Sir J aiue$ Matthew Barrie was born' In 
 Klrrtemuir, Scotland, on May 9, I860. He 
 was educated at Dumfries academy and 
 at Edinburgh university, where h re- 
 ceived an M. A. degree. Although he 
 was destined for the teaching profes- 
 sion by his parents, he had ambitions to 
 write, and somewhat Inevitably Joined 
 the staff of a Nottingham daily. 
 
 [t appears that Barrie was unpopular 
 with his fellow scribes, for the reason 
 that his as yet unconquered timidity and 
 reserve and his abstemious habits kept 
 him from making friends with them. He 
 occupied his leisure and much of hia 
 sleeping time with writing. He sent 
 sketches to London papers, and when 
 they finally got to be accepted more or 
 less regularly, he went to the capital 
 and found employment as London cor- 
 respondent of the Edinburgh Dispatch. 
 
 In London he had a few lean years, In 
 which he lived in a garret. His first 
 novel, a sentimental piece about water- 
 cress and a shipwreck, failed to Interest 
 the publishers and it yet remains In 
 manuscript. His first published novel, 
 " Better Dead," did not attract atten- 
 tion ; but when " Auld Llcht Idylls " was 
 published Barrie became a personage. 
 
 Barrie (or Sir James, s!nc 1913, when 
 he was honored with a baronetcy) 
 achieved his first stage success with 
 " Walker, London," In which Mls,e Mary 
 Ansell made her debut as a star. Miss 
 Arisell shortly afterward became Mrs. 
 Barrie. They had no children and lived 
 In apparent happiness until 1908, when 
 Gilbert Cannan, a young novelist and 
 j playwright, at Barrie's Invitation came 
 1 to live at the Barrie home. Cannan was 
 ostensibly employed as his benefactor's 
 secretary, but actually was given a 
 home and leisure for writing, because of 
 Barrie's Interest in the young man's 
 abilities. 
 
 Mrs. Barrie also interested herself In 
 Cannan and later admitted to her hus- 
 band that she loved the younger man. 
 Barrie offered to forgive all If she would 
 renounce Cannan. ' She refused. He ap- 
 n'.ied for a divorce. There was a ma, 
 testimony as to misconduct on the part 
 of Mrs. Barrie and Cannan, but the judge 
 'topped the proceedings early to avoid 
 further scandal and granted the divorce. 
 Mrs. Barrie and Cannan were married. 
 Barrie gave the couple a Louse and a 
 large sum 9f money. 
 
 Cannan's version of the affair Is re- 
 lated In his novel, " Peter Homunculus." 
 The married life of Cannan and Mrs. 
 Barrie was stormy and short lived. 
 After she had nursed him through a seri- 
 ous illness, he said he wanted no more 
 to do with her, that she was a drag upon 
 his career, and admitted infidelity to her 
 In. Barrie-Cannan then sued for and 
 -on restitution of conjugal rights Ru- 
 mors have It that Sir James and his 
 former wife are often seen together now 
 that they may be remarried.
 
 A 
 J
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 BY J. M. BARRIE, 
 
 duthor of " 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 
 52-58 DUANE STEEET, NEW YORK.
 
 :TESSE 
 
 Y SYBIT 
 D.. 
 
 SELENE JOHNSON 
 
 VYN STRATFORD 
 
 ...JANE HAVEN 
 
 LFRED PINNER 
 
 .A. O. HUH AN 
 
 JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 ,RGE A. WARD 
 
 ~
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTBX PAGE 
 
 I. The House on the Brae 7 
 
 II. On the Track of the Minister 15 
 
 III. Preparing to Receive Company 22 
 
 IV. Waiting for the Doctor 28 
 
 V. A Humorist on His Calling 36 
 
 VI. Dead This Twenty Years 45 
 
 VII. The Statement of Tibbie Birse 55 
 
 VIII. A Cloak with Beads 62 
 
 IX. The Power of Beauty 72 
 
 X. A Magnum Opus 78 
 
 XL The Ghost Cradle 84 
 
 XII. The Tragedy of a Wife 93 
 
 XIII. Making the Best of It 100 
 
 XIV. Visitors at the Manse 107 
 
 XV. How Gavin Birse put it to Mag Lownie 115 
 
 XVI. The Son from London 123 
 
 XVII. A Home for Geniuses 135 
 
 XVIIL Leeby and Jamie 141 
 
 XIX. The Tale of a Glove 151 
 
 XX. The Last Night 160 
 
 XXL Jess Left Alone 168 
 
 XXII. Jamie's Home-Coming. 175
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE, 
 
 ON the bump of green round which the brae 
 twists, at the top of the brae, and within cry of 
 T'nowhead Farm, still stands a one-story house, 
 whose whitewashed walls, streaked with the dis- 
 coloration that rain leaves, look yellow when the 
 snow comes. In the old days the stiff ascent left 
 Thrums behind, and where is now the making of 
 a suburb was only a poor row of dwellings and a 
 manse, with Hendry's cot to watch the brae. 
 The house stood bare, without a shrub, in a gar- 
 den whose paling did not go all the way round, 
 the potato pit being only kept out of the road, 
 that here sets off southward, by a broken dyke of 
 stones and earth. On each side of the slate- 
 colored door was a window of knotted glass. 
 Ropes were flung over the thatch to keep the roof 
 on in wind, 
 
 7
 
 8 A WINDOW IN- THRUMS. 
 
 Into this humble abode I would take any one 
 who cares to accompany me. But you must not 
 come in a contemptuous mood, thinking that the 
 poor are but a stage removed from beasts of bur- 
 den, as some cruel writers of these days say ; nor 
 will I have you turn over with your foot the 
 shabby horse-hair chairs that Leeby kept so speck- 
 less, and Hendry weaved for years to buy, and 
 Jess so loved to look upon. 
 
 I speak of the chairs, but if we go together into 
 the "room " they will not be visible to you. For 
 a long time the house has been to let. Here, on 
 the left of the doorway, as we enter, is the room, 
 without a shred of furniture in it except the boards 
 of two closed-in beds. The flooring is not steady, 
 and here and there holes have been eaten into the 
 planks. You can scarcely stand upright beneath 
 the decaying ceiling. Worn boards and ragged 
 walls, and the rusty ribs fallen from the fireplace, 
 are all that meet your eyes, but I see a round, un- 
 steady, waxcloth-covered table, with four books 
 lying at equal distances on it. There are six prim 
 chairs, two of them not to be sat upon, backed 
 against the walls, and between the window and 
 the fireplace a chest of drawers, with a snowy 
 coverlet. On the drawers stands a board with 
 colored marbles for the game of solitaire, and I 
 have only to open the drawer with the loose 
 handle to bring out the dambrod. In the carved 
 wood frame over the window hangs Jamie's por-
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 9 
 
 trait ; in the only other frame a picture of Daniel 
 in the den of lions, sewn by Leeby in wool. Over 
 the chimney-piece with its shells, in which the 
 roar of the sea can be heard, are strung three rows 
 of birds' eggs. Once again we might be expect- 
 ing company to tea. 
 
 The passage is narrow. There is a square hole 
 between the rafters, and a ladder leading up to it. 
 You may climb and look into the attic, as Jess 
 liked to hear me call my tiny garret-room. I am 
 stiffer now than in the days when I lodged with 
 Jess during the summer holiday I am trying to 
 bring back, and there is no need for me to ascend. 
 Do not laugh at the newspapers with which Leeby 
 papered the garret, nor at the yarn Hendry 
 stuffed into the windy holes. He did it to warm 
 the house for Jess. But the paper must have gone 
 to pieces and the yarn rotted decades ago. 
 
 I have kept the kitchen for the last, as Jamie 
 did on the dire day of which I shall have to tell. 
 It has a flooring of stone now, where there used 
 only to be hard earth, and a broken pane in the 
 window is indifferently stuffed with rags. But it 
 is the other window I turn to, with a pain at my 
 heart, and pride and fondness too, the square foot 
 of glass where Jess sat in her chair and looked 
 down the brae. 
 
 Ah, that brae ! The history of tragic little 
 Thrums is sunk into it like the stones it swallows 
 in the winter. We have all found the brae long
 
 10 A WIN DO IV IN THRUMS. 
 
 and steep in the spring of life. Do you remember 
 how the child you once were sat at the foot of it 
 and wondered if a new world began at the top ? 
 It climbs from a shallow burn, and we used to 
 sit on the brig a long time before venturing to 
 climb. As boys we ran up the brae. As men 
 and women, young and in our prime, we almost 
 forgot that it was there. But the autumn of life 
 comes, and the brae grows steeper ; then the 
 winter, and once again we are as the child paus- 
 ing apprehensively on the brig. Yet are we no 
 longer the child ; we look now for no new world 
 at the top, only for a little garden and a tiny 
 house, and a hand-loom in the house. It is only 
 a garden of kail and potatoes, but there may be 
 a line of daisies, white and red, on each side of 
 the narrow footpath, and honeysuckle over the 
 door. Life is not always hard, even after backs 
 grow bent, and we know that all braes lead only 
 to the grave. 
 
 This is Jess' window. For more than twenty 
 years she had not been able to go so far as the 
 door, and only once while I knew her was she 
 ben in the room. With her husband, Hendry, or 
 their only daughter, Leeby, to lean upon, and 
 her hand clutching her staff, she took twice a. 
 day, when she was strong, the journey between 
 her bed and the window where stood her chair. 
 She did not lie there looking at the sparrows or 
 at Leeby redding up the house, and I hardly ever
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. n 
 
 heard her complain. All the sewing was done 
 by her ; she often baked on a table pushed close 
 to the window, and by leaning forward she could 
 stir the porridge. Leeby was seldom off her feet, 
 but I do not know that she did more than Jess, 
 who liked to tell me, when she had a moment to 
 spare, that she had a terrible lot to be thankful 
 for. 
 
 To those who dwell in great cities Thrums is 
 only a small place, but what a clatter of life it 
 has for me when I come to it from my school- 
 house in the glen. Had my lot been cast in a 
 town I would no doubt have sought country parts 
 during my September holiday, but the school- 
 house is quiet even when the summer takes brakes 
 full of sportsmen and others past the top of my 
 footpath, and I was always light-hearted when 
 Craigiebuckle's cart bore me into the din of 
 Thrums. I only once stayed during the whole 
 of my holiday at the house on the brae, but I 
 knew its inmates for many years, including 
 Jamie, the son, who was a barber in London. Of 
 their ancestry I never heard. With us it was only 
 some of the articles of furniture, or perhaps a 
 snuff-mull, that had a genealogical tree. In the 
 house on the brae was a great kettle, called the 
 boiler, that was said to be fifty years old in the days 
 of Hendry's grandfather, of whom nothing more 
 is known. Jess' chair, which had carved arms 
 and a seat stuffed with rags, had been Snecky
 
 12 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 Hobart's father's before it was hers, and old Snecky 
 bought it at a roup in the Tenements. Jess' 
 rarest possession was, perhaps, the christening 
 robe that even people at a distance came to bor- 
 row. Her mother could count up a hundred per- 
 sons who had been baptized in it. 
 
 Every one of the hundred, I believe, is dead, 
 and even I cannot now pick out Jess and Hendry's 
 grave ; but I heard recently that the christening 
 robe is still in use. It is strange that I should still 
 be left after so many changes, one of the three or 
 four who can to-day stand on the brae and point 
 out Jess' window. The little window commands 
 the incline to the point where the brae suddenly 
 jerks out of sight in its climb down into the town. 
 The steep path up the commonty makes for this 
 elbow of the brae ; and thus, whichever way the 
 traveller takes, it is here that he comes first into 
 sight of the window. Here, too, those who go to 
 the town from the south get their first glimpse of 
 Thrums. 
 
 Carts pass up and down the brae every few 
 minutes, and there comes an occasional gig. 
 Seldom is the brae empty, for many live beyond 
 the top of it now, and men and women go by to 
 their work, children to school or play. Not one 
 of the children I see from the window to-day is 
 known to me, and most of the men and women 
 I only recognize by their likeness to their parents. 
 That sweet-faced old woman with the shawl on
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 13 
 
 her shoulders may be one of the girls who was 
 playing at the game of palaulays when Jamie 
 stole into Thrums for the last time ; the man who 
 is leaning on the commonty gate gathering breath 
 for the last quarter of the brae may, as a bare- 
 footed callant, have been one of those who chased 
 Cree Queery past the poor-house. I cannot say ; 
 but this I know, that the grandparents of most of 
 these boys and girls were once young with me. 
 If I see the sons and daughters of my friends 
 grown old, I also see the grandchildren spinning 
 the peerie and hunkering at I-dree-I-dree I- 
 droppit-it as we did so long ago. The world 
 remains as young as ever. The lovers that met 
 on the commonty in the gloaming are gone, but 
 there are other lovers to take their place, and 
 still the commonty is here. The sun had sunk on 
 a fine day in June, early in the century, when 
 Hendry and Jess, newly married, he in a rich 
 moleskin waistcoat, she in a white net cap, 
 walked to the house on the brae that was to be 
 their home. So Jess has told me. Here again 
 has been just such a day, and somewhere in 
 Thrums there may be just such a couple, setting 
 out for their home behind a horse with white ears 
 instead of walking, but with the same hopes and 
 fears, and the same lovelight in their eyes. The 
 world does not age. The hearse passes over the 
 brae and up the straight burying-ground road, 
 but still there is a cry for the christening robe.
 
 I 4 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 Jess' window was a beacon by night to travel- 
 lers in the dark, and it will be so in the future 
 when there are none to remember Jess. There 
 are many such windows still, with loving faces 
 behind them. From them we watch for the 
 friends and relatives who are coming back, and 
 some, alas ! watch in vain. Not every one re- 
 turns who takes the elbow of the brae bravely, or 
 waves his handkerchief to those who watch from 
 the window with wet eyes, and some return too 
 late. To Jess, at her window always when she 
 was not in bed, things happy and mournful and 
 terrible came into view. At this window she sat 
 for twenty years or more looking at the world as 
 through a telescope ; and here an awful ordeal 
 was gone through after her sweet, untarnished 
 soul had been given back to God.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 15 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. 
 
 ON the afternoon of the Saturday that carted 
 me and my two boxes to Thrums, I was ben in 
 the room playing Hendry at the dambrod. I had 
 one of the room chairs, but Leeby brought a chair 
 from the kitchen for her father. Our door stood 
 open, and as Hendry often pondered for two 
 minutes with his hand on a "man," I could have 
 joined in the gossip that was going on but the 
 house. 
 
 "Ay, weel, then, Leeby," said Jess, suddenly, 
 "I'll warrant the minister '11 no be preachin' the 
 morn. " 
 
 This took Leeby to the window. 
 
 "Yea, yea," she said (and I knew she was 
 nodding her head sagaciously) ; I looked out at 
 the room window, but all I could see was a man 
 wheeling an empty barrow down the brae, 
 
 "That's Robbie Tosh," continued Leeby, " an' 
 there's nae doot 'at he's makkin' for the minister's, 
 for he has on his black coat. He'll be to row the 
 minister's luggage to the post-cart Ay, an' that's 
 Davit Lunan's barrow. I ken it by the shaft's
 
 Z 6 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 bein' spliced wi' yarn. Davit broke the shaft at 
 the saw-mill " 
 
 " He'll be gaen away for a curran (number of) 
 days," said Jess, "or he would juist hae taen his 
 bag. Ay, he'll be awa to Edinbory, to see the 
 lass." 
 
 " I wonder wha'll be to preach the morn tod, 
 it'll likely be Mr. Skinner, frae Dundee ; him an' 
 the minister's chief, ye ken." 
 
 "Ye micht gang up to the attic, Leeby, an' see 
 if the spare bedroom vent (chimney) at the manse 
 is gaen. We're sure, if it's Mr. Skinner, he'll 
 come wi' the post frae Tilliedrum the nicht, an' 
 sleep at the manse." 
 
 "Weel, I assure ye," said Leeby, descending 
 from the attic, "it'll no be Mr. Skinner, for no 
 only is the spare bedroom vent no gaen, but the 
 blind's drawn doon frae tap to fut, so they're no 
 even airin' the room. Na, it canna be him ; an' 
 what's mair, it'll be naebody 'at's to bide a' nicht 
 at the manse." 
 
 " I wouldna say that ; na, na. It may only 
 be a student ; an' Marget Dundas (the minister's 
 mother and housekeeper) michtna think it neces- 
 sary to put on a fire for him. " 
 
 "Tod, I'll tell ye wha it'll be. I wonder I 
 didna think o' 'im sooner. It'll be the lad Wilkie ; 
 him 'at's mither mairit on Sam'l Duthie's wife's 
 brither. They bide in Cupar, an' I mind 'at when 
 the son was here twa or three year syne he was
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. if 
 
 juist gaen to begin the diveenity classes in 
 Glesca. " 
 
 " If that's so, Leeby, he would be sure to bide 
 wi' Sam'l. Hendry, hae ye heard 'at Sam'l 
 Duthie's expeckin' a stranger the nicht ? " 
 
 "Haud yer tongue," replied Hendry, who was 
 having the worst of the game. 
 
 "Ay, but I ken he is, "said Leeby triumphantly 
 to her mother, "for ye mind when I was in at 
 Johnny Watt's (the draper's) Chirsty (Sam'l's wife) 
 was buy in' twa yards o f chintz, an I couldna 
 think what she would be wantin' 't for ! " 
 
 "I thocht Johnny said to ye 'at it was fora 
 present to Chirsty 's auntie ? " 
 
 " Ay, but he juist guessed that ; for, though he 
 tried to get oot o' Chirsty what she wanted the 
 chintz for, she wouldna tell 'im. But I see noo 
 what she was after. The lad Wilkie '11 be to bide 
 wi' them, and Chirsty had bocht the chintz to 
 cover the arm-chair wi'. It's ane o' thae hair- 
 bottomed chairs, but terrible torn, so she'll hae 
 covered it for 'im to sit on. " 
 
 " I wouldna wonder but ye're richt, Leeby ; for 
 Chirsty would be in an oncommon fluster if she 
 thocht the lad's mither was likely to hear 'at her 
 best chair was torn. Ay, ay, bein' a man, he 
 wouldna think to tak aff the chintz an' hae a look 
 at the chair withoot it. " 
 
 Here Hendry, who had paid no attention to 
 the conversation, broke in : 
 
 2
 
 l8 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "Was ye speirin' had I seen Sam'l Duthie? I 
 aw 'im yesterday buyin' a fender at Will'um 
 Crook's roup." 
 
 "A fender ! Ay, ay, that settles the queistion," 
 said Leeby ; " I'll warrant the fender as for 
 Chirsty's parlor. It's preyed on Chirsty's mind, 
 they say, this fower-and-thirty year 'at she doesna 
 hae a richt parlor fender." 
 
 "Leeby, look! That's Robbie Tosh wi' the 
 barrow. He has a michty load o' luggage. Am 
 thinkin' the minister's bound for Tilliedrum. " 
 
 "Na, he's no, he's gaen to Edinbory, as ye 
 micht ken by the bandbox. That'll be his 
 Blither's bonnet he's takkin' back to get altered. 
 Ye'll mind she was never pleased wi' the set o' 
 the flowers. " 
 
 "Weel, weel, here comes the minister himsel', 
 an' very snod he is. Ay, Marget's been puttin' 
 new braid on his coat, an' he's carryin' the sma' 
 black bag he bocht in Dundee last year : he'll 
 hae's nicht-shirt an' a comb in't, I dinna doot. 
 Ye micht rin to the corner, Leeby, an' see if he 
 cries in at Jess McTaggart's in passin'. " 
 
 "It's my opeenion," said Leeby, returning 
 excitedly from the corner, ' ' 'at the lad Wilkie's 
 no to be preachin' the morn, after a'. When I 
 gangs to the corner, at ony rate, what think 
 ye's the first thing I see but the minister an' 
 Sam! Duthie meetin' face to face ? Ay, weel, 
 it's gospel am tellin' ye when I say as Sam'l
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 19 
 
 flung back his head an' walkit richt by the 
 minister 1 " 
 
 ' ' Losh keep's a', Leeby ; ye say that ? They 
 maun hae haen a quarrel." 
 
 "I'm thinkin' we'll hae Mr. Skinner i' the 
 poopit the morn after a'." 
 
 "It may be, it may be. Ay, ay, look, Leeby, 
 whatna bit kimmer's that wi' the twa jugs in her 
 hand? " 
 
 "Eh! Ou, it'll be Lawyer Ogilvy's servant 
 lassieky gaen to the farm o' T'nowhead for the 
 milk. She gangs ilka Saturday nicht. But what 
 did ye say twa jugs ? Tod, let's see ! Ay, she 
 has so, a big jug an' a little ane. The little ane '11 
 be for cream ; an', sal, the big ane's bigger na 
 usual." 
 
 "There maun be something gaen on at the 
 lawyer's if they're buyin' cream, Leeby. Their 
 reg'lar thing's twopence worth o' milk." 
 
 "Ay, but I assure ye that sma' jug's for cream, 
 an' I dinna doot mysel' but 'at there's to be fower- 
 pence worth o' milk this nicht." 
 
 "There's to be a puddin* made the morn, 
 Leeby. Ou, ay, a' thing points to that ; an' we're 
 very sure there's nae puddins at the lawyer's on 
 the Sabbath onless they hae company." 
 
 "I dinna ken wha' they can hae, if it be na 
 that brither o' the wife's 'at bides oot by Aber- 
 deen. " 
 
 "Na it's no him, Leeby; na, na. He's no
 
 10 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 weel to do, an' they wouldna be buyin' cream for 
 'im." 
 
 "I'll run up to the attic again, an' see if there's 
 ony stir at the lawyer's hoose. " 
 
 By and by Leeby returned in triumph. 
 
 "Ou, ay," she said, "they're expectin' vees- 
 itors at the lawyer's, for I could see twa o' the 
 bairns dressed up to the nines, an' Mistress Ogilvy 
 doesna dress at them in that way for naething." 
 
 ' ' It far beats me though, Leeby, to guess wha's 
 comin' to them. Ay, but stop a meenute, I 
 wouldna wonder, no, really I would not wonder 
 but what it'll be " 
 
 "The very thing 'at was passin' through my 
 head, mother." 
 
 " Ye mean 'at the lad Wilkie '11 be to bide wi' 
 the lawyer i'stead o' wi' Sam'l Duthie ? Sal, am 
 thinkin' that's it. Ye ken Sam'l an' the lawyer 
 married on cousins ; but Mistress Ogilvy ay lookit 
 on Chirsty as dirt aneath her feet. She would be 
 glad to get a minister, though, to the hoose, an' 
 so I warrant the lad Wilkie '11 be to bide a' nicht 
 at the lawyer's. " 
 
 " But what would Chirsty be doin' gettin' the 
 chintz an' the fender in that case ? " 
 
 " Ou, she'd been expectin' the lad, of course. 
 Sal, she'll be in a michty tantrum aboot this. I 
 wouldna wonder though she gets Sam'l to gang 
 owcr to the U. P.'s." 
 
 Leeby went once more to the attic.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. *1 
 
 "Ye'rewrang, mother, "she cried out " Wha- 
 ever's to preach the morn is to bide at the manse, 
 for the minister's servant's been at Baker Duffs 
 buyin' short-bread half a lippy, nae doot." 
 
 " Are ye sure o' that, Leeby ? " 
 
 "Oh, am certain. The servant gaed in to 
 Duffs the noo, an' as ye ken fine, the manse fowk 
 doesna deal wi' him, except they're wantin' short- 
 bread. He's Auld Kirk." 
 
 Leeby returned to the kitchen, and Jess sat for 
 a time ruminating. 
 
 "TheladWilkie," she said at last, triumphantly, 
 "'11 be to bide at Lawyer Ogilvy's ; but he'll be 
 gaen to the manse the morn for a tea-dinner." 
 
 " But what," asked Leeby, " aboot the milk an' 
 the cream for the lawyer's ? " 
 
 "Ou, they'll be hae'n a puddin' for the supper 
 the nicht. That's a michty genteel thing, I've 
 heard. " 
 
 It turned out that Jess was right in every 
 particular.
 
 32 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 
 
 LEEBY was at the fire brandering a quarter of 
 steak on the tongs, when the house was flung 
 into consternation by Hendry's casual remark 
 that he had seen Tibbie Mealmaker in the town 
 with her man. 
 
 " The Lord preserve's ! " cried Leeby. 
 
 Jess looked quickly at the clock. 
 
 " Half fower ! " she said excitedly. 
 
 "Then it canna be dune," said Leeby, falling 
 despairingly into a chair, "for they may be here 
 ony meenute." 
 
 " It's most michty," said Jess, turning on her 
 husband, ' ' 'at ye should tak' a pleasure in bringin' 
 this hoose to disgrace. Hoo did ye no tell's 
 suner ? " 
 
 " I fair forgot," Hendry answered, " but what's 
 a' yer steer ? " 
 
 Jess looked at me (she often did this) in a way 
 that meant, "What a man is this I'm tied to ! " 
 
 " Steer 1" she exclaimed. "Is't no time we 
 was makkin' a steer ? They'll be in for their tea 
 ony meenute, an' the room no sae muckle as
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 23 
 
 sweepit. Ay, an' me lookin' like a sweep ; an* 
 Tibbie Mealmaker 'at's sae partikler genteel seein' 
 you sic a sicht as ye are ! " 
 
 Jess shook Hendry out of his chair, while Leeby 
 began to sweep with the one hand, and agitatedly 
 to unbutton her wrapper with the other. 
 
 "She didna see me," said Hendry, sitting 
 down forlornly on the table. 
 
 "Getaff that table !" cried Jess. "Seehaud 
 o' the besom," she said to Leeby. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, mother," said Leeby, "gie 
 yer face a dicht, an' put on a clean mutch." 
 
 "I'll open the door if they come afore you're 
 ready," said Hendry, as Leeby pushed him against 
 the dresser. 
 
 "Ye daur to speak aboot openin' the door, an' 
 you sic a mess ! " cried Jess, with pins in her 
 mouth. 
 
 " Havers !" retorted Hendry. "A man canna 
 be aye washin' at 'imsel'." 
 
 Seeing that Hendry was as much in the way as 
 myself, I invited him upstairs to the attic, whence 
 we heard Jess and Leeby upbraiding each other 
 shrilly. I was aware that the room was speck- 
 less ; but for all that, Leeby was turning it upside 
 down. 
 
 "She's aye ta'en like that," Hendry said to 
 me, referring to his wife, "when she's expectin' 
 company. Ay, it's a peety she car.na tak' things 
 cannier."
 
 84 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "Tibbie Mealmaker must be some one of im- 
 portance ? " I asked 
 
 "Ou, she's naething by the ord'nar' ; but ye 
 see she was mairit to a Tilliedrum man no lang 
 syne, an' they're said to hae a michty grand 
 establishment. Ay, they've a wardrobe spleet 
 new ; an' what think ye Tibbie wears ilka 
 day ? " 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "It was Chirsty Miller 'at put it through the 
 toon," Hendry continued. " Chirsty was in 
 Tilliedrum last Teisday or Wednesday, an' Tibbie 
 gae her a cup o' tea. Ay, weel, Tibbie telt 
 Chirsty 'at she wears hose ilka day. " 
 
 "Wears hose?" 
 
 "Ay. It's some michty grand kind o' stockin'. 
 I never heard o't in this toon. Na, there's nae- 
 body in Thrums 'at wears hose. " 
 
 "And who did Tibbie get?" I asked; for in 
 Thrums they say, " Wha did she get?" and 
 "Whadidhetak?" 
 
 "His name's Davit Curly. Ou, a crittur fu' o' 
 maggots, an' nae great match, for he's juist the 
 Tilliedrum bill-sticker. " 
 
 At this moment Jess shouted from her chair 
 (she was burnishing the society teapot as she 
 spoke), "Mind, Hendry McQumpha, 'at upon 
 nae condition are ye to mention the bill-stickin' 
 afore Tibbie ! " 
 
 "Tibbie," Hendry explained to me, "is *
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 25 
 
 terrible vain tid, an' doesna think the bill-stickin' 
 genteel Ay, they say 'at if she meets Davit in 
 the street wi' his paste-pot an' the brush in his 
 hands she pretends no to ken 'im." 
 
 Every time Jess paused to think she cried up 
 orders, such as 
 
 " Dinna call her Tibbie, mind ye. Always 
 address her as Mistress Curly. " 
 
 ' ' Shak' hands wi' baith o' them, an' say ye 
 hope they're in the enjoyment o' guid health." 
 
 "Dinna put yer feet on the table." 
 
 " Mind, you're no' to mention 'at ye kent they 
 were in the toon. " 
 
 "When onybody passes ye yer tea say, ' Thank 
 ye.'" 
 
 "Dinna stir yer tea as if ye was churnin' 
 butter, nor let on 'at the scones is no our ain 
 bakin'. " 
 
 " If Tibbie says onything aboot the china yer 
 no' to say 'at we dinna use it ilka day." 
 
 "Dinna lean back in the big chair, for it's 
 broken an' Leeby's gi'en it a lick o' glue this 
 meenute. " 
 
 "When Leeby gies ye a kick aneath the table, 
 that'll be a sign to ye to say grace. " 
 
 Hendry looked at me apologetically while these 
 instructions came up. 
 
 "I winna dive my head wi sic nonsense," he 
 said ; " it's no' for a man body to be sae crammed 
 fu' o' manners."
 
 26 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "Come awa' doon," Jess shouted to him, " an' 
 put on a clean dickey." 
 
 " I'll better do 't to please her," said Hendry, 
 "though for my ain part I dinna like the feel o' a 
 dickey on week-days. Na, they mak's think it's 
 the Sabbath." 
 
 Ten minutes afterward I went downstairs to see 
 how the preparations were progressing. Fresh 
 muslin curtains had been put up in the room. 
 The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, was so 
 placed that Tibbie could not help seeing it ; and a 
 fine cambric handkerchief, of which Jess was very 
 proud, was hanging out of a drawer as if by acci- 
 dent. An antimacassar lying carelessly on the 
 seat of a chair concealed a rent in the horse-hair, 
 and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece were 
 so placed that they looked whole. Leeby's black 
 merino was hanging near the window in a good 
 light, and Jess' Sabbath bonnet, which was never 
 worn, occupied a nail beside it. The tea-things 
 stood on a tray in the kitchen bed, whence they 
 could be quickly brought into the room, just as if 
 they were always ready to be used daily. Leeby, 
 as yet en dishabille, was shaving her father at a 
 tremendous rate, and Jess, looking as fresh as a 
 daisy, was ready to receive the visitors. She was 
 peering through the tiny window-blind looking 
 for them. 
 
 "Be cautious, Leeby," Hendry was saying,
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 2 j 
 
 when Jess shook her hand at him. "Wheesht," 
 she whispered ; " they're comin'." 
 
 Hendry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, and 
 then came a tap at the door, a very genteel tap. 
 Jess nodded to Leeby, who softly shoved Hendry 
 into the room. 
 
 The tap was repeated, but Leeby pushed her 
 father into a chair and thrust Barrow's Sermons 
 open into his hand. Then she stole about the 
 house, and swiftly buttoned her wrapper, speak- 
 ing to Jess by nods the while. There was a third 
 knock, whereupon Jess said, in a loud, Englishy 
 voice : 
 
 " Was that not a chap (knock) at the door? " 
 
 Hendry was about to reply, but she shook hel 
 fist at him. Next moment Leeby opened the 
 door. I was upstairs, but I heard Jess say : 
 
 " Dear me, if it's not Mrs. Curly and Mr. 
 Curly ! And hoo are ye ? Come in, by. Weel, 
 this is, indeed, a pleasant surprise ! "
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. 
 
 JESS had gone early to rest, and the door of 
 her bed in the kitchen was pulled to. From her 
 window I saw Hendry buying dulse. 
 
 Now and again the dulseman wheeled his slimy 
 boxes to the top of the brae, and sat there stolidly 
 on the shafts of his barrow. Many passed him 
 by, but occasionally some one came to rest by his 
 side. Unless the customer was loquacious, there 
 was no bandying of words, and Hendry merely 
 unbuttoned his east-trouser pocket, giving his 
 body the angle at which the pocket could be most 
 easily filled by the dulseman. He then deposited 
 his halfpenny, and moved on. Neither had 
 spoken ; yet in the country they would have roared 
 their predictions about to-morrow to a ploughman 
 half a field away. 
 
 Dulse is roasted by twisting it round the tongs 
 fired to a red-heat, and the house was soon heavy 
 with the smell of burning seaweed. Leeby was 
 at the dresser munching it from a broth-plate, 
 while Hendry, on his knees at the fireplace, gin-
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 29 
 
 gerly tore off the blades of dulse that were stick- 
 ing to the tongs, and licked his singed fingers. 
 
 " Whaur's yer mother ? " he asked Leeby. 
 
 "Ou," said Leeby, "whaur would she be but 
 in her bed ? '" 
 
 Hendry took the tongs to the door, and would 
 have cleaned them himself, had not Leeby (who 
 often talked his interfering ways over with her 
 mother) torn them from his hands. 
 
 " Leeby ! " cried Jess at that moment. 
 
 "Ay," answered Leeby, leisurely, not noticing, 
 as I happened to do, that Jess spoke in an agitated 
 voice. 
 
 "What is't?" asked Hendry, who liked to be 
 told things. 
 
 He opened the door of the bed. 
 
 "Yer mothers no weel," he said to Leeby. 
 
 Leeby ran to the bed, and I went ben the 
 house. 
 
 In another two minutes we were a group of 
 four in the kitchen, staring vacantly. Death 
 could not have startled us more, tapping thrice 
 that quiet night on the window-pane. 
 
 " It's diphtheria J " said Jess, her handa 
 trembling as she buttoned her wrapper. 
 
 She looked at me, and Leeby looked at me. 
 
 "It's no ! it's no ! " cried Leeby, and her voice 
 was as a fist shaken at my face. She blamed me 
 for hesitating in my reply. But ever since this 
 malady left me a lonely dominie for life, diph-
 
 30 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 theria has been a knockdown word for me. Jess 
 had discovered a great white spot on her throat 
 I knew the symptoms. 
 
 "Is't dangerous?" asked Hen dry, who once 
 had a headache years before, and could still refer 
 to it as a reminiscence. 
 
 "Them 'at has 't never recovers," said Jess, 
 sitting down very quietly. A stick fell from the 
 fire, and she bent forward to replace it. 
 
 "They do recover !" cried Leeby, again turn- 
 ing angry eyes on me. 
 
 I could not face her ; I had known so many 
 who did not recover. She put her hands on her 
 mother's shoulders. 
 
 "Mebbe ye would be better in your bed," sug- 
 gested Hen dry. 
 
 No one spoke. 
 
 "When I had the headache," said Hendry, "I 
 was better in my bed." 
 
 Leeby. had taken Jess' hand a worn old hand 
 that had many a time gone out in love and kind- 
 ness when younger hands were cold. Poets 
 have sung and fighting men have done great 
 deeds for hands that never had such a record. 
 
 "If ye could eat something," said Hendry, "I 
 would gae to the flesher's for 't. I mind when I 
 had the headache, hoo a small steak " 
 
 ' Gae awa for the doctor, rayther, " broke in 
 Leeby. 
 
 Jess started, for sufferers think there is less
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 31 
 
 hope for them after the doctor has been called in 
 to pronounce sentence. 
 
 "I winna hae the doctor," she said, anx- 
 ioxisly. 
 
