, because I fancy there was less to gather.”

      “An older family, perhaps, and probably more remembered and regretted than later possessors?”

      Christie here settled herself in her seat, and pulled her wheel towards her. I had given her something interesting for her thoughts to dwell upon, and her wheel was a mechanical accompaniment on such occasions, the revolutions of which assisted her in the explanation of her ideas.

      “Mair regretted—mair missed? I liked ane of the auld family very weel, but I winna say that for them a’. How should they be mair missed than the Treddleses? The cotton mill was such a thing for the country! The mair bairns a cottar body had the better; they would make their awn keep frae the time they were five years auld, and a widow wi’ three or four bairns was a wealthy woman in the time of the Treddleses.”

      “But the health of these poor children, my good friend—their education and religious instruction—”

      “For health,” said Christie, looking gloomily at me, “ye maun ken little of the warld, sir, if ye dinna ken that the health of the poor man’s body, as well as his youth and his strength, are all at the command of the rich man’s purse. There never was a trade so unhealthy yet but men would fight to get wark at it for twa pennies a day aboon the common wage. But the bairns were reasonably weel cared for in the way of air and exercise, and a very responsible youth heard them their Carritch, and gied them lessons in Reediemadeasy [“Reading made Easy,” usually so pronounced in Scotland.] Now, what did they ever get before? Maybe on a winter day they wad be called out to beat the wood for cocks or siclike; and then the starving weans would maybe get a bite of broken bread, and maybe no, just as the butler was in humour—that was a’ they got.”

      “They were not, then, a very kind family to the poor, these old possessors?” said I, somewhat bitterly; for I had expected to hear my ancestors’ praises recorded, though I certainly despaired of being regaled with my own.

      “They werena ill to them, sir, and that is aye something. They were just decent bien bodies; ony poor creature that had face to beg got an awmous, and welcome—they that were shamefaced gaed by, and twice as welcome. But they keepit an honest walk before God and man, the Croftangrys, and, as I said before, if they did little good, they did as little ill. They lifted their rents, and spent them; called in their kain and ate them; gaed to the kirk of a Sunday; bowed civilly if folk took aff their bannets as they gaed by, and lookit as black as sin at them that keepit them on.”

      “These are their arms that you have on the sign?”

      “What! on the painted board that is skirling and groaning at the door? Na, these are Mr. Treddles’s arms though they look as like legs as arms. Ill pleased I was at the fule thing, that cost as muckle as would hae repaired the house from the wa’ stane to the rigging-tree. But if I am to bide here, I’ll hae a decent board wi’ a punch bowl on it.”

      “Is there a doubt of your staying here, Mrs. Steele?”

      “Dinna Mistress me,” said the cross old woman, whose fingers were now plying their thrift in a manner which indicated nervous irritation; “there was nae luck in the land since Luckie turned Mistress, and Mistress my Leddy. And as for staying here, if it concerns you to ken, I may stay if I can pay a hundred pund sterling for the lease, and I may flit if I canna, and so gude e’en to you, Christie,”—and round went the wheel with much activity.

      “And you like the trade of keeping a public-house?”

      “I can scarce say that,” she replied. “But worthy Mr. Prendergast is clear of its lawfulness; and I hae gotten used to it, and made a decent living, though I never make out a fause reckoning, or give ony ane the means to disorder reason in my house.”

      “Indeed!” said I; “in that case, there is no wonder you have not made up the hundred pounds to purchase the lease.”

      “How do you ken,” said she sharply, “that I might not have had a hundred punds of my ain fee? If I have it not, I am sure it is my ain faut. And I wunna ca’ it faut neither, for it gaed to her wha was weel entitled to a’ my service.” Again she pulled stoutly at the flax, and the wheel went smartly round.

      “This old gentleman,” said I, fixing my eye on the painted panel, “seems to have had HIS arms painted as well as Mr. Treddles—that is, if that painting in the corner be a scutcheon.”

      “Ay, ay—cushion, just sae. They maun a’ hae their cushions— there’s sma’ gentry without that—and so the arms, as they ca’ them, of the house of Glentanner may be seen on an auld stane in the west end of the house. But to do them justice; they didna propale sae muckle about them as poor Mr. Treddles did—it’s like they were better used to them.”

      “Very likely. Are there any of the old family in life, goodwife?”

      “No,” she replied; then added; after a moment’s hesitation, “Not that I know of”—and the wheel, which had intermitted, began again to revolve.

      “Gone abroad, perhaps?” I suggested.

      She now looked up, and faced me. “No, sir. There were three sons of the last laird of Glentanner, as he was then called. John and William were hopeful young gentlemen, but they died early—one of a decline brought on by the mizzles, the other lost his life in a fever. It would hae been lucky for mony ane that Chrystal had gane the same gate.”

      “Oh, he must have been the young spendthrift that sold the property? Well, but you should you have such an illwill against him; remember necessity has no law. And then, goodwife, he was not more culpable than Mr. Treddles, whom you are so sorry for.”

      “I wish I could think sae, sir, for his mother’s sake. But Mr. Treddles was in trade, and though he had no preceese right to do so, yet there was some warrant for a man being expensive that imagined he was making a mint of money. But this unhappy lad devoured his patrimony, when he kenned that he was living like a ratten in a Dunlap cheese, and diminishing his means at a’ hands. I canna bide to think on’t.” With this she broke out into a snatch of a ballad, but little of mirth was there either in the tone or the expression:—

      “For he did spend, and make an end Of gear that his forefathers wan; Of land and ware he made him bare, So speak nae mair of the auld gudeman.”

      “Come, dame,” said I, “it is a long lane that has no turning. I will not keep from you that I have heard something of this poor fellow, Chrystal Croftangry. He has sown his wild oats, as they say, and has settled into a steady, respectable man.”

      “And wha tell’d ye that tidings?” said she, looking sharply at me.

      “Not, perhaps, the best judge in the world of his character, for it was himself, dame.”

      “And if he tell’d you truth, it was a virtue he did not aye use to practise,” said Christie.

      “The devil!” said I, considerably nettled; “all the world held him to be a man of honour.”

      “Ay, ay! he would hae shot onybody wi’ his pistols and his guns that had evened him to be a liar. But if he promised to pay an honest tradesman the next term-day, did he keep his word then? And if he promised a puir, silly lass to make gude her shame, did he speak truth then? And what is that but being a liar, and a black-hearted, deceitful liar to boot?”

      My indignation was rising, but I strove to suppress it; indeed, I should only have afforded my tormentor a triumph by an angry reply. I partly suspected she began to recognize me, yet she testified so little emotion that I could not think my suspicion well founded. I went on, therefore, to say, in a tone as indifferent as I could command, “Well, goodwife, I