Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science, Volume 26 December, 1880. by Various None (smart ebook reader .txt) 📕

The Forenoon,  She Once More Entered The Big Kitchen In Kennedy'S

Lodgings,  She Was Greeted With The Startling Intelligence That The Whole

Wishart Family Were In Prison.

The Room Was As Full As Before. Six Women Were Sitting In The Middle Of

The Floor Teasing Out An Old Hair Mattress. There Was The Same Odor Of

Cooking,  Early As It Was,  And The Same Medley Of Noises,  But The People

Were Different. The Basket-Making Cripple Was Gone,  And In His Place By

The Window Sat A Big Irish Beggar-Woman,  Who Was Keeping Up A

Conversation With Some One (A Compatriot Evidently) In a Window Of The

Close Behind.

The Mistress Of The House Came Forward. She Was A Decent-Looking Little

Woman,  But Had Rather A Hard Face,  Expressive Of Care And Anxiety. On

Recognizing Her Visitor She Curtsied: "The Wisharts,  Mem? Yes,  They'Re

A' In Jail."

"All In Jail?" Echoed Miss Mackenzie. "Will You Come Outside And Speak

To Me? There Are So Many People--"

"Eh Yes,  Mem: I'M Sure Ye Fin' The Room Closs. Eh Yes,  Mem,  The Wisharts

Are A' In The Lock-Up."

They Were Standing Outside In The Passage,  And Mrs. Kennedy Held The

Door Closed By The Latch,  Which She Kept Firmly Grasped In Her Hand. It

Struck Miss Mackenzie As Being An Odd Way To Secure Privacy For A

Privileged Communication,  To Fasten The Door Of Their Room Upon Those

Inside. It Was Expressive,  However.

"Ye See,  Mem," Began The Landlady,  "Wishart'S No A Very Bad Man--Jist

Weak In The Heid Like--But'S Wife Is Jist Something Awfu',  An' I Could

Not Let Her Bide In a Decent Lodging-House. We Hae To Dra' The Line

Somewhere,  And I Dra' It Low Enough,  But She Wis Far Below That. Eh,

She'S Jist Terrible! Wishart Has A Sister In Glasgae Verra Weel To Do,

An' I H'Ard Him Say He'D Gie The Lassie To Her If It Wer Na For The

Wife. The Day The School-Board Gentleman Wis Here She Came Back: She'D

Been Away,  Ye Ken,  And She Said She'D Become A T'Otaller,  An' So I Sed

She Micht Stay; But,  Ye See,  When Nicht Came On She An' Wishart Gaed Out

Thegither,  An' Jist To Celebrate Their Bein' Frien'S Again She An' Him

Gaed Intil A Public,  An' She Got Uproarious Drunk,  An' The Polis Took

Her Up. Wishart Wis No Sae Bad,  Sae They Let Him Come Hame; But,  Ye See,

He Had Tasted The Drink,  An' Wanted Mair,  An' He Hadna Ony Money. Ye

See,  He'D Promised The Gentleman Who Came Here That He Widna Send Baubie

Oot To Sing Again. But He _Did_ Send Her Oot Then To Sing For Money For

Him,  An' The Polis Had Been Put To Watch Her,  An' Saw Her Beg,  An' Took

Her Up To The Office,  An' Came Back Here For Wishart. An' So Before The

Day Was Dune They Were A' Lockit Up Thegither."

Such Was The Story Related To Miss Mackenzie. What Was To Be Done With

Baubie Now? It Was Hardly Fair That She Should Be Sent To A Reformatory

Among Criminal Children. She Had Committed No Crime,  And There Was That

Empty Bed At The Home For Little Girls. She Determined To Attend The

Sheriff-Court On Monday Morning And Ask To Be Given The Custody Of

Baubie.

When Monday Morning Came,  Ten O'Clock Saw Miss Mackenzie Established In

A Seat Immediately Below The Sheriff'S High Bench. The Wisharts Were

Among The First Batch Tried,  And Made Their Appearance From A Side-Door.