 In answer to Leeby's nods, Hendry slowly 
 pulled out his boots from beneath the table, and 
 sat looking at them, preparatory to putting them 
 on. He was beginning at last to be a little 
 scared, though his face did not show it. 
 
 "I winna hae ye," cried Jess, getting to her 
 feet, " gaen to the doctor's sic a sicht. Yer 
 coat's a' yarn." 
 
 "Havers," said Hendry, but Jess became 
 frantic. 
 
 I offered to go for the doctor, but while I was 
 upstairs looking for my bonnet I heard the door 
 slam. Leeby had become impatient and darted 
 off herself, buttoning her jacket probably as she 
 ran. When I returned to the kitchen, Jess and 
 Hendry were still by the fire. Hendry was beat- 
 ing a charred stick into sparks, and his wife sat 
 with her hands in her lap. I saw Hendry look 
 at her once or twice, but he could think of noth- 
 ing to say. His terms of endearment had died 
 out thirty-nine years before with his courtship. 
 He had forgotten the words. For his life he 
 could not have crossed over to Jess and put his 
 arm round her. Yet he was uneasy. His eyes 
 wandered round the poorly-lit room. 
 
 "Will ye hae a drink o' water? " he asked.
 
 $1 A WINDOW IN- THRUMS. 
 
 There was a sound of footsteps outside. 
 
 "That'll be him," said Hendry, in a whisper. 
 
 Jess started to her feet, and told Hendry to 
 help her ben the house. 
 
 The steps died away, but I fancied that Jess, 
 now highly strung, had gone into hiding, and I 
 went after her. I was mistaken. She had lit 
 the room-lamp, turning the crack in the globe to 
 the wall. The sheep-skin hearth-rug, which was 
 generally carefully packed away beneath the bed, 
 had been spread out before the empty fireplace, 
 and Jess was on the arm-chair hurriedly putting 
 on her grand black mutch with the pink flowers. 
 
 "Iwasjuist makkin' mysel' respectable," she 
 said, but without life in her voice. 
 
 This was the only time I ever saw her in the 
 room. 
 
 Leeby returned panting to say that the doctor 
 might be expected in an hour. He was away 
 among the hills. 
 
 The hour passed reluctantly. Leeby lit a fire 
 ben the house, and then put on her Sabbath 
 dress. She sat with her mother in the room. 
 Never before had I seen Jess sit so quietly, for 
 her way was to work until, as she said herself, 
 she was ready "to fall into her bed." 
 
 Hendry wandered between the rooms, always 
 in the way when Leeby ran to the window to see 
 if that was the doctor at last. He would stand 
 gaping in the middle of the room for five min-
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 33 
 
 utes, then slowly withdraw to stand as drearily 
 but the house. His face lengthened. At last he 
 sat down by the kitchen fire, a Bible in his hand. 
 It lay open on his knee, but he did not read 
 much. He sat there with his legs outstretched, 
 looking straight before him. I believe he saw 
 Jess young again. His face was very solemn, 
 and his mouth twitched. The fire sank into 
 ashes unheeded. 
 
 I sat alone at my attic window for hours, 
 waiting for the doctor. From the attic I could 
 see nearly all Thrums, but, until very late, the 
 night was dark, and the brae, except immediately 
 before the door, was blurred and dim. A sheet of 
 light canopied the square as long as a cheap Jack 
 paraded his goods there. It was gone before the 
 moon came out. Figures tramped, tramped up 
 the brae, passed the house in shadow and stole 
 silently on. A man or boy whistling seemed 
 to fill the valley. The moon arrived too late to 
 be of service to any wayfarer. Everybody in 
 Thrums was asleep but ourselves, and the doctor 
 who never came. 
 
 About midnight Hendry climbed the attic stair 
 and joined me at the window. His hand was 
 shaking as he pulled back the blind. I began to 
 realize that his heart could still overflow. 
 
 " She's waur," he whispered, like one who had 
 lost his voice. 
 
 For a long time he sat silently, his hand on the 
 3
 
 34 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 blind. He was so different from the Hendry I 
 had known that I felt myself in the presence of a 
 strange man. His eyes were glazed with staring 
 at the turn of the brae where the doctor must first 
 come into sight. His breathing became heavier 
 till it was a gasp. Then I put my hand on his 
 shoulder, and he stared at me. 
 
 " Nine-and-thirty years come June," he said, 
 speaking to himself. 
 
 For this length of time, I knew, he and Jess 
 had been married. He repeated the words at in- 
 tervals. 
 
 " I mind " he began, and stopped. He was 
 
 thinking of the spring-time of Jess' life. 
 
 The night ended as we watched ; then came 
 the terrible moment that precedes the day the 
 moment known to shuddering watchers by sick 
 beds, when a chill wind cuts through the house, 
 and the world without seems cold in death. It is 
 as if the heart of the earth did not mean to con- 
 tinue beating. 
 
 " This is a fearsome nicht, " Hendry said hoarsely. 
 
 He turned to grope his way to the stairs, but 
 suddenly went down on his knees to pray. . . . 
 
 There was a quick step outside. I arose in 
 time to see the doctor on the brae. He tried the 
 latch, but Leeby was there to show him in. 
 
 The door of the room closed on him. 
 
 From the top of the stair I could see into the 
 dark passage, and make out Hendry shaking at
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS, 35 
 
 tiie door. I could hear the doctor's voice, but 
 not the words he said. There was a painful silence, 
 and then Leeby laughed joyously. 
 
 "It's gone," cried Jess; "the white spot's 
 gone ! Ye juist touched it, an' it's gone ! Tell 
 Hendry." 
 
 But Hendry did not need to be told. As Jess 
 spoke I heard him say, huskily : "Thank God ! " 
 and then he tottered back to the kitchen. When 
 the doctor left, Hendry was still on Jess' arm- 
 chair, trembling like a man with the palsy. Ten 
 minutes afterward I was preparing for bed, when 
 he cried up the stair : 
 
 "Come awa' doon." 
 
 I joined the family party in the room : Hendry 
 was sitting close to Jess. 
 
 ' ' Let us read, " he said, firmly, ' ' in the fourteenth 
 of John."
 
 36 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. 
 
 AFTER the eight o'clock bell had rung, Hendry 
 occasionally crossed over to the farm of T'nowhead 
 and sat on the pig-sty. If no one joined him he 
 scratched the pig, and returned home gradually. 
 Here what was almost a club held informal meet- 
 ings, at which two or four, or even half a dozen 
 assembled to debate, when there was any one to 
 start them. The meetings were only memorable 
 when Tammas Haggart was in fettle, to pro- 
 nounce judgments in his well-known sarcastic 
 way. Sometimes we had got off the pig-sty to 
 separate before Tammas was properly yoked. 
 There we might remain a long time, planted 
 round him like trees, for he was a mesmerizing 
 talker. 
 
 There was a pail belonging to the pig-sty, 
 which some one would turn bottom upward and 
 sit upon if the attendance was unusually numer- 
 ous. Tammas liked, however, to put a foot on 
 it now and again in the full swing of a harangue, 
 and when he paused for a sarcasm I have seen 
 the pail kicked toward him. He had the wave
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 37 
 
 of the arm that is so convincing in argument, 
 and such a natural way of asking questions, that 
 an audience not used to public speaking might 
 have thought he wanted them to reply. It is an 
 undoubted fact that, when he went on the plat- 
 form, at the time of the election, to heckle the 
 colonel, he paused in the middle of his questions 
 to take a drink out of the tumbler of water which 
 stood on the table. As soon as they saw what 
 he was up to, the spectators raised a ringing cheer. 
 
 On concluding his perorations, Tammas sent 
 his snuff-mull round, but we had our own way of 
 passing him a vote of thanks. One of the com- 
 pany would express amazement at his gift of 
 words, and the others would add, "Man, man," 
 or, " Ye co we a' Tammas, " or, "What a crittur ye 
 are ! " all which ejaculations meant the same 
 thing. . A new subject being thus ingeniously in- 
 troduced, Tammas again put his foot on the pail. 
 
 "I tak' no creedit," he said, modestly, on the 
 evening, I remember, of Willie Pyatt's funeral, 
 "in bein' able to speak wi' a sort o' faceelity on 
 topics 'at I've made my ain. " 
 
 "Ay," said T'nowhead, "but i'ts no the faceel- 
 ity o' speakin' 'at taks me. There's Davit Lu- 
 nan 'at can speak like as if he had learned it aff a 
 paper, an* yet I canna thole 'im." 
 
 "Davit," said Hendry, "doesna speak in a 
 wy 'at a body can follow 'im. He doesna gae 
 even on. Jess says he's juist like a man ay at the
 
 38 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 cross-roads, an' no sure o' his way. But the stock 
 has words, an' no ilka body has that." 
 
 "If I was bidden to put Tammas' gift in a 
 word," said T'nowhead, "I would say 'at he had 
 a wy. That's what I would say." 
 
 "Weel, I suppose I have," Tammas admitted, 
 "but, wy or no wy, I couldna put a point on my 
 words if it wasna for my sense o' humor. Lads, 
 humor's what gies the nip to speakin'." 
 
 "It's what maks ye a sarcesticist, Tammas," 
 said Hendry ; "but what I wonder at is yer say- 
 in' the humorous things sae aisy like. Some says 
 ye mak them up aforehand, but I ken that's no 
 true." 
 
 "No only is't no true," said Tammas, "but it 
 couldna be true. Them 'at says sic things, an', 
 weel I ken you're meanin' Davit Lunan, hasna 
 nae idea o' what humor is. It's a thing 'at spouts 
 oot o' its ain accord. Some o' the maist humor- 
 ous things I've ever said cam' oot, as a body may 
 say, by themsel's. " 
 
 "I suppose that's the case," said T'nowhead, 
 "a' yet it maun be you 'at brings them up ? " 
 
 "There's no nae doubt aboot its bein' the case," 
 said Tammas, "for I've watched mysel' often. 
 There was a vara guid instance occurred sune 
 after I married Easie. The earl's son met me one 
 day, aboot that time, i* the Tenements, an' he 
 didna ken 'at Chirsty was deid, an' I married 
 again. 'Well, Haggart,' he says, in his frank wy.
 
 A WINDOW iff THRUMS. & 
 
 'and how is your wife?' 'She's vara weel, sir, 
 I maks answer, 'but she's no the ane >ju 
 mean.' ' 
 
 "Na, he meant Chirsty," said Hendry. 
 
 " Is that a' the story ? " asked T'nowhead. 
 
 Tarn mas had been looking at us queerly. 
 
 " There's no nane o' ye lauchin'," he said, " but I 
 can assure ye the earl's son gaed east the toon 
 lauchin' like onything." 
 
 "But what vvas't he lauched at?" 
 
 " Ou," said Tammas, " a humorist doesna ttll 
 whaur the humor comes in." 
 
 "No, but when you said that, did ye mean it to 
 be humorous ? " 
 
 "Amnosayin' I did, but as I've been tellin' 
 ye, humor spouts oot by itsel'. " 
 
 "Ay, but do ye ken noo what the earl's son 
 gaed away lauchin' at ? " 
 
 Tammas hesitated. 
 
 "I dinna exactly see't," he confessed, "but 
 that's no an oncommon thing. A humorist would 
 often no ken 'at he was ane if it wasna by the wy 
 he maks other fowk lauch. A body canna beex- 
 peckit baith to mak' the joke an' to see't Na, that 
 would be doin' twa fowks' wark." 
 
 "Weel, that's reasonable enough, but I've 
 often seen ye lauchin," said Hendry, "langaforo 
 other fowk lauched." 
 
 " Nae doubt," Tammas explained, "an' that's 
 because humor has twa sides, just like a penny-
 
 40 A WINDOW IN THRUMS, 
 
 piece. When I say a humorous thing mysel' 
 I'm dependent on other fowk to tak note o' the 
 humor o't, bein' mysel' ta'en up wi' the makkin' 
 o't. Ay, but there's things I see an' hear 'at 
 maks me lauch, an' that's the other side o' 
 humor." 
 
 "I never heard it put sae plain afore," said 
 T'nowhead, "an', sal, am no nane sure but what 
 am a humorist too." 
 
 " Na, na, no you, T'nowhead," said Tammas 
 hotly. 
 
 " Weel," continued the farmer, " I never set up 
 for bein' a humorist, but I can juist assure ye'at I 
 lauch at queer things too. No lang syne I woke 
 up i' my bed lauchin' like onything, an' Lisbeth 
 thocht I wasna weel. It was something I 
 dreamed 'at made me lauch ; I couldna think 
 what it was, but I lauched richt. Was that no 
 fell like a humorist ? " 
 
 "That was neither here nor there," said Tam- 
 mas. "Na, dreams dinna coont, for we're no 
 responsible for them. Ay, an' what's mair the 
 mere lauchin's no the important side o' humor, 
 even though ye hinna to be telt to lauch. The 
 important side's the other side, the sayin' the hu- 
 morous things. I'll tell ye what : the humorist's 
 like a man firm' at a target he doesna ken 
 whether he hits or no till them at the target tells 
 'im." 
 
 "I would be of opeenion," said Hendry, who
 
 A WINDOW Itt THRUMS. 41 
 
 was one of Tammas' most stanch admirers, "'at 
 another mark o' the rale humorist was his seein' 
 humor in all things ? " 
 
 Tammas shook his head a way he had when 
 Hendry advanced theories. 
 
 " I dinna haud wi' that ava," he said. " I ken 
 fine 'at Davit Lunan gaes aboot sayin' he sees hu- 
 mor in everything, but there's nae surer sign 'at 
 he's no a genuine humorist. Na, the rale humor- 
 ist kens vara weel 'at there s subjects withoot a 
 spark o' humor in them. When a subject rises to 
 the sublime it should be regairded philosophically, 
 an' no humorously. Davit would lauch at the 
 grandest thochts, whaur they only fill the true hu- 
 morist wi' awe. I've found it necessary to rebuke 
 'im at times whaur his lauchin' was oot o' place. 
 He pretended aince on this vara spot to see hu- 
 mor i' the origin o' cock-fightin'. " 
 
 "Didhe, man ?" said Hendry; "Iwasnahere. 
 But what is the origin o' cock-fechtin' ? " 
 
 " It was a' i' the Cheap Magazine," said. T'now- 
 head. 
 
 "Was I sayin' it wasna? " demanded Tammas. 
 " It was through me readin' the account oot o' 
 the Cheap Magazine 'at the discussion arose." 
 
 "But what said the Cheapy was the origin o' 
 cock-fechtin' ? " 
 
 "T'nowhead '11 tell ye," answered Tammas; 
 "he says I dinna ken." 
 
 "I never said naething o' the kind," returned
 
 4 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 Tnowhead, indignantly ; " I mind o' ye readitt 
 't oot fine." 
 
 "Ay, weel," said Tammas, "that's a' richt 
 Ou, the origin o' cock-fightin' gangs back to the 
 time o' the Greek wars, a thoosand or twa years 
 syne, mair or less. There was ane, Miltiades by 
 name, 'at was the captain o' the Greek army, an' 
 one day he led them doon the mountains to attack 
 the biggest army 'at was ever gathered thegither." 
 
 " They were Persians," interposed T'nowhead, 
 
 " Are you tellin' the story, or am I ? " asked 
 Tammas. "I kent fine 'at they were Persians. 
 Weel, Miltiades had the matter o' twenty thoosand 
 men wi' 'im, and when they got to the foot o' the 
 mountain, behold there was two cocks fechtin'." 
 
 "Man, man," said Hendry, "an' was there 
 cocks in thae days ? " 
 
 " Ondoubtedly," said Tammas, "or hoo could 
 thae twa hae been fechtin' ? " 
 
 "Ye have me there, Tammas," admitted Hen- 
 dry. "Ye're perfectly richt." 
 
 "Ay, then, "continued the stone-breaker, "when 
 Miltiades saw the cocks at it wi' all their micht, 
 he stopped the army and addressed it. ' Behold ! ' 
 he cried, at the top o' his voice, ' these cocks do 
 not fight for their household gods nor for the mon- 
 uments of their ancestors, nor for glory, nor for 
 liberty, nor for their children, but only because 
 the one will not give way unto the other.'" 
 
 "It was nobly said," declared Hendry; "na,
 
 A WIMDOW IM THRUMS. 43 
 
 cocks wouldna hae sae muckle understandin 1 as 
 to fecht for thae things. I wouldna wonder but 
 what it was some laddies 'at set them at ane 
 another." 
 
 " Hendry doesna see what Miltydes was after," 
 said T'nowhead. 
 
 " Ye'vetaen't up wrang, Hendry," Tammas ex- 
 plained. " What Miltiades meant was 'at if cocks 
 could fecht sae weel out o' mere deviltry, surely 
 the Greeks would fecht terrible for their gods an' 
 their bairns an' the other things." 
 
 "I see, I see; but what was the monuments 
 o' their ancestors?" 
 
 "Ou, that was the gravestanes they put up i* 
 their kirkyards." 
 
 " I wonder the other billies would want to tak 
 them awa. They would be a michty wecht." 
 
 "Ay, but they wanted them, an' nat'rally the 
 Greeks stuck to the stanes they paid for." 
 
 "So, so, an' did Davit Lunan mak oot 'at there 
 was humor in that? " 
 
 " He do so. He said it was a humorous thing 
 to think o' a hale army lookin' on at twa cocks 
 fechtin'. I assure ye I telt 'im 'at I saw nae 
 humor in't. It was ane o' the most impressive 
 sichts ever seen by man, an' the Greeks was sae 
 inspired by what Miltiades said 'at they s T .veepit 
 the Persians oot o' their country." 
 
 We all agreed that Tammas' was the genuine 
 humor.
 
 44 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "An* an enviable possession it is," said Hen- 
 dry. 
 
 "In a wy," admitted Tammas, "but no in a' 
 wys. " 
 
 He hesitated, and then added in a low voice : 
 
 "As sure as death, Hendry, it sometimes taks> 
 grip o' me i' the kirk itsel', an' I can hardly keep 
 frae lauchin'."
 
 A WltiZOW W THKUM& 45 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 IN the lustiness of youth there are many who 
 cannot feel that they, too, will die. The first 
 fear stops the heart. Even then they would keep 
 death at arm's length by making believe to dis- 
 own him. Loved ones are taken away, and the 
 boy, the girl, will not speak of them, as if that 
 made the conqueror's triumph the less. In time 
 the fire in the breast burns low, and then in the 
 last glow of the embers, it is sw-eeter to hold 
 what has been than to think of what may be. 
 
 Twenty years had passed since Joey ran down 
 the brae to play. Jess, his mother, shook her 
 staff fondly at him. A cart rumbled by, the 
 driver nodding on the shaft. It rounded the cor- 
 ner and stopped suddenly, and then a woman 
 screamed. A handful of men carried Joey's dead 
 body to his mother, and that was the tragedy of 
 Jess' life. 
 
 * V 
 
 Twenty years ago, and still Jess sat at the 
 window, and still she heard that woman scream. 
 Every other living being had forgotten Joey; 
 ever, to Hendry he was now scarcely a name,
 
 46 A WINDOW Itf THRUMS. 
 
 but there were times when Jess' face quivered ant* 
 her old arms went out for her dead 607. 
 
 "God's will be done," she said, "but oh! I 
 grudged Him my bairn terrible sair. I dinna 
 want him back noo, an' ilka day is takkin' me 
 nearer to him, but for monyalang year I grudged 
 him sair, sair. He was juist five minutes gone, 
 an' they brocht him back deid, my Joey." 
 
 On the Sabbath day Jess could not go to church, 
 and it was then, I think, that she was with Joey 
 most. There was often a blessed serenity on her 
 face, when we returned, that only comes to those 
 who have risen from their knees with their prayers 
 answered. Then she was very close to the boy 
 who died. Long ago she could not look out 
 from her window upon the brae, but now it was 
 her seat in church. There on the Sabbath even- 
 ings she sometimes talked to me of Joey. 
 
 " It's been a fine day," she would say, "juist 
 like that day. I thank the Lord for the sunshine 
 noo, but oh ! I thocht at the time I couldna look 
 at the sun shinin' again." 
 
 " In all Thrums," she has told me, and I know 
 it to be true, " there's no a better man than 
 Hendry. There's them 'at's cleverer in the wys 
 o' the world, but my man, Hendry McQtimpha, 
 never did naething m all his life 'at wasna weel 
 intended, an' though his words is common, it's 
 to the Lord he looks. I canna think but what 
 Hendry ' pleasin' to God. Oh, I dinna ken what
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 47 
 
 to say wi' thankfulness to him when I mind hoo 
 guid he's been to me. There's Leeby 'at I couldna 
 hae done withoot, me bein' sae silly (weak bodily), 
 an' ay, Leeby's stuck by me an' gien up her life, 
 as ye micht say, for me. Jamie " 
 
 But then Jess sometimes broke down. 
 
 " He's so far awa," she said, after a time, "an* 
 aye when he gangs back to London after his 
 holidays he has a fear he'll never see me again, 
 but he's terrified to mention it, an' I juist ken by 
 the wy he taks haud o' me, an' comes runnin' 
 back to tak haud o' me again. I ken fine what 
 he's thinkin', but I daurna speak. 
 
 " Guid is no word for what Jamie has been to 
 me, but he wasna born till after Joey died. When 
 we got Jamie, Hendry took to whistlin' again at 
 the loom, an' Jamie juist filled Joey's place to him. 
 Ay, but naebody could fill Joey's place to me. 
 It's different to a man. A bairn's no the same to 
 him, but a fell bit o' me was buried in my laddie's 
 grave. 
 
 "Jamie an' Joey was never nane the same 
 nature. It was aye something in a shop Jamie 
 wanted to be, an' he never cared muckle for his 
 books, but Joey hankered after being a minister, 
 young as he was, an' a minister Hendry an' me 
 would hae done our best to mak him. Mony, 
 rnony a time after he came in frae the kirk on the 
 Sabbath he would stand up at this very window 
 and wave his hands in a reverent way, juist like
 
 48 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 the minister. His first text was to be ' Thou God 
 seest me.' 
 
 " Ye'll wonder at me, but I've sat here in the 
 lang fore-nichts dreamin' 'at Joey was a grown 
 man noo, an' 'at I was puttin' on my bonnet to 
 come to the kirk to hear him preach. Even as far 
 back as twenty years an mair I wasna able to 
 gang aboot, but Joey would say to me, ' We'll get 
 a carriage to ye, mother, so 'at ye can come and 
 hear me preach on "Thou God seest me.'" He 
 would say to me, ' It doesna do, mother, for the 
 minister in the pulpit to nod to ony o' the fowk, 
 but I'll gie ye a look an' ye'll ken it's me.' Oh, 
 Joey, I would hae gien you a look too, an' ye 
 would hae kent what I was thinkin'. He often 
 said, ' Ye'll be proud o' me, will ye no, mother, 
 when ye see me comin' sailin' alang to the pulpit 
 in my gown ? ' So I would hae been proud o' 
 him, an' I was proud to hear him speakin' o't. 
 'The other fowk,' he said, 'will be sittin' in 
 their seats wonderin' what my text's to be, but 
 you'll ken, mother, an" you'll turn up to "Thou 
 God seest me," afore I gie oot the chapter.' Ay, 
 but that day he was coffined, for all the minister 
 prayed, I found it hard to say ' Thou God seest 
 me.' It's the text I like best noo, though, an' 
 when Hendry an' Leeby is at the kirk, I turn't up 
 often, often in the Bible. I read frae the begin- 
 nin' o' the chapter, but when I come to 'Thou 
 God. seest me,' I stop. Na, it's no 'at there's ony
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 4.9 
 
 rebellion to the Lord in my heart noo, for I ken 
 He was lookin' doon when the cart gaed over 
 Joey, an' He wanted to tak my laddie to Himsel'. 
 But juist when I come to ' Thou God seest me,' 
 I let the book lie in my lap, for aince a body's 
 sure o' that they're sure o' all. Ay, ye'll laugh, 
 but I think, mebbe juist because I was his mother, 
 'at though Joey never lived to preach in a kirk, 
 he's preached frae ' Thou God seest me ' to me. 
 I dinna ken 'at I would ever hae been sae sure o' 
 that if it hadna been for him, an' so I think I see 
 'im sailin' doon to the pulpit juist as he said he. 
 would do. I seen him gien me the look he spoke 
 o' ay, he looks my wy first, an' I ken it's him. 
 Naebody sees him but me, but I see him gien me 
 the look he promised. He's so terrible near me, 
 an' him dead, 'at when my time comes I'll be rale 
 willin' to go. I dinna say that to Jamie, because 
 he all trembles ; but I'm auld noo, an' I'm no nane 
 loth to gang." 
 
 Jess' staff probably had a history before it be- 
 came hers, for, as known to me, it was always 
 old and black. If we studied them sufficiently 
 we might discover that staves age perceptibly, 
 just as the hair turns gray. At the risk of being 
 thought fanciful, I dare to say that in inanimate 
 objects, as in ourselves, there is honorable and 
 shameful old age, and that to me Jess' staff was 
 a symbol of the good, the true. It rested against 
 her in the window, and she was so helpless with- 
 4
 
 50 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 out it when on her feet, that to those who saw 
 much of her, it was part of herself. The staff was 
 very short, nearly a foot having been cut, as I 
 think she once told me herself, from the original, 
 of which to make a porridge thieval (or stick 
 with which to stir porridge), and in moving Jess 
 leant heavily on it. Had she stood erect, it 
 would not have touched the floor. This was the 
 staff that Jess shook so joyfully at her boy the 
 forenoon in May, when he ran out to his death. 
 Joey, however, was associated in Jess' memory 
 with her staff, in less painful ways. When she 
 spoke of him she took the dwarf of a staff in her 
 hands and looked at it softly. 
 
 " It's hard to me," she would say, " to believe 
 'at twa an' twenty years hae come and gone since 
 the nicht Joey hod (hid) my staff. Ay, but Hen- 
 dry was straucht in thae days by what he is noo, 
 an' Jamie wasna born. Twa an' twenty years 
 come the back end o' the year, an' it wasna 
 thocht 'at I could live through the winter. ' Ye'll 
 no last mair than anither month, Jess/ was what 
 my sister Bell said, when she came to see me, 
 and yet here I am, aye sittin' at my window, an' 
 Bell's been i' the kirkyard this dozen years. 
 
 "Leeby was saxteen month younger than 
 Joey, an' mair quiet like. Her heart was juist 
 set on helpin' aboot the hoose, an' though she 
 was but fower year auld she could kindle the 
 fire an' redd up (clean up) the room. Leeby'e
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 51 
 
 been my savin' ever since she was fower year 
 auld Ay, but it was Joey 'at hung aboot me 
 maist, an' he took notice 'at I wasna gaen out as 
 I used to do. Since sune after my marriage I've 
 needed the stick, but there was days 'at I could 
 gang across the road an' sit on a stane. Joey 
 kent there was something wrang when I had to 
 gie that up, an' syne he noticed 'at I couldna 
 even gang to the window unless Hendry kind o' 
 carried me. Na, ye wouldna think 'at there 
 could hae been days when Hendry did that, but 
 he did. He was a sort o' ashamed if ony o' the 
 neighbors saw him so affectionate like, but he 
 was terrible taen up aboot me. His loom was 
 doon at T'nowhead's, Bell's father's, an' often he 
 cam' avva up to see if I was ony better. He did- 
 na lat on to the other weavers 'at he was comin' 
 to see what like I was. Na, he juist said he'd 
 forgotten a pirn, or his cruizey lamp, oronything 
 Ah, but he didna mak nae pretence o' no carin' 
 for me aince he was inside the hoose. He came 
 crawlin' to the bed, no to wauken me if I was 
 sleepin', an' mony a time I made belief 'at I was, 
 juist to please him. It was an awfu' business on 
 him to hae a young wife sae helpless, but he 
 wasna the man to cast that at me. I mind o' 
 sayin' to him one day in my bed, 'Ye made a 
 poor bargain, Hendry, when ye took me.' But 
 he says, 'Not one soul in Thrums '11 daur say 
 that to me but yersel', Jess. Na, na, my dawtv.
 
 $2 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 you're the wuman o' my choice ; there's juist one 
 wuman i' the warld to me, an' that's you, my am 
 Jess.' Tvva an' twenty years syne. Ay, Hendry 
 called me fond like names, thae no everyday 
 names. What a straucht man he was I 
 
 " The doctor had said he could do no more for 
 me, an' Hendry was the only ane 'at didna gie 
 me up. The bairns, of course, didna understan', 
 and Joey would come into the bed and play on 
 the top o' me. Hendry would hae ta'en him 
 awa, but I liked to hae 'im. Ye see, \ve was 
 lang married afore we had a bairn, an' though I 
 couldna bear ony other weight on me, Joey didna 
 hurt me, somehoo. I liked to hae 'im so close to 
 me. 
 
 " It was through that 'at he came to bury my 
 staff. I couldna help often thinkin' o' what like 
 the hoose would be when I was gone, an' aboot 
 Leeby an' Joey left so young. So, when I could 
 say it without greetin', I said to Joey 'at I was 
 goin' far awa, an' would he be a terrible guid lad- 
 die to his father and Leeby when I was gone ? 
 He aye juist said, 'Dinna gang, mother, dinna 
 gang,' but one day Hendry came in frae his loom, 
 and says Joey, 'Father, whaur's my mother gaen 
 to, awa frae us ? ' I'll never forget Hendry's face. 
 His mouth juist opened an' shut twa or three 
 times, an' he walked quick ben to the room. I 
 cried oot to him to come back, but he didna come, 
 so I sent Joey for him. Joey came runnin' back
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 53 
 
 to me savin', ' Mother, mother, am awfu' fleid 
 (frightened), for my father's greetin' sair. ' 
 
 "A" thae things took a haud o' Joey, an' he 
 ended in gien us a fl g (Light). I was sleepin' 
 ill at the time, an' Hendr was ben sleepin' in the 
 room wi' Leeby, Joey bein' wi' me. Ay, weel, 
 one nicht I wok up in the dark an' put oot my 
 hand to 'im, an' he wasna there. I sat up wi' a 
 terrible start, an' syne I kent by the cauld 'at the 
 door maun be open. I cried oot quick to Hendry, 
 but he was a soond sleeper, an' he didna hear 
 me. Ay, I dinna ken hoo I did it, but I got ben 
 to the room an' I shook him up. I was near daft 
 wi' fear when I saw Leeby wasna there either. 
 Hendry couldna talc it in a' at aince, but sune he 
 had his trousers on, an' he made me lie down on 
 his bed. He said he wouldna move till I did it, 
 or I wouldna hae dune it. As sune as he was 
 oot o' the hoose crying their names I sat up in 
 my bed listenin'. Sune I heard speakin', an' in a 
 minute Leeby comes runnin' in to me, roarin' an' 
 greetin'. She was barefeeted, and had juist her 
 nichtgown on, an' her teeth was chatterin'. I 
 took her into the bed, but it was an hour afore 
 she could tell me onything, she was in sic a state. 
 
 "Sune after Hendry came in carryin' Joey. 
 Joey was as naked as Leeby, and as cauld as lead, 
 but he wasnagreetin'. Instead o' that he was awfu' 
 satisfied like, and for all Hendry threatened to lick 
 him he wouldna tell what he an' Leeby had been
 
 54 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 doin'. He says, though, says he, " Ye'll no gang 
 awa noo, mother ; no, ye'll bide noo." My bonny 
 laddie, I didna fathom him at the time. 
 
 " It was Leeby 'at I got it frae. You see, Joey 
 had never seen me gaen ony gait vvithoot my 
 staff, an' he thocht if he hod it I wouldna be able 
 to gang away. Ay, he planned it all oot, though 
 he was but a bairn, an' lay watchin' me in my 
 bed till I fell asleep. Syne he creepit oot o' the 
 bed, an' got the staff, and gaed ben for Leeby. 
 She was fleid, but he said it was the only wy to 
 mak me 'at I couldna gang awa. It was juist 
 ower there whaur thae cabbages is 'at he dug the 
 bole wi' a spade, an' buried the stafi Hendry 
 dug it up next mornin'."
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 55 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. 
 
 ON a Thursday Pete Lownie was buried, and 
 when Hendry returned from the funeral Jess 
 asked if Davit Lunan had been there. 
 
 "Na," said Hendry, who was shut up in the 
 closet-bed, taking off his blacks, "I heard tell he 
 wasna bidden." 
 
 "Yea, yea," said Jess, nodding to me signifi- 
 cantly. "Ay, weel," she added, "we'll be 
 hae'n Tibbie ower here on Saturday to deave's 
 (weary us) to death aboot it." 
 
 Tibbie, Davit's wife, was sister to Marget, Pete's 
 widow, and she generally did visit Jess on Satur- 
 day night to talk about Marget, who was fast be- 
 coming one o' the most fashionable persons in 
 Thrums. Tibbie was hopelessly plebeian. She 
 was none o' your proud kind, and if I entered the 
 kitchen when she was there she pretended not to 
 see me, so that, if I chose, I might escape with- 
 out speaking to the like of her. I always grabbed 
 her hand, however, in a frank way. 
 
 On Saturday Tibbie made her appearance. 
 ^OITS the rapidity of her walk, and the way she
 
 56 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 was sucking in her mouth, I knew that she had 
 strange things to unfold. She had pinned a gray 
 shawl about her shoulders and wore a black 
 mutch over her dangling gray curls. 
 
 "It's you, Tibbie," I heard Jess say, as the 
 door opened. 
 
 Tibbie did not knock, not considering herself 
 grand enough for ceremony, and indeed Jess 
 would have resented her knocking. On the other 
 hand, when Leeby visited Tibbie, she knocked as 
 politely as if she were collecting for the precen- 
 tor's present. All this showed that we were su- 
 perior socially to Tibbie. 
 
 " Ay, hoo are ye, Jess ? " Tibbie said. 
 
 "Muckle aboot it," answered Jess; "juist aff 
 an' on ; ay, an' hoo hae ye been yersel' ? " 
 
 " Ou," said Tibbie. 
 
 I wish I could write "ou" as Tibbie said it. 
 With her it was usually a sentence in itself. 
 Sometimes it was a mere bark, again it expressed 
 indignation, surprise, rapture ; it might be a 
 check upon emotion or a way of leading up to it, 
 and often it lasted for half a minute. In this in- 
 stance it was, I should say, an intimation that if 
 Jess was ready Tibbie would begin. 
 
 "So Pete Lownie's gone, "said Jess, whom I 
 could not see from ben the house. I had a good 
 glimpse of Tibbie, however, through the open 
 doorways. She had the armchair on the south 
 side, as she would have said, of the fireplace.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 57 
 
 "He's awa," assented Tibbie, primly. 
 
 I heard the lid of the kettle dancing, and then 
 came a prolonged " ou." Tibbie bent forward to 
 whisper, and if she had anything terrible to tell I 
 was glad of that, for when she whispered I heard 
 her best. For a time only a murmur of words 
 reached me, distant music with an "ou" now 
 and again that fired Tibbie as the beating of his 
 drum may rouse the martial spirit of a drummer. 
 At last our visitor broke into an agitated whisper, 
 and it was only when she stopped whispering, as 
 she did now and again, that I ceased to hear her. 
 Jess evidently put a question at times, but so 
 politely (for she had on her best wrapper) that I 
 did not catch a word. 
 
