THE CONFESSION.
Although Gibbie had taken no notice of the laird's party, he had recognized each of the three as he came up the stair, and in Ginevra's face read an appeal for deliverance.It seemed to say, "You help everybody but me! Why do you not come and help me too?
Am I to have no pity because I am neither hungry nor cold?" He did not, however, lie awake the most of the night, or indeed a single hour of it, thinking what he should do; long before the poor woman and her children were in bed, he had made up his mind.
As soon as he came home from college the next day and had hastily eaten his dinner, going upon his vague knowledge of law business lately acquired, he bought a stamped paper, wrote upon it, and put it in his pocket; then he took a card and wrote on it: Sir Gilbert Galbraith, Baronet, of Glashruach, and put that in his pocket also.
Thus provided, and having said to Mistress Croale that he should not be home that night--for he expected to set off almost immediately in search of Donal, and had bespoken horses, he walked deliberately along Pearl-street out into the suburb, and turning to the right, rang the bell at the garden gate of the laird's cottage.
When the girl came, he gave her his card, and followed her into the house.She carried it into the room where, dinner over, the laird and the preacher were sitting, with a bottle of the same port which had pleased the laird at the manse between them.Giving time, as he judged, and no more, to read the card, Gibbie entered the room: he would not risk a refusal to see him.
It was a small room with a round table.The laird sat sideways to the door; the preacher sat between the table and the fire.
"What the devil does this mean? A vengeance take him!" cried the laird.
His big tumbling eyes had required more time than Gibbie had allowed, so that, when with this exclamation he lifted them from the card, they fell upon the object of his imprecation standing in the middle of the room between him and the open door.The preacher, snug behind the table, scarcely endeavoured to conceal the smile with which he took no notice of Sir Gilbert.The laird rose in the perturbation of mingled anger and unpreparedness.
"Ah!" he said, but it was only a sound, not a word, "to what--may Iask--have I--I have not the honour of your acquaintance, Mr.--Mr.--"Here he looked again at the card he held, fumbled for and opened a double eyeglass, then with deliberation examined the name upon it, thus gaining time by rudeness, and gathering his force for more, while Gibbie remained as unembarrassed as if he had been standing to his tailor for his measure."Mr.--ah, I see! Galbraith, you say.--To what, Mr., Mr."--another look at the card--"Galbraith, do Iowe the honour of this unexpected--and--and--I must say--un--looked-for visit--and at such an unusual hour for making a business call--for business, I presume, it must be that brings you, seeing I have not the honour of the slightest acquaintance with you?"He dropped his eyeglass with a clatter against his waistcoat, threw the card into his finger-glass, raised his pale eyes, and stared at Sir Gilbert with all the fixedness they were capable of.He had already drunk a good deal of wine, and it was plain he had, although he was far from being overcome by it.Gibbie answered by drawing from the breast-pocket of his coat the paper he had written, and presenting it like a petition.Mr.Galbraith sneered, and would not have touched it had not his eye caught the stamp, which from old habit at once drew his hand.From similar habit, or perhaps to get it nearer the light, he sat down.Gibbie stood, and Fergus stared at him with insolent composure.The laird read, but not aloud: I, Gilbert Galbraith, Baronet, hereby promise and undertake to transfer to Miss Galbraith, only daughter of Thomas Galbraith, Esq., on the day when she shall be married to Donal Grant, Master of Arts, the whole of the title deeds of the house and lands of Glashruach, to have and to hold as hers, with absolute power to dispose of the same as she may see fit.Gilbert Galbraith, Old House of Galbraith, Widdiehill, March, etc., etc.
The laird stretched his neck like a turkeycock, and gobbled inarticulately, threw the paper to Fergus, and turning on his chair, glowered at Gibbie.Then suddenly starting to his feet, he cried, "What do you mean, you rascal, by daring to insult me in my own house? Damn your insolent foolery!""A trick! a most palpable trick! and an exceedingly silly one!"pronounced Fergus, who had now read the paper; "quite as foolish as unjustifiable! Everybody knows Glashruach is the property of Major Culsalmon!"--Here the laird sought the relief of another oath or two.--"I entreat you to moderate your anger, my dear sir," Fergus resumed."The thing is hardly worth so much indignation.Some animal has been playing the poor fellow an ill-natured trick--putting him up to it for the sake of a vile practical joke.
It is exceedingly provoking, but you must forgive him.He is hardly to blame, scarcely accountable, under the natural circumstances.--Get away with you," he added, addressing Gibbie across the table."Make haste before worse comes of it.You have been made a fool of."When Fergus began to speak, the laird turned, and while he spoke stared at him with lack-lustre yet gleaming eyes, until he addressed Gibbie, when he turned on him again as fiercely as before.Poor Gibbie stood shaking his head, smiling, and making eager signs with hands and arms; but in the laird's condition of both heart and brain he might well forget and fail to be reminded that Gibbie was dumb.
"Why don't you speak, you fool?" he cried."Get out and don't stand making faces there.Be off with you, or I will knock you down with a decanter."Gibbie pointed to the paper, which lay before Fergus, and placed a hand first on his lips, then on his heart.
"Damn your mummery!" said the laird, choking with rage."Go away, or, by God! I will break your head."Fergus at this rose and came round the table to get between them.