Mrs. Wishart Came First,  Stepping Along With A Resolute,  Brazen Bearing

That Contrasted With Her Husband'S Timid,  Shuffling Gait. She Was A

Gypsy-Looking Woman,  With Wandering,  Defiant Black Eyes,  And Her Red

Face Had The Sign-Manual Of Vice Stamped Upon It. After Her Came Baubie,

A Red-Tartan-Covered Mite,  Shrinking Back And Keeping As Close To Her

Father As She Could. Baubie Had Favored Her Mother As To Complexion:

That Was Plain. The Top Of Her Rough Head And Her Wild Brown Eyes Were

Just Visible Over The Panel As She Stared Round Her,  Taking In With

Composure And Astuteness Everything That Was Going On. She Was The Most

Self-Possessed Of Her Party,  For Under Mrs. Wishart'S Active Brazenness

There Could Easily Be Seen Fear And A Certain Measure Of Remorse Hiding

Themselves; And Wishart Seemed To Be But One Remove From Imbecility.

The Charges Were Read With A Running Commentary Of Bad Language From

Mrs. Wishart As Her Offences Were Detailed; Wishart Blinked In a

Helpless,  Pathetic Way; Baubie,  Who Seemed To Consider Herself As

Associated With Him Alone In The Charge,  Assumed An Air Of Indifference

And Sucked Her Thumb,  Meantime Watching Miss Mackenzie Furtively. She

Felt Puzzled To Account For Her Presence There,  But It Never Entered Her

Head To Connect That Fact With Herself In any Way.

"Guilty Or Not Guilty?" Asked The Sheriff-Clerk.

"There'S A Kin' Lady In coort," Stammered Wishart,  "An' She Kens A'

Aboot It."

"Guilty Or Not Guilty?" Reiterated The Clerk: "This Is Not The Time To

Speak." "She Kens It A',  An' She Wis To Tak' The Lassie."

"Guilty Or Not Guilty? You Must Plead,  And You Can Say What You Like

Afterward." Wishart Stopped,  Not Without An Appealing Look At The Kind

Lady,  And Pleaded Guilty Meekly. A Policeman With A Scratched Face And

One Hand Plastered Up Testified To The Extravagances Mrs. Wishart Had

Committed On The Strength Of Her Conversion To Teetotal Principles.

Baubic Heard It All Impassively,  Her Face Only Betraying Anything Like

Keen Interest While The Police-Officer Was Detailing His Injuries. Three

Months' Imprisonment Was The Sentence On Margaret Mactear Or Wishart.

Then Wishart'S Sentence Was Pronounced--Sixty Days.

He And Baubie Drew Nearer To Each Other,  Wishart With A Despairing,

Helpless Look. Baubie'S Eyes Looked Like Those Of A Hare Taken In a Gin.

Not One Word Had Been Said About Her. She Was Not To Go With Her Father.

What Was To Become Of Her? She Was Not Long Left In doubt As To Her

Fate.

"I Will Take The Child,  Sheriff," Said Miss Mackenzie Eagerly And

Anxiously. "I Came Here Purposely To Offer Her A Home In The Refuge."

"Policeman,  Hand Over The Child To This Lady At Once," Said The

Sheriff.--

"Nothing Could Be Better,  Miss Mackenzie. It Is Very Good Of You To

Volunteer To Take Charge Of Her."

Mrs. Wishart Disappeared With A Parting Volley Of Blasphemy; Her

Husband,  Casting,  As He Went,  A Wistful Look At Miss Mackenzie,  Shambled

Fecklessly After The Partner Of His Joys And Sorrows; And The Child

Remained Alone Behind. The Policeman Took Her By An Arm And Drew Her

Forward To Make Room For A Fresh Consignment Of Wickedness From The

Cells At The Side. Baubie Breathed A Short Sigh As The Door Closed Upon

Her Parents,  Shook Back Her Hair,  And Looked Up At Miss Mackenzie,  As If

To Announce Her Readiness And Good Will. Not One Vestige Of Her Internal

Mental Attitude Could Be Gathered From Her Sun-And Wind-Beaten Little

Countenance. There Was No Rebelliousness,  Neither Was There Guilt. One

Would Almost Have Thought She Had Been Told Beforehand What Was To

Happen,  So Cool And Collected Was She.