 "Though I should be struck deid this nicht, " 
 Tibbie whispered, and the sibilants hissed be- 
 tween her few remaining teeth, "I wasna sae 
 muckle as speired to the layin' oot. There was 
 Mysy Cruikshanks there, an' Kitty Webster 'at 
 was nae friends to the corpse to speak o', but 
 Marget passed by me, me 'at is her ain flesh an' 
 blood, though it mayna be for the like o' me to 
 say it. It's gospel truth, Jess, I tell ye, when I 
 say 'at for all I ken officially, as ye micht say, 
 Pete Lownie may be weel and hearty this day. 
 If I was to meet Marget in the face I couldna say 
 he was deid, though I ken 'at the wricht coffined 
 him ; na, an' what's mair, I wouldna gie Marget 
 the satisfaction o' hearin' me say it No, Jess, \
 
 58 A WINDOW M THRUMS. 
 
 tell ye, I dinna pertend to be on an equalty wi' 
 Marget, but equalty or no equalty, a body has 
 her feelings, an' lat on 'at I ken Pete's gone I will 
 not. Eh ? Ou, weel. . . . 
 
 " Na faag 'na ; na, na. I ken my place better 
 than to gang near Marget. I dinna deny 'at she's 
 grand by me, and her keeps a bakehoose o' her 
 ain, an' glad am I to see her doin' sae weel, but 
 let me tell ye this, Jess, ' Pride goeth before a 
 fall.' Yes, it does, it's Scripture; ay, it's nae 
 mak-up o' mine, it's Scripture. And this I will 
 say, though kennin' my place, 'at Davit Lunan is 
 as dainty a man as is in Thrums, an' there's no 
 one 'at's better behaved at a bural, being particu- 
 larly wise-like (presentable) in's blacks, an' them 
 spleet new. Na, na, Jess, Davit may hae his 
 faults an' tak a dram at times like anither, but he 
 would shame naebody at a bural, an' Marget 
 deleeberately insulted him, no speirin' him to 
 Pete's. What's mair, when the minister cried in 
 to see me yesterday, an' me on the floor washin', 
 says he, 'So Marget's lost her man,' an' I said, 
 ' Say ye so, na ? ' for let on 'at I kent, and neither 
 me at the laying oot nor Davit Lunan at the 
 funeral, I would not. 
 
 " ' Davit should hae gone to the funeral,' says 
 the minister, 'for I doubt not he was only omit- 
 ted in the invitations by a mistake.' 
 
 " Ay, it was weel meant, but, says I, Jess, 
 says I, ' As lang as am livin' to tak chairg o '
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 59 
 
 'im, Davit Lunan gangs to nae burals 'at he's no 
 bidden to. An' I tell ye,' I says to the minister, 
 ' if there was one body 'at had a richt to be at th 
 bural o' Pete Lownie, it was Davit Lunan, him 
 bein' my man an' Marget my ain sister. Yes,' 
 says I, though am no o' the boastin' kind, ' Davit 
 had maist richt to be there next to Pete 'imsel'. 
 Ou, Jess. . . . 
 
 "This is no a maitter I like to speak aboot ; 
 na, I dinna care to mention it, but the neighbors 
 is nat'rally ta'en up aboot it, and Chirsty Tosh 
 was sayin' what I would wager 'at Marget hadna 
 sent the minister to hint 'at Davit's bein' over- 
 lookit in the invitations was juist an accident ? 
 Losh, losh, Jess, to think 'at a woman could hae 
 the michty assurance to mak' a tool o' the very 
 minister ! But, sal, as far as that gangs, Marget 
 would do it, an' gae twice to the kirk next Sab- 
 bath, too ; but if she thinks she's to get ower me 
 like that, she tak's me for a bigger fule than I tak 
 her for. Na, na, Marget, ye dinna draw my leg 
 (deceive me). Ou, no. . . . 
 
 "Mind ye, Jess, I hae no desire to be friends 
 wi* Marget. Naething could be farrer frae my 
 wish than to hae helpit in the layin' oot ' Pete 
 Lownie, an' I assure ye, Davit wasna 'Keen to 
 gang to the bural. 'If they dinna want me to 
 their burals,' Davit says, 'they hae nae mair 
 to do than to say sae. But I warn ye, Tibbie,' 
 he says, ' if there's a bural frae this hoose, b*
 
 60 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 it your bural, or be it my bural, not one o' the 
 family o' Lownies casts their shadows upon the 
 Corp.' Thae was the very words Davit said 
 to me as we watched the hearse frae the sky- 
 licht Ay, he bore up wonderfu', but he felt 
 it, Jess he felt it, as I could tell by his 
 takkin' to drink again that very nicht Jess, 
 Jess. . . . 
 
 "Marget's getting waur an' waur? Ay, ye 
 may say so, though I'll say naething ag'in her 
 mysel'. Of coorse am no on equally \vi' her, 
 especially since she had the bell put up in her 
 hoose. Ou, I hinna seen it mysel', na, I never 
 gang near the hoose, an', as mony a body can 
 tell ye, when I do hae to gang that wy I mak' 
 my feet my friend. Ay, but as I was sayin', 
 Marget's sae grand noo 'at she has a bell in the 
 hoose. As I understan', there's a rope in the wast 
 room, an' when ye pu' it a bell rings in the east 
 room. Weel, when Marget has company at 
 their tea in the wast room, an' they need mair 
 watter or scones or onything, she rises an' rings 
 the bell. Syne Jean, the auldest lassie, gets up 
 frae the table an' lifts the jug or the plates, an' 
 gaes awa ben to the east room for what's wanted. 
 Ay, it's a wy o' doin, 'at's juist like the gentry, 
 but I'll tell ye, Jess, Pete juist fair hated the 
 soond o' that bell, an' there's them 'at says it was 
 the death o' 'im. To think o' Marget ha'en sic an 
 establishment ! .
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 6 1 
 
 " Na, I hinna seen the mournin', I've heard 
 o't. Na, if Marget doesna tell me naething, am 
 no the kind to speir naething, an' though I'll be 
 at the kirk the morn, I winna turn my heid to 
 look at the mournin'. But it's fac, as death I 
 ken frae Janet McQuhatty 'at the bonnet's a' 
 crape, an' three yairds o' crape on the dress, the 
 which Marget calls a costume. . . . Ay, I 
 wouldna wonder but what it was hale watter the 
 morn, for it looks michty like rain, an' if it is it'll 
 serve Marget richt, an' mebbe bring doon her 
 pride a wee. No 'at I want to see her humbled, 
 for, in coorse, she's grand by the like o' me. Ou, 
 but .
 
 6a A WINDOW IN THRUMS, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 
 
 ON week-days the women who passed the win- 
 dow were meagrely dressed ; mothers in draggled 
 winsey gowns, carrying infants that were arm- 
 fuls of grandeur. The Sabbath clothed every one 
 in her best, and then the women went by with 
 their hands spread out. When I was with Hen- 
 dry, cloaks with beads were the fashion, and Jess 
 sighed as she looked at them. They were known 
 in Thrums as the Eleven and a Bits (threepenny 
 bits), that being their price at Kyowowy's on 
 the square. Kyowowy means finicky, and ap- 
 plied to the draper by general consent. No 
 doubt it was very characteristic to call the cloaks 
 by their market value. In the glen my scholars 
 still talk of their school-books as the tupenny, the 
 fowerpenny, the saxpenny. They finish their 
 education with the tenpenny. 
 
 Jess' opportunity for handling the garments 
 that others of her sex could finger in shops, was 
 when she had guests to tea. Persons who 
 merely dropped in and remained to tea, got their 
 meal, as a rule, in the kitchen. They had noth-
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 63 
 
 ing on that Jess could not easily take in as 
 she talked to them. But when they came by 
 special invitation, the meal was served in the 
 room, the guests' things being left on the kitchen 
 bed. Jess not being able to go ben the house, 
 had to be left with the things. When the time to 
 go arrived, these were found on the bed, just as 
 they had been placed there, but Jess could now 
 tell Leeby whether they were imitation, why 
 Bell Elshioner's feather went far round the bon- 
 net, and Chirsty Lownie's reason for always hold- 
 ing her left arm fast against her side when she 
 went abroad in the black jacket. Ever since My 
 Hobart's eleven and a bit was left on the kitchen 
 bed, Jess had hungered for a cloak with beads. 
 My's was the very marrow of the one T'novv- 
 head's wife got in Dundee for ten-and-sixpence ; 
 indeed, we would have thought that 'Lisbeth's 
 also came from Kyowowy's, had not Sanders 
 Elshioner's sister seen her go into the Dundee 
 shop with T'nowhead (who was loth), and hung 
 about to discover what she was after. 
 
 Hendry was. not quick at reading faces like 
 Tammas Haggart, but the wistful look on Jess* 
 face when there was talk of eleven and a bits had 
 its meaning for him. 
 
 "They're grand to look at, no doubt," I have 
 heard him say to Jess, "but they're richt an- 
 noyin'. That new wife o' Peter Dickie's had ane 
 on in the kirk last Sabbath, an' wi* her sittin'
 
 64 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 juist afore us I couldna listen to the sermon for 
 try-in' to count the beads. " 
 
 Hendry made his way into these gossips unin- 
 vited, for his opinions on dress were considered 
 contemptible, though he was worth consulting on 
 material. Jess and Leeby discussed many things 
 in his presence, confident that his ears were not 
 doing their work ; but every now and then it was 
 discovered that he had been hearkening greedily. 
 If the subject was dress, he might then become a 
 little irritating. 
 
 " Oh, they're grand," Jess admitted ; " they set 
 a body aff oncommon." 
 
 "They would be no use to you," said Hendry, 
 "for ye canna wear them except ootside." 
 
 "A body doesna buy cloaks to be wearin' at 
 them steady," retorted Jess. 
 
 "No, no, but you could never wear yours 
 though ye had ane. " 
 
 "I dinna want ane. They're far ower grand 
 for the like o* me. " 
 
 "They're no nae sic thing. Am thinkin' ye're 
 juist as fit to wear an eleven and a bit as My Ho- 
 bart" 
 
 " Weel, mebbe I am, but it's oot o' the question 
 gettin' ane, they're sic a price." 
 
 "Ay, an' though we had the siller, it would 
 surely be an awfu' like thing to buy a cloak 'at ye 
 could never wear ? " 
 
 "Ou, but I dinna want ane,"
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 65 
 
 Jess spoke so mournfully that Hendry became 
 enraged. 
 
 "It's most michty," he said, "'at ye would 
 gang an' set yer heart on sic a completely use- 
 less thing. " 
 
 "I hinna set my heart on't. " 
 
 "Dinna blether. Ye've been speakin' aboot 
 thae eleven and a bits to Leeby, aff an' on, for 
 twa month." 
 
 Then Hendry hobbled off to his loom, and Jess 
 gave me a look which meant that men are trying 
 at the best, once you are tied to them. 
 
 The cloaks continued to turn up in conversation, 
 and Hendry poured scorn upon Jess' weakness, 
 telling her she would be better employed mend- 
 ing his trousers than brooding over an eleven and 
 a bit that would have to spend its life in a drawer. 
 An outsider would have thought that Hendry was 
 positively cruel to Jess. He seemed to take a 
 delight in finding that she had neglected to sew a 
 button on his waistcoat. His real joy, however, 
 was the knowledge that she sewed as no other 
 woman in Thrums could sew. Jess had a genius 
 for making new garments out of old ones, and 
 Hendry never tired of gloating over her clever- 
 ness so long as she was not present. He was 
 always athirst for fresh proofs of it, and these 
 were forthcoming every day. Sparing were his 
 words of praise to herself, but in the evening he 
 generally had 3 smoke with me in the attic, and 
 5
 
 66 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 then the thought of Jess made him chuckle till 
 his pipe went out. When' he smoked he grunted 
 as if in pain, though this really added to the enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 "It doesna matter," he would say to me, 
 "what Jess turns her hand to, she can mak ony 
 mortal thing. She doesna need naeteachin' ; na, 
 juist gie her a guid look at onything, be it clothes, 
 or furniture, or in the bakin' line, it's all the same 
 to her. She'll mak another exactly like it. Ye 
 canna beat her. Her bannocks is so superior 'at 
 a Tilliedrum woman took to her bed after tastin' 
 them, an' when the lawyer has company his wife 
 gets Jess to mak some bannocks for her an' syne 
 pretends they're her ain bakin'. Ay, there's a 
 story aboot that. One day the auld doctor, him 
 'at's deid, was at his tea at the lawyer's, an' says 
 the guidwife, ' Try the cakes, Mr. Riach ; they're 
 my own bakin'.' Weel, he was a fearsomely out- 
 spoken man, the doctor, an' nae suner had he the 
 bannock atween his teeth, for he didna stop to 
 swallow't, than he says, 'Mistress Geddie,' says 
 he, ' I wasna born on a Sabbath. Na, na, you're 
 no the first grand leddy ? at has gien me bannocks 
 as their ain bakin' 'at was baked and fired by Jess 
 Logan, her 'at's Hendry McQumpha's wife.' Ay, 
 they say the lawyer's wife didna ken which wy 
 to look, she was that mortified. It's juist the 
 same wi' sewin'. There's wys o' ornamentin' 
 christenin' robes an' the like 'at's kent to naebody
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 67 
 
 but hersel' ; an' as for stockin's, weel though I've 
 seen her mak sae mony, she amazes me yet. I 
 mind o' a furry waistcoat I aince had. Weel, when 
 it was fell dune, do you think she gae it awa to 
 some gaen aboot body (vagrant) ? Na, she made 
 it into a richt neat coat to Jamie, wha was a bit 
 laddie at the time. When he grew out o' it, she 
 made a slipbody o't for hersel'. Ay, I dinna ken 
 a' the different things it became, but the last time 
 I saw it was ben in the room, whaur she'd cov- 
 ered a footstool wi' 't. Yes, Jess is the cleverest 
 crittur I ever saw. Leeby's handy, but she's no 
 a patch on her mother. " 
 
 I sometimes repeated these panegyrics to Jess. 
 She merely smiled, and said that men haver 
 most terribly when they are not at their work. 
 
 Hendry tried Jess sorely over the cloaks, and 
 a time carne when, only by exasperating her, 
 could he get her to reply to his sallies. 
 
 "Wha wants an eleven an' a bit? " she retorted 
 now and again. 
 
 "It's you 'at wants it," said Hendry promptly. 
 
 "Did I ever say I wanted ane ? What use 
 could I hae for't ? " 
 
 "That's the question," said Hendry. "Ye 
 canna gang the length o' the door, so ye would 
 never be able to wear't. " 
 
 "Ay, weel," replied Jess, "I'll never hae the 
 chance o' no bein' able to wear't, for, hooever 
 muckle I wanted it, I couldna get it. "
 
 68 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 Jess' infatuation had in time the effect of mak- 
 ing Hendry uncomfortable. In the attic he de- 
 livered himself of such sentiments as these : 
 
 "There's nae understandin' a woman. There's 
 Jess 'at hasna her equal for cleverness in Thrums, 
 man or woman, an' yet she's fair skeered about 
 thae cloaks. Aince a woman sets her mind on 
 something to wear, she's mair onreasonable than 
 the stupidest man. Ay, it micht mak them hum- 
 ble to see hoo foolish they are syne. No, but it 
 doesna do't. 
 
 " If it was a thing to be useful noo, I wouldna 
 think the same o't, but she could never wear't. 
 She kens she could never wear't, an' yet she's 
 juist as keen to hae't. 
 
 "I dinna like to see her so wantin' a thing, an' 
 no able to get it. But it's an awfu' sum, eleven 
 an' a bit. " 
 
 He tried to argue with her further. 
 
 "If ye had eleven an' a bit to fling awa, ''he 
 said, "ye dinna mean to tell me 'at ye would 
 buy a cloak instead o' cloth for a gown, or a 
 flannel for petticoats, or some useful thing ? " 
 
 "Assure as death," said Jess, with unwonted 
 vehemence, "if a cloak I could get, a cloak I 
 would buy." 
 
 Hendry came up to tell me what Jess had 
 said. 
 
 "It's a michty infatooation," he said, " but it 
 shows hoo her heart's set on thae cloaks."
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 69 
 
 "Ainceye had it," he argued with her, "ye 
 would juist hae to lock it awa in the drawers. Ye 
 would never even be seein' 't." 
 
 "Ay, would I," said Jess. " I would often tak 
 it oot an' look at it. Ay, an' I would aye ken it 
 was there. " 
 
 "But naebody would ken ye had it but yersel'," 
 said Hendry, who had a vague notion that this 
 was a telling objection. 
 
 "Would they no?" answered Jess. "It 
 would be a' through the toon afore nicht. " 
 
 "Weel, all I can say," said Hendry, "is 'at 
 ye're terrible foolish to tak the want o' sic a use- 
 less thing to heart. " 
 
 "Am no takkin' 't to heart," retorted Jess, as 
 usual. 
 
 Jess needed many things in her days that pov- 
 erty kept from her to the end, and the cloak was 
 merely a luxury. She would soon have let it slip 
 by as something unattainable had not Hendry 
 encouraged it to rankle in her mind. I cannot 
 say when he first determined that Jess should 
 have a cloak, come the money as it liked, for he 
 was too ashamed of his weakness to admit his 
 project to me. I remember, however, his saying 
 to Jess one day : 
 
 "I'll warrant ye could mak a cloak yersel' the 
 marrow o' thae eleven and a bits, at half the 
 price ? " 
 
 " It would cost," said Jess, "sax an' saxpence,
 
 70 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 exactly. The cloth would be five shillin's, an' the 
 beads a shillin'. I have some braid 'at would do 
 fine for the front, but the buttons would be sax- 
 pence. " 
 
 ' ' Ye're sure o' that ? " 
 
 " I ken fine, for I got Leeby to price the things 
 in the shop.'' 
 
 ' ' Ay, but it maun be ill to shape the cloaks 
 richt. There was a queer cut aboot that ane 
 Peter Dickie's new wife had on." 
 
 "Queer cut or no queer cut," said Jess, "I 
 took the shape o' My Hobart's ane the day she 
 was here at her tea, an' I could mak' the identical 
 o't for sax and sax." 
 
 "I dinna believe't," said Hendry, but when he 
 and I were alone he told me: "There's no a 
 doubt she could mak it. Ye heard her say she had 
 ta'en the shape? Ay, that shows she's rale set 
 on a cloak." 
 
 Had Jess known that Hendry had been saving 
 up for months to buy her material for a cloak, she 
 would not have let him do it. She could not 
 know, however, for all the time he was scraping 
 together his pence he kept up a ring-ding-dang 
 about her folly. Hendry gave Jess all the wages 
 he weaved except three pence weekly, most of 
 which went in tobacco and snuff. The dulseman 
 had perhaps a halfpenny from him in the fort- 
 night. I noticed that for a long time Hendry 
 neither smoked nor snuffed, and I kne\v that for
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 71 
 
 years he had carried a shilling in his snuff-mull. 
 The remainder of the money he must have made 
 by extra work at his loom by working harder, for 
 he could scarcely have worked longer. 
 
 It was one day shortly before Jamie's return to 
 Thrums that Jess saw Hendry pass the house 
 and go down the brae when he ought to have 
 come in to his brose. She sat at the window 
 watching for him, and by and by he reappeared, 
 carrying a parcel. 
 
 " Whaur on earth hae ye been?" she asked, 
 " an' what's that you're carryin'? " 
 
 " Did ye think it was an eleven an' a bit ? "said 
 Hendry. 
 
 " No, I didna," answered Jess indignantly. 
 
 Then Hendry slowly undid the knots of the 
 string with which the parcel was tied. He took 
 off the brown paper. 
 
 " There's yer cloth," he said, "an' here's one 
 an' saxpence for the beads an' the buttons.'' 
 
 While Jess still stared he followed me ben the 
 house. 
 
 " It's a terrible haver," he said, apologetically, 
 "but she had set her heart on't"
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE POWER OF BEAUTY. 
 
 ONE evening; there was such a gathering at the 
 pig-sty that Hendry and I could not get a board 
 to lay our backs against. Circumstances had 
 pushed Pete Elshioner into the place of honor 
 that belonged by right of mental powers to 
 Tammas Haggart, and Tammas was sitting rather 
 sullenly on the bucket, boring a hole in the pig 
 with his sarcastic eye. Pete was passing round 
 a card, and in time it reached me. "With Mr. 
 and Mrs. David Alexander's compliments," was 
 printed on it, and Pete leered triumphantly at us 
 as it went the round. 
 
 " Weel, what think ye? " he asked, with a pre- 
 tence at modesty. 
 
 " Ou," said T'nowhead, looking at the others 
 like one who asked a question, " ou, I think ; ay, 
 ay." 
 
 The others seemed to agree with him all but 
 Tammas, who did not care to tie himself down to 
 an opinion. 
 
 " Ou ay," T'nowhead continued, more confi- 
 dently, "it is so, deceededly. "
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. )$ 
 
 "Ye'll no ken," said Pete, chuckling, "what 
 it means ? " 
 
 " Na," the farmer admitted, " na, I canna say 
 lexac'ly ken that." 
 
 " I ken, though," said Tammas in his keen 
 way. 
 
 " Weel, then, what is't ? " demanded Pete, who 
 had never properly come under Tammas' spell. 
 
 " I ken," said Tammas. 
 
 " Got wi't, then." 
 
 " I dinna say it's lyin' on my tongue," Tammas 
 replied in a tone of reproof, "but if ye'll juist 
 speak awa aboot some other thing for a meenute 
 or twa, I'll tell ye syne." 
 
 Hendry said that this was only reasonable, but 
 we could think of no subject at the moment, so 
 we only stared at Tammas and waited. 
 
 " I fathomed it," he said at last, " as sune as 
 my een lichted on't. It's one o' the bit cards 'at 
 grand fowk slip 'aneath doors when they mak calls, 
 an' their friends is no in. Ay, that's what it is." 
 
 " I dinna say ye're wrang," Pete answered a 
 little annoyed. "Ay, weel, lads, of course David 
 Alexander's oor Dite as we called 'im, DiteElshio- 
 ner, an' that's his wy o' signifyin' to us 'at he's 
 married." 
 
 " I assure ye," said Hendry, " Dite's doin' the 
 thing in style." 
 
 " Ay, we said that when the card arrived," 
 Pete admitted.
 
 74 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 " I kent," said Tammas, " 'at that was the wy 
 grand fowk did when they got married. I've kent 
 it a lang time. It's no nae surprise to me." 
 
 " He's been lang in marry in'," Hookey Crewe 
 said. 
 
 " He was thirty at Martinmas," said Pete. 
 
 " Thirty, was he? " said Hookey. "Man, I'd 
 buried twa wives by the time I was that age, an' 
 was castin' aboot for a third. " 
 
 "I mind o' them," Hendry interposed. 
 
 ' ' Ay, " Hookey said, ' ' the first twa was angels. " 
 There he paused. ' ' An' so's the third, " he added, 
 ' ' in many respects. " 
 
 "But wha's the woman Dite's ta'en ? " T'now- 
 head or some one of the more silent members of 
 the company asked of Pete. 
 
 "Ou, we dinna ken wha she is," answered 
 Pete; "but she'll be some Glasca lassie, for he's 
 there noo. Look, lad, look at this. He sent 
 this at the same time; it's her picture." Pete 
 produced the silhouette of a young lady, and 
 handed it round. 
 
 "What do ye think? " he asked. 
 
 "I assure ye ! " said Hookey. 
 
 "Sal," said Hendry, even more charmed, 
 "Dite's done weel. " 
 
 " Lat's see her in a better licht," said Tammas. 
 
 He stood up and examined the photograph nar- 
 rowly, while Pete fidgeted with his legs. 
 
 " Fairish," said Tammas at last. " Ou, ay ; no
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. f$ 
 
 what I would selec' mysel', but a dainty bit 
 stocky ! Ou, a tasty crittury I ay, an' she's weel 
 in order. Lads, she's a fine stoot kimmer." 
 
 "I conseederher a beauty," said Pete aggres- 
 sively. 
 
 "She's a' that," said Hendry. 
 
 " A' I can say," said Hookey, " is 'at she tak's 
 me most michty." 
 
 "She's no a beauty," Tammas maintained; 
 "na, she doesna juist come up to that ; but I 
 dinna deny but what she's weel-faured. " 
 
 "What faut do ye find wi' her, Tammas?" 
 asked Hendry. 
 
 "Conseedered critically, "said Tammas, holding 
 the photograph at arm's length, ' ' I would say 'at 
 she let's see, noo ; ay, I would say 'at she's de- 
 feecient in genteelity." 
 
 "Havers," said Pete. 
 
 "Na," said Tammas, "no when conseedered 
 critically. "Ye see she's drawn lauchin' ; an' the 
 genteel thing's no to lauch, but juist to put on a 
 bit smirk. Ay, that's the genteel thing." 
 
 "A smile, thay ca' it," interposed T'now- 
 head. 
 
 " I said a smile," continued Tammas. "Then 
 there's her waist. I say naething ag'in her waist, 
 speakin' in the ord'nar meanin' ; but, conseedered 
 critically, there's a want o' suppleness, as ye 
 micht say, about it. Ay, it doesna compare wi' 
 the waist o' " [Here Tammas mentioned a
 
 76 A frltfDOW 2N TtiRUMS. 
 
 young lady who had recently married into a local 
 county family.] 
 
 "That was a pretty tiddy," said Hookey. 
 
 "Ou, losh, ay ! it made me a kind o' queery to 
 look at her." 
 
 " Ye're ower kyowowy (particular), Tammas," 
 said Pete. 
 
 "It maybe, Pete," Tammas admitted; "but 
 I maun say I'm fond o' a bonny-looken wuman, 
 an' no easy to please ; na, I'm nat'rally ane o' the 
 critical kind." 
 
 "It's extror'nar," said T'nowhead, "what a 
 poo'er beauty has. I mind when I was a callant 
 readin' aboot Mary Queen o' Scots till I was fair 
 mad, lads ; yes, I was fair mad at her bein' deid. 
 Ou, I could hardly sleep at nichts for thinking o' 
 her." 
 
 " Mary was spunky as weel as a beauty," said 
 Hookey, " an' that's the kind I like. Lads, what 
 a persuasive tid she was ! " 
 
 "She got roond the men," said Hendry ; "ay, 
 she turned them roond her finger. That's the 
 warst o' thae beauties." 
 
 "Idinna gainsay, "said T'nowhead, "but what 
 there was a little o' the deevil in Mary, the crit- 
 tur." 
 
 Here T'nowhead chuckled, and then looked 
 scared. 
 
 "What Mary needed, " said Tammas, "was a 
 strong man to manage her."
 
 A WtNtiOW IX THRUMS. - ft 
 
 '* Ay, man, but it's ill to manage thae beauties. 
 They gie ye a glint o' their een, an' syne whaur 
 are ye ? " 
 
 "Ah, they can be managed," said Tammas 
 complacently. "There's naebody nat'rally safter 
 wi' a pretty stocky o' bit wumany than mysel' ; 
 but for a' that, if I had been Mary's man, I would 
 hae stood nane o' her tantrums. ' Na, Mary, my 
 lass,' I would hae said, 'this winna do; na, na, 
 ye're a bonny body, but ye maun mind 'at man's 
 the superior ; ay, man's the lord o' creation, an 1 
 so ye maun juist sing sma'. That's hoo I would 
 hae managed Mary, the speerity crittur 'at she 
 was. " 
 
 " Ye would hae haen yer wark cut oot for ye, 
 Tammas." 
 
 "Ilka mornin'," pursued Tammas, "I would 
 hae said to her: 'Mary,' I would hae said, 
 ' wha's to wear thae breeks the day, you or me ? 
 Ay, syne I would hae ordered her to kindle the 
 fire, or if I had been the king of coorse I would 
 hae telt her instead to ring the bell an' hae the 
 cloth laid for the breakfast. Ay, that's the wy to 
 mak' the like o' Mary respec' ye." 
 
 Pete and I left them talking. He had written 
 a letter to David Alexander, and wanted me to 
 "back "it
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A MAGNUM OPUS. 
 
 Two Bibles, a volume of sermons by the learned 
 Dr. Isaac Barrow, a few numbers of the Cheap 
 Magazine, that had strayed from Dunfermline, 
 and a " Pilgrim's Progress," were the works that 
 lay conspicuous ben in the room. Hendry had 
 also a copy of Burns, whom he always quoted 
 in the complete poem, and a collection of legends 
 in song and prose, that Leeby kept out of sight 
 in a drawer. 
 
 The weight of my box of books was a subject 
 Hendry was very willing to shake his head over ; 
 but he never showed any desire to take off the 
 lid. Jess, however, was more curious ; indeed, 
 she would have been an omnivorous devourer of 
 books had it not been for her conviction that 
 reading was idling. Until I found her out, she 
 never allowed to me that Leeby brought her my 
 books one at a time. Some of them were novels, 
 and Jess took about ten minutes to each. She 
 confessed that what she read was only the last 
 chapter, owing to a consuming curiosity to know 
 whether "she got him."
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 79 
 
 She read all the London parts, however, of 
 "The Heart of Midlothian, "because London was 
 where Jamie lived, and she and I had a discussion 
 about it which ended in her remembering that 
 Thrums once had an author of its own. 
 
 " Bring oot the book," she said to Leeby ; "it 
 was put awa i' the bottom drawer ben i' the 
 room sax year syne, an' I sepad it's there 
 yet. " 
 
 Leeby came but with a faded little book, the 
 title already rubbed from its shabby brown covers. 
 I opened it, and then all at once I saw before me 
 again the man who wrote and printed it and died. 
 He came hobbling up the brae, so bent that his 
 body was almost at right angles to his legs, and 
 his broken silk hat was carefully brushed as in the 
 days when Janet, his sister, lived. There he 
 stood at the top of the brae, panting. 
 
 I was but a boy when Jimsy Duthie turned the 
 corner of the brae for the last time, with a score 
 of mourners behind him. While I knew him 
 there was no Janet to run to the door to see if he 
 was coming. So occupied was Jimsy with the 
 great affair of his life, which was brewing for 
 thirty years, that his neighbors saw how he 
 missed his sister better than he realized it himself. 
 Only his hat was no longer carefully brushed, and 
 his coat hung awry, and there was sometimes 
 little reason why he should go home to dinner. 
 It is for the sake of Janet who adored him that
 
 So A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 we should remember Jimsy in the days before r.he 
 died. 
 
 Jimsy was a poet, and for the space of thirty 
 years he lived in a great epic on the Millennium. 
 This is the book presented to me by Jess, that lies 
 so quietly on my topmost shelf now. Open it, 
 however, and you will find that the work is en- 
 titled, "The Millennium : an Epic Poem, in 
 Twelve Books : by James Duthie." In the little 
 hole in his wall where Jimsy kept his books there 
 was, I have no doubt for his effects were rouped 
 before I knew him except by name a well-read 
 copy of "Paradise Lost." Some people would 
 smile perhaps, if they read the two epics side by 
 side, and others might sigh, for there is a great 
 deal in "The Millennium " that Milton could take 
 credit for. Jimsy had educated himself, after the 
 idea of writing something that the world would 
 not willingly let die came to him, and he began 
 his book before his education was complete. So 
 far as I know, he never wrote a line that had not 
 to do with "The Millennium." He was ever a 
 man sparing of his plural tenses, and "The 
 Millennium" says "has" for "have"; a vain 
 word, indeed, which Thrums would only have 
 permitted as a poetical license. The one original 
 character in the poem is the devil, of whom Jimsy 
 gives a picture that is startling and graphic, and 
 received the approval of the Auld Licht minister. 
 
 By trade Jimsy was a printer, a master-printer
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 8 1 
 
 with no one under him, and he printed and bound 
 his book, ten copies in all, as well as wrote it. 
 To print the poem took him, I dare say, nearly as 
 long as to write it, and he set up the pages as 
 they were written, one by one. The book is only 
 printed on one side of the leaf, and each page was 
 produced separately like a little hand-bill. Those 
 who may pick up the book but who will care to 
 do so ? will think that the author or his printer 
 could not spell but they would not do Jimsy 
 that injustice if they knew the circumstances in 
 which it was produced. He had but a small 
 stock of type, and on many occasions he ran out 
 of a letter. The letter e tried him sorely. Those 
 who knew him best say that he tried to think of 
 words without an e in them, but when he was 
 baffled he had to use a little a or an o instead. 
 He could print correctly, but in the book there 
 are a good many capital letters in the middle of 
 words, and sometimes there is a note of interro- 
 gation after "alas" or "woe's me," because all 
 the notes of exclamation had been used up. 
 
 Jimsy never cared to speak about his great 
 poem even to his closest friends, but Janet told 
 how he read it out to her, and that his whole body 
 trembled with excitement while he raised his eyes 
 to heaven as if asking for inspiration that would 
 enable his voice to do justice to his writing. So 
 grand it was, said Janet, that her stocking would 
 slip from her fingers as he read and Janet's 
 6
 
 82 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 stockings, that she was always knitting when not 
 otherwise engaged, did not slip from her hands 
 readily. After her death he was heard by his 
 neighbors reciting the poem to himself, generally 
 with his door locked. He is said to have de- 
 claimed part of it one still evening from the top 
 of the commonty like one addressing a multitude 
 and the idlers who had crept up to jeer at him fell 
 back when they saw his face. He walked through 
 them, they told, with his old body straight once 
 more, and a queer light playing on his face. His 
 lips are moving as I see him turning the cornerof 
 the brae. So he passed from youth to old age, 
 and all his life seemed a dream, except that part 
 of it in which he was writing, or printing, or 
 stitching, or binding " The Millennium. " At last 
 the work was completed. 
 
 "It is finished," he printed at the end of the last 
 book. "The task of thirty years is over." 
 
 It is indeed over. No one ever read "The 
 Millennium." I am not going to sentimentalize 
 over my copy, for how much of it have I read? 
 But neither shall I say that it was written to no 
 end. 
 
 You may care to know the last of Jimsy, 
 though in one sense he was blotted out when the 
 last copy was bound. He had saved one hun- 
 dred pounds by that time, and being now neither 
 able to work nor to live alone, his friends cast 
 about for a home for his remaining years. He
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 83 
 
 was very spent and feeble, yet he had the fear 
 that he might be still alive when all his money 
 was gone. After that was the workhouse. He 
 covered sheets of paper with calculations about 
 how long the hundred pounds would last if he 
 gave away for board and lodgings ten shillings, 
 nine shillings, seven and sixpence a week. At 
 last, with sore misgivings, he went to live with a 
 family who took him for eight shillings. Less 
 than a month afterwards he died.
 
 84 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE GHOST CRADLE. 
 
 OUR dinner hour was 1 2 o'clock, and Hendry, 
 for a not incomprehensible reason, called this 
 meal his brose. Frequently, however, while I 
 was there to share the expense, broth was put on 
 the table, with beef to follow in clean plates, 
 much to Hendry's distress, for the comfortable 
 and usual practice was to eat the beef from the 
 broth-plates. Jess, however, having three whole 
 white plates and two cracked ones, insisted on 
 the meals being taken genteelly, and her husband, 
 with a look at me, gave way. 
 
 "Half a pound o' boiling beef, an' a penny 
 bone," was Leeby's almost invariable order when 
 she dealt with the flesher, and Jess had always 
 neighbors poorer than herself, who got a plateful 
 of the broth. She never had anything without 
 remembering some old body who would be the 
 better of a little of it. 
 
