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SECRET SERVICE.
I must not linger over degrees and phases. Every morning, Gibbie
got into the kitchen in good time; and not only did more and more of
the work, but did it more and more to the satisfaction of Jean,
until, short of the actual making of the porridge, he did everything
antecedent to the men's breakfast. When Jean came in, she had but
to take the lid from the pot, put in the salt, assume the spurtle,
and, grasping the first handful of the meal, which stood ready
waiting in the bossie on the stone cheek of the fire, throw it in,
thus commencing the simple cookery of the best of all dishes to a
true-hearted and healthy Scotsman. Without further question she
attributed all the aid she received to the goodness, "enough for
anything," of Donal Grant, and continued to make acknowledgment of
the same in both sort and quantity of victuals, whence, as has been
shown, the real labourer received his due reward.
Until he had thoroughly mastered his work, Gibbie persisted in
regarding matters economic "from his loophole in the ceiling;" and
having at length learned the art of making butter, soon arrived at
some degree of perfection in it. But when at last one morning he
not only churned, but washed and made it up entirely to Jean's
satisfaction, she did begin to wonder how a mere boy could both have
such perseverance, and be so clever at a woman's work. For now she
entered the kitchen every morning without a question of finding the
fire burning, the water boiling, the place clean and tidy, the
supper dishes well washed and disposed on shelf and rack: her own
part was merely to see that proper cloths were handy to so thorough
a user of them. She took no one into her confidence on the matter:
it was enough, she judged, that she and Donal understood each other.
And now if Gibbie had contented himself with rendering this
house-service in return for the shelter of the barn and its hay, he
might have enjoyed both longer; but from the position of his
night-quarters, he came gradually to understand the work of the
stable also; and before long, the men, who were quite ignorant of
anything similar taking place in the house, began to observe, more
to their wonder than satisfaction, that one or other of their horses
was generally groomed before his man came to him; that often there
was hay in their racks which they had not given them; and that the
master's white horse every morning showed signs of having had some
attention paid him that could not be accounted for. The result was
much talk and speculation, suspicion and offence; for all were
jealous of their rights, their duty, and their dignity, in relation
to their horses: no man was at liberty to do a thing to or for any
but his own pair. Even the brightening of the harness-brass, in
which Gibbie sometimes indulged, was an offence; for did it not
imply a reproach? Many were the useless traps laid for the
offender, many the futile attempts to surprise him: as Gibbie never
did anything except for half an hour or so while the men were sound
asleep or at breakfast, he escaped discovery.
But he could not hold continued intercourse with the splendour of
the white horse, and neglect carrying out the experiment on which he
had resolved with regard to the effect of water upon his own skin;
and having found the result a little surprising, he soon got into
the habit of daily and thorough ablution. But many animals that
never wash are yet cleaner than some that do; and, what with the
scantiness of his clothing, his constant exposure to the atmosphere,
and his generally lying in a fresh lair, Gibbie had always been
comparatively clean. Besides, being nice in his mind, he was
naturally nice in his body.
The new personal regard thus roused by the presence of Snowball, had
its development greatly assisted by the scrupulosity with which most
things in the kitchen, and chief of all in this respect, the churn,
were kept. It required much effort to come up to the nicety
considered by Jean indispensable in the churn; and the croucher on
the ceiling, when he saw the long nose advance to prosecute inquiry
into its condition, mentally trembled lest the next movement should
condemn his endeavour as a failure. With his clothes he could do
nothing, alas! but he bathed every night in the Lorrie as soon as
Donal had gone home with the cattle. Once he got into a deep hole,
but managed to get out again, and so learned that he could swim.
All day he was with Donal, and took from him by much the greater
part of his labour: Donal had never had such time for reading. In
return he gave him his dinner, and Gibbie could do very well upon
one meal a day. He paid him also in poetry. It never came into his
head, seeing he never spoke, to teach him to read. He soon gave up
attempting to learn anything from him as to his place or people or
history, for to all questions in that direction Gibbie only looked
grave and shook his head. As often, on the other hand, as he tried
to learn where he spent the night, he received for answer only one
of his merriest laughs.