"Now,  Baubie,  I Am Going To Take You Home. Come,  Child."

Pleased With Her Success,  Miss Mackenzie,  So Speaking,  Took The Little

Waif'S Hand And Led Her Out Of The Police-Court Into The High Street.

She Hardly Dared To Conjecture That It Was Baubie Wishart'S First Visit

To That Place,  But As She Stood On The Entrance-Steps And Shook Out Her

Skirts With A Sense Of Relief,  She Breathed A Sincere Hope That It Might

Be The Child'S Last.

A Cab Was Waiting. Baubie,  To Her Intense Delight And No Less

Astonishment,  Was Requested To Occupy The Front Seat. Miss Mackenzie

Gave The Driver His Order And Got In,  Facing The Red Tartan Bundle.

"Were You Ever In a Cab Before?" Asked Miss Mackenzie.

"Na,  Niver," Replied Baubie In a Rapt Tone And Without Looking At Her

Questioner,  So Intent Was She On Staring Out Of The Windows,  Between

Both Of Which She Divided Her Attention Impartially.

They Were Driving Down The Mound,  And The Outlook,  Usually So

Far-Reaching From That Vantage-Ground,  Was Bounded By A Thick Sea-Fog

That The East Wind Was Carrying Up From The Forth And Dispensing With

Lavish Hands On All Sides. The Buildings Had A Grim,  Black Look,  As If A

Premature Old Age Had Come Upon Them,  And The Black Pinnacles Of The

Monument Stood Out Sharply Defined In clear-Cut,  Harsh Distinctness

Against The Floating Gray Background. There Were Not Many People

Stirring In The Streets. It Was A Depressing Atmosphere,  And Miss

Mackenzie Observed Before Long That Baubie Either Seemed To Have Become

Influenced By It Or That The Novelty Of The Cab-Ride Had Worn Off

Completely. They Crossed The Water Of Leith,  Worn To A Mere Brown Thread

Owing To The Long Drought,  By Stockbridge Street Bridge,  And A Few Yards

From It Found Themselves Before A Gray Stone House Separated From The

Street By A Grass-Plot Surrounded By A Stone Wall: Inside The Wall Grew

Chestnut And Poplar Trees,  Which In Summer Must Have Shaded The Place

Agreeably,  But Which This Day,  In The Cold Gray Mist,  Seemed Almost

Funereal In Their Gloomy Blackness. The Gate Was Opened From Within The

Wall As Soon As Miss Mackenzie Rang,  And She And Baubie Walked Up The

Little Flagged Path Together. As The Gate Clanged To Behind Them Baubie

Looked Back Involuntarily And Sighed.

"Don'T Fear,  Lassie," Said Her Guide: "They Will Be Very Kind To You

Here. And It Will Be Just A Good Home For You."

It May Be Questioned Whether This Promise Of A Good Home Awoke Any

Pleasing Associations Or Carried With It Any Definite Meaning To Baubie

Wishart'S Mind. She Glanced Up As If To Show That She Understood,  But

Her Eyes Turned Then And Rested On The Square Front Of The Little

Old-Fashioned Gray House With Its Six Staring Windows And Its Front

Circumscribed By The Wall And The Black Poplars And Naked Chestnuts,  And

She Choked Down Another Sigh.

"Now,  Mrs. Duncan," Miss Mackenzie Was Saying To A Comfortably-Dressed

Elderly Woman,  "Here'S Your New Girl,  Baubie Wishart."

"Eh,  Ye'Ve Been Successful Then,  Miss Mackenzie?"

"Oh Dear,  Yes: The Sheriff Made No Objection. And Now,  Mrs. Duncan,  I