 Among those who must have missed Jess sadly 
 after she was gone was Johnny Proctor, a half- 
 witted man who, because he could not work, re- 
 mained straight at a time of life when most
 
 A WINDOW IN" THRUMS. 85 
 
 iveavers, male and female, had lost some inches 
 of their stature. For as far back as my memory 
 goes, Johnny had got his brose three times a 
 week from Jess, his custom being to walk in 
 without ceremony, and, drawing a stool to the 
 table, tell Leeby that he was now ready. One 
 day, however, when I was in the garden putting 
 some rings on a fishing-wand, Johnny pushed by 
 me, with no sign of recognition on his face. I 
 addressed him, and, after pausing undecidedly, 
 he ignored me. When he came to the door, in- 
 stead of flinging it open and walking in, he 
 knocked primly, which surprised me so much 
 that I followed him. 
 
 "Is this whaur Mistress McQumpha lives?" he 
 asked, when Leeby, with a face ready to receive 
 the minister himself, came at length .to the door. 
 
 I knew that the gentility of the knock had taken 
 both her and her mother aback. 
 
 "Hoots, Johnny," said Leeby, "what haver's 
 this? Come awa in." 
 
 Johnny seemed annoyed- 
 
 "Is this whaur Mistress McQumpha lives ? " he 
 repeated. 
 
 "Say 'at it is," cried Jess, who was quicker in 
 the uptake than her daughter. 
 
 "Of course this is whaur Mistress McQumpha 
 lives," Leeby then said, "as weel ye ken, for ye 
 had yer dinner here no twa hours syne." 
 
 "Then," said Johnny, " Mistress Tully's com-
 
 86 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 pliments to her, and would she kindly lend the 
 christenin'-rbbe an' also the tea-tray, if the same 
 be na needed ? " 
 
 Having delivered his message as instructed, 
 Johnny consented to sit down until the famous 
 christening-robe and the tray were ready, but he 
 would not talk, for that was not in the bond. 
 Jess' sweet face beamed over the compliment 
 Mrs. Tully, known on ordinary occasions as Jean 
 McTaggart, had paid her, and, after Johnny had 
 departed laden, she told me how the tray, which 
 had a great bump in the middle, came into her 
 possession. 
 
 " Ye've often heard me speak aboot the time 
 when I was a lassie workin' at the farm o' the 
 Bog? Ay, that was afore me an' Hendry kent 
 ane anither, an' I was as fleet on my feet in thae 
 days as Leeby is noo. It was Sam'l Fletcher 'at 
 was the farmer, but he maun hae been gone afore 
 you was mair than born. Mebbe, though, ye ken 
 'at he was a terrible invalid, an' for the hinmost 
 years o' his life he sat in a muckle chair nicht an' 
 day. Ay, when I took his dinner to 'im, on 'at 
 very tray at Johnny cam for, I little thocht 'at by- 
 an'-bye I would be sae keepit in a chair mysel'. 
 
 "But the thinkin' o' Sam'l Fletcher's case is ane 
 o' the things 'at maks me awfu' thankfu' for the 
 lenient wy the Lord has aye dealt wi' me ; for 
 Sam'l couldna move oot o' the chair, aye sleepin' 
 in't at nicht, an' I can come an' gang between
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 87 
 
 mine an' my bed. Mebbe, ye think I'm no much 
 better off than Sam'l, but that's a terrible mistak. 
 What a glory it would hae been to him if he could 
 hae gone frae one end o' the kitchen to the ither I 
 Ay, I'm sure o' that. 
 
 "Sam'l was rale weel liked, for he was saft- 
 spoken to everybody, an' fond o' ha'en a gossip 
 wi' ony ane 'at was aboot the farm. We didna 
 care sae muckle for the wife, Eppie Lownie, for 
 she managed the farm, an' she was fell hard an' 
 terrible reserved we thocht, no even likin' ony 
 body to get friendly wi' the mester, as we called 
 Sam'l. Ay, we made a richt mistak." 
 
 As I had heard frequently of this queer, mourn- 
 ful mistake made by those who considered Sam'l 
 unfortunate in his wife, I turned Jess on the main 
 line of her story. 
 
 " It was the ghost cradle, as they named it, 'at 
 I meant to tell ye aboot. The Bog was a bigger 
 farm in thae days than noo, but I daursay it has 
 the new steadin' yet. Ay, it winna be new noo, 
 but at the time there was sic a commotion aboot 
 the ghost cradle, they were juist puttin' the new 
 steadin' up. There was sax or mair masons at it, 
 wi' the lads on the farm helpin', an' as they were 
 all sleepin' at the farm, there was great stir aboot 
 the place. I couldna tell ye hoo the story aboot 
 the farm's bein' haunted rose, to begin wi', but I 
 mind fine hoo fleid I was ; ay, an' no only me, 
 but every man-body an' woman-body on the
 
 88 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 farm. It was aye late 'at the soond began, an' 
 we never saw naething we juist heard it The 
 masons said they wouldna hae been sae fleid if 
 they could hae seen't, but it never was seen. It 
 had the soond o' a cradle rockin', an' when we 
 lay in our beds hearkenin', it grew louder an' 
 louder till it wasna to be borne, an' the women- 
 folk fair skirled wi' fear. The mester was intimate 
 wi' a' the stories aboot ghosts an' water-kelpies 
 an' sic like, an' we couldna help listenin' to them. 
 But he aye said 'at ghosts 'at was juist heard an' 
 no seen was the maist fearsome an' wicked. For 
 all there was sic fear ower the hale farm-toon 'at 
 naebody would gang ower the door alane after 
 the gloamin' cam, the mester said he wasna fleid 
 to sleep i' the kitchen by 'imsel'. We thocht it 
 richt brave o' 'im, for ye see he was as helpless as 
 a bairn. 
 
 "Richt queer stories rose aboot the cradle, an' 
 travelled to the ither farms. The wife didna like 
 them ava, for it was said 'at there maun hae been 
 some awful murder o' an infant on the farm, or 
 we wouldna be haunted by a cradle. Syne folk 
 began to mind 'at there had been nae bairns born 
 on the farm as far back as onybody kent, an' it 
 was said 'at some lang syne crime had made the 
 Bog cursed. 
 
 "Dinna think 'at we juist lay in our beds or 
 sat round the fire shakin' wi' fear. Everything 
 'at could be dune was dune. In the daytime,
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 89 
 
 when naething was heard, the masons explored a' 
 place i' the farm, in the hope o' findin' oot 'at the 
 sound was caused by sic a thing as the wind 
 playin' on the wood in the garret. Even at 
 nichts, when they couldna sleep wi' the soond, 
 I've kent them rise in a body and gang all ower 
 the house wi' lichts. I've seen them climbin' on 
 the new steadin', crawlin' alang the rafters haudin' 
 their cruizey lamps afore them, an' us women- 
 bodies shiverin' wi' fear at the door. It was on 
 ane o' thae nichts 'at a mason fell off the rafters 
 an' broke his leg. Weel, sic a state was the me? 
 in to find oot what it was 'at was terrifyin' them 
 sac muckle, 'at the rest o' them climbed up at 
 aince to the place he'd fallen frae, thinkin' there 
 was something there 'at had fleid 'im. Buf. 
 though they crawled back an' forrit there was 
 naething ava. 
 
 " The rockin' was louder, we thocht, after that 
 nicht, an' syne the man said it would go on till 
 somebody was killed. That idea took a richt 
 haud o' them, an' twa ran awa back to Tillie- 
 drum, whaur they had come frae. They gaed 
 thegither i' the middle o' the nicht, an' it was thocht 
 next mornin' 'at the ghost had spirited them awa. 
 
 "Ye couldna conceive hoo low-spirited we all 
 were after the masons had gien up hope o' findin' 
 a nat'ral cause for the soond. At ord'nary times 
 there's no ony mair lichtsome place than a farm 
 after the men hae come in to their supper, but at
 
 90 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 the Bog we sat dour an' sullen ; an' there wasna 
 a mason or a farm-servant 'at would gang by 
 'imsel' as far as the end o' the hoose whaur the 
 peats was keepit. The mistress maun hae saved 
 some siller that spring through the Egyptians 
 (gypsies) keepin' awa, for the farm had got sic an 
 ill name 'at nae tinkler would come near't at 
 nicht. The tailorman an' his laddie, 'at should 
 hae bidden wi' us to sew things for the men, 
 walkit off fair skeered one morn in', an' settled 
 doon at the farm o' Craigiebuckle fower mile awa, 
 whaur our lads had to gae to them. Ay, I mind 
 the tailor's sendin' the laddie for the money owin' 
 him ; he hadna the speerit to venture again with- 
 in soond o' the cradle 'imsel'. The men on the 
 farm, though, couldna blame 'im for that. They 
 were just as flichtered themsels, an' mony a time 
 I saw them hittin' the dogs for whinin' at the 
 soond. The wy the dogs took on was fearsome 
 in itsel', for they seemed to ken, aye when nicht 
 cam on/ at therockin' would sune begin, an' if they 
 werena chained they cam' runnin' to the hoose. I 
 hae heard the hale glen fu, as ye micht say, wi' 
 the whinin' o' dogs, for the dogs on the other 
 farms took up the cry, an' in a glen ye can hear 
 soonds terrible far awa' at nicht. 
 
 "As lang as we sat i' the kitchen, listenin' to 
 what the mester had to say aboot the ghosts in 
 his young days, the cradle would be still, but we 
 were nae suner awa' speeritless to our beds than
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 91 
 
 it began, an' sometimes it lasted till mornin'. 
 We lookit upon the mester almost vvi' awe, sittin' 
 there sae helpless in his chair, an' no field to be 
 left alane. He had lang white hair, an' a saft 
 bonny face 'at would hae made 'im respeckit by 
 onybody, an' aye when we speired if he wasna 
 fleid to be left alane, he said, ' Them 'at has a 
 clear conscience has naething to fear frae ghosts.' 
 
 "There was some 'at said the curse would 
 never leave the farm till the house was razed to 
 the ground, an' it's the truth I'm tellin' ye when I 
 say there was talk among the men aboot settin't 
 on fire. The mester was richt stern when he 
 heard o' that, quotin' frae Scripture in a solemn 
 wy 'at abashed the masons, but he said 'at in his 
 opeenion there was a bairn buried on the farm, 
 an' till it was found the cradle would go on rockin'. 
 After that the masons dug in a lot o' places lookin' 
 for the body, an' they found some queer things, 
 too, but never nae sign o' a murdered litlin'. Ay, 
 I dinna ken what would hae happened if the 
 commotion had gaen on muckle langer. One 
 thing I'm sure o' is 'at the mistress would hae gaen 
 daft she took it a' sae terrible to heart. 
 
 "I lauch at it noo, but I tell ye I used to tak' 
 my heart to my bed in my mouth. If ye hinna 
 heard the story, I dinna think ye'll be able to 
 guess what the ghost cradle was." 
 
 I said I had been trying to think what the tray 
 had to do with it
 
 9 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "It had everything to do wi't,"said Jess ; "an* 
 if the masons had kent hoo that cradle was rockit, 
 I think they would hae killed the mester. It was 
 Eppie 'at found oot, an' she telt naebody but me, 
 though mony a ane kens noo. I see ye canna 
 mak it oot yet, so I'll tell ye what the cradle was. 
 The tray was keepit against the kitchen wall near 
 the mester, an' he played on't wi his foot. He 
 made it gang bump, bump, an the soond wasjuist 
 like a cradle rockin'. Ye could hardly believe sic 
 a thing would hae made that din, but it did, an' 
 ye see we lay in our beds hearkenin' for't. Ay, 
 when Eppie telt me, I could scarce believe 'at 
 that guid devout-lookin' man could hae been sae 
 wicked. Ye see, when he found hoo terrified we 
 a' were, he keepit it up. The wy Eppie found 
 out i' the tail o' the day was by wonderin' at 'im 
 sleepin' sae muckle in the daytime. He did that 
 so as to be fresh for his sport at nicht What a 
 fine releegious man we thoucht'im, too ! 
 
 " Eppie couldna bear the very sicht o' the tray 
 after that, an' she telt me to break it up ; but I 
 keepit it, ye see. The lump i' the middle's the 
 mark, as ye may say, o' the auld man's foot."
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. 
 
 WERE Jess still alive to tell the life-story of Sam'l 
 Fletcher and his wife, you could not hear it and 
 sit still. The ghost cradle is but a page from the 
 black history of a woman who married, to be 
 blotted out from that hour. One case of the kind 
 I myself have known, of a woman so good mated 
 to a man so selfish that I cannot think of her even 
 now with a steady mouth. Hers was the tragedy 
 of living on, more mournful than the tragedy 
 that kills. In Thrums the weavers spoke of ' ' lous- 
 ing " from their looms, removing the chains, and 
 there is something woeful in that. But pity poor 
 Nanny Coutts, who took her chains to bed with 
 her. 
 
 Nanny was buried a month or more before I 
 came to the house on the brae, and even in Thrums 
 the dead are seldom remembered for so long 
 a time as that. But it was only after Sanders was 
 left alone that we learned what a woman she had 
 been, and how basely we had wronged her. She 
 was an angel, Sanders went about whining when 
 he had no longer a woman to ill-treat. He had
 
 94 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 this sentimental way with him, but it lost its 
 effect after we knew the man. 
 
 "A deevil couldna hae deserved waur treat- 
 ment," Tammas Haggartsaidto him ; "gangoot 
 o' my sicht, man ! " 
 
 "I'll blame mysel' till I die," Jess said, with 
 tears in her eyes, "for no understandin' puir 
 Nanny better." 
 
 So Nanny got sympathy at last, but not until 
 her forgiving soul had left her tortured body. 
 There was many a kindly heart in Thrums that 
 would have gone out to her in her lifetime, but 
 we could not have loved her without upbraiding 
 him, and she would not buy sympathy at the 
 price. What a little story it is, and how few 
 words are required to tell it ! He was a bad 
 husband to her, and she kept it secret. That is 
 Nanny's life summed up. It is all that was left 
 behind when her coffin went down the brae. 
 Did she love him to the end, or was she only 
 doing what she thought her duty ? It is not for 
 me even to guess. A good woman who suffers 
 is altogether beyond man's reckoning. To such 
 heights of self-sacrifice we cannot rise. It crushes 
 us ; it ought to crush us on to our knees. For us 
 who saw Nanny, infirm, shrunken, and so weary, 
 yet a type of the noblest womanhood, suffering 
 for years, and misunderstood her to the end, what 
 expiation can there be? I do not want to storm 
 at the man who made her life so burdensome.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 95 
 
 Too many years have passed for that, nor would 
 Nanny take it kindly if I called her man names. 
 
 Sanders worked little after his marriage. He 
 had a sore back, he said, which became a torture 
 if he leant forward at his loom. What truth there 
 was in this I cannot say, but not every weaver in 
 Thrums could " louse " when his back grew sore. 
 Nanny went to the loom in his place, filling as 
 well as weaving, and he walked about, dressed 
 better than the common, and with cheerful words 
 for those who had time to listen. Nanny got no 
 approval even for doing his work as well as her 
 own, for they were understood to have money, 
 and Sanders let us think her merely greedy. We 
 drifted into his opinions. 
 
 Had Jess been one of those who could go 
 about, she would, I think, have read Nanny better 
 than the rest of us, for her intellect was bright, 
 and always led her straight to her neighbors' 
 hearts. But Nanny visited no one, and so Jess 
 only knew her by hearsay. Nanny's standoffish- 
 ness, as it was called, was not a popular virtue, 
 and she was blamed still more for trying to keep 
 her husband out of other people's houses. He 
 was so frank and full of gossip, and she was so 
 reserved. He would go everywhere, and she 
 nowhere. He had been known to ask neighbors 
 to tea, and she had shown that she wanted them 
 away, or even begged them not to come. We 
 were not accustomed to go behind the face of a
 
 96 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 thing, and so we set down Nanny's inhospitality 
 to churlishness or greed. Only after her death, 
 when other women had to attend him, did we get 
 to know what a tyrant Sanders was at his own 
 hearth. The ambition of Nanny's life was that 
 we should never know it, that we should continue 
 extolling him, and say what we chose about her- 
 self. She knew that if we went much about the 
 house and saw how he treated her, Sanders would 
 cease to be a respected man in Thrums. 
 
 So neat in his dress was Sanders, that he was 
 seldom seen abroad in corduroys. His blue 
 bonnet for everyday wear was such as even well- 
 to-do farmers only wore at fair-time, and it was 
 said that he had a handkerchief for every day in 
 the week. Jess often held him up to Hendry as a 
 model of courtesy and polite manners. 
 
 " Him an' Nanny's no weel matched, "she used 
 to say, " for he has grand ideas, an' she's o' the 
 commonest. It maun be a richt trial to a man 
 wi' his fine tastes to hae a wife 'at's wrapper's 
 never even on, an' wha doesna wash her mutch 
 aince in a month." 
 
 It is true that Nanny was a slattern, but only 
 because she married into slavery. She was kept 
 so busy washing and ironing for Sanders that she 
 ceased to care how she looked herself. What did 
 it matter whether her mutch was clean ? Weaving 
 and washing and cooking, doing the work of a 
 breadwinner as well as of a housewife, hers was
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 97 
 
 soon a body prematurely old, on which no wrapper 
 would sit becomingly. Before her face, Sanders 
 would hint that her slovenly ways and dress tried 
 him sorely, and in company at least she only 
 bowed her head. We were given to respecting 
 those who worked hard, but Nanny, we thought, 
 was a woman of means, and Sanders let us call 
 her a miser. He, was always anxious, he said, 
 to be generous, but Nanny would not let him 
 assist a starving child. They had really not a 
 penny beyond what Nanny earned at the loom, 
 and now we know how Sanders shook her if she 
 did not earn enough. His vanity was responsible 
 for the story about her wealth, and she would not 
 have us think him vain. 
 
 Because she did so much, we said that she was 
 as strong as a cart-horse. The doctor who 
 attended her during the last week of her life dis- 
 covered that she had never been well. Yet we 
 had often wondered at her letting Sanders pit his 
 own potatoes when he was so unable. 
 
 " Them 'at's strong, ye see, "Sanders explained, 
 " doesna ken what illness is, an' so it's nat'ral 
 they shouldna sympathize wi' onweel fowk. Ay, 
 I'm rale thankfu' 'at Nanny keeps her health. I 
 often envy her." 
 
 These were considered creditable sentiments, 
 
 and so they might have been had Nanny uttered 
 
 them. Thus easily Sanders built up a reputation 
 
 for never complaining. I know now that he was 
 
 7
 
 98 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 a hard and cruel man who should have married 
 a shrew ; but while Nanny lived I thought he had 
 a beautiful nature. Many a time 1 have spoken 
 with him at Hendry's gate, and felt the better of 
 his heartiness. 
 
 "I mauna complain," he always said; "na, 
 we maunjuist fecht awa." 
 
 Little, indeed, had he to complain of, and little 
 did he fight away. 
 
 Sanders went twice to church every Sabbath, 
 and thrice when he got the chance. There was 
 no man who joined so lustily in singing or looked 
 straighter at the minister during the prayer. I 
 have heard the minister say that Sanders' con- 
 stant attendance was an encouragement and a 
 help to him. Nanny had been a great church- 
 goer when she was a maiden, but after her mar- 
 riage she only went in the afternoons, and a time 
 came when she ceased altogether to attend. The 
 minister admonished her many times, telling her, 
 among other things, that her irreligious ways 
 were a distress to her husband. She never replied 
 that she could not go to church in the forenoon, 
 because Sanders insisted on a hot meal being 
 waiting him when the services ended. But it was 
 true that Sanders, for appearances' sake, would 
 have had her go to church in the afternoon. It 
 is now believed that on this point alone did she 
 refuse to do as she was bidden. Nanny was very 
 far from perfect, and the reason she forsook the
 
 A WINDOW IX THRUMS. 
 
 99 
 
 kirk utterly was because she had no Sabbath 
 clothes. 
 
 She died as she had lived, saying not a word 
 when the minister, thinking it his duty, drew a 
 cruel comparison between her life and her hus- 
 band's. 
 
 "I got my first glimpse into the real state of 
 affairs in that house," the doctor told me one night 
 on the brae, the day before she died. "You're 
 sure there's no hope for me ? " she asked wistfully, 
 and when I had to tell the truth she sank back on 
 the pillow with a look of joy.'* 
 
 Nanny died with a lie on her lips. "Ay," she 
 said, " Sanders has been a guid man to me."
 
 loo A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 
 
 HENDRY had a way of resuming a conversation 
 where he had left off the night before. He would 
 revolve a topic in his mind, too, and then begin 
 aloud, "He's a queer ane," or, "Say ye so?" 
 which was at times perplexing. With the whole 
 day before them, none of the family was inclined 
 to waste strength in talk ; but one morning when 
 he was blowing the steam off his porridge, 
 Hendry said, suddenly : 
 
 " He's hame again." 
 
 The women-folk gave him time to say to whom 
 he was referring, which he occasionally did as an 
 after-thought. But he began to sup his porridge, 
 making eyes as it went steaming down his throat 
 
 "I dinna ken wha ye mean," Jess said, while 
 Leeby, who was on her knees rubbing the hearth- 
 stone a bright blue, paused to catch her father's 
 answer. 
 
 " Jeames Geogehan," replied Hendry, with the 
 horn spoon in his mouth. 
 
 Leeby turned to Jess for enlightenment
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. IO1 
 
 "Geogehan," repeated Jess; "what! no little 
 Jeames 'at ran awa ? " 
 
 "Ay, ay, but he's a muckle stoot man 1100, an' 
 gey gray. " 
 
 "Ou, I dinna wonder at that. It's aguidforty 
 year since he ran off." 
 
 " I waurant ye couldna say exact hoo langsyne 
 it is ? " 
 
 Hendry asked this question because Jess was 
 notorious for her memory, and he gloried in put- 
 ting it to the test. 
 
 ' ' Let's see, " she said. 
 
 "But wha is he?" asked Leeby. "I never 
 kent nae Geogehans in Thrums." 
 
 " Weel, it's forty-one years syne come Michael- 
 mas," said Jess. 
 
 " Hoo do ye ken?" 
 
 "I ken fine. Ye mind his father had been 
 lickin' 'im, an' he ran awa in a passion, cryin' oot 
 'at he Would never come back ? Ay, then, he had 
 a pair o' boots on at the time, an' his father ran 
 after 'im an' took them aff 'im. The boots was 
 the last 'at Davie Mearns made, an' it's fully ane- 
 an'-forty years since Davie fell ower the quarry 
 on the day o' the hill-market. That settles't. 
 Ay, an' Jeames'll be turned fifty noo, for he was 
 comin' on for ten year auld at that time. Ay, ay, 
 an' he's come back ! What a state Eppie'll be 
 in!" 
 
 "Tell's wha he is, mother."
 
 loa A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "Od, he's Eppie Outline's son. Her man was 
 William Geogehan, but he died afore you was 
 born, an' as Jeames was their only bairn, the 
 name o' Geogehan's been a kind o' lost sicht o', 
 Hae ye seen him, Hendry ? Is't true 'at he made 
 a fortune in thae far-awa countries ? Eppie'll be 
 blavvin' aboot him richt?" 
 
 "There's nae doot aboot the siller," said 
 Hendry, " for he drove in a carriage frae Tillie- 
 drum, an' they say he needs a closet to hang his 
 claes in, there's sic a heap o' them. Ay, but 
 that's no a' he's brocht, na, far frae a'." 
 
 " Dinna gang awa till ye've telt's a' aboot 'im. 
 What mair has he brocht ? " 
 
 "He's brocht a wife," said Hendry, twisting 
 his face curiously. 
 
 "There's naething surprisin' in that." 
 
 "Ay, but there is, though. Ye see, Eppie had 
 a letter frae 'im no mony weeks syne, sayin' 'at 
 he wasna deid, an' he was comin' hame wi' a 
 fortune. He said, too, 'at he was a single man, 
 n f she's been boastin' aboot that, so ye may 
 think 'at she got a surprise when he hands a. 
 wuman oot o' the carriage." 
 
 "An' no a pleasant ane," said Jess. " Had he 
 been leein'?" 
 
 "Na, he was single when he wrote, an' single 
 when he got the length o' Tilliedrum. Ye see, he 
 fell in wi' the lassie there, an' juist gaed clean aff 
 his heid aboot her. After managin' to withstand
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 103 
 
 the women o' foreign lands for a' thae years, he 
 gaed fair skeer aboot this stocky at Tilliedrum. ' 
 She's juist seventeen year auld, an' the auld fule 
 sits wi' his airm round her in Eppie's hoose, though 
 they've been mairit this fortnicht." 
 
 "The doited fule," said Jess. 
 
 Jeames Geogehan and his bride became the 
 talk of Thrums, and Jess saw them from her 
 window several times. The first time she had 
 only eyes for the jacket with fur round it worn 
 by Mrs. Geogehan, but subsequently she took in 
 Jeames. 
 
 "He's tryin' to carry't aff wi' his heid in the 
 air," she said, "but I can see he's fell shame- 
 faced, an' nae wonder. Ay, I sepad he's mair 
 ashamed o't in his heart than she is. It's an aw- 
 ful like thing o' a lassie to marry an auld man. 
 She had dune't for the siller. Ay, there's pounds' 
 worth o' fur aboot that jacket." 
 
 "They say she had siller hersel'," said Tibbie 
 Birse. 
 
 " Dinna tell me," said Jess. "I ken by her 
 wy o' carryin' hersel' 'at she never had a jacket 
 like that afore." 
 
 Eppie was not the only person in Thrums 
 whom this marriage enraged. Stories had long 
 been alive of Jeames' fortune, which his cousins' 
 children were some day to divide among them- 
 selves, and as a consequence these young men 
 and women looked on Mrs. Geogehan as a thie
 
 164 ^ WIXDOW Itt THRUMS. 
 
 "Dinna bring the wife to our hoose, Jeames," 
 one of them told him, "for we would be fair 
 ashamed to hae her. We used to hae a respect 
 for yer name, so we couldna look her i' the face." 
 
 "She's mair like yer dochter than yer wife," 
 said another. 
 
 "Na," said a third, " naebody could mistak her 
 for yer dochter. She's ower young-like for that." 
 
 " Wi' the siller you'll leave her, Jeames," Tam- 
 mas Haggart told him, "she'll get a younger 
 man for her second venture." 
 
 All this was very trying to the newly-married 
 man, who was thirsting for sympathy. Hendry 
 was the person whom he took into his confidence. 
 
 " It may hae been foolish at my time o' life," 
 Hendry reported him to have said, " but I couldna 
 help it. If they juist kent her better they couldna 
 but see 'at she's a terrible takkin' crittur." 
 
 Jeames was generous ; indeed, he had come 
 home with the intention of scattering largess. A 
 beggar met him one day on the brae, and got a 
 shilling from him. She was waving her arms 
 triumphantly as she passed Hendry's house, and 
 Leeby got the story from her. 
 
 "Eh, he's a fine man that, an' a saft ane," the 
 woman said. "I juist speired at 'im hoo his 
 bonny wife was, an' he oot wi' a shillin' ! " 
 
 Leeby did not keep this news to herself, and 
 soon it was through the town. Jeames' face be- 
 gan to brighten.
 
 A WltiDOW Iti THRUMS. lo$ 
 
 *' They're comin' round to a mair sensible wy 
 o' lookin' at things," he told Hendry. "I was 
 walkin' wi' the wife i' the buryin'-ground yester- 
 day, an' we met Kitty McQueen. She was ane 
 o' the warst agin me at first, but she telt me i' the 
 buryin'-ground 'at when a man marrit he should 
 please 'imsel'. Oh, they're comin' round." 
 
 What Kitty told Jess was : 
 
 "I minded o' the tinkler wuman 'at he gae a 
 shillin' to, so I thocht I would butter up at the 
 auld fule too. Weel, I assure ye, I had nae 
 suner said 'at he was rale wise to marry wha he 
 likit than he slips a pound note into my hand. 
 Ou, Jess, we've ta'en the wrang wy wi' Jeames. 
 I've telt a' my bairns 'at if they meet him they're 
 to praise the wife terrible, an' I'm far mista'en if 
 that doesna mean five shillin's to ilka ane o' 
 them." 
 
 Jean Whamond got a pound note for saying 
 that Jeames' wife had an uncommon pretty voice, 
 and Davit Lunan had ten shillings for a judicious 
 word about her attractive manners. Tibbie Birse 
 invited the newly-married couple to tea (one 
 pound). 
 
 "They're takkin' to her, they're takkin'to her,' 
 Jeames said, gleefully. "I kent they would 
 come round in time. Ay, even my mother, 'at 
 was sae mad at first, sits for hours noo aside 
 her, haudin' her hand. They're juist insepa- 
 rable."
 
 Io6 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 The time came when we had Mr. and Mrs. 
 Geogehan and Eppie to tea. 
 
 " It's true enough," Leeby ran ben to tell Jess, 
 "'at Eppie an' the wife's fond o' ane another. I 
 wouldna hae believed it o' Eppie if I hadna seen 
 it, but I assure ye they sat even at the tea-table 
 haudin' ane another's hands. I waurant they're 
 doin't this meenute." 
 
 "I vvasna born on a Sabbath," retorted Jess. 
 " Na, na, dinna tell me Eppie's fond o' her. Tell 
 Eppie to come but to the kitchen when the tea's 
 ower. " 
 
 Jess and Eppie had half an hour's conversation 
 alone, and then our guests left. 
 
 It's a richt guid thing," said Hendry, "'at 
 Eppie has ta'en sic a notion o' the wife." 
 
 " Ou, ay," said Jess. 
 
 Then Hendry hobbled out of the house. 
 
 " What said Eppie to ye ? " Leeby asked her 
 mother. 
 
 " Juist what I expeckit," Jess answered. "Ye 
 see, she's dependent on Jeames, so she has to 
 butter up at him." 
 
 " Did she say on y thing aboot haudin' the wife's 
 hand sae fond-like ? " 
 
 " Ay, she said it was an awfu' trial to her, an' 
 'at it sickened her to see Jeames an* the wife baith 
 believin' 'at she likit to do't "
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. to; 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 VISITORS AT THE MANSE. 
 
 ON bringing home his bride, the minister 
 showed her to us, and we thought she would do 
 when she realized that she was not the minister. 
 She was a grand lady from Edinburgh, though 
 very frank, and we simple folk amused her a good 
 deal, especially when we were sitting cowed in 
 the manse parlor drinking a dish of tea with her, 
 as happened to Leeby, her father, and me, three 
 days before Jamie came home. 
 
 Leeby had refused to be drawn into conver- 
 sation, like one who knew her place, yet all her 
 actions were genteel and her monosyllabic replies 
 in the Englishy tongue, as of one who was, after 
 all, a little above the common. When the 
 minister's wife asked her whether she took sugar 
 and cream, she said politely, "If you please" 
 (though she did not take sugar), a reply that con- 
 trasted with Hendry's equally well-intended 
 answer to the same question. "I'm nopartikler," 
 was what Hendry said. 
 
 rlendry had left home glumly, declaring that
 
 toS A WINDOW itf THRUMS. 
 
 the white collar Jess had put on him would 
 throttle him ; but her feikieness ended in his 
 surrender, and he was looking unusually perjink. 
 Had not his daughter been present he would have- 
 been the most at ease of the company, but her 
 manners were too fine not to make an impression 
 upon one who knew her on her every-day 
 behavior, and she had also ways of bringing 
 Hendry to himself by a touch beneath the table. 
 It was in church that Leeby brought to perfection 
 her manner of looking after her father. When 
 he had confidence in the preacher's soundness, he 
 would sometimes have slept in his pew if Leeby 
 had not had a watchful foot. She wakened him 
 in an instant, while still looking modestly at the 
 pulpit ; however reverently he might try to fall 
 over, Leeby's foot went out. She was such an 
 artist that I never caught her in the act. All I 
 knew for certain was that, now and then, Hendry 
 suddenly sat up. 
 
 The ordeal was over when Leeby went upstairs 
 to put on her things. After tea Hendry had 
 become bolder in talk, his subject being minis- 
 terial. He had an extraordinary knowledge, got 
 no one knew where, of the matrimonial affairs of 
 all the ministers of these parts, and his stories 
 about them ended frequently with a chuckle. 
 He always took it for granted that a minister's 
 marriage was womanhood's great triumph, and 
 that the particular woman who got him must be
 
 A WLWdW tti ftiRUMS. 16$ 
 
 | 
 
 very clever. Some of his tales were even more 
 curious than he thought them, such as the one 
 Leeby tried to interrupt by saying we must be 
 going-. 
 
 "There's Mr. Pennycuick, noo," said Hendry, 
 shaking his head in wonder at what he had to 
 tell; "him 'at's minister at Tilliedrum. Weel, 
 when he was a probationer he was michty poor, 
 an' ane day he was walkin' into Thrums fraeGlen 
 Quharity, an' he tak's a rest at a little housey on 
 the road. The fowk didna ken him ava, but they 
 saw he was a minister, an' the lassie was sorry to 
 see him wi' sic an auld hat. What think ye she 
 did?" 
 
 "Come away, father," said Leeby, re-entering 
 the parlor ; but Hendry was now in full pursuit 
 of his story. 
 
 " I'll tell ye what she did," he continued. "She 
 juist took his hat awa, an' put her father's new 
 ane in its place, an' Mr. Pennycuick never kent 
 the differ till he landed in Thrums. It was ter- 
 rible kind o' her. Ay, but the auld man would be 
 in a michty rage when he found she had swappit 
 the hats. " 
 
 "Come away," said Leeby, still politely, 
 though she was burning to tell her mother how 
 Hendry had disgraced them. 
 
 "The minister," said Hendry, turning his back 
 on Leeby, "didna forget the lassie. Na, as sune 
 as he got a kirk, he married her. Ay, she got her
 
 1 10 A WINDOW IN THRUM^. 
 
 reward He married her. It was rale noble of 
 'im." 
 
 I do not know what Leeby said to Hendry 
 when she got him beyond the manse gate, for I 
 stayed behind to talk to the minister. As it 
 turned out, the minister's wife did most of the 
 talking, smiling good - humoredly at country 
 gawkiness the while. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I am sure I shall like 
 Thrums, though those teas to the congregation are 
 a little trying. Do you know, Thrums is the only 
 place I was ever in where it struck me that the 
 men are cleverer than the women." 
 
 She told us why. 
 
 "Well, to-night affords a case in point. Mr. 
 McQumpha was quite brilliant, was he not, in 
 comparison with his daughter? Really, she 
 seemed so put out at being at the manse that she 
 could not raise her eyes. I question if she would 
 know me again, and I am sure she sat in the 
 room as one blindfolded. I left her in the 
 bedroom a minute, and I assure you, when I 
 returned she was still standing on the same spot 
 in the centre of the floor." 
 
 I pointed out that Leeby had been awestruck. 
 
 " I suppose so," she said ; " but it is a pity she 
 cannot make use of her eyes, if not of her tongue. 
 Ah, the Thrums women are good, I believe, but 
 their wits are sadly in need of sharpening. I 
 dare say it comes of living- in so small a place.'
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. m 
 
 I overtook Leeby on the brae, aware, as I saw 
 her alone, that it had been her father whom I 
 passed talking toTammas Haggart in the square. 
 Hendry stopped to have what he called a tove 
 with any likely person he encountered, and, in- 
 deed, though he and I often took a walk on Satur- 
 days, I generally lost him before we were clear 
 of the town. 
 