Nor was larger time for reading the sole benefit Gibbie conferred
upon Donal. Such was the avidity and growing intelligence with
which the little naked town-savage listened to what Donal read to
him, that his presence was just so much added to Donal's own live
soul of thought and feeling. From listening to his own lips through
Gibbie's ears, he not only understood many things better, but,
perceiving what things must puzzle Gibbie, came sometimes, rather to
his astonishment, to see that in fact he did not understand them
himself. Thus the bond between the boy and the child grew
closer -- far closer, indeed than Donal imagined; for, although still,
now and then, he had a return of the fancy that Gibbie might be a
creature of some speechless race other than human, of whom he was
never to know whence he came or whither he went -- a messenger,
perhaps, come to unveil to him the depths of his own spirit, and
make up for the human teaching denied him, this was only in his more
poetic moods, and his ordinary mental position towards him was one
of kind condescension.
It was not all fine weather up there among the mountains in the
beginning of summer. In the first week of June even, there was
sleet and snow in the wind -- the tears of the vanquished Winter,
blown, as he fled, across the sea, from Norway or Iceland. Then
would Donal's heart be sore for Gibbie, when he saw his poor rags
blown about like streamers in the wind, and the white spots melting
on his bare skin. His own condition would then to many have
appeared pitiful enough, but such an idea Donal would have laughed
to scorn, and justly. Then most, perhaps then only, does the truly
generous nature feel poverty, when he sees another in need and can
do little or nothing to help him. Donal had neither greatcoat,
plaid, nor umbrella, wherewith to shield Gibbie's looped and
windowed raggedness. Once, in great pity, he pulled off his jacket,
and threw it on Gibbie's shoulders. But the shout of laughter that
burst from the boy, as he flung the jacket from him, and rushed away
into the middle of the feeding herd, a shout that came from no cave
of rudeness, but from the very depths of delight, stirred by the
loving kindness of the act, startled Donal out of his pity into
brief anger, and he rushed after him in indignation, with full
purpose to teach him proper behaviour by a box on each ear. But
Gibbie dived under the belly of a favourite cow, and peering out
sideways from under her neck and between her forelegs, his arms
grasping each a leg, while the cow went on twisting her long tongue
round the grass and plucking it undisturbed, showed such an innocent
countenance of holy merriment, that the pride of Donal's hurt
benevolence melted away, and his laughter emulated Gibbie's. That
sort of day was in truth drearier for Donal than for Gibbie, for the
books he had were not his own, and he dared not expose them to the
rain; some of them indeed came from Glashruach -- the Muckle Hoose,
they generally called it! When he left him, it was to wander
disconsolately about the field; while Gibbie, sheltered under a
whole cow, defied the chill and the sleet, and had no books of which
to miss the use. He could not, it is true, shield his legs from the
insidious attacks of such sneaking blasts as will always find out
the undefended spots; but his great heart was so well-to-do in the
inside of him, that, unlike Touchstone, his spirits not being weary,
he cared not for his legs. The worst storm in the world could not
have made that heart quail. For, think! there had just been the
strong, the well-dressed, the learned, the wise, the altogether
mighty and considerable Donal, the cowherd, actually desiring him,
wee Sir Gibbie Galbraith, the cinder of the city furnace, the naked,
and generally the hungry little tramp, to wear his jacket to cover
him from the storm! The idea was one of eternal triumph; and
Gibbie, exulting in the unheard-of devotion and condescension of the
thing, kept on laughing like a blessed cherub under the cow's belly.
Nor was there in his delight the smallest admixture of pride that
he should have drawn forth such kindness; it was simple glorying in
the beauteous fact. As to the cold and the sleet, so far as he knew
they never hurt anybody. They were not altogether pleasant
creatures, but they could not help themselves, and would soon give
over their teasing. By to-morrow they would have wandered away into
other fields, and left the sun free to come back to Donal and the
cattle, when Gibbie, at present shielded like any lord by the
friendliest of cows, would come in for a share of the light and the
warmth. Gibbie was so confident with the animals, that they were
already even more friendly with him than with Donal -- all except
Hornie, who, being of a low spirit, therefore incapable of
obedience, was friendliest with the one who gave her the hardest
blows.
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