A SUNDAY AT HOME.
Such were the events of every night, and such had they been since Gibbie first assumed this office of guardian--a time so long in proportion to his life that it seemed to him as one of the laws of existence that fathers got drunk and Gibbies took care of them.But Saturday night was always one of special bliss; for then the joy to come spread its arms beneath and around the present delight: all Sunday his father would be his.On that happiest day of all the week, he never set his foot out of doors, except to run twice to Mistress Croale's, once to fetch the dinner which she supplied from her own table, and for which Sir George regularly paid in advance on Saturday before commencing his potations.
But indeed the streets were not attractive to the child on Sundays:
there were no shops open, and the people in their Sunday clothes, many of them with their faces studiously settled into masks intended to express righteousness, were far less interesting, because less alive, than the same people in their work-day attire, in their shops, or seated at their stalls, or driving their carts, and looking thoroughly human.As to going to church himself, such an idea had never entered his head.He had not once for a moment imagined that anybody would like him to go to church, that such as he ever went to church, that church was at all a place to which Gibbies with fathers to look after should have any desire to go.As to what church, going meant, he had not the vaguest idea; it had not even waked the glimmer of a question in his mind.All he knew was that people went to church on Sundays.It was another of the laws of existence, the reason of which he knew no more than why his father went every night to Jink Lane and got drunk.George, however, although he had taught his son nothing, was not without religion, and had notions of duty in respect of the Sabbath.Not even with the prize of whisky in view, would he have consented to earn a sovereign on that day by the lightest of work.
Gibbie was awake some time before his father, and lay revelling in love's bliss of proximity.At length Sir George, the merest bubble of nature, awoke, and pushed him from him.
The child got up at once, but only to stand by the bed-side.He said no word, did not even think an impatient thought, yet his father seemed to feel that he was waiting for him.After two or three huge yawns, he spread out his arms, but, unable to stretch himself, yawned again, rolled himself off the bed, and crept feebly across the room to an empty chest that stood under the skylight.
There he seated himself, and for half an hour sat motionless, a perfect type of dilapidation, moral and physical, while a little way off stood Gibbie, looking on, like one awaiting a resurrection.At length he seemed to come to himself--the expected sign of which was that he reached down his hand towards the meeting of roof and floor, and took up a tiny last with a half-made boot upon it.At sight of it in his father's hands, Gibbie clapped his with delight--an old delight, renewed every Sunday since he could remember.That boot was for him! and this being the second, the pair would be finished before night! By slow degrees of revival, with many pauses between, George got to work.He wanted no breakfast, and made no inquiry of Gibbie whether he had had any.But what cared Gibbie about breakfast! With his father all to himself, and that father working away at a new boot for him--for him who had never had a pair of any sort upon his feet since the woollen ones he wore in his mother's lap, breakfast or no breakfast was much the same to him.It could never have occurred to him that it was his father's part to provide him with breakfast.If he was to have none, it was Sunday that was to blame: there was no use in going to look for any when the shops were all shut, and everybody either at church, or closed in domestic penetralia, or out for a walk.More than contented, therefore, while busily his father wedded welt and sole with stitches infrangible, Gibbie sat on the floor, preparing waxed ends, carefully sticking in the hog's bristle, and rolling the combination, with quite professional aptitude, between the flat of his hand and what of trouser-leg he had left, gazing eagerly between at the advancing masterpiece.Occasionally the triumph of expectation would exceed his control, when he would spring from the floor, and caper and strut about like a pigeon--soft as a shadow, for he knew his father could not bear noise in the morning--or behind his back execute a pantomimic dumb show of delight, in which he seemed with difficulty to restrain himself from jumping upon him, and hugging him in his ecstasy.Oh, best of parents! working thus even on a Sunday for his Gibbie, when everybody else was at church enjoying himself! But Gibbie never dared hug his father except when he was drunk--why, he could hardly have told.Relieved by his dumb show, he would return, quite as an aged grimalkin, and again deposit himself on the floor near his father where he could see his busy hands.
All this time Sir George never spoke a word.Incredible as it may seem, however, he was continually, off and on, trying his hardest to think of some Sunday lesson to give his child.Many of those that knew the boy, regarded him as a sort of idiot, drawing the conclusion from Gibbie's practical honesty and his too evident love for his kind: it was incredible that a child should be poor, unselfish, loving, and not deficient in intellect! His father knew him better, yet he often quieted his conscience in regard to his education, with the reflection that not much could be done for him.