 In a few moments Leeby and I were at home 
 to give Jess the news. 
 
 " Whaur's yer father?" asked Jess, as if Hen- 
 dry's way of dropping behind was still unknown 
 to her. 
 
 "Ou, I left him speakin' to Gavin Birse," said 
 Leeby. " I daur say he's awa to some hoose. " 
 
 " It's no very silvendy (safe) his comin' ower the 
 brae by himsel'," said Jess, adding in a bitter tone 
 of conviction, "but he'll gang in to no hoose as 
 lang as he's so weel dressed. Na, he would think 
 it boastfu'." 
 
 I sat down to a book by the kitchen fire ; but, 
 as Leeby became communicative, 1 read less and 
 less. While she spoke she was baking bannocks 
 with all the might of her, and Jess, leaning for- 
 ward in her chair, was arranging them in a semi- 
 circle round the fire. 
 
 "Na," was the first remark of Leeby's that 
 came between me and my book, "it is no new 
 furniture." 
 
 "But there was thre cart-loads o't, Leeby,
 
 112 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 sent on frae Edinbory. Tibbie Birse helpit 
 to lift it in, and she said the parlor furniture 
 beat a'." 
 
 "Ou, it's substantial, but it is no new. I sepad 
 it had been bocht cheap second-hand, for the 
 chair I had was terrible scratched like, an' what's 
 mair, the airm-chair was a heap shinnier than the 
 rest. " 
 
 "Ay, ay, I wager it had been new stuffed. 
 Tibbie said the carpet cowed for a' grandeur." 
 
 "Oh, I dinna deny it's a guid carpet ; but if it's 
 been turned once it's been turned half a dozen 
 times, so it's far frae new. Ay, an' forby, it was 
 rale threadbare aneath the table, so ye may be 
 sure they've been cuttin't an' puttin' the worn 
 pairt whaur it would be least seen." 
 
 " They say 'at there's twa grand gas brackets 
 i' the parlor, an' a wonderfu' gasoliery i' the 
 dinin'-room." 
 
 "We wasna i' the dinin'-room, so I ken naeth- 
 ing aboot the gasoliery ; but I'll tell ye what the 
 gas brackets is. I recognized them immediately. 
 Ye mind the auld gasoliery i' the dinin'-room 
 had twa lichts ? Ay, then, the parlor brackets is 
 made oot o' the auld gasoliery. " 
 
 "Weel, Leeby, as sure as ye' re standin' there, 
 that passed through my head as sune as Tibbie 
 mentioned them ! " 
 
 "There's nae doot about it. Ay, I was in ane 
 o' the bedrooms, too ! "
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 113 
 
 "It would be grand?" 
 
 " I wouldna say 'at it was partikler grand, but 
 there was a great mask (quantity) o' things in't, 
 an' near everything was covered wi' cretonne. 
 But the chairs dinna match. There was a very 
 bonny-painted cloth alang the chimney what 
 they call a mantelpiece border, I warrant." 
 
 "Sal, I've often wondered what they was." 
 
 " Weel, I assure ye they winna be ill to mak, 
 for the border was juist nailed upon a board laid 
 on the chimney. There's naething to hender's 
 makkin' ane for the room. " 
 
 "Ay, we could sew something on the border 
 instead o' paintin't. The room lookit weel, ye 
 say ? " 
 
 "Yes, but it was economically furnished. 
 There was nae carpet below the wax-cloth ; na, 
 there was nane below the bed either." 
 
 " Was't a grand bed ? " 
 
 " It had a fell lot o' brass aboot it, but there was 
 juist one pair o' blankets. I thocht it was gey 
 shabby, ha'en the ewer a different pattern frae the 
 basin ; ay, an' there was juist a poker in the fire- 
 place there was nae tangs." 
 
 "Yea, yea ; they'll haebut one set o' bedroom 
 fire-irons. The tangs'll be in anither room. Tod, 
 that's no sae michty grand for Edinbory. What 
 like was she hersel' ? " 
 
 "Ou, very ladylike and saft spoken. She's a 
 canty body an' frank. She wears her hair low on 
 8
 
 114 * WINDO W IN THR VMS. 
 
 the left side to hod (hide) a scar, an' there's twa 
 warts on her richt hand." 
 
 " There hadna been a fire i' the parlor? " 
 
 "No, but it was ready to licht. There was 
 sticks and paper in't. The paper was oot o' a 
 dressmaker's journal." 
 
 "Ye say so? She'll mak her ain frocks, I 
 sepad. " 
 
 When Hendry entered to take off his collar and 
 coat before sitting down to his evening meal of 
 hot water, porter, and bread mixed in a bowl, 
 Jess sent me off to the attic. As I climbed the 
 stairs I remembered that the minister's wife 
 thought Leeby in need of sharpening.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 115 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. 
 
 IN a wet day the rain gathered in blobs on the 
 road that passed our garden. Then it crawled 
 into the cart-tracks until the road was streaked 
 with water. Lastly, the water gathered in heavy 
 yellow pools. If the on-ding still continued, clods 
 of earth toppled from the garden dyke into the 
 ditch. 
 
 On such a day, when even the dulseman had 
 gone into shelter, and the women scudded by 
 with their wrappers over their heads, came Gavin 
 Birse to our door. Gavin, who was the Glen 
 Quharity post, was still young, but had never 
 been quite the same man sine > some amateurs in 
 the glen ironed his back for rheumatism. I 
 thought he had called to have a crack with me. 
 He sent his compliments up to the attic, however, 
 by Leeby, and would I come and be a witness ? 
 
 Gavin came up and explained. He had taken 
 off his scarf and thrust it into his pocket, lest the 
 rain should take the color out of it. His boots 
 cheeped, and his shoulders had risen to his ears. 
 He stood steaming before my fire.
 
 H 6 A WINDOW IN THRUMS, 
 
 "If it's no' ower muckle to asky,"h said, 
 "I would like yc for a witness." 
 
 "A witness! But for what do you need a 
 witness, Gavin ? " 
 
 "I want ye," he said, "to come wi' me to 
 Mag's, and be a witness." 
 
 Gavin and Mag Birse had been engaged for a 
 year or more. Mag was the daughter ot Janet 
 Ogilvy, who was best remembered as the body 
 that took the hill (that is, wandered about it) for 
 twelve hours on the day Mr. Dishart, the Auld 
 Licht minister, accepted a call to another church. 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me, Gavin," I asked, 
 "that your marriage is to take place to-day ? " 
 
 By the twist of his mouth I saw that he was 
 only deferring a smile. 
 
 "Far frae that," he said. 
 
 "Ah, then, you have quarrelled, and I am to 
 speak up for you ? " 
 
 "Na, na," he said, "I dinna want ye to do 
 that above all things. It would be a favor if ye 
 could gie me a bad character." 
 
 This beat me, and, I dare say, my face showed it. 
 
 "I'm no' juist what ye would call anxious to 
 marry Mag noo," said Gavin, without a tremor. 
 
 I told him to go on. 
 
 " There's a lassie oot at Craigiebuckle," he ex- 
 plained, " workin' on the farm Jeanie Luke by 
 name. Ye may hae seen her ? " 
 
 "What of her ? " I asked, severely.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 1 1 7 
 
 "Weel," said Gavin, still unabashed, "I'm 
 
 thinkin' noo 'at I would rather hae her." 
 Then he stated his case more fully. 
 "Ay, I thocht I liked Mag oncommon till I saw 
 
 Jeanie, an' I like her fine yet, but I prefer the 
 
 other ane. That state o' matters canna gang on 
 
 forever, so I came into Thrums the day to settle't 
 
 one wy or another." 
 
 "And how," I asked, " do you propose going 
 
 about it ? It is a somewhat delicate business." 
 "Ou, I see nae great difficulty in't. I'll speir 
 
 at Mag, blunt oot, if she'll let me aff. Yes, I'll 
 
 put it to her plain. " 
 
 " You're sure Jeanie would take you ? " 
 
 "Ay ; oh, there's nae fear o' that." 
 
 " But if Mag keeps you to your bargain? " 
 
 "Weel, in that case there's nae harm done." 
 
 " You are in a great hurry, Gavin ? '' 
 
 "Ye may say that ; but I want to be married 
 
 The wifie I lodge wi' canna last lang, an' I would 
 
 like to settle doon in some place." 
 
 "So you are on your way to Mag's now?" 
 "Ay, we'll get her in atween twal' and ane." 
 " Oh, yes ; but why do you want me to go with 
 
 you ? " 
 
 " I want ye for a witness. If she winna let 
 
 me aff, weel an' guid ; an' if she will, it's better 
 
 to hae a witness in case she should go back on 
 
 her word." 
 Gavin made his proposal briskly, and as coolly
 
 1 1 8 A WINDO W IN THR UMS. 
 
 as if he were only asking me to go fishing ; but 1 
 did not accompany him to Mag's. He left the 
 house to look for another witness, and about an 
 hour afterward Jess saw him pass with Tarn mas 
 Haggart. Tammas cried in during the evening 
 to tell us how the mission prospered. 
 
 "Mind ye," said Tammas, a drop of water 
 hanging to the point of his nose, " I disclaim all 
 responsibility in the business. I ken Mag weel 
 for a thrifty, respectable woman, as her mither 
 was afore her, an' so I said to Gavin when he 
 came to speir me." 
 
 "Ay, mony a pirn has 'Lisbeth filled to me," 
 said Hendry, settling down to a reminiscence. 
 
 "No to be o\ver hard on Gavin," continued 
 Tammas, forestalling Hendry, "he took what I 
 said in guid part ; but aye when I stopped speakin, 
 to draw breath, he says, 'The question is, will 
 ye come wi' me ? ' He was michty made up in 's 
 mind." 
 
 "Weel, ye went wi' him," suggested Jess, who 
 wanted to bring Tammas to the point. 
 
 "Ay," said the stone-breaker, " but no in sic a 
 hurry as that." 
 
 He worked his mouth round and round, to 
 clear the course as it were for a sarcasm. 
 
 "Fowk often say," he continued, "'at 'am 
 quick beyond the ordinar' in seein' the humorous 
 side o' things." 
 
 Here Tammas paused and looked at us.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. n0 
 
 "So ye are, Tammas," said Hen dry. " Losh, 
 ye mind hoo ye saw the humorous side o' me 
 wearin' a pair o' boots 'at wisna marrows ! No, 
 the ane had a toe-piece on, an' the other hadna." 
 
 " Ye juist wore them sometimes when ye was 
 delvin'," broke in Jess ; "ye have as guid a pair 
 o' boots as ony in Thrums." 
 
 "Ay, but I had worn them/' said Hendry, 
 " at odd times for mair than a year, an' I had 
 never seen the humorous side o' them. Weel, as 
 fac as death (here he addressed me), Tammas had 
 juist seen them twa or three times when he saw 
 the humorous side o' them. Syne I saw their 
 humorous side, too, but no till Tammas pointed 
 it oot." 
 
 "That was naething," said Tammas, "nae- 
 thing ava to some things I've done." 
 
 "But what aboot Mag? " said Leeby. 
 
 "We wasna that length, was we? '' said Tam- 
 mas. " Na, we was speakin' aboot the humorous 
 side. Ay, wait a wee, I didna mention the 
 humorous side for naething." 
 
 He paused to reflect. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said at last, brightening up. 
 "I was sayin' to ye hoo quick I was to see the 
 humorous side o' onything. Ay, then, what 
 made me say that was 'at in a clink (flash) I saw 
 the humorous side o' Gavin's position." 
 
 "Man, man," said Hendry, admiringly, "an 
 what is 't ? "
 
 180 A WINDOW IN THRUMS, 
 
 "Oh, it's this : there's something humorous in 
 speirin' a woman to let ye aff so as ye can be 
 married to another woman." 
 
 "I daur say there is," said Hendry, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " Did she let him aff? " asked Jess, taking the 
 words out of Leeby's mouth. 
 
 "I'm comin' to that," said Tammas. "Gavin 
 proposes to me after I had ha'en my laugh " 
 
 "Yes," cried Hendry, banging the table with 
 his fist, "it has a humorous side. Ye're richt 
 again, Tammas." 
 
 "I wish ye wadna blatter (beat) the table, "said 
 Jess, and then Tammas proceeded : 
 
 "Gavin wanted me to tak paper an' ink an' a 
 pen wi' me, to write the proceedin's doon, but I 
 said, ' Na, na, I'll tak paper, but nae ink nor nae 
 pen, for there'll be ink an' a pen there. ' That was 
 what I said." 
 
 "An' did she let him aff? " asked Leeby. 
 
 " Weel," said Tammas, " aff we goes to Mag's 
 hoose, an' sure enough Mag was in. She was 
 alane, too ; so Gavin, no to waste time, juist sat 
 doon for politeness' sake, an' sune rises up again ; 
 an' says he, ' Marget Lownie, I hae a solemn 
 question to speir at ye, namely this, Will you, 
 Marget Lownie, let me, Gavin Birse, aff?" 
 
 " Mag would start at that ? " 
 
 "Sal, she was braw an' cool. I thocht she 
 maun hae got wind o' his intentions aforehand.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 12 1 
 
 for she juist replies, quiet-like, ' Hoo do ye want 
 aff, Gavin?' 
 
 " 'Because,' says he, like a book, 'my affec- 
 tions has undergone a change.' 
 
 " ' Ye mean Jean Luke ? ' says Mag. 
 
 " 'That is wha I mean,' says Gavin, very strait- 
 forrard." 
 
 " But she didna let him aff, did she ? " 
 
 " Na, she wasna the kind. Says she, ' I wonder 
 to hear ye, Gavin, but 'am no goin' to agree to 
 naething o 1 that sort' 
 
 " 'Think it ower,' says Gavin. 
 
 " 'Na, my mind's made up,' said she. 
 
 "'Ye would sune get anither man,' he says 
 earnestly. 
 
 " ' Hoo do I ken that ? 'shespeirs, rale sensibly, 
 I thocht, for men's no sae easy to get 
 
 " ' Am sure o' 't,' Gavin says, wi' michty con- 
 viction in his voice, ' for ye're bonny to look at, 
 an' weel kent for bein' a guid body.' 
 t " ' Ay,' says Mag, ' I'm glad ye like me, Gavin, 
 for ye have to tak me. ' " 
 
 "That put a clincher on him," interrupted 
 Hen dry. 
 
 "He was loth to gie in," replied Tammas, so 
 he says, 'Ye think 'am a fine character, Marget 
 Lownie, but ye're very far mista'en. I woulclna 
 wonder but what I was lossin' my place some o' 
 thae days, an' syne whaur would ye be ? Mar- 
 get Lownie,' he goes on,' 'am n at 'rally lazy an'
 
 122 A WINDOW IM ?HRVMS. 
 
 fond o' the drink. As sure as ye stand there, 
 'am a reg'lar deevil I ' ' 
 
 "That was strong language," said Hen dry, 
 but he would be wantin' to fleg (frighten) her ? " 
 
 "Juist so, but he didna manage 't, for Mag 
 says : ' We a' hae oor faults, Gavin, an' deevil or 
 no deevil, ye're the man for me ! " 
 
 "Gavin thocht a bit, "continued Tammas, "an* 
 syne he tries her on a new tack. 'Marget 
 Lownie,' he says, ' ye're father's an auld man noo, 
 an' he has naebody but yersel' to look after him. 
 I'm thinkin' it would be kind o' cruel o' me to tak' 
 ye awa frae him ? ' ' 
 
 "Mag wouldna be ta'enin wi'that ; she wasna 
 born on a Sawbath," said Jess, using one of her 
 favorite sayings. 
 
 ' ' She wasna, " answered Tammas. ' ' Says she, 
 ' Hae nae fear on that score, Gavin ; my father's 
 fine willin' to spare me ! ' ' 
 
 "An' that ended it?" 
 
 "Ay, that ended it." 
 
 ' ' Did ye tak' it doon in writin' ? " asked 
 Hen dry. 
 
 "There was nae need," said Tammas, handing 
 round his snuff-mull. " No, I never touched 
 paper. When I saw the thing was settled, I left 
 them to their coortin'. They're to tak a look at 
 Snecky Hobart's auld hoose the nicht. It's to 
 let."
 
 A WINDOW IN TUMJM& 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 THE SON FROM LONDON. 
 
 IN the spring of the year there used to come to 
 Thrums a painter from nature, whom Hendry 
 spoke of as the drawer. He lodged with Jess in 
 my attic, and when the weavers met him they 
 said, "Weel, drawer," and then passed on, grin- 
 ning. Tammas Haggart was the first to say 
 this. 
 
 The drawer was held a poor man because he 
 straggled about the country looking for subjects 
 for his draws ; and Jess, as was her way, gave 
 him many comforts for which she would nut 
 charge. That, I dare say, was why he painted 
 for her a little portrait of Jamie. When the 
 drawer came back to Thrums he always found the 
 painting in a frame in the room. Here I must 
 make a confession about Jess. She did not in her 
 secret mind think the portrait quite the thing, and 
 as soon as the drawer departed it was removed 
 from the frame to make way for a calendar. The 
 deception was very innocent, Jess being anxious 
 not to hurt the donor's feelings.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 To those who have the artist's eye, the picture, 
 which hangs in my school-house now, does not 
 show a handsome lad, Jamie being short and 
 dapper, with straw-colored hair, and a chin that 
 ran away into his neck. That is how I once re- 
 garded him, but I have little heart for criticism of 
 those I like, and despite his madness for a season, 
 of which, alas ! I shall have to tell, I am always 
 Jamie's friend. Even to hear any one disparag- 
 ing the appearance of Jess' son is to me a pain. 
 
 All Jess' acquaintances knew that in the begin- 
 ning of every month a registered letter reached 
 her from London. To her it was not a matter to 
 keep secret. She was proud that the help she and 
 Hendry needed in the gloaming of their lives 
 should come from her beloved son, and the neigh- 
 bors esteemed Jamie because he was good to his 
 mother. Jess had more humor than any other 
 woman I have known, while Leeby was but 
 sparingly endowed ; yet, as the month neared its 
 close, it was the daughter who put on the humorist, 
 Jess thinking money too serious a thing to jest 
 about Then if Leeby had a moment for gossip, 
 as when ironing a dicky for Hendry, and the iron 
 was a trifle too hot, she would look archly at me 
 before addressing her mother in these words : 
 
 "Will he send, think ye? " 
 
 Jess, who had a conviction that he would send, 
 affected surprise at the question. 
 
 " Will Jamie send this montn, <lo y* mean (
 
 A WINDOW Iff THRUMS. 125 
 
 Na, oh, losh no I it's no to be expeckit Na, he 
 couldna do't this time." 
 
 11 That's what ye aye say, but he aye sends. 
 Yes, an' vara weel ye ken 'at he will send." 
 
 " Na, na, Leeby ; dinna let me ever think o' 
 sic a thing this month." 
 
 "As if ye wasna thinkin' o't day an' nicht 1 " 
 
 " He's terrible mindfu', Leeby, but he doesna 
 hae't. Na, no this month ; mebbe next month." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me, mother, at ye'll no 
 be up oot o' yer bed on Monunday an hour afore 
 yer usual time, lookin' for the post ? " 
 
 "Na, no this time. I may be up, an' tak' a 
 look for 'im, but no expeckin' a registerdy ; na 
 na, that wouldna be reasonable." 
 
 " Reasonable here, reasonable there, up you'll 
 be, keekin' (peering) through the blind to see if the 
 post's comin', ay, an' what's mair, the post will 
 come, and a registerdy in his hand wi' fifteen 
 shillings in't at the least" 
 
 "Dinna say fifteen, Leeby: I would never 
 think o' sic a sum. Mebbe five " 
 
 " Five ! I wonder to hear ye. Vera weel you 
 ken 'at since he had twenty-twa shillin's in the 
 week he's never sent less than half a sovereign." 
 
 " No, but we canna expeck " 
 
 "Expect I No, but it's no expeck it's get." 
 
 On the Monday morning when I came down 
 stairs, Jess was in her chair by the window, beam- 
 ing, a piece of paper in her hand. I did not re-
 
 126 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 quire to be told about it, but I was told. Jess 
 had been up before Leeby could get the fire lit, 
 with great difficulty reaching the window in her 
 bare feet, and many a time had she said that the 
 post must be by. 
 
 "Havers," said Leeby, "he winna be for an 
 hour yet. Come awa' back to your bed. " 
 
 "Na, he maun be by,'' Jess would say in a 
 few minutes; " ou, we couldna expeck this 
 month." 
 
 So it went on until Jess' hand shook the blind. 
 
 "He's comin', Leeby, he's comin'. He'll no 
 hae naething, na, I couldna expeck He's by ! " 
 
 "I dinna believe it," cried Leeby, running to 
 the window, " he's juist at his tricks again. " 
 
 This was in reference to a way our saturnine 
 post had of pretending that he brought no letters 
 and passing the door. Then he turned back. 
 "Mistress McQumpha," he cried, and whistled. 
 
 "Run, Leeby, run," said Jess excitedly. 
 
 Leeby hastened to the door, and came back 
 with a registered letter. 
 
 " Registerdy, " she cried in triumph, and Jess, 
 with fond hands, opened the letter. By the time 
 I came down the money was hid away in a box 
 beneath the bed, where not even Leeby could find 
 it, and Jess was on her chair hugging the letter. 
 She preserved all her registered envelopes. 
 
 This was the first time I had been in Thrums 
 when Jamie was expected for his ten days' holi-
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 127 
 
 day, and for a week we discussed little else. 
 Though he had written saying when he would 
 sail for Dundee, there was quite a possibility of 
 his appearing on the brae at any moment, for he 
 liked to take Jess and Leeby by surprise. Hen- 
 dry there was no surprising, unless he was in the 
 mood for it, and the coolness of him was one of 
 Jess' grievances. Just two years earlier Jamie 
 came north a week before his time, and his father 
 saw him from the window. Instead of crying 
 out in amazement or hacking his face, for he was 
 shaving at the time, Hen dry calmly wiped his 
 razor on the window-sill, and said : 
 
 ' ' Ay, there's Jamie. " 
 
 Jamie was a little disappointed at being seen in 
 this way, for he had been looking forward for 
 four and forty hours to repeating the sensation of 
 the year before. On that occasion he had got to 
 the door unnoticed, where he stopped to listen. 
 I dare say he checked his breath, the better to 
 catch his mother's voice, for Jess being an invalid 
 Jamie thought of her first. He had Leeby sworn 
 to write the truth about her, but many an anxious 
 hour he had on hearing that she was " complain- 
 ing fell (considerably) about her back the day," 
 Leeby, as he knew, being frightened to alarm 
 him. Jamie, too, had given his promise to tell 
 exactly how he was keeping, but often he wrote 
 that he was "fine "when Jess had her doubts. 
 When Hendry wrote he spread himself over the
 
 128 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 table, and said that Jess was "juist about it," or 
 "aff and on," which does not tell much. So Jamie 
 hearkened painfully at the door, and by and by 
 heard his mother say to Leeby that she was sure 
 the teapot was running out. Perhaps that voice 
 was as sweet to him as the music of a maiden to 
 her lover, but Jamie did not rush into his mother's 
 arms. Jess has told me with a beaming face 
 how craftily he behaved. The old man, of lungs 
 that shook Thrums by night, who went from door 
 to door selling firewood, had a way of shoving 
 doors rudely open and crying : 
 
 " Ony rozetty roots ? " and him Jamie imitated. 
 
 " Juist think," Jess said as she recalled the in- 
 cident, " what a startle we got As we think, 
 Pete kicks open the door and cries oot : ' Ony 
 rozetty roots ? ' and Leeby says 'No,' and gangs 
 to shut the door. Next minute she screeches, 
 ' What, what, what ! ' and in walks Jamie 1 " 
 
 Jess was never able to decide whether it was 
 more delightful to be taken aback in this way or 
 to be prepared for Jamie. Sudden excitement 
 was bad for her according to Hendry, who got 
 his medical knowledge second-hand from persons 
 under treatment, but with Jamie's appearance on 
 the threshold Jess' health began to improve. This 
 time he kept to the appointed day, and the house 
 was turned upside down in his honor. Such a 
 polish did Leeby put on the flagons which hung 
 on the kitchen wall that, passing between them
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 139 
 
 and the window, I thought once I had been 
 struck by lightning. On the morning of the day 
 that was to bring him, Leeby was up at two 
 o'clock, and eight hours before he could possibly 
 arrive Jess had a night-shirt warming for him at 
 the fire. I was no longer anybody, except as a 
 person who could give Jamie advice. Jess told 
 me what I was to say. The only thing he and 
 his mother quarrelled about was the underclothing 
 she would swaddle him in, and Jess asked me to 
 back her up in her entreaties. 
 
 "There's no a doubt," she said, "but what it's 
 a hantle caulder here than in London, an' it 
 would be a terrible business if he was to tak the 
 cauld." 
 
 Jamie was to sail from London to Dundee, and 
 come on to Thrums from Tilliedrum in the post- 
 cart. The road at that time, however, avoided 
 the brae, and at a certain point Jamie's custom 
 was to alight, and take the short cut home, along 
 a farm road and up the commonty. Here, too, 
 Hookey Crewe, the post, deposited his pas- 
 senger's box, which Hendry wheeled home in a 
 barrow. Long before the cart had lost sight of 
 Tilliedrum, Jess was at her window. 
 
 "Tell her Hockey's often late on Monundays, 1 
 Leeby whispered to me, " for she'll gang oot o' 
 her mind if she thinks there's ony thing wrang." 
 
 Soon Jess was painfully excited, though she sat 
 as still as salt 
 9
 
 1-0 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "It maun be yer time," she said, looking at 
 both Leeby and me, for in Thrums we went oot' 
 an' met our friends. 
 
 "Hoots," retorted Leeby, trying to be hardy, 
 " Hookey canna be oot o' Tilliedrum yet." 
 
 "He maun hae startit lang syne." 
 
 " I wonder at ye, mother, puttin' yersel in sic a 
 state. Ye'll be ill when he comes. " 
 
 "Na, am no in nae state, Leeby, but there'll no 
 be nae accident, will there ? " 
 
 " It's most provokin' 'at ye will think 'at every 
 time Jamie steps into a machine there'll be an 
 accident. Am sure if ye would tak mair after my 
 father, it would be a blessin'. Look hoo cool he 
 is." 
 
 ' ' Whaur is he, Leeby ? " 
 
 " Oh, I dinna ken The hon'most time I saw 
 him he was layin' doon the law aboot something 
 to T'nowhead." 
 
 " It's an awfu' wy that he has o' gaen oot with- 
 out a word. I wouldna wonder 'at he's no bein' 
 in time to meet Jamie, an' that would be a pretty 
 business." 
 
 " Od, ye're sure he'll be in braw time." 
 
 "But he hasna ta'en the barrow wi' him, an' 
 hoo is Jamie's luggage to be brocht up withoot a 
 barrow ? " 
 
 "Barrow? He took the barrow to the saw- 
 mill an hour syne to pick it up at Rob Angus' on 
 the wy/'
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 13! 
 
 Several times Jess was sure she saw the cart in 
 the distance, and implored us to be oft 
 
 "I'll tak no settle till ye're awa," she said, her 
 face now flushed and her hands working nerv- 
 ously. 
 
 "We've time to gang and come twa or three 
 times yet, " remonstrated Leeby ; but Jess gave 
 me so beseeching a look that I put on my hat. 
 Then Hendry dandered in to change his coat de- 
 liberately, and when the three of us set off we 
 left Jess with her eye on the door by which Jamie 
 must enter. He was her only son now, and she 
 had not seen him for a year. 
 
 On the way down the commonty, Leeby had 
 the honor of being twice addressed as Miss Mc- 
 Qumpha, but her father was Hendry to all, which 
 shows that we make our social position for 
 ourselves. Hendry looked forward to Jamie's 
 annual appearance only a little less hungrily than 
 Jess, but his pulse still beat regularly. Leeby 
 would have considered it almost wicked to talk of 
 anything except Jamie now, but Hendry cried out 
 comments on the tatties, yesterday's roup, the 
 fall in jute, to everybody he encountered. When 
 he and a crony had their say and parted, it was their 
 custom to continue the conversation in shouts 
 until they were out of hearing. 
 
 Only to Jess at her window was the cart late 
 that afternoon. Jamie jumped from it in the long
 
 132 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 great-coat that had been new to Thrums the year 
 before, and Hendry said calmly : 
 
 "Ay, Jamie." 
 
 Leeby and Jamie made signs that they recognized 
 each other as brother and sister, but I was the 
 only one with whom he shook hands. He was 
 smart in his movements and quite the gentleman, 
 but the Thrums ways took hold of him again at 
 once. He even inquired for his mother in a tone 
 that was meant to deceive me into thinking he 
 did not care how she was. 
 
 Hendry would have had a talk out of him on 
 the spot, but was reminded of the luggage. We 
 took the heavy farm road, and soon we were at 
 the saw-mill. I am naturally leisurely, but we 
 climbed the commonty at a stride. Jamie pre- 
 tended to be calm, but in a dark place I saw him 
 take Leeby's hand, and after that he said not a 
 word. His eyes were fixed on the elbow of the 
 brae, where he would come into sight of his 
 mother's window. Many, many a time, I know, 
 that lad had prayed to God for still another sight 
 of the window with his mother at it. So we came 
 to the corner where the stile is that Sam'l Dickie 
 jumped in the race for T'nowhead's Bell, and be- 
 fore Jamie was the house of his childhood and his 
 mother's window, and the fond, anxious face of 
 his mother herself. My eyes are dull, and I did 
 not see her, but suddenly Jamie cried out, " My 
 mother 1 " and Leeby and I were left behind.
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 133 
 
 When I reached the kitchen Jess was crying, and 
 her son's arms were round her neck. I went 
 away to my attic. 
 
 There was only one other memorable event of 
 that day. Jamie had finished his tea, and we all 
 sat round him, listening to his adventures and 
 opinions. He told us how the country should be 
 governed, too, and perhaps put on airs a little. 
 Hendry asked the questions, and Jamie answered 
 them as pat as if he and his father were going 
 through the Shorter Catechism. When Jamie told 
 anything marvellous, as how many towels were 
 used at the shop in a day, or that twopence was 
 the charge for a single shave, his father screwed 
 his mouth together as if preparing to whistle, and 
 then instead made a curious clucking noise with 
 his tongue, which was reserved for the expression 
 of absolute amazement As for Jess, who was 
 given to making much of me, she ignored my 
 remarks and laughed hilariously at jokes of 
 Jamie's which had been received in silence from 
 me a few minutes before. 
 
 Slowly it came to me that Leeby had some- 
 thing on her mind, and that Jamie was talking to 
 her with his eyes. I learned afterward that they 
 were plotting how to get me out of the kitchen, 
 but were too impatient to wait. Thus it was that 
 the great event happened in my presence. Jamie 
 rose and stood near Jess ; I dare say he had 
 planned the scene frequently. Then he produced
 
 134 ^ WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 from his pocket a purse, and coolly opened it. 
 Silence fell upon us as we saw that purse. From 
 it he took a neatly folded piece of paper, crumpled 
 it into a ball, and flung it into Jess' lap. 
 
 I cannot say whether Jess knew what it was. 
 Her hand shook, and for a moment she let the 
 ball of paper lie there. 
 
 "Open't up," cried Leeby, who was in the 
 secret 
 
 "What is't?" asked Hen dry, drawing nearer. 
 
 "It's juist a bit paper Jamie flung at me," said 
 Jess, and then she unfolded it 
 
 "It's a five-pound note ! " cried Hendry. 
 
 "Na, na; oh, keep us no," said Jess ; but she 
 knew it was. 
 
 For a time she could not speak. 
 
 " I canna tak it, Jamie," she faltered at last. 
 
 But Jamie waved his hand, meaning that it was 
 othing ; and then, lest he should burst, hurried 
 out into the garden, where he walked up and down 
 whistling. May God bless the lad, thought I. 
 I do not know the history of that five-pound note, 
 but well aware I am that it grew slowly out of 
 pence and silver, and that Jamie denied his 
 passions many things for this great hour. His 
 sacrifices watered his young heart and kept it 
 fresh and tender. Let us no longer cheat our 
 consciences by talking of filthy lucre. Money 
 may always be a beautiful thing. It is we who 
 make it grimy.
 
 CHAPTER XVTL 
 
 A HOME FOR GENIUSES. 
 
 FROM hints he had let drop at odd times I knew 
 that Tammas Haggart had a scheme for geniuses, 
 but not until the evening after Jamie's arrival did 
 I get it out of him. Hendry was with Jamie at 
 the fishing, and it came about that Tammas and 
 I had the pig-sty to ourselves. 
 
 " Of course," he said, when we had got a grip 
 of the subject, "I dount pretend as my ideas is 
 to be followed withoot deeviation, but ondootedly 
 something should be done for geniuses, them 
 bein' aboot the only class as we do naething for. 
 Yet they're fowk to be prood o' an' we shouldna 
 let them overdo the thing, nor run into debt ; na, 
 na. There was Robbie Burns, noo, as real a 
 genius as ever " 
 
 At the pig-sty, where we liked to have mor 
 than one topic, we had frequently to tempt Tam- 
 mas away from Burns. 
 
 "Your scheme," I interposed, "is for living 
 geniuses, of course ? " 
 
 "Ay, "he said thoughtfully, "them'at's gone 
 canna b brocht back. Weel, my idea ia 'at a
 
 1 36 A WINDOW tM THRUMS. 
 
 Home should be built for geniuses at the public 
 expense, whaur they could all live thegither, an' 
 be decently looked after. Na, no in London ; 
 that's no my plan, but I would hae't within an 
 hour's distance o' London, say five mile frae the 
 market-place, an' standin' in a bit garden, whaur 
 the geniuses could walk aboot arm-in-arm, com- 
 posin' their minds." 
 
 "You would have the grounds walled in, I 
 suppose, so that the public could not intrude ? " 
 
 " Weel, there's a difficulty there, because, ye'll 
 observe, as the public would support the insti- 
 tootion, they would hae a kind o' richt to look in. 
 How-some-ever, I daur say we could arrange to 
 fling the grounds open to the public once a week 
 on condition 'at they didna speak to the geniuses. 
 I'm thinkin' 'at if there was a small chairge for 
 admission the Home could be made self-sup- 
 portin'. Losh ! to think 'at if there had been sic 
 an institootion in his time a man micht hae sat 
 on the bit dyke and watched Robbie Burns dan- 
 derin' roond the " 
 
 "You would divide the Home into suites of 
 rooms, so that every inmate would have his own 
 apartments ? " 
 
 "Not by no means ; na, na. The mair I read 
 aboot geniuses the mair clearly I see as their wy 
 o' living alane ower muckle is ane o' the things 
 as breaks doon their health, and makes them 
 meeserable. I' the Home they would hae a bed-
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS, tyj 
 
 room apiece, but the parlor an' the other sittin'- 
 rooms would be for all, so as they could enjoy 
 one another's company. The management ? Oh, 
 that's easy. The superintendent would be a 
 medical man appointed by Parliament, and he 
 would hae men-servants to do his biddin'." 
 
 "Not all men-servants, surely ? " 
 
 "Every one o' them. Man, geniuses is no to 
 he trusted wi' womenfolk. No, even Robbie 
 Bu " 
 
 "So he did; but would the inmates have to 
 put themselves entirely in the superintendent's 
 hands ? " 
 
 "Nae doubt; an' they would see it was the 
 wisest thing they could do. He would be careful 
 o' their health, an' send them early to bed as weel 
 as hae them up at eight sharp. Geniuses' healths 
 is always breakin' doon because of late hours, as 
 in the case o' the lad wha used often to begin his 
 immortal writin's at twal o'clock at nicht, a thing 
 'at would ruin ony constitootion. But the super- 
 intendent would see as they had a tasty supper 
 at nine o'clock something as agreed wi' them. 
 Then for half an hour they would quiet their brains 
 readin' oot aloud, time about, frae sic a book as 
 the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' an' the gas would be 
 turned aff at ten precisely." 
 
 "When would you have them up in the morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "At sax in summer an' seven in winter. The
 
 138 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 superintendent would see as they were all properly 
 bathed every mornin', cleanliness bein' most im- 
 portant for the preservation o' health." 
 
 "This sounds well ; but suppose a genius broke 
 the rules lay in bed, for instance, reading by 
 the light of a candle after hours, or refused to 
 take his bath in the morning ? " 
 
 " The superintendent would hae to punish him. 
 The genius would be sent back to his bed, maybe. 
 An' if he lay lang i' the mornin' he would hae to 
 gang withoot his breakfast." 
 
 "That would be all very well where the inmate 
 only broke the regulations once in a way ; but 
 suppose he were to refuse to take his bath day after 
 day (and, you know, geniuses are said to be eccen- 
 tric in that particular), what would be done ? You 
 could not starve him ; geniuses are too scarce." 
 
 ' ' Na, na ; in a case like that he would hae to 
 be reported to the public. The thing would hae 
 to come afore the Hoose of Commons. Ay, the 
 superintendent would get a member o' the Oppo- 
 seetion to ask a question such as 'Can the honorable 
 gentleman, the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, 
 inform the Hoose whether it is a fac that Mr. Sic- 
 a-one, the well-known genius, at present resident 
 in the Home for Geniuses, has, contrary to regula- 
 tions, perseestently and obstinately refused to 
 change his linen ; and if so, whether the Govern- 
 ment proposes to take ony steps in the matter ? ' 
 The newspapers would report the discussion next
 
 A WIHDOW IN THkUMS. 139 
 
 mornin', an' so it would be made public withoot 
 onnecessary ootlay." 
 
 "In a general way, however, you would give 
 the geniuses perfect freedom ? They could work 
 when they liked, and come and go when they 
 liked ? " 
 
 "Not so. The superintendent would fix the 
 hours o' wark, an' they would all write, or what- 
 ever it was, thegither in one large room. Man, 
 man, it would mak a grand draw for a painter- 
 chield, that room, wi' all the geniuses working 
 awa' thegither." 
 
 "But when the labors of the day were over the 
 genius would be at liberty to make calls by him- 
 self, or, to run up, say, to London for an hour or 
 two ? " 
 
 " Hoots no, that would spoil everything. It is 
 the drink, ye see, as does for a terrible lot o' 
 geniuses. Even Rob " 
 
 "Alas! yes. But would you have them all 
 teetotalers ? " 
 
 "What do ye tak' me for? Na, na ; the super- 
 intendent would allow them one glass o' toddy 
 every nicht, an' mix it himsel' ; but he would 
 never let the keys o' the press, whaur he kept the 
 drink, oot o' his hands. They would never be 
 allowed oot o' the gairden either, withoot a man 
 to look after them ; an' I wouldna burthen them 
 wi ower muckle pocket money. Saxpence in th 
 week would be suffeecient"
 
 146 A WINDOW 2M THRUMS. 
 
 " How about their clothes? " 
 
 "They would get twa suits a year, wi' the 
 letter G sewed on the shoulders, so as if they 
 were lost they could be recognized and brocht 
 back." 
 
 ' ' Certainly it is a scheme deserving consider- 
 ation, and I have no doubt our geniuses would 
 jump at it ; but you must remember that some of 
 them would have wives." 
 
 "Ay, an' some o' them would hae husbands. 
 I've been thinkin' that oot, an' I daur say the 
 best plan would be to partition aff a pairt o' the 
 Home for female geniuses. " 
 
 "Would Parliament elect the members?" 
 
 "Iwouldna trust them. The election would 
 hae to be by competitive examination. Na, I 
 canna say wha would draw up the questions. 
 The scheme's juist growin' i' my mind, but the 
 mair I think o't the better I like it "
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LEEBY AND JAMIE. 
 
 BY the bank of the Quharity on a summer day 
 I have seen a barefooted girl gaze at the running 
 water until tears filled' her eyes. That was the 
 birth of romance. Whether this love be but a 
 beautiful dream I cannot say, but this we see, 
 that it comes to all, and colors the whole future 
 life with gold. Leeby must have dreamed it, but 
 I did not know her then. I have heard of a man 
 who would have taken her far away into a county 
 where the corn is yellow when it is still green 
 with us, but she would not leave her mother, nor 
 was it him she saw in her dream. From her 
 earliest days, when she was still a child stagger- 
 ing round the garden with Jamie in her arms, her 
 duty lay before her, straight as the burying-ground 
 road. Jess had need of her in the little home at 
 the top of the brae, where God, looking down 
 upon her as she scrubbed and gossiped and sat 
 up all night with her ailing mother, and never 
 missed the prayer-meeting, and adored the min- 
 ister, did not perhaps think her the least of 
 His hand-maids. Her years were less than thirty
 
 142 A WINDOW ftf TtiRUMS. 
 
 when He took her away, but she had few days 
 that were altogether dark. Those who bring sun- 
 shine to the lives of others cannot keep it from 
 themselves. 
 
 The love Leeby bore for Jamie was such thai 
 in their younger days it shamed him. Other 
 laddies knew of it, and flung it at him until he 
 dared Leeby to let on in public that he and she 
 were related. 
 
 " Hoo is your lass ? " they used to cry to him, 
 inventing a new game. 
 
 " I saw Leeby lookin' for ye," they would say ; 
 "she's vvearyin' for ye to gang an' play wi' her." 
 
 Then if they were not much bigger boys than 
 himself, Jamie got them against the dyke and hit 
 them hard until they publicly owned to knowing 
 that she was his sister, and that he was not fond 
 of her. 
 
 "It distressed him mair than ye could believe, 
 though," Jess has told me ; " an' when he came 
 hame he would greet an' say 'at Leeby disgraced 
 him." 
 
 Leeby, of course, suffered for her too obvious 
 affection. 
 
 " I wonder 'at ye dinna try to control yersel'," 
 Jamie would say to her, as he grew bigger. 
 
 "'Am sure," said Leeby, "I never gie ye a 
 look if there's onybody there." 
 
 "A look ! You're aye lookin' at me sae fond- 
 like 'at I dinna ken what wy to turn."
 
 A WINDOW IN THRVMS. 143 
 
 "Weel, I canna help it," said Leeby, probably 
 beginning to whimper. 
 
 If Jamie was in a very bad temper he left her, 
 after this, to her own reflections ; but he was 
 naturally soft-hearted. 
 
 " 'Am no tellin' ye no to care for me," he told 
 her, "but juist to keep it mair to yersel. ' Nae- 
 body would ken frae me 'at 'am fond o' ye." 
 
 " Mebbe yer no ? " said Leeby. 
 
 "Ay, am I, but I can keep it secret. When 
 we're in the hoose 'am juist richt fond o' ye." 
 
 " Do ye love me, Jamie ? " 
 
 Jamie waggled his head in irritation. 
 
 "Love," he said, "is an awfu'-like word to use 
 when fowk's weel. Ye shouldna spier sic 
 annoyin' questions." 
 
 "But if ye juist say ye love me I'll never 
 let on again afore fowk 'at yer onything to me 
 ava. " 
 
 "Ay, ye often say that." 
 
 " Do ye no believe my word?" 
 
 "I believe fine ye mean what ye say, but ye 
 forget yersel' when the time comes." 
 
 "Juist try me this time." 
 
 "Weel, then, I do." 
 
 " Do what?" asked the greedy Leeby. 
 
 " What ye said " 
 
 "I said love." 
 
 "Weel, "said Jamie, "I do't" 
 
 "What do ye do ? Say the word. "
 
 144 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "Na," said Jamie, "J winna say the word. 
 It's no a word to say, but I do't." 
 
 That was all she could get out of him, unless 
 he was stricken with remorse, when he even went 
 the length of saying the word. 
 
 "Leebykent perfectly weel, " Jess has said, 
 '"at it was a trial to Jamie to tak her ony gait, 
 an' I often used to say to her 'at I wonder at her 
 want o' pride in priggin' wi' him. Ay, but if she 
 could juist get a promise wrung oot o' him, she 
 didna care hoo muckle she had to prig. Syne 
 they quarrelled, an' ane or baith o' them grat 
 (cried) afore they made it up. I mind when 
 Jamie went to the fishin' Leeby was aye terrible 
 keen to get wi' him, but ye see he couldna be 
 seen gaen through the toon wi' her. ' If ye let 
 me gang,' she said to him, 'I'll no seek to go 
 through the toon wi' ye. Na, I'll gang roond by 
 the roods an' you can tak the buryin'-ground 
 road, so as we can meet on the hill.' Yes, Leeby 
 was willin' to agree wi' a' that, juist to get gaen 
 wi' him. I've seen lassies makkin' themsel's sma' 
 for lads often enough, but I never saw ane 'at 
 prigged so muckle wi' her ain brother. Na, it's 
 other lassies' brothers they like as a rule." 
 
 " But though Jamie was terrible reserved aboot 
 it," said Leeby, "he was as fond o' me as ever I 
 was o' him. Ye mind the time I had the measles, 
 mother? ' 
 
 '"Am no likely to forget it, Leeby," said Jess,
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 145 
 
 "an' you blind wi' them for three days. Ay, ay, 
 Jamie was richt ta'en up aboot ye. I mind he 
 broke open his pirly (money-box), an' bocht a 
 ha'penny worth o' something to ye every day." 
 
 "An' ye hinna forgotten the stick? " 
 
 "'Deed no, I hinna. Ye see," Jess explained 
 to me, "Leeby was lyin' benthehoose, an' Jamie 
 wasna allowed to gang near her for fear o' infec- 
 tion. Weel, he got a lang stick it was a pea- 
 stick an' put it aneath the door an' waggled it. 
 Ay, he did that a curran times every day, juist to 
 to let her see he was thinkin' o' her." 
 
 " Mair than that," said Leeby, "he cried oot 'at 
 he loved me." , 
 
 "Ay, but juist aince," Jess said, " Idinnamind 
 o't but aince. It was the time the doctor came 
 late, an' Jamie, being waukened by him, thocht 
 ye was deein'. I mind as if it was yesterday hoo 
 he cam' runnin' to the door an' cried oot, ' I do 
 love ye, Leeby ; I love ye richt.' The doctor got 
 a start when he heard the voice, but he laughed 
 loud when he un'erstood." 
 
 "He had nae business, though," said Leeby, 
 "to tell onybody. " 
 
 "He was a rale clever man, the doctor," Jess 
 explained to me, "ay, he kent me as weel as 
 though he'd gaen through me wi' a lichted candle. 
 It got oot through him, an' the young billies took 
 to sayin' to Jamie, 'Ye do love her, Jamie; ay, 
 ye love her richt.' The only reg'lar fecht I ever
 
 146 A WINDOW Iff THRUMS. 
 
 kent Jamie hae was wi' a lad 'at cried that to him. 
 It was Bowlegs Chirsty's laddie. Ay, but when 
 she got better Jamie blamed Leeby. " 
 
 "He no only blamed me," said Leeby, "but 
 he wanted me to pay him back a' the bawbees he 
 had spent on me." 
 
 "Ay, an' I sepad he got them too," said Jess. 
 
 In time Jamie became a barber in Tilliedrum, 
 trudging many heavy miles there and back twice 
 a day that he might sleep at home, trudging 
 bravely I was to say, but it was what he was 
 born to, and there was hardly an alternative. 
 This was the time I saw most of him, and he and 
 Leeby were often in my thoughts. There is as 
 terrible a bubble in the little kettle as on the 
 caldron of the world, and some of the scenes 
 between Jamie and Leeby were great tragedies, 
 comedies, what you will, until the kettle was taken 
 off the fire. Hers was the more placid temper ; 
 indeed, only in one way could Jamie suddenly 
 rouse her to fury. That was when he hinted that 
 she had a large number of frocks. Leeby knew 
 that there could never be more than a Sabbath 
 frock and an every-day gown for her, both of her 
 mother's making, but Jamie's insinuations were 
 more than she could bear. Then I have seen her 
 seize and shake him. I know from Jess that 
 Leeby cried herself hoarse the day Joey was 
 buried, because her little black frock was not 
 ready for wear.
 
 A WINDOW IN- THRUMS. 147 
 
 Until he went to Tilliedrum, Jamie had been 
 more a stay-at-home boy than most The warmth 
 of Jess' love had something to do with keeping 
 his heart aglow, but more, I think, he owed to 
 Leeby. Tilliedrum was his introduction to the 
 world, and fora little it took his head. I was in 
 the house the Sabbath day that he refused to 
 go to church. 
 
 He went out in the forenoon to meet the Tillie- 
 drum lads, who were to take him off for a holiday 
 in a cart. Hendry was more wrathful than I 
 remember ever to have seen him, though I have 
 heard how he did with the lodger who broke the 
 Lord's Day. This lodger was a tourist who 
 thought, in folly surely rather than in hardness of 
 heart, to test the religious convictions of an Auld 
 Licht by insisting on paying his bill on a Sab- 
 bath morning. He offered the money to Jess, 
 with the warning that if she did not take it now 
 she might never see it. Jess was so kind and 
 good to her lodgers that he could not have known 
 her long who troubled her with this poor trick. 
 She was sorely in need at the time, and en- 
 treated the thoughtless man to have some pity 
 on her. 
 
 "Now or never," he said, holding out the 
 money. 
 
 "Put it on the dresser," said Jess at last, "an 
 I'll get it in the morn." 
 
 The few shillings were laid on the dresser,
 
 148 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 where they remained unfingered until Hendry, 
 with Leeby and Jamie, came in from church. 
 
 " What siller's that? " asked Hendry, and then 
 Jess confessed what she had done. 
 
 "I wonder at ye, woman," said Hendry sternly ; 
 and lifting the money he climbed up to the attic 
 with it. 
 
 He pushed open the door and confronted th 
 lodger. 
 
 "Take back yer siller," he said, laying it on 
 the table, "an' leave my hoose. Man, you're a 
 pitiable critter to tak the chance, when I was 
 oot, o' playin' upon the poverty o' an onweel 
 woman." 
 
 It was with such unwonted severity as this that 
 Hendry called upon Jamie to follow him to 
 church ; but the boy went off, and did not re- 
 turn till dusk, defiant and miserable. Jess had 
 been so terrified that she forgave him everything 
 for sight of his face, and Hendry prayed for him 
 at family worship with too much unction. But 
 Leeby cried as if her tender heart would break. 
 For a long time Jamie refused to look at her, but 
 at last he broke down. 
 
 "If ye go on like that, "he said, "I'll gangawa 
 oot an' droon mysel', or be a sojer," 
 
 This was no uncommon threat of his, and 
 sometimes, when he went off, banging the door 
 violently, she ran after him and brought him 
 back, This time she only wept the more, and so
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 149 
 
 both went to bed in misery. It was after mid- 
 night that Jamie rose and crept to Leeby's bed- 
 side. Leeby was shaking the bed in her agony. 
 Jess heard what they said. 
 
 "Leeby," said Jamie, "dinna greet, an' I'll 
 never do't again. " 
 
 He put his arms round her, and she kissed him 
 passionately. 
 
 " O Jamie," she said, "hae ye prayed to God 
 to forgie ye ? " 
 
 Jamie did not speak. 
 
 " If ye was to die this nicht, " cried Leeby, "an' 
 you no made it up wi' God, ye wouldna gang to 
 heaven. Jamie, I canna sleep till ye've made it 
 up wi' God." 
 
 But Jamie still hung back. Leeby slipped from 
 her bed and went down on her knees. 
 
 "O God, O dear God," she cried, "mak Jamie 
 to pray to you 1 " 
 
 Then Jamie went down on his knees too, and 
 they made it up with God together. 
 
 This is a little thing for me to remember all 
 these years, and yet how fresh and sweet it keeps 
 Leeby in my memory. 
 
 Away up in the glen, my lonely school-house 
 lying deep, as one might say, in a sea of snow, I 
 had many hours in the years long by for thinking 
 of my friends in Thrums and mapping out the fu- 
 ture of Leeby and Jamie. I saw Hendry and Jess 
 taken to the churchyard, and Leeby left alone in
 
 150 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 the house. I saw Jamie fulfil his promise to his 
 mother, and take Leeby, that stainless young 
 woman, far away to London, where they -had a 
 home together. Ah, but these were only the idle 
 dreams of a dominie. The Lord willed it other- 
 wise.
 
 A WMDOW JN THRUMS. 151 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A TALE OF A GLOVE. 
 
 So long as Jamie was not the lad, Jess twinkled 
 gleefully over tales of sweethearting. There was 
 little Kitty Lamby who used to skip in of an even- 
 ing, and, squatting on a stool near the window, 
 unwind the roll of her enormities. A wheedling 
 thing she was, with an ambition to drive men 
 crazy, but my presence killed the gossip on her 
 tongue, though I liked to look at her. When I 
 entered, the wag-at-the-wa' clock had again pot- 
 session of the kitchen. I never heard more than 
 the end of a sentence : 
 
 "An' did he really say he would fling hims*T 
 into the dam, Kitty ? " 
 
 Or " True as death, Jess, he kissed me." 
 
 Then I wandered away from the kitchen, 
 where I was not wanted, and marvelled to know 
 that Jess of the tender heart laughed most merrily 
 when he really did say that he was going straight 
 to the dam. As nobody was found in the dam 
 in those days, whoever he was he must hava 
 thought better of it 
 
 But let Kitty, or any other maid, cat a glinting
 
 '5* 
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 eye on Jamie, then Jess no longer smiled. If he 
 returned the glance she sat silent in her chair till 
 Leeby laughed away her fears. 
 
 "Jamie's no the kind, mother," Leeby would 
 say. " Na, he's quiet, but he sees through them. 
 They dinna draw his leg " (get over him). 
 
 "Ye never can tell, Leeby. The laddies 'at's 
 maist ill to get sometimes gangs up in a flame a' 
 at aince, like a bit o' paper." 
 
 "Ay, weel, at ony rate Jamie's no on fire yet." 
 
 Though clever beyond her neighbors, Jess lost 
 all her sharpness if they spoke of a lassie for 
 Jamie. 
 
 "I warrant," Tibbie Birse said one day in my 
 hearing, "'at there's some leddy in London he's 
 thinkin' o'. Ay he's been a guid laddie to ye, 
 but i' the coorse o' nature he'll be settlin' doon 
 soon." 
 
 Jess did not answer, but she was the picture of 
 woe. 
 
 " Ye're lettin' what Tibbie Birse said lie on yer 
 mind," Leeby remarked, when Tibbie was gone, 
 "What can it maitter what she thinks? " 
 
 " I cannahelp it, Leeby," said Jess. "Na, an' 
 I canna bear to think o' Jamie bein' mairit. It 
 would lay me low to loss my laddie. No yet, no 
 yet." 
 
 "But, mother," said Leeby, quoting from the 
 minister at weddings, "yewouldna be lossin' a 
 son, but juist gainin' a dochter."
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 153 
 
 " Dinna haver, Leeby," answered Jess, "I want 
 nane o' thae dochters ; na, na." 
 
 This talk took place while we were still await- 
 ing Jamie's coming. He had only been with us 
 one day when Jess made a terrible discovery. 
 She was looking so mournful when I saw her, that 
 I asked Leeby what was wrong. 
 
 "She's brocht it on hersel'," said Leeby. " Ye 
 see, she was up sune i' the mornin' to begin to 
 the darnin' o' Jamie's stockin's an' to warm his 
 sark at the fire afore he put it on. He woke up, 
 an' cried to her 'at he wasna accustomed to hae'n 
 his things warmed for him. Ay, he cried it oot 
 fell thrawn, so she took it into her head at there 
 was something in his pouch he didna want her to 
 see. She was even oneasy last nicht." 
 
 I asked what had aroused Jess' suspicions last 
 night 
 
 "Ou, ye would notice 'at she sat devourin' 
 him wi' her een, she was so lifted up at hae'n 'im 
 again. Weel, she says noo 'at she saw 'im twa 
 or three times put his hand in his pouch as if he 
 was findin' to mak' sure 'at something was safe. 
 So when he fell asleep again this mornin' she got 
 haud o' his jacket to see if there was onything 
 in't. I advised her no to do't, but she couldna 
 help hersel'. She put in her hand, an' pu't it oot. 
 That's what's makkin' her look sae ill. " 
 
 " But what was it she found ? " 
 
 "Did I no tell ye? I'm ga'en dottle, I think,
 
 154 4 WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 It was a glove, a woman's glove, in a bit paper. 
 Ay, though she's sittin' still she's near frantic." 
 
 I said I supposed Jess had put the glove back 
 in Jamie's pocket. 
 
 "Na," said Leeby, " 'deed no. She wanted to 
 fling in on the back o' the fire, but I wouldna let 
 her. That's it she has aneath her apron." 
 
 Later in the day I remarked to Leeby that 
 Jamie was very dull. 
 
 " He's missed it," she explained. 
 
 "Has any one mentioned it to him?" I asked, 
 " or has he inquired about it ? " 
 
 "Na," said Leeby, " there hasna been a syllup 
 (syllable) aboot it. My mother's fleid to men- 
 tion't, an' he doesna like to speak aboot it either." 
 
 " Perhaps he thinks he has lost it ? " 
 
 "Nae, fear o' him," Leeby said. " Na, he 
 kens fine wha' has'L" 
 
 I never knew how Jamie came by the glove, 
 nor whether it had originally belonged to her who 
 made him forget the window at the top of the 
 brae. At the time I looked on as at play-acting, 
 rejoicing in the happy ending. Alas 1 in the real 
 life how are we to know when we have reached 
 an end? 
 
 But this glove, I say, may not have been that 
 woman's, and if it was, she had not then bedev- 
 illed him. He was too sheepish to demand it back 
 from his mother, and already he cared for it too 
 much to laugh at Jess' theft with Leeby. So it
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 155 
 
 was that a curious game at chess was played with 
 the glove, the players a silent pair. 
 
 Jamie cared little to read books, but on the day 
 following Jess' discovery, I found him on his 
 knees in the attic, looking through mine. A little 
 box, without a lid, held them all, but they seemed 
 a great library to him. 
 
 "There's readin' for a lifetime in them," he said 
 "I was juist takkin' a look through them." 
 
 His face was guilty, however, as if his hand 
 had been caught in a money-bag, and I wondered 
 what had enticed the lad to my books. I was 
 still standing pondering when Leeby ran up the 
 stair ; she was so active that she generally ran, 
 and she grudged the time lost in recovering her 
 breath. 
 
 "I'll put yer books richt," she said, making 
 her word good as she spoke. "I kent Jamie 
 had been ransackin' up here, though he came 
 up rale canny. Ay, ye would notice he was in 
 his stockin' soles." 
 
 I had not noticed this, but I remembered now 
 his slipping from the room very softly. If he 
 wanted a book, I told Leeby, he could have got 
 it without any display of cunning. 
 
 "It's no a book he's lookin' for, "she said, "na, 
 it's his glove. " 
 
 The time of day was early for Leeby to gossip, 
 but I detained her for a moment 
 
 "My mother's hodded (hid) it," she explained,
 
 156 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "an* he winna speir nae queistions. But he's 
 lookin' fort He was ben in the room searchin' 
 the drawers when I was up i' the toon in the fore- 
 noon. Ye see, he pretends no to be carin' afore 
 me, an' though my mother's sittin' sae quiet-like 
 at the window she's hearkenin' a' the time. Ay, 
 an' he thocht I had hod it up here." 
 
 But where, I asked, was the glove hid ? 
 
 " I ken nae mair than yersel'," said Leeby. '" My 
 mother's gien to hoddin' things. She has a place 
 aneath the bed whaur she keeps the siller, an' 
 she's no speakin' aboot the glove to me noo, be- 
 cause she thinks Jamie an' me's in comp (com- 
 pany). I speired at her whaur she hae hod it, 
 but she juist said, ' What would I be doin' hod- 
 din't ? ' She'll never admit to me 'at she hods the 
 siller either." 
 
 Next day Leeby came to me with the latest 
 news. 
 
 " He's found it," she said, "ay, he's got the 
 iglove again. Ye see, what put him on the wrang 
 ' scent was a notion 'at I had put it some gait. 
 He kent 'at if she'd hod it, the kitchen maun be 
 the place, but he thocht she'd gien it to me to 
 hod. He came upon't by accident. It was 
 aneath the paddin' o' her chair." 
 
 Here, I thought, was the end of the glove in- 
 cident, but I was mistaken. There were no presses 
 or drawers with locks in the house, and Jess got 
 hold of the glove again. I suppose she had tea-
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 157 
 
 soned out no line of action. She merely hated 
 the thought that Jamie should have a woman's 
 glove in his possession. 
 
 "She beats a' wi' 'cuteness," Leeby said to me. 
 "Jamie didna put the glove back in his pouch. 
 Na, hekensherower weel by this time. She was 
 up, though, lang afore he was wauken, an' she 
 gaed almost strecth to the place whaur he had 
 hod it. I believe she lay waukin a' nicht thinkin' 
 oot whaur it would be. Ay, it was aneath the 
 mattress. I saw her hodden't i' the back o' the 
 drawer, but I didna let on." 
 
 I quite believed Leeby when she told me after- 
 ward that she had watched Jamie feeling beneath 
 the mattress. 
 
 "He had a face," she said, "I assure ye, he 
 had a face, when he discovered the glove was 
 gone again." 
 
 "He maun be terrible ta'en up aboot it," Jess 
 said to Leeby, "or he wouldna keep it aneath 
 the mattress. 
 
 ' ' Od, " said Leeby, "it was yersel' 'at drove him 
 to't" 
 
 Again Jamie recovered his property, and again 
 Jess got hold of it This time he looked in vain. 
 I learned the fate of the glove from Leeby. 
 
 " Ye mind 'at she keepit him hame frae the kirk 
 on Sabbath, because he had a cauld ? " Leeby 
 said. " Ay, me or my father would hae a gey ill 
 cauld afore she would let's bide at hame frae the
 
 158 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 kirk ; but Jamie's different. Weel, mair than 
 aince she's been near speakin' to 'im aboot the 
 glove, but she grew fleid aye. She was sat 
 terrified there was something in't. 
 
 " On Sabbath, though, she had him to hersel', 
 an' he wasna so bright as usual. She sat wi' the 
 Bible on her lap, pretendin' to read, but a' the 
 time she was talckin' keeks (glances) at him. I 
 dinna ken 'at he was broodin' ower the glove, but 
 she thocht he was, an' juist afore the kirk came 
 oot she couldna stand it nae langer. She put her 
 hand in her pouch, an' pu'd oot the glove, wi'the 
 paper round it, juist as it had been when she 
 came upon't. 
 
 " 'That's yours, Jamie,' she said; 'it was ill- 
 dune o* me to tak it, but I couldna help it.' 
 
 "Jamie put oot his hand, an' syne he drew it 
 back. 'It's no a thing o' nae consequence, 
 mother,' he said. 
 
 " 'Wha is she, Jamie? ' my mother said. 
 
 " He turned awa his heid so she telt me. ' It's 
 a lassie in London,' he said, 'I dinna ken her 
 muckle.' 
 
 " ' Ye maun ken her weel,' my mother persisted, 
 ' to be carryin' aboot her glove ; I'm dootin' yer 
 gey fond o' her, Jamie ? ' 
 
 " 'Na,' said Jamie, ' 'am no. There's no nae- 
 body I care for like yersel', mother. ' 
 
 " ' Ye wouldna carry aboot onything o* mine, 
 Jamie,' my mother said; but he says, "Oh,
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 159 
 
 mother, I carry aboot yer face wi' me aye ; an* 
 sometimes at nicht I kind o' greet to think o' ye.' 
 
 "Ay, after that I've nae doot he was sittin' wi' 
 his arms aboot her. She didna tell me that, but 
 weel he kens it's what she likes, an' she mak's nae 
 pretence o' it's no bein'. But for a' he said an' 
 did, she noticed him put the glove back in his 
 inside pouch. 
 
 "'It's wrang o' me, Jamie,' she said, 'but I 
 canna bear to think o' ye carryin' that aboot sac 
 carefu'. No, I canna help it' 
 
 "Weel, Jamie, the crittur, took it oot o' his 
 pouch, an' kind o' hesitated. Syne he lays 't 
 on the back o' the fire, an' they sat thegither 
 glowerin' at it. 
 
 " ' Noo, mother,' he says, 'you're satisfied, are 
 ye no ? " 
 
 "Ay," Leeby ended her story, "she said she 
 was satisfied. But she saw 'at he laid it on the 
 fire fell fond-like,"
 
 i6o * WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE LAST NIGHT. 
 
 "JuisT another sax nichts, Jamie, "Jess would 
 say, sadly. "Juist fower nichts noo, an' you'll 
 be awa." Even as she spoke seemed to come the 
 last night. 
 
 The last night ! Reserve slipped unheeded to 
 the floor. Hendry wandered ben and but the 
 house, and Jamie sat at the window holding his 
 mother's hand. You must walk softly now if you 
 would cross that humble threshold. I stop at the 
 door. Then, as now, I was a lonely man, and 
 when the last night came the attic was the place 
 for me. 
 
 This family affection, how good and beautiful 
 it is ! Men and maids love, and after many 
 years they may rise to this. It is the grand proof 
 of the goodness in human nature, for it means 
 that the more we see of each other the more we 
 find that is lovable. If you would cease to dislike 
 a man, try to get nearer his heart. 
 
 Leeby had no longer any excuse for bustling 
 about. Everything was ready too soon. Hendry
 
 i WINDOW IN THRUMS. 161 
 
 had been to the fish-cadger in the square to get 
 a bervie for Jamie's supper, and Jamie had eaten 
 it, trying to look as if it made him happier. His 
 little box was packed and strapped, and stood 
 terribly conspicuous against the dresser. Jess 
 had packed it herself. 
 
 "Ye mauna trachle (trouble) yersel', mother," 
 Jamie said, when she had the empty box pulled 
 toward her. 
 
 Leeby was wiser. 
 
 " Let her do't," she whispered, "it'll keep her 
 frae broodin'." 
 
 Jess tied ends of yarn round the stockings to 
 keep them in a little bundle by themselves. So 
 she did with all the other articles. 
 
 "No 'at it's ony great affair," she said, for on 
 the last night they were all thirsting to do some- 
 thing for Jamie that would be a great affair to 
 him. 
 
 " Ah, ye would wonder, mother," Jamie said, 
 " when I open my box an find a'thing tied up wi' 
 strings sae careful, it a' comes back to me wi' a 
 rush wha did it, an' 'am as fond o' thae strings as 
 though they were a grand present. There's the 
 pocky (bag) ye gae me to keep sewin' things in. 
 I get the wifie I lodge wi' to sew to me, but often 
 when I come upon the pocky I sit an' look 
 at it." 
 
 Two chairs were backed to the fire, with under- 
 clothing hanging upside down on them. From 
 II
 
 162 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 the string over the fireplace dangled two pairs of 
 much-darned stockings. 
 
 "Ye'll put on baith thae pair o' stockin's, 
 Jamie," said Jess, "juist to please me?" 
 
 When he arrived he had rebelled against the 
 xtra clothing. 
 
 "Ay, will I, mother ! " he said now. 
 
 Jess put her hand fondly through his ugly hair. 
 How handsome she thought him ! 
 
 " Ye have a fine brow, Jamie," she said. " I 
 mind the day ye was born sayin' to mysel' 'at ye 
 had a fine brow." 
 
 "But ye thocht he was to be a lassie, mother/' 
 said Leeby. 
 
 "Na, Leeby, I didna. I kept sayin' I thocht 
 he would be a lassie because I was fleid he would 
 be ; but a' the time I had a presentiment he 
 would be a laddie. It was wi' Joey deein' sae 
 sudden, an' I took on sae terrible aboot 'im 'at 
 I thocht all alang the Lord would give me an- 
 other laddie. " 
 
 "Ay, I wanted 'im to be a laddie mysel'," 
 said Hendry, "so as he could tak Joey's 
 place," 
 
 Jess' head jerked back involuntarily, and Jamie 
 may have felt her hand shake, for he said in a 
 voice out of Hendry's hearing : 
 
 " I never took Joey's place wi' ye, mother." 
 
 Jess pressed his hand tightly in her two worn 
 palms, but she did not speak.
 
 A WIN DO W IN THR UMS. 1 63 
 
 "Jamie was richt like Joey when he was a 
 bairn," Hendry said. 
 
 Again Jess' head moved, but still she was 
 silent. 
 
 "They were sae like," continued Hendry, " 'at 
 often I called Jamie by Joey's name." 
 
 Jess looked at her husband, and her mouth 
 opened and shut. 
 
 "I canna mind 'at you ever did that?" Hendry 
 said. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Na,"said Hendry, "you never mixed them 
 up. I dinna think ye ever missed Joey sae sair 
 as I did. " 
 
 Leeby went ben, and stood in the room in the 
 dark ; Jamie knew why. 
 
 "I'll just gang ben an' speak to Leeby for a 
 meenute," he said to his mother; "I'll no be 
 lang. " 
 
 "Ay, do that, Jamie," said Jess. "What 
 Leeby's been to me nae tongue can tell. Ye 
 canna bear to hear me speak, I ken, o' the time 
 when Hendry an' me'll be awa, but, Jamie, when 
 that time comes ye'll no forget Leeby ? " 
 
 "I winna, mother, I winna," said Jamie. 
 " There'll never be a roof ower me 'at's no hers 
 too." 
 
 He went ben and shut the door. I do not know 
 what he and Leeby said. Many a time since 
 their earliest youth had these two been closeted
 
 i?4 A MXDOW Itf THRUMS. 
 
 together, often to make up their little quarrels in 
 each other's arms. They remained a long time 
 in the room, the shabby room of which Jess and 
 Leeby were so proud, and whatever might be 
 their fears about their mother they were not 
 anxious for themselves. Leeby was feeling lusty 
 and well, and she could not know that Jamie 
 required to be reminded of his duty to the folk at 
 home. Jamie would have laughed at the notion. 
 Yet that woman in London must have been 
 waiting for him even then. Leeby, who was 
 about to die, and Jamie, who was to forget his 
 mother, came back to the kitchen with a happy 
 light n their faces. I have with me still the 
 look of love they gave each other before Jamie 
 crossed over to Jess. 
 
 "Ye'll gang anower, noo, mother," Leeby said, 
 meaning that it was Jess' bed-time. 
 
 "No yet, Leeby, "Jess answered; "I'll sit up 
 till the readin's ower. " 
 
 "I think ye should gang, mother," Jamie said, 
 "an* I'll come an' sit aside ye after ye're i' yer 
 bed." 
 
 "Ay, Jamie, I'll no hae ye to sit aside me the 
 morn's nicht, an' hap (cover) me wi' the claes." 
 
 " But ye'll gang suner to yer bed, mother." 
 
 "I may gang, but I winna sleep. I'll aye be 
 thinkin' o' ye tossin' on the sea. I pray for ye a 
 lang time ilka nicht, Jamie." 
 
 "Ay, I ken."
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 165 
 
 "An' I pictur' ye ilka hour o' the day. Ye 
 never gang hame through thae terrible streets at 
 nicht but I'm thinkin' o' ye." 
 
 "I would try no to be sae sad, mother," said 
 Leeby. " We've ha'en a richt fine time, have we 
 no ? " 
 
 "It's been an awfu' happy time," said Jess. 
 ' ' We've ha'en a pleasantness in oor lives 'at comes 
 to few. I ken naebody 'at's ha'en sae muckle 
 happiness one wy or another." 
 
 "It's because ye're sae guid, mother," said 
 Jamie. 
 
 "Na, Jamie, 'am no guid ava. It's because 
 my fowk's been sae guid, you an' Hendry an' 
 Leeby an' Joey when he was livin'. I've got a 
 lot mair than my deserts." 
 
 "We'll juist look to meetin' next year again, 
 mother. To think o' that keeps me up a' the 
 winter." 
 
 "Ay, if it's the Lord's will, Jamie, but 'am gey 
 dune noo, an' Hendry 's fell worn too." 
 
 Jamie, the boy that he was, said, " Dinna 
 speak like that, mother," and Jess again put her 
 hand on his head. 
 
 "Fine I ken, Jamie," she said, " 'at all my days 
 on this earth, be they short or lang, I've you for 
 a staff to lean on." 
 
 Ah, many years have gone since then, but if 
 Jamie be living now ke has still those words to 
 swallow.
 
 1 66 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 By and by Leeby went ben for the Bible, and 
 put it into Hendry's hands. He slowly turned 
 over the leaves to his favorite chapter, the four- 
 teenth of John's Gospel. Always, on eventful 
 occasions, did Hendry turn to the fourteenth of 
 John. 
 
 " Let not your heart be troubled ; ye believe in 
 God, believe also in me. 
 
 "In my Father's house are many mansions ; if 
 it were not so I would have told you. I go to 
 prepare a place for you." 
 
 As Hendry raised his voice to read there was a 
 great stillness in the kitchen. I do not know that 
 I have been able to show in the most imperfect 
 way what kind of man Hendry was. He was 
 dense in many things, and the cleverness that 
 was Jess' had been denied to him. He had less 
 book-learning than most of those with whom he 
 passed his days, and he had little skill in talk. I 
 have not known a man more easily taken in by 
 persons whose speech had two faces. But a more 
 simple, modest, upright man there never was in 
 Thrums, and I shall always revere his memory. 
 
 "And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will 
 come again, and receive you unto myself ; that 
 where I am, there ye may be also." 
 
 The voice may have been monotonous. I have 
 always thought that Hen dry's reading of the Bible 
 was the most solemn and impressive I have ever 
 heard. He exulted in the fourteenth of John,
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. t6y 
 
 pouring it forth like one whom it intoxicated while 
 he read. He emphasized every other word ; it 
 was so real and grand to him. 
 
 We went upon our knees while Hen dry prayed, 
 all but Jess, who could not. Jamie buried his 
 face in her lap. The words Hendry said were 
 those he used every night. Some, perhaps, would 
 have smiled at his prayer to God that we be not 
 puffed up with riches nor with the things of this 
 world. His head shook with emotion while he 
 prayed, and he brought us very near to the Throne 
 of Grace. "Do thou, O our God," he said, in 
 conclusion, "spread Thy guiding hand over him 
 whom in Thy great mercy Thou hast brought to 
 us again, and do Thou guard him through the 
 perils which come unto those that go down to the 
 sea in ships. Let not our hearts be troubled, 
 neither let them be afraid, for this is not our abid- 
 t ing home, and may we all meet in Thy house, 
 where there are many mansions, and where there 
 will be no last night. Amen." 
 
 It was a silent kitchen after that, though the 
 lamp burned long in Jess' window By its meagre 
 light you may take a final glance at the little 
 family ; you will never see them together again.
 
 1 68 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 JESS LEFT ALONE. 
 
 THERE may be a few who care to know how the 
 lives of Jess and Hendry ended. Leeby died in 
 the back-end of the year I have been speaking of, 
 and as I was snowed up in the school-house at 
 the time, I heard the news from Gavin Birse too 
 late to attend her funeral. She got her death on 
 the commonty one day of sudden rain, when she 
 had run out to bring in her washing, for the ter- 
 rible cold she woke with next morning carried her 
 off very quickly. Leeby did not blame Jamie for 
 not coming to her, nor did I, for I knew that even 
 in the presence of death the poor must drag their 
 chains. He never got Hendry's letter with the 
 news, and we know now that he was already in 
 the hands of her who played the devil with his 
 life. Before the spring came he had been lost to 
 Jess. 
 
 "Them 'at as got sae mony blessin's mairthan 
 the generality," Hendry said to me one day, when 
 Craigiebuckle had given me a lift into Thrums, 
 "has nae shame if they would pray aye formair. 
 The Lord has gi'en this hoose sae muckle, 'at to
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 169 
 
 pray for mair looks like no bein' thankfu' for what 
 we've got. Ay, but I canna help prayin' to Him 
 'at in His great mercy he'll tak' Jess afore me. Noo 
 'at Leeby's gone, an' Jamie never lets us hear frae 
 him, I canna gulp doon the thocht o' Jess bein' 
 left alane. " 
 
 This was a prayer that Hendry may be par- 
 doned for having so often in his heart, though God 
 did not think fit to grant it. In Thrums, when a 
 weaver died, his womenfolk had to take his seat 
 at the loom, and those who, by reason of infirm- 
 ities, could not do so, went to a place, the name 
 of which, I thank God, I am not compelled to 
 write in this chapter. I could not, even at this 
 day, have told any episodes in the life of Jess had 
 it ended in the poor-house. 
 
 Hendry would probably have recovered from 
 the fever had not this terrible dread darkened his 
 intellect when he was still prostrate. He was 
 lying in the kitchen when I saw him last in life, 
 and his parting words must be sadder to the 
 reader than they were to me. 
 
 " Ay, richt ye are," he said, in a voice that had 
 become a child's ; "I hae muckle, muckle, to be 
 thankfu' for, an' not the least in 'at baith me an' 
 Jess has aye belonged to a bural society. We hae 
 nae cause to be anxious aboot a' thing bein' dune 
 respectable aince we're gone. It was Jess 'at 
 insisted on oor joinin' : a' the wisest things I ever 
 did I was put up to by her."
 
 tf6 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 I parted from Hendry, cheered by the doctor'^ 
 report, but the old weaver died a few days after- 
 ward. His end was mournful, yet I can recall it 
 now as the not unworthy close of a good man's 
 life. One night poor worn Jess had been helped 
 ben into the room, Tibbie Birse having under- 
 taken to sit up with Hendry. Jess slept for the 
 first time for many days, and as the night was 
 dying Tibbie fell asleep too. Hendry had been 
 better than usual, lying quietly, Tibbie said, and 
 the fever was gone. About three o'clock Tibbie 
 w,oke and rose to mend the fire. Then she saw 
 that Hendry was not in his bed. 
 
 Tibbie went ben the house in her stocking- 
 soles, but Jess heard her. 
 
 "What is't, Tibbie*?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 " Ou, it's no naething," Tibbie said, "he's lyin' 
 rale quiet." 
 
 Then she went up to the attic. Hendry was 
 not in the house. 
 
 She opened the door gently and stole out. It 
 was not snowing, but there had been a heavy fall 
 two days before, and the night was windy. A 
 tearing gale had blown the upper part of the brae 
 clear, and from T'nowhead's fields the snow was 
 rising like smoke. Tibbie ran to the farm and 
 woke up T'nowhead. 
 
 For an hour they looked in vain for Hendry. 
 At last some one asked who was working in 
 Elshioner's shop all night. This was the long
 
 A WINDOW ix THRUMS. i^t 
 
 earthen-floored room in which Hendry's loom 
 stood with three others. 
 
 " It'll be Sanders Whamond likely," T'nowhead 
 said, and the other men nodded. 
 
 But it happened that T'nowhead's Bell, who 
 had flung on a wrapper, and hastened across to 
 sit with Jess, heard of the light in Elshioner's 
 shop. 
 
 "It's Hendry," she cried, and then every one 
 moved toward the workshop. 
 
 The light at the diminutive, yarn-covered 
 window was pale and dim ; but Bell, who was at 
 the house first, could make the most of a cruizey's 
 glimmer. 
 
 "It's him," she said, and then, with swelling 
 throat, she ran back to Jess. 
 
 The door of the workshop was wide open, held 
 against the wall by the wind. T'nowhead and 
 the others went in. The cruizey stood on the 
 little window. Hendry's back was to the door, 
 and he was leaning forward on the silent loom. 
 He had been dead for some time, but his fellow- 
 workers saw that he must have weaved for nearly 
 an hour. 
 
 So it came about that for the last few months of 
 her pilgrimage Jess was left alone. Yet I may 
 not say that she was alone. Jamie, who should 
 have been with her, was undergoing his own or- 
 deal far away ; where, we did not even know. 
 But though the poor-house stands in Thrums,
 
 Jfa 4 WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 where all may see it, the neighbors did not think 
 only of themselves. 
 
 Than Tammas Haggart there can scarcely have 
 been a poorer man, but Tammas was the first to 
 come forward with offer of help. To the day of 
 Jess' death he did not once fail to carry her water 
 to her in the morning, and the luxuriously living 
 men of Thrums, in those present days of pumps 
 at every corner, can hardly realize what that 
 meant. Often there were lines of people at the 
 well by three o'clock in the morning, and each 
 had to wait his turn. Tammas filled his own 
 pitcher an pan, and then had to take his place at 
 the end of the line with Jess' pitcher and pan, to 
 wait his turn again. His own house was in the 
 Tenements, far from the brae in winter time, 
 but he always said to Jess it was " naething 
 ava. " 
 
 Every Saturday old Robbie Angus sent a bag 
 of sticks and shavings from the saw-mill by his 
 little son Rob, who was afterwards to become a 
 man for speaking about at nights. Of all the 
 friends that Jess and Hendry had, T'nowhead was 
 the ablest to help, and the sweetest memory I 
 have of the farmer and his wife is the delicate 
 way they offered it. You who read will see Jess 
 wince at the offer of charity. But the poor have 
 fine feelings beneath the grime, as you will dis- 
 cover if you care to look for them ; and when 
 Jess said she would bake if any one would buy,
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 173 
 
 you would wonder to hear how many kindly folk 
 came to her door for scones. 
 
 She had the house to herself at nights, bu1 
 Tibbie Birse was with her early in the morning, 
 and other neighbors dropped in. Not for long did 
 she have to wait the summons to the bettei 
 home. 
 
 "Na," she said to the minister, who has told 
 me that he was a better man from knowing her, 
 "my thochts is no nane set on the vanities o' the 
 world noo. I kenna hoo I could ever hae haen sic 
 an ambeetion to hae thae stuff-bottomed chairs." 
 
 I have tried to keep away from Jamie, whom 
 the neighbors sometimes upbraided in her pres- 
 ence. It is of him you who read would like to 
 hear, and I cannot pretend that Jess did not sit at 
 her window looking for him. 
 
 " Even when she was bakin','' Tibbie told me, 
 " she aye had an eye on the brae. If Jamie had 
 come at ony time when it was licht she would 
 hae seen 'im as sune as he turned the corner." 
 
 "If he ever comes back, the sacket (rascal)," 
 T'nowhead said to Jess, " we'll show 'im the door 
 gey quick." 
 
 Jess just looked, and all the women knew how 
 she would take Jamie to her arms. 
 
 We did not know of the London woman then, 
 and Jess never knew of her. Jamie's mother 
 never for an hour allowed that he had become 
 anything but the loving laddie of his youth.
 
 ^ WINtiOW Jtt THRVMS. 
 
 " I ken 'im ower weel," she always said, "my 
 ain Jamie." 
 
 Toward the end she was sure he was dead. I 
 do not know when she first made up her mind to 
 this, or whether it was not merely a phrase for 
 those who wanted to discuss him with her. I 
 know that she still sat at the window looking at 
 the elbow of the brae. 
 
 The minister was with her when she died. She 
 was in her chair, and he asked her, as was his 
 custom, if there was any particular chapter which 
 she would like him to read. Since her husband's 
 death she had always asked for the fourteenth of 
 John, " Hendry's chapter/' as it is still called 
 among a very few old people in Thrums. This 
 time she asked him to read the sixteenth chapter 
 of Genesis. 
 
 "When I came to the thirteenth verse," the 
 minister told me, "'And she called the name of 
 the Lord that spake unto her, Thou God seest me,' 
 she covered her face with her two hands, and 
 said, ' Joey's text, Joey's text. Oh, but I grudged 
 ye sair, Joey.'" 
 
 "I shut the book," the minister said, "when I 
 came to the end of the chapter, and then I saw 
 that she was dead. It is my belief that her heart 
 broke one-and-twenty years ago, "
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 175 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. 
 
 ON i summer day, when the sun was in the 
 weavers' workshops, and bairns hopped solemnly 
 at the game of palaulays, or gayly shook their 
 bottles of sugarelly water into a froth, Jamie came 
 back. The first man to see him was Hookey 
 Crewe, the post. 
 
 "When he came frae London," Hookey said 
 afterward at T'nowhead's pig-sty, "Jamie used to 
 wait for me at Zoar, i' the north end o' Tilliedrum. 
 He carried his box ower the market muir, an' sat 
 on't at Zoar, waitin' for me to catch 'im up. Ay, 
 the day afore yesterday me an' the powny was 
 clatterin' by Zoar, when there was Jamie standin' 
 in his identical place. He hadna nae box to sit 
 upon, an' he was far frae bein' weel in order, but 
 I kent 'im at aince, an' I saw 'at he was waitin' 
 for me. So I drew up, an' waved my hand to 
 'im." 
 
 "I would hae drove straucht by 'im," said 
 T'nowhead ; "them 'at leaves their auld mother 
 to want doesna deserve a lift." 
 
 "Ay, ye say that sittin' there," Hookey said ;
 
 176 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 "but, lads, I saw his face, an' as sure as death, 
 it was sic an' awfu' meeserable face, 'at I couldna 
 but pu' the powny up. Weel, he stood for the 
 space o' a meenute lookin' straucht at me as if 
 he would like to come forrit but dauredna, an' 
 syne he turned an'strided awa ower the muir like 
 a huntit thing. I sat still i' the cnrt, an' when he 
 was far awa he stoppit an' lookit again, but a' 
 my cryin' wouldna bring him a step back, an' i' 
 the end I drove on. I've thocht since syne 'at he 
 didna ken whether his fowk was livin' or deid, 
 an' was fleid to speir." 
 
 "He didna ken," said T'nowhead, "but the 
 faut was his ain. It's ower late to be ta'en up 
 aboot Jess noo." 
 
 "Ay, ay, T'nowhead," said Hookey, "it's easy 
 to you to speak like that. Ye didna see his 
 face." 
 
 It is believed that Jamie walked from Tillie- 
 drum, though no one is known to have met him 
 on the road. Some two hours after the post left 
 him, he was seen by old Rob Angus at the saw- 
 mill. 
 
 "I was sawin' awa wi' a' my micht," Rob said, 
 "an' little Rob was haudin' the booards, for they 
 were silly bit things, when something made me 
 look at the window. It couldna hae been a tap 
 on't, for the birds has used me to that, an' it 
 would hardly be a shadow, for little Rob didna 
 look up. Whatever it was I stoppit i' the middle
 
 A WIND OW IN THR UMS. i 7 7 
 
 o' a booard, an' lookit up, an' there I saw Jamie 
 McQumpha. He joukit back when our een met, 
 but I saw him weel ; ay, it's a queer thing to say, 
 but he had the face o' a man 'at had come straucht 
 frae hell." 
 
 "I stood starin' at the window," Angus con- 
 tinued, "after he'd gone, an' Robbie cried oot 
 to ken what was the maiter wi' me. Ay, that 
 brocht me back to mysel', an' I hurried oot to 
 look for Jamie, but he wasna to be seen. That 
 face gae me a turn." 
 
 From the saw-mill to the house at the top of the 
 brae, some may remember, the road is up the 
 commonty. I do not think any one saw Jamie 
 on the commonty, though there were those to 
 say they met him. 
 
 " He gae me sic a look," a woman said, '"at 
 I was fleid an' ran hame," but she did not tell the 
 story until Jamie's home-coming had become a 
 legend. 
 
 There were many women hanging out their 
 washing on the commonty that day, and none of 
 them saw him. I think Jamie must have ap- 
 proached his old home by the fields, and probably 
 he held back until gloaming. 
 
 The young woman who was now mistress of 
 the house at the top of the brae both saw and 
 spoke with Jamie. 
 
 "Twaor three times," she said, " I had seen 
 a man walk quick up the brae an' by the door. 
 
 12
 
 178 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 It was gettin' dark, but I noticed 'at he was short 
 an' thin, an' I would hae said he wasna nane 
 weel if it hadna been 'at he gaed by at sic a steek. 
 He didna look our wy at least no when he was 
 close up, an' I set 'im doon for some ga'en aboot 
 body. Na, I saw naething aboot 'im to be field 
 at.' 
 
 "The aucht o'clock bell was ringin' when I 
 saw 'im to speak to. My twa-year-auld bairn 
 was standin' aboot the door, an' I was makkin' 
 some porridge for my man's supper when I heard 
 the bairny skirlin'. She came runnin' into the 
 hoose an' hung i' my wrapper, an' she was 
 hingin' there, when I gaed to the door to see 
 what was wrang. 
 
 "It was the man I'd seen passing the hoose. 
 He was standin' at the gate, which, as a' body 
 kens, is but sax steps frae the hoose, an' I won- 
 dered at 'im neither runnin' awa nor comin' forrit 
 I speired at 'im what he meant by terrifyin' a 
 bairn, but he didna say naething. He just stood. 
 It was ower dark to see his face richt, an' I wasna 
 nane ta'en aback yet, no till he spoke. Oh, but 
 he had a fearsome word when he did speak. It 
 was a kind o' like a man hoarse wi' a cauld, an' 
 yet no that either." 
 
 " Wha bides i' this hoose ? " he said, aye standin' 
 there. 
 
 "It's Davit Patullo's hoose," I said, "an' 'am 
 the wife"
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 179 
 
 " Whaur's Hendry McQumpha ? " he speired. 
 
 "He's deid," I said. 
 
 He stood still for a fell while. 
 
 "An' his wife, Jess?" he said. 
 
 "She's deid, too," I said. 
 
 I thocht he gae a groan, but it may hae been 
 the gate. 
 
 " There was a dochter, Leeby ? " he said. 
 
 "Ay," I said, "she was ta'en first.' 
 
 "I saw 'im put up his hands to his face, an' 
 he cried oot, ' Leeby too ! ' an' syne he kind o' 
 fell agin the dyke. I never kent 'im nor nane o' 
 his fowk, but I had heard aboot them, an' I saw 
 'at it would be the son frae London. It wasna 
 for me to judge 'im, an' I said to 'im would he no 
 come in by an' tak' a rest. I was nearer 'im by 
 that time, an' it's an awfu' haver to say 'at he 
 had a face to frichten fowk. It was a rale guid 
 face, but no ava what a body would like to see 
 on a young man. I felt mair like greetin' mysel' 
 when I saw his face than drawin' awa frae 'im. 
 
 " But he wouldna come in. 'Rest,' he said, 
 like ane speakin' to 'imsel', ' 'na, there's nae mair 
 rest for me.' I didna weel ken what mair to say 
 to 'im, for he aye stood on, an' I wasna even 
 sure 'at he saw me. He raised his heid when he 
 heard me tellin* the bairn no to tear my wrapper. 
 
 " 'Dinna set yer heart ower muckle on that 
 bairn,' he cried oot, sharp like. ' I was aince 
 like her, an' I used to hing aboot my mother, too
 
 180 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 in that very roady. Ay, I thocht I was fond o' 
 her, an' she thocht it too. Tak' a care, wuman, 
 'at that bairn doesna grow up to murder ye.' 
 
 "He gae a lauch when he saw me tak' haud o' 
 the bairn, an' syne a' at aince he gaed awa quick. 
 But he wasna far doon the brae when he turned 
 an' came back. 
 
 "'Ye'll, mebbe, tell me,' he said, richt low, 
 'if ye hae the furniture 'at used to be my 
 mother's ? ' 
 
 "'Na,' I said, 'it was roupit, an' I kenna 
 whaur the things gaed, for me an' my man 
 comes frae Tilliedrum.' 
 
 " 'Ye wouldna hae heard,' he said, ' wha got 
 the muckle airm-chair 'at used to sit i' the kitchen 
 :' the window 'at looks ower the brae?' 
 
 " 'I couldna be sure,' I said, 'but there was 
 an airm-chair 'at gaed to Tibbie Birse. If it was 
 the ane ye mean, it a' gaed to bits, an' I think they 
 burned it. It was gey dune.' 
 
 " 'Ay,' he said, 'it was gey dune.' 
 
 "' There was the chairs ben i' the room,' he 
 said after a while. 
 
 . " I said I thocht Sanders Elshioner had got 
 them at a bargain, because twa o' them was 
 mended wi' glue, an' gey silly. 
 
 '"Ay, that's them,' he said, "they were richt 
 neat mended. It was my mother 'at glued them. 
 I mind o' her makkin' the glue, an' warnin' me 
 an' my father no to sit on them. There was the
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. iSl 
 
 clock too, an* the stool 'at my mother got oot an' 
 into her bed wi', an' the basket 'at Leeby carried 
 when she gaed the errands. The straw was aff 
 the handle, an' my father mended it wi' strings.' 
 
 "'I dinna ken,' I said, 'whaur nane o' thae 
 gaed ; but did yer mother hae a staff ? " 
 
 " 'A little staff/ he said; 'it was near black 
 wi' age. She couldna gang frae the bed to her 
 chair withoot it. It was broadened oot at the 
 foot wi' her leanin' on't sae muckle. ' 
 
 " ' I've heard tell,' I said, ' 'at the dominie up i* 
 Glen Quharity took awa the staff/ 
 
 " He didna speir for nae other thing. He had 
 the gate in his hand, but I dinna think he kent 
 'at he was swingin' 't back an' forrit. At last he 
 let it go. 
 
 ' ' ' That's a', ' he said, ' I maun awa. Good- 
 nicht' an' thank ye kindly. ' 
 
 ' ' I watched 'im till he gaed oot o' sicht. He 
 gaed doon the brae." 
 
 We learned afterward from the grave-digger 
 that some one spent great part of that night in the 
 graveyard, and we believe it to have been Jamie. 
 He walked up the glen to the school-house next 
 forenoon, and I went out to meet him when I saw 
 him coming down the path. 
 
 "Ay," he said, " it's me come back." 
 
 I wanted to take him into the house and speak 
 with him of his mother, but he would not cross the 
 threshold.
 
 1 82 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 
 
 " I came oot," he said, " to see if ye would gie 
 me her staff no 'at I deserve *t." 
 
 I brought out the staff and handed it to him, 
 thinking that he and I would soon meet again. 
 As he took it I saw that his eyes were sunk back 
 into his head. Two great tears hung on his 
 eyelids, and his mouth closed in agony. He 
 stared at me till the tears fell upon his cheeks, and 
 then he went away. 
 
 That evening he was seen by many persons 
 crossing the square. He went up the brae to his 
 old home, and asked leave to go through the 
 house for the last time. First he climbed up into 
 the attic, and stood looking in, his feet still on the 
 stair. Then he came down and stood at the door 
 of the room, but he went into the kitchen. 
 
 " I'll ask one last favor o' ye," he said to the 
 woman : "I would like ye to leave me here alane 
 for juist a little while." 
 
 "I gaed oot," the women said, "meanin' to 
 leave 'im to 'imsel', but my bairn wouldna come, 
 an' he said, 'Never mind her,' so I left her wi' 
 'im, an' closed the door. He was in a langtime, 
 but I never kent what he did, for the bairn juist 
 aye greets when I speir at her. 
 
 "I watched 'im frae the corner window gang 
 doon the brae till he came to the corner. I 
 thocht he turned round there an' stood lookin' at 
 the hoose. He would see me better than I saw 
 him, for my lamp was i' the window, whaur I've
 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. T ?3 
 
 heard tell his mother keepit her cruizey. When 
 my man came in I speired at 'im if he'd seen 
 onybody standin' at the corner o' the brae, an' he 
 said he thocht he'd seen somebody wi' a little 
 staff in his hand. Davit gaed doon to see if he 
 was aye there after supper-time, but he was gone." 
 Jamie was never again seen in Thrums.
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 MATRIMONY AND SMOKING COMPARED. 
 
 THE circumstances in which I gave up smok- 
 ing were these : 
 
 I was a mere bachelor, drifting toward what I 
 now see to be a tragic middle age. I had become 
 so accustomed to smoke issuing from my mouth 
 that I felt incomplete without it ; indeed, the 
 time came when I could refrain from smoking if 
 doing nothing else, but hardly during the hours 
 of toil. To lay aside my pipe was to find myself 
 soon afterward wandering restlessly round my 
 table. No blind beggar was ever more abjectly 
 led by his dog, or more loath to cut the string. 
 
 I am much better without tobacco, and already 
 have difficulty in sympathizing with the man I 
 used to be. Even to call him up, as it were, and 
 regard him without prejudice is a difficult task, 
 for we forget the old selves on whom we have 
 turned our backs, as we forget a street that has 
 been reconstructed. Does the freed slave always 
 shiver at the crack of a whip ? I fancy not, for 
 I recall but dimly, and without acute suffering, 
 184
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 185 
 
 the horrors of my smoking days. There were 
 nights when I awoke with a pain at my heart 
 that made me hold my breath. I did not dare 
 move. After perhaps ten minutes of dread, I 
 would shift my position an inch at a time. Less 
 frequently I felt this sting in the daytime, and 
 believed I was dying while my friends were talk- 
 ing to me. I never mentioned these experiences 
 to a human being ; indeed, though a medical 
 man was among my companions, I cunningly 
 deceived him on the rare occasions when he ques- 
 tioned me about the amount of tobacco I was 
 consuming weekly. Often in the dark I not only 
 vowed to give up smoking, but wondered why I 
 cared for it. Next morning I went straight from 
 breakfast to my pipe, without the smallest strug- 
 gle with myself. Latterly I knew, while resolv- 
 ing to break myself of the habit, that I would be 
 better employed trying to sleep. I had elaborate 
 ways of cheating myself, but it became disagree- 
 able to me to know how many ounces of tobacco 
 I was smoking weekly. Often I smoked ciga- 
 rettes to reduce the number of my cigars. 
 
 On the other hand, if these sharp pains be ex- 
 cepted, I felt quite well. My appetite was as 
 good as it is now, and I worked as cheerfully and 
 certainly harder. To some slight extent, I believe, 
 I experienced the same pains in my boyhood, 
 before I smoked, and I am not an absolute stranger 
 to them yet. They were most frequent in my 
 smoking days, but I have no other reason for 
 charging them to tobacco. Possibly a doctor 
 who was himself a smoker would have pooh- 
 poohed them. Nevertheless, I have lighted my 
 pipe, and then, as I may say, hearkened for them. 
 At the first intimation that they were coming I
 
 i86 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 laid the pipe down and ceased to smoke until 
 they had passed. 
 
 I will not admit that, once sure it was doing 
 me harm, I could not, unaided, have given up 
 tobacco. But I was reluctant to make sure. I 
 should like to say that I left off smoking because 
 I considered it a mean form of slavery, to be con- 
 demned for moral as well as physical reasons ; 
 but though now I clearly see the folly of smoking, 
 I was blind to it for some months after I had 
 smoked my last pipe. I gave up my most de- 
 lightful solace, as I regarded it, for no other 
 reason than that the lady who was willing to 
 fling herself away on me said that I must choose 
 between it and her. This deferred our marriages 
 for six months. 
 
 I have now come, as those who read will see, 
 to look upon smoking with my wife's eyes. My 
 old bachelor friends complain because I do not 
 allow smoking in the house, but I am always 
 ready to explain my position, and I have not an 
 atom of pity for them. If I cannot smoke here 
 neither shall they. When I visit them in the old 
 inn they take a poor revenge by blowing rings of 
 smoke almost in my face. This ambition to 
 blow rings is the most ignoble known to man. 
 Once I was a member of a club for smokers, 
 where we practiced blowing rings. The most 
 successful got a box of cigars as a prize at the end 
 of the year. Those were days ! Often I think 
 wistfully of them. We met in a cozy room off 
 the Strand. How well I can picture it still. 
 Time-tables lying everywhere, with which we 
 could light our pipes. Some smoked clays, but 
 for the Arcadia Mixture give me a brier. My brier 
 was the sweetest ever known. It is strange now
 
 My LAD y NICO TINE. 187 
 
 to recall a time when a pipe seemed to be my 
 best friend. 
 
 My present state is so happy that I can only 
 look back with wonder at my hesitation to enter 
 upon it. Our house was taken while I was still 
 arguing that it would be dangerous to break my- 
 self of smoking all at once. At that time my 
 ideal of married life was not what it is now, and 
 I remember Jimmy's persuading me to fix on this 
 house, because the large room upstairs with the 
 three windows was a smoker's dream. He pict- 
 ured himself and me there in the summer-time 
 blowing rings, with our coats off and our feet out 
 at the windows ; and he said that the closet at 
 the back looking on to a blank wall would make 
 a charming drawing-room for my wife. For the 
 moment his enthusiasm carried me away, but I 
 see now how selfish it was, and I have before me 
 the face of Jimmy when he paid us his first visit 
 and found that the closet was not the drawing- 
 room. Jimmy is a fair specimen of a man, not 
 without parts, destroyed by devotion to his pipe. 
 To this day he thinks that mantel-piece vases are 
 meant for holding pipe-lights in. We are almost 
 certain that when he stays with us he smokes in 
 his bedroom a detestable practice that I cannot 
 permit. 
 
 Two cigars a day at ninepence a piece come to 
 27 73. 6d. yearly, and four ounces of tobacco 
 a week at nine shillings a pound come to 5 iys. 
 yearly. That makes $$ 45. 6d. When we cal- 
 culate the yearly expense of tobacco in this way, 
 we are naturally taken aback, and our extrava- 
 gance shocks us more after we have considered 
 how much more satisfactorily the money might 
 have been spent. With $$ 43. 6d. you can buy
 
 i88 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 new Oriental rugs for the drawing-room, as well 
 as a spring bonnet and a nice dress. These are 
 things that give permanent pleasure, whereas you 
 have no interest in a cigar after flinging away the 
 stump. Judging by myself, I should say that it 
 was want of thought rather than selfishness that 
 makes heavy smokers of so many bachelors. 
 Once a man marries, his eyes are opened to many 
 things that he was quite unaware of previously, 
 among them being the delight of adding an 
 article of furniture to the drawing-room every 
 month, and having a bedroom in pink and gold, 
 the door of which is always kept locked. If men 
 would only consider that every cigar they smoke 
 would buy part of a new piano-stool in terra-^otta 
 plush, and that for every pound tin of tobacco 
 purchased away goes a vase for growing dead 
 geraniums in, they would surely hesitate. They 
 do not consider, however, until they marry, and 
 then they are forced to it. For my own part, I fail 
 to see why bachelors should be allowed to smoke 
 as much as they like, when we are debarred from 
 ;t 
 
 The very smell of tobacco is abominable, for 
 one cannot get it out of the curtains, and there is 
 little pleasure in existence unless the curtains are 
 all right. As for a cigar after dinner, it only 
 makes you dull and sleepy and disinclined for 
 ladies, society. A far more delightful way of 
 spending the evening is to go straight from dinner 
 to the drawing-room and have a little music. It 
 calms the mind to listen to your wife's niece sing- 
 ing, "Oh, that we two were Maying ! " Even if 
 you are not musical, as is the case with me, there 
 is a great deal in the drawing-room to refresh 
 you. There are the Japanese fans on the wall,
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 189 
 
 which are things of beauty, though your artistic 
 taste may not be sufficiently educated to let you 
 know it except by hearsay : and it is pleasant to 
 feel that they were bought with money which, in 
 the foolish old days, would have been squandered 
 on a box of cigars. In like manner every pretty 
 trifle in the room reminds you how much wiser 
 you are now than you used to be. It is even 
 gratifying to stand in summer at the drawing- 
 room window and watch the very cabbies pass- 
 ing with cigars in their mouths. At the same 
 time, if I had the making of the laws I would pro- 
 hibit people's smoking in the street. If they are 
 married men, they are smoking drawing-room 
 fire-screens and mantel-piece borders for the pink- 
 and-gold room. If they are bachelors, it is a 
 scandal that bachelors should get the best of 
 everything. 
 
 Nothing is more pitiable than the way som 
 men of my acquaintance enslave themselves to 
 tobacco. 
 
 Nay, worse, they make an idol of some one 
 particular tobacco. I know a man who considers 
 a certain mixture so superior to all others that 
 he will vwilk three miles for it Surely every 
 one will admit that this is lamentable. It is not 
 even a good mixture, for I used to try it occasion- 
 ally ; and if there is one man in London who 
 knows tobaccoes, it is myself. There is only one 
 mixture in London deserving the adjective superb. 
 I will not say where it is to be got, for the result 
 would certainly be that many foolish men would 
 smoke more than ever ; but I never knew any- 
 thing to compare to it. It is deliciously mild yet 
 full of fragrance, and it never burns the tongue. 
 If you try it once you smoke it ever afterward.
 
 190 
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 It clears the brain and soothes the temper. When 
 I went away for a holiday anywhere I took as 
 much of that exquisite health-giving mixture as I 
 thought would last me the whole time, but I 
 always ran out of it. Then I telegraphed to Lon- 
 don for more, and was miserable until it arrived. 
 How I tore the lid off the canister ! That is a 
 tobacco to live for. But I am better without it. 
 
 Occasionally I feel a little depressed after dinner 
 still, without being able to say why, and if my 
 wife has left me, I wander about the room rest- 
 lessly, like one who misses something. Usually, 
 however, she takes me with her to the drawing- 
 room, and reads aloud her delightfully long home- 
 letters or plays soft music to me. If the music 
 be sweet and sad it takes me away to a stair in 
 an inn, which I climb gayly, and shake open a 
 heavy door on the top floor, and turn up the gas. 
 It is a little room I am in once again, and very 
 dusty. A pile of papers and magazines stands as 
 high as a table in the corner furthest from the 
 door. The cane chair shows the exact shape of 
 Marriot's back. What is left (after lighting the 
 fire) of a frame picture lies on the hearth-rug. 
 Gilray walks in uninvited. He has left word that 
 his visitors are to be sent on to me. The room 
 fills. My hand feels along the mantel-piece for 
 a brown jar. The jar is between my knees ; I 
 fill my pipe. . . . 
 
 After a time the music ceases, and my wife puts 
 her hand on my shoulder. Perhaps I start a little, 
 and then she says I have been asleep. This is 
 the book of my dreams.
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE.^ 191 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 MY FIRST CIGAR. 
 
 IT was not in my chambers, but three hundred 
 miles further north, that I learned to smoke. I 
 think I may say with confidence that a first cigar 
 was never smoked in such circumstances before. 
 
 At that time I was a school-boy, living with 
 my brother, who was a man. People mistook 
 our relations, and thought I was his son. They 
 would ask me how my father was, and when he 
 heard of this he scowled at me. Even to this day 
 I look so young that people who remember me 
 as a boy now think I must be that boy's younger 
 brother. I shall tell presently of a strange mis- 
 take of this kind, but at present I am thinking of 
 the evening when my brother's eldest daughter 
 was born perhaps the most trying evening he 
 and I ever passed together. So far as I knew, 
 the affair was very sudden, and I felt sorry for 
 my brother as well as for myself. 
 
 We sat together in the study, he on an arm- 
 chair drawn near the fire and I on the couch. I 
 cannot say now at what time I began to have 
 an inkling that there was something wrong. It 
 came upon me gradually and made me very un- 
 comfortable, though of course I did not show 
 this. I heard people going up and downstairs, 
 but I was not at that time naturally suspicious. 
 Comparatively early in the evening I felt that my 
 brother had something on his mind. As a rule, 
 when we were left together, he yawned or 
 drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair
 
 192 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 to show that he did not feel uncomfortable, or I 
 made a pretense of being at ease by playing with 
 the dog or saying that the room was close. Then 
 one of us would rise, remark that he had left his 
 book in the dining-room, and go away to look for 
 it, taking care not to come back till the other had 
 gone. In this crafty way we helped each other. 
 On that occasion, however, he- did not adopt any 
 of the usual methods, and though I went up to 
 my bedroom several times and listened through 
 the wall, I heard nothing. At last some one told 
 me not to go upstairs, and I returned to the 
 study, feeling that I now knew the worst. He 
 was still in the arm-chair, and I again took to the 
 couch. I could see by the way he looked at me 
 over his pipe that he was wondering whether I 
 knew anything. I don't think I ever liked my 
 brother better than on that night ; and I wanted 
 him to understand that, whatever happened, it 
 would make no difference between us. But the 
 affair upstairs was too delicate to talk of, and all 
 I could do was to try to keep his mind from 
 brooding on it, by making him tell me things 
 about politics. This is the kind of man my 
 brother is. He is an astonishing master of facts, 
 and I suppose he never read a book yet, from a 
 Blue Book to a volume of verse, without catch- 
 ing the author in error about something. He 
 reads books for that purpose. As a rule, I 
 avoided argument with him, because he was dis- 
 appointed if I was right and stormed if I was 
 wrong. It was therefore a dangerous thing to 
 begin on politics, but I thought the circumstances 
 warranted it. To my surprise he answered me 
 in a rambling manner ; occasionally breaking off 
 in the middle of a sentence and seeming to listen
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 193 
 
 for something. I tried him on history, and men- 
 tioned 1822 as the date of the battle of Waterloo, 
 merely to give him his opportunity. But he let 
 it pass. After that there was silence. By and 
 by he rose from his chair, apparently to leave the 
 room, and then sat down again, as if he had 
 thought better of it He did this several times, 
 always eying me narrowly. Wondering how I 
 could make it easier for him, I took up a book 
 and pretended to read with deep attention, mean- 
 ing to show him that he could go away if he 
 liked without my noticing it. At last he jumped 
 up, and, looking at me boldly, as if to show that 
 the house was his and he could do what he liked 
 in it, went heavily from the room. As soon as he 
 was gone I laid down my book. I was now in a 
 state of nervous excitement, though outwardly I 
 was quite calm. I took a look at him as he went 
 up the stairs, and noticed that he had slipped off 
 his shoes on the bottom step. All haughtiness 
 had left him now. 
 
 In a little while he came back. He found me 
 reading. He lighted his pipe and pretended to 
 read too. I shall never forget that my book was 
 "Anne Judge, Spinster," while his was a volume 
 of "Blackwood." Every five minutes his pipe 
 went out, and sometimes the book lay neglected 
 on his knee as he stared at the fire. Then he 
 would go out for five minutes and come back 
 again. It was late now, and I felt that I should 
 like to go to my bedroom and lock myself in. 
 That, however, would have been selfish ; so we 
 sat on defiantly. At last he started from his 
 chair, as some one knocked at the door. I heard 
 several people talking, and then loud above their 
 voices a younger one.
 
 194 **y LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 When I came to myself, the first thing I thought 
 was that they would ask me to hold it. Then I 
 remembered, with another sinking at the heart, 
 that they might want to call it after me. These, 
 of course, were selfish reflections ; but my posi- 
 tion was a trying one. The question was, what 
 was the proper thing for me to do ? I told my- 
 self that my brother might come back at any mo- 
 ment, and all I thought of after that was what I 
 should say to him. I had an idea that I ought to 
 congratulate him, but it seemed a brutal thing to 
 do. I had not made up my mind when I heard 
 him coming down. He was laughing and joking 
 in what seemed to me a flippant kind of way, 
 considering the circumstances. When his hand 
 touched the door I snatched at my book and read 
 as hard as I could. He was swaggering a little 
 as he entered, but the swagger went out of him 
 as soon as his eye fell on me. I fancy he had 
 come down to tell me, and now he did not know 
 how to begin. He walked up and down the 
 room restlessly, looking at me as he walked the 
 one way, while I looked at him as he walked the 
 other way. At length he sat down again and 
 took up his book. He did not try to smoke. 
 The silence was something terrible ; nothing was 
 to be heard but an occasional cinder falling from 
 the grate. This lasted, I should say, for twenty 
 minutes, and then he closed his book and flung 
 it on the table. I saw that the game was up, and 
 closed "Anne Judge, Spinster." Then he said, 
 with affected jocularity : "Well, young man, do 
 you know that you are an uncle ? " There was 
 silence again, for I was still trying to think out 
 some appropriate remark. After a time I said, 
 in a weak voice, "Boy or girl?" "Girl," he
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 195 
 
 answered. Then I thought hard again, and all 
 at once remembered something. "Both doing 
 well?" I whispered. "Yes," he said, sternly. 
 I felt that something great was expected of me, 
 but I could not jump up and wring his hand. I 
 was an uncle. I stretched out my arm toward 
 the cigar-box, and firmly lighted my first cigar. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE ARCADIA MIXTURE. 
 
 DARKNESS comes, and with it the porter to light 
 our stair gas. He vanishes into his box. Al- 
 ready the inn is so quiet that the tap of a pipe on 
 a window-sill startles all the sparrows in the 
 quadrangle. The men on my stair emerged from 
 their holes. Scrymgeour, in a dressing-gown, 
 pushes open the door of the boudoir on the first 
 floor, and climbs lazily. The sentimental face 
 and the clay with a crack in it are Marriot's. 
 Gilray, who has been rehearsing his part in the 
 new original comedy from the Icelandic, ceases 
 muttering and feels his way along his dark lobby. 
 Jimmy pins a notice on his door "Called away 
 on business," and crosses to me. Soon we are 
 all in the old room again, Jimmy on the hearth- 
 rug, Harriot in the cane chair ; the curtains are 
 pinned together with a pen-nib, and the five of us 
 are smoking the Arcadia Mixture. 
 
 Pettigrew will be welcomed if he comes, but he 
 is a married man, and we seldom see him nowa- 
 days. Others will be regarded as intruders. If 
 they are smoking common tobaccoes, they must
 
 196 AfY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 cither be allowed to try ours or requested to with- 
 draw. One need only put his head in at my door 
 to realize that tobaccoes are of two kinds, the Ar- 
 cadia and others. No one who smokes the Ar- 
 cadia would ever attempt to describe its delights, 
 for his pipe would be certain to go out When 
 he was at school, Jimmy Moggridge smoked a 
 cane chair, and he has since said that from cane 
 to ordinary mixtures was not so noticeable as the 
 change from ordinary mixtures to the Arcadia. I 
 ask no one to believe this, for the confirmed 
 smoker in Arcadia detests arguing with anybody 
 about anything. Were I anxious to prove Jimmy's 
 statement, I would merely give you the only 
 address at which the Arcadia is to be had. But 
 that I will not do. It would be as rash as pro- 
 posing a man with whom I am unacquainted for 
 my club. You may not be worthy to smoke the 
 Arcadia Mixture. 
 
 Even though I became attached to you, I might 
 not like to take the responsibility of introducing 
 you to the Arcadia. This mixture has an extraor- 
 dinary effect upon character, and probably you 
 want to remain as you are. Before I discovered 
 the Arcadia, and communicated it to the other 
 five including Pettigrew we had all distinct in- 
 dividualities, but now, except in appearance and 
 the Arcadia even tells on that we are as like as 
 holly leaves. We have the same habits, the same 
 ways of looking at things, the same satisfaction in 
 each other. No doubt we are not yet absolutely 
 alike, indeed I intend to prove this, but in given 
 circumstances we would probably do the same 
 thing, and, furthermore, it would be what other 
 people would not do. Thus when we are togeth- 
 er we are only to be distinguished by our pipes ;
 
 My LAD Y NICO TINE. 197 
 
 but any one of us in the company of persons who 
 smoke other tobaccoes would be considered highly 
 original. He would be a pigtail in Europe. 
 
 If you meet in company a man who has ideas 
 and is not shy, yet refuses absolutely to be drawn 
 into talk, you may set him down as one of us. 
 Among the first effects of the Arcadia is to put an 
 end to jabber. Gilray had at one time the rep- 
 utation of being such a brilliant talker that Ar- 
 cadians locked their doors on him, but now he is 
 a man that can be invited anywhere. The Arcadia 
 is entirely responsible for the change. Perhaps 
 I myself am the most silent of our company, and 
 hostesses usually think me shy. They ask ladies 
 to draw me out, and when the ladies find me as 
 hopeless as a sulky drawer, they call me stupid. 
 The charge may be true, but I do not resent it, 
 for I smoke the Arcadia Mixture, and am con- 
 sequently indifferent to abuse. 
 
 I willingly gibbet myself to show how reticent 
 the Arcadia makes us. It happens that I have 
 a connection with Nottingham, and whenever a 
 man mentions Nottingham to me, with a certain 
 gleam in his eye, I know that he wants to discuss 
 the lace trade. But it is a curious fact that the 
 aggressive talker constantly mixes up Nottingham 
 and Northampton. "Oh, you know Notting- 
 ham," he says, interestedly; "and how do you 
 like Labouchere for a member ? " Do you think 
 I put him right ? Do you imagine me thirsting to 
 tell that Mr. Labouchere is the Christian member 
 for Northampton ? Do you suppose me swift 
 to explain that Mr. Broadhurst is one of the Not- 
 tingham members and that the "Nottingham 
 lambs " are notorious in the history of political 
 elections ? Do you fancy me explaining that he
 
 I9& MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 is quite right in saying that Nottingham has a 
 large market-place ? Do you see me drawn into 
 half an hour's talk about Robin Hood? That is 
 not my way. I merely reply that we like Mr. 
 Labouchere pretty well. It may be said that I 
 gain nothing by this ; that the talker will be as 
 curious about Northampton as he would have 
 been about Nottingham, and that Bradlaugh and 
 Labouchere and boots will serve his turn quite as 
 well as Broadhurst and lace and Robin Hood. 
 But that is not so. Beginning on Northampton 
 in the most confident manner, it suddenly flashes 
 across him that he has mistaken Northampton for 
 Nottingham. " How foolish of me ! " he says. 
 I maintain a severe silence. He is annoyed. 
 My experience of talkers tells me that nothing 
 annoys them so much as a blunder of this kind. 
 From the coldly polite way in which I have taken 
 the talker's remarks, he discovers the value I put 
 upon them, and after that, if he has a neighbor 
 on the other side, he leaves me alone. 
 
 Enough has been said to show that the Ar- 
 cadian's golden rule is to be careful about what 
 he sayo. This does not mean that he is to say 
 nothing. As society is at present constituted you 
 we bound to make an occasional remark. But 
 you need not make it rashly. It has been said 
 somewhere that it would be well for talkative 
 persons to count twenty, or to go over the alpha- 
 bet, before they let fall the observation that trem- 
 bles on their lips. The non-talker has no taste 
 for such an unintellectual exercise. At the same 
 time he must not hesitate too long, for, of course, 
 it is to his advantage to introduce the subject. 
 He ought to think out a topic of which his neigh- 
 bor will not be able to make very much. To 

 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 199 
 
 begin on the fall of snow, or the number of tons 
 of turkeys consumed on Christmas-day, as stated 
 in the " Daily Telegraph," is to deserve your fate. 
 If you are at a dinner-party of men only, take your 
 host aside, and in a few well-considered sentences 
 find out from him what kind of men you are to sit 
 between during dinner. Perhaps one of them is 
 an African traveler. A knowledge of this prevents 
 your playing into his hands, by remarking that 
 the papers are full of the relief of Emin Pasha. 
 These private inquiries will also save you from 
 talking about Mr. Chamberlain to a neighbor who 
 turns out to be the son of a Birmingham elector. 
 Allow that man his chance, and he will not only 
 give you the Birmingham gossip, but what indi- 
 vidual electors said about Mr. Chamberlain to the 
 banker or the tailor, and what the grocer did the 
 moment the poll was declared, with particulars 
 about the antiquity of Birmingham and the fish- 
 ing to be had in the neighborhood. What you 
 ought to do is to talk about Emin Pasha to this 
 man, and to the traveler about Mr. Chamberlain, 
 taking care, of course, to speak in a low voice. 
 In that way you may have comparative peace. 
 Everything, however, depends on the caliber of 
 your neighbors. If they agree to look upon 
 you as an honorable antagonist, and so to fight 
 fair, the victory will be to him who deserves it ; 
 that is to say, to the craftier man of the two. 
 But talkers, as a rule, do not fight fair. They 
 consider silent men their prey. It will thus be 
 seen that I distinguish between talkers, admit- 
 ting that some of them are worse than others. 
 The lowest in the social scale is he who stabs you 
 in the back, as it were, instead of crossing swords. 
 If one of the gentleman introduced to you is of
 
 400 
 
 that type, he will not be ashamed to say, " Speak- 
 ing of Emin Pasha, I wonder if Mr. Chamberlain 
 is interested in the relief expedition. I don't know 
 if I told you that my father " and there he is, 
 fairly on horseback. It is seldom of any use to 
 tempt him into other channels. Better turn to 
 your traveler and let him describe the different 
 routes to Egyptian Equatorial Provinces, with his 
 own views thereon. Allow him even to draw a 
 map of Africa with a fork on the table-cloth. A 
 talker of this kind is too full of his subject to insist 
 upon answering questions, so that he does not 
 trouble you much. It is his own dinner that is 
 spoiled rather than yours. Treat in the same way 
 as the Chamberlain talker the man who sits down 
 beside you and begins, "Remarkable man, Mr. 
 Gladstone. " 
 
 There was a ventilator in my room, which 
 sometimes said "Crik-crik!" reminding us that 
 no one had spoken for half an hour. Occa- 
 sionally, however, we had lapses of speech, when 
 Gilray might tell over again though not quite 
 as I mean to tell it the story of his first pipeful 
 of the Arcadia, or Scrymgeour, the traveled 
 man, would give us the list of famous places in 
 Europe where he had smoked. But, as a rule, 
 none of us paid much attention to what the 
 others said, and after the last pipe the room 
 emptied unless Harriot insisted on staying be- 
 hind to bore me with his scruples by first one 
 and then another putting his pipe into his pocket 
 and walking silently out of the room.
 
 MY LA*> y MCQTIML 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MY PIPES. 
 
 IN a select company of scoffers my brier was 
 known as the Mermaid. The mouth-piece was a 
 cigarette-holder, and months of unwearied prac- 
 tice were required before you found the angle at 
 which the bowl did not drop off. 
 
 This brings me to one of the many advantages 
 that my brier had over all other pipes. It has 
 given me a reputation for gallantry, to which 
 without it I fear I could lay no claim. I used to 
 have a passion for repartee, especially in the 
 society of ladies. But it is with me as with 
 many other men of parts whose wit has ever to 
 be fired by a long fuse : my best things strike 
 me as I wend my way home. This imbittered 
 my early days ; and not till the pride of youth 
 had been tamed could I stop to lay in a stock of 
 repartee on likely subjects the night before. 
 Then my pipe helped me. It was the apparatus 
 that carried me to my prettiest compliment. 
 Having exposed my pipe in some prominent 
 place where it could hardly escape notice, I took 
 measures for insuring a visit from a lady, young, 
 graceful, accomplished. Or I might have it ready 
 for a chance visitor. On her arrival, I conducted 
 her to a seat near my pipe. It is not good to 
 hurry on to the repartee at once ; so I talked for 
 a time of the weather, the theaters, the new 
 novel. I kept my eye on her; and by and
 
 70* MY LAD Y NICO TINS. 
 
 by she began to look about her. She observed 
 the strange-looking pipe. Now is the critical 
 moment. It is possible that she may pass it by 
 without remark, in which case all is lost ; but 
 experience has shown me that four times out of 
 six she touches it in assumed horror, to pass 
 some humorous remark. Off tumbles the bowl. 
 "Oh," she exclaims, "see what I have done ! I 
 am so sorry!" I pull myself together. "Ma- 
 dame," I reply calmly, and bowing low, "what 
 else was to be expected ? You came near my 
 pipe and it lost its head ! " She blushes, but 
 cannot help being pleased ; and I set my pipe 
 for the next visitor. By the help of a note-book, 
 of course I guarded myself against paying this 
 very neat compliment to any person more than 
 once. However, after I smoked the Arcadia 
 the desire to pay ladies compliments went from 
 me. 
 
 Journeying back into the past, I come to a 
 time when my pipe had a mouth-piece of fine 
 amber. The bowl and .the rest of the stem were 
 of brier, but it was a gentlemanly pipe, without 
 silver mountings. Such tobacco I reveled in as 
 may have filled the pouch of Pan as he lay smok- 
 ing on the mountain-sides. Once I saw a beau- 
 tiful woman with brown hair, in and out of 
 which the rays of a morning sun played hide- 
 and-seek, that might not unworthily have been 
 compared to it. Beguiled by the exquisite 
 Arcadia, the days and the years passed from 
 me in delicate rings of smoke, and I content- 
 edly watched them sailing to the skies. How 
 continuous was the line of those lovely circles, 
 and how straight ! One could have passed an 
 iron rod through them from end to end. But one
 
 Mr LADY N1CO TINA. $03 
 
 day I had a harsh awakening. I bit the amber 
 mouth-piece of my pipe through, and life was 
 never the same again. 
 
 It is strange how attached we become to old 
 friends, though they be but inanimate objects. 
 The old pipe put aside, I turned to a meerschaum, 
 which had been presented to me years before, 
 with the caution that I must not smoke it unless 
 I wore kid gloves. There was no savor in that 
 pipe for me. I tried another brier, and it made 
 me unhappy. Clays would not keep in with 
 me. It seemed as if they knew I was hanker- 
 ing after the old pipe and went out in disgust. 
 Then I got a new amber mouth-piece for my 
 first love. In a week I had bitten that through 
 too, and in an over-anxious attempt to file off the 
 ragged edges I broke the screw. Moralists have 
 said that the smoker who has no thought but for 
 his pipe never breaks it ; that it is he only who 
 while smoking concentrates his mind on some 
 less worthy object that sends his teeth through 
 the amber. This may be so ; for I am a phi- 
 losopher, and when working out new theories I 
 may have been careless even of that which 
 inspired them most. 
 
 After this second accident nothing went well 
 with me or with my pipe. I took the mouth- 
 pieces out of other pipes and fixed them on to 
 the Mermaid. In a little while one of them be- 
 came too wide ; another broke as I was screw- 
 ing it more firmly in. Then the bowl cracked 
 at the rim and split at the bottom. This was an 
 annoyance until I found out what was wrong 
 and plugged up the fissures with sealing-wax. 
 The wax melted and dropped upon my clothe* 
 after a time ; but it was easily renewed.
 
 104, #Y LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 It was now that I had the happy thought of 
 bringing a cigarette-holder to my assistance. 
 But of course one cannot make a pipe-stem out 
 of a cigarrette-holder all at once. The thread 
 you wind round the screw has a disappointing 
 way of coming undone, when down falls the 
 bowl, with an escape of sparks. Twisting a 
 piece of paper round the screw is an improve- 
 ment ; but, until you have acquired the knack, 
 the operation has to be renewed every time you 
 relight your pipe. This involves a sad loss of 
 time, and in my case it afforded a butt for the 
 dull wit of visitors. Otherwise I found it satis- 
 factory, and I was soon astonishingly adept at 
 making paper screws. Eventually my brier be- 
 came as serviceable as formerly, though not, 
 perhaps, so handsome. I fastened on the holder 
 with sealing-wax, and often a week passed with- 
 out my having to renew the joint. 
 
 It was no easy matter lighting a pipe like 
 mine, especially when I had no matches. I 
 always meant to buy a number of boxes, but 
 somehow I put off doing it. Occasionally I 
 found a box of vestas on my mantel-piece, which 
 some caller had left there by mistake, or sympa- 
 thizing, perhaps, with my case ; but they were 
 such a novelty that I never felt quite at home 
 with them. Generally I remembered they were 
 there just after my pipe was lighted. 
 
 When I kept them in mind and looked forward 
 to using them, they were at the other side of the 
 room, and it would have been a pity to get up 
 for them. Besides, the most convenient medium 
 for lighting one's pipe is paper, after all ; and if 
 you have not an old envelope in your pocket, 
 there is probably a photograph standing on the
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 20$ 
 
 mantel-piece. It is convenient to have the maga- 
 zines lying handy ; or a page from a book hand- 
 made paper burns beautifully will do. To be 
 sure, there is the lighting of your paper. For this 
 your lamp is practically useless, standing in the 
 middle of the table, while you are in an easy-chair 
 by the fireside ; and as for the tape-and-spark 
 contrivance, it is the introduction of machinery 
 into the softest joys of life. The fire is best. It 
 is near you, and you drop your burning spill into 
 it with a minimum waste of energy. The proper 
 fire for pipes is one in a cheerful blaze. If your 
 spill is carelessly constructed the flame runs up 
 into your fingers before you know what you are 
 doing, so that it is as well to marry and get your 
 wife to make spills for you. Before you begin to 
 smoke, scatter these about the fireplace. Then 
 you will be able to reach them without rising. 
 The irritating fire is the one that has burned low 
 when the coals are more than half cinders, and 
 cling to each other in fear of death. With such 
 a fire it is no use attempting to light a pipe all at 
 once. Your better course now is to drop little bits 
 of paper into the likely places in the fire, and have 
 a spill ready to apply to the one that lights first. 
 It is an anxious moment, for they may merely 
 shrivel up sullenly without catching fire, and in 
 that case some men lose their tempers. Bad to 
 lose your temper over your pipe 
 
 No pipe really ever rivaled the brier in my 
 affections, though I can recall a mad month when 
 I fell in love with two little meerschaums, which 
 I christened Romulus and Remus. They lay to- 
 gether in one case in Regent Street, and it was 
 with difficulty that I could pass the shop without 
 going in. Often I took side streets to escape their
 
 2 o6 MY LAD Y NICOTINE, 
 
 glances, but at last I asked the price. It startled 
 me, and I hurried home to the brier. 
 
 I forget when it was that a sort of compromise 
 struck me. This was that I should present the 
 pipes to my brother as a birthday gift. Did I 
 really mean to do this, or was I only trying to 
 cheat my conscience? Who can tell? I hurried 
 again into Regent Street. There they were, more 
 beautiful than ever. I hovered about the shop 
 for quite half an hour that day. My indecision 
 and vacillation were pitiful. Buttoning up my 
 coat, I would rush from the window, only to find 
 myself back again in five minutes. Sometimes I 
 had my hand on the shop door. Then I tore it 
 away and hurried into Oxford Street. Then I 
 slunk back again. Self whispered. " Buy them 
 for your brother." Conscience said, "Go home." 
 At last I braced myself up for a magnificent effort, 
 and jumped into a 'bus bound for London Bridge. 
 This saved me for the time. 
 
 I now began to calculate how I could become 
 owner of the meerschaums prior to dispatching 
 them by parcel-post to my brother without pay- 
 ing for them. That was my way of putting it. 
 I calculated that by giving up my daily paper I 
 should save thirteen shillings in six months. 
 After all, why should I take in a daily paper? To 
 read through columns of public speeches and 
 police cases and murders in Paris is only to squan- 
 der valuable time. Now, when I left home I 
 promised my father not to waste my time. My 
 father had been very good to me ; why, then, 
 should I do that which I had promised him not 
 to do ? Then, again, there were the theaters. 
 During the past six months I had spent several 
 pounds on theaters. Was this right ? My mother.
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 207 
 
 who has never, I think, been in a theater, strongly 
 advised me against frequenting such places. I 
 did not take this much to heart at the time. 
 Theaters did not seem to me to be immoral. But, 
 after all, my mother is older than I am ; and who 
 am I, to set my views up against hers ? By avoid- 
 ing the theaters for the next six months, I am 
 (already), say, three pounds to the good. I had 
 been frittering away my money, too, on luxuries ; 
 and luxuries are effeminate. Thinking the matter 
 over temperately and calmly in that way, I saw 
 that I should be thoughtfully saving money, in- 
 stead of spending it, by buying Romulus and 
 Remus, as I already called them. At the same 
 time, I should be gratifying my father and my 
 mother, and leading a higher and a nobler life. 
 Even then I do not know that I should have 
 bought the pipes until the six months were up, 
 had I not been driven to it by jealousy. On my 
 life, love for a pipe is ever like love for a woman, 
 though they say it is not so acute. Many a man 
 thinks there is no haste to propose until he sees a 
 hated rival approaching. Even if he is not in a 
 hurry for the lady himself, he loathes the idea of 
 her giving herself, in a moment of madness, 
 to that other fellow. Rather than allow that, 
 he proposes himself, and so insures her happi- 
 ness. It was so with me. Romulus and Remus 
 were taken from the window to show to a black- 
 bearded, swarthy man, whom I suspected of de- 
 signs upon them the moment he entered the shop. 
 Ah, the agony of waiting until he came out ! He 
 was not worthy of them. I never knew how 
 much I loved them until I had nearly lost them. 
 As soon as he was gone I asked if he had priced 
 them, and was told that he had. He was to call
 
 208 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 again to-morrow. I left a deposit of a guinea, 
 hurried home for more money, and that night 
 Romulus and Remus were mine. But I never 
 really loved them as I loved my brier. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MY TOBACCO-POUCH. 
 
 I ONCE knew a lady who said of her husband 
 that he looked nice when sitting with a rug over 
 him. My female relatives seemed to have the 
 same opinion of my tobacco-pouch ; for they 
 never saw it, even in my own room, without put- 
 ting a book or pamphlet over it. They called it 
 " that thing," and made tongs of their knitting- 
 needles to lift it ; and when I indignantly returned 
 it to my pocket, they raised their hands to signify 
 that I would not listen to reason. It seemed to 
 come natural to other persons to present me with 
 new tobacco-pouches, until I had nearly a score 
 lying neglected in drawers. But I am not the 
 man to desert an old friend that has been with 
 me everywhere and thoroughly knows my ways. 
 Once, indeed, I came near to being unfaithful to 
 my tobacco-pouch, and I mean to tell how 
 partly as a punishment to myself. 
 
 The incident took place several years ago. 
 Gilray and I had set out on a walking tour of the 
 Shakespeare country ; but we separated at Strat- 
 ford, which was to be our starting-point, because 
 he would not wait for me. I am more of a 
 Shakesperean student than Gilray, and Stratford 
 affected me so much that I passed day after day
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 209 
 
 smoking reverently at the hotel door ; while he, 
 being of the pure tourist type (not that I would 
 say a word against Gilray) wanted to rush from 
 one place of interest to another. He did not un- 
 derstand what thoughts came to me as I strolled 
 down the Stratford streets ; and in the hotel, when 
 I lay down on the sofa, he said I was sleeping, 
 though I was really picturing to myself Shakes- 
 peare's boyhood. Gilray even went the length 
 of arguing that it would not be a walking tour at 
 all if we never made a start ; so, upon the whole, 
 I was glad when he departed alone. The next 
 day was a memorable one to me. In the morn- 
 ing I wrote to my London tobacconist for more 
 Arcadia. I had quarreled with both of the Strat- 
 ford tobacconists. The one of them, as soon as 
 he saw my tobacco-pouch, almost compelled me 
 to buy a new one. The second was even more 
 annoying. I paid with a half sovereign for the to- 
 bacco I had got from him ; but after gazing at the 
 pouch he became suspicious of the coin, and 
 asked if I could not pay him in silver. An insult 
 to my pouch I considered an insult to myself; so 
 I returned to those shops no more. The evening 
 of the day on which I wrote to London for to- 
 bacco brought me a letter from home saying that 
 my sister was seriously ill. I had left her in good 
 health, so that the news was the more distressing. 
 Of course I returned home by the first train. Sit- 
 ting alone in a dull railway compartment, my 
 heart was filled with tenderness, and I recalled 
 the occasions on which I had carelessly given 
 her pain. Suddenly I remembered that more than 
 once she had besought me with tears in her eyes 
 to fling away my old tobacco-pouch. She had 
 always said that it was not respectable. In the 
 14
 
 2 1 o MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 bitterness of self-reproach I pulled the pouch from 
 my pocket, asking myself whether, after all, the 
 love of a good woman was not a far more precious 
 possession. Without giving myself time to hesi- 
 tate, I stood up and firmly cast my old pouch 
 out at the window. I saw it fall at the foot of a 
 fence. The train shot on. 
 
 By the time I reached home my sister had been 
 pronounced out of danger. Of course I was much 
 relieved to hear it, but at the same time this was 
 a lesson to me not to act rashly. The retention 
 of my tobacco-pouch would not have retarded 
 her recovery, and I could not help picturing my 
 pouch, my oldest friend in the world, lying at 
 the foot of that fence. I saw that I had done a 
 wrong in casting it from me. I had not even 
 the consolation of feeling that if any one found it 
 he would cherish it, for it was so much damaged 
 that I knew it could never appeal to a new owner 
 as it appealed to me. I had intended telling my 
 sister of the sacrifice made for her sake ; but 
 after seeing her so much better, I left the room 
 without doing so. There was Arcadia Mixture 
 in the house, but I had not the heart to smoke. 
 I went early to bed, and fell into a troubled sleep, 
 from which I awoke with a shiver. The rain was 
 driving against my window, tapping noisily on 
 it as if calling on me to awake and go back for 
 my tobacco-pouch. It rained far on into the 
 morning, and I lay miserably, seeing nothing be- 
 fore me but a wet fence, and a tobacco-pouch 
 among the grass at the foot of it 
 
 On the following afternoon I was again at 
 Stratford. So far as I could remember, I had 
 flung away the pouch within a few miles of the 
 station ; but I did not look for it until dusk. I
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. * 1 1 
 
 felt that the porters had their eyes on me. By 
 crouching along hedges I at last reached the rail- 
 way a mile or two from the station, and began 
 my search. It may be thought that the chances 
 were against my finding the pouch ; but I re- 
 covered it without much difficulty. The scene as I 
 flung my old friend out at the window had burned 
 itself into my brain, and I could go to the spot 
 to-day as readily as I went on that occasion. 
 There it was, lying among the grass, but not 
 quite in the place where it had fallen. Ap- 
 parently some navvy had found it, looked at it, 
 and then dropped it. It was half full of water, 
 and here and there it was sticking together ; but 
 I took it up tenderly, and several times on the way 
 back to the station I felt in my pocket to make sure 
 that it was really there. 
 
 I have not described the appearance of my 
 pouch, feeling that to be unnecessary. It never, 
 I fear, quite recovered from its night in the rain, 
 and as my female relatives refused to touch it, I 
 had to sew it together now and then myself. 
 Gilray used to boast of a way of mending a hole 
 in a tobacco-pouch that was better than sewing. 
 You put the two pieces of gutta-percha close to- 
 gether, and then cut them sharply with scissors. 
 This makes them run together, he says, and I 
 believed him until he experimented upon my 
 pouch. However, I did not object to a hole here 
 and there. Wherever I laid that pouch it left a 
 small deposit of tobacco, and thus I could gener- 
 ally get together a pipeful at times when other 
 persons would be destitute. I never told my 
 sister that my pouch was once all but lost, but 
 ever after that, when she complained that I had 
 never even tried to do without it, I smiled tenderly.
 
 * 1 2 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 MY SMOKING-TABLK. 
 
 HAD it not been for a bootblack at Charing 
 Cross I should probably never have bought the 
 smoking-table. I had to pass that boy every 
 morning. In vain did I scowl at him, or pass 
 with my head to the side. He always pointed 
 derisively (as I thought) at my boots. Probably 
 my boots were speckless, but that made no differ- 
 ence ; he jeered and sneered. I have never hated 
 any one as 1 loathed that boy, and to escape him 
 I took to going round by the Lowther Arcade. 
 It was here that my eye fell on the smoking-table. 
 In the Lowther Arcade, if the attendants catch 
 you looking at any article for a fraction of a 
 second, it is done up in brown paper, you have 
 paid your money, and they have taken down 
 your address before you realize that you don't 
 want anything. In this way I became the owner 
 of my smoking-table, and when I saw it in a 
 brown-paper parcel on my return to my chambers 
 I could not think what it was until I cut the 
 strings. Such a little gem of a table no smokers 
 should be without ; and I am not ashamed to say 
 that I was in love with mine as soon as I had 
 fixed the pieces together. It was of walnut, and 
 consisted mainly of a stalk and two round slabs 
 not much bigger than dinner-plates. There were 
 holes in the center of these slabs for the stalk to 
 go through, and the one slab stood two feet from 
 the floor, the other a foot higher. The lower slab
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TIN'S. 13 
 
 was fitted with a walnut tobacco-jar and a pipe 
 rack, while on the upper slab were exquisite little 
 recesses for cigars, cigarettes, matches, and ashes. 
 These held respectively three cigars, two ciga- 
 rettes, and four wax vestas. The smoking-table 
 was an ornament to any room ; and the first night 
 I had it I raised my eyes from my book to look 
 at it every few minutes. I got all my pipes to- 
 gether and put them in the rack ; I filled the jar 
 with tobacco, the recesses with three cigars, two 
 cigarettes, and four matches ; and then I thought 
 I would have a smoke. I swept my hand con- 
 fidently along the mantelpiece, but it did not stop 
 at a pipe. I rose and looked for a pipe. I had 
 half a dozen, but not one was to be seen none 
 on the mantel-piece, none on the window-sill, 
 none on the hearth-rug, none being used as book- 
 markers. I tugged at the bell till William John 
 came in quaking, and then I asked him fiercely 
 what he had done with my pipes. I was so 
 obviously not to be trifled with that William John, 
 as we called him, because some thought his name 
 was William, while others thought it was John, 
 very soon handed me my favorite pipe, which he 
 found in the rack on the smoking-table. This in- 
 cident illustrates one of the very few drawbacks 
 of smoking-tables. Not being used to them, you 
 forgot about them. William John, however, took 
 the greatest pride in the table, and whenever he 
 saw a pipe lying on the rug he pounced upon it 
 and placed it, like a prisoner, in the rack. He 
 was also most particular about the three cigars, 
 the two cigarettes, and the four wax vestas, keep- 
 ing them carefully in the proper compartments, 
 where, unfortunately, I seldom thought of looking 
 for them.
 
 314 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 The fatal defect of the smoking-table, however, 
 was that it was generally rolling about the floor 
 the stalk in one corner, the slabs here and there, 
 the cigars on the rug to be trampled on, the lid 
 of the tobacco-jar beneath a chair. Every morn- 
 ing William John had to put the table together. 
 Sometimes I had knocked it over accidentally. I 
 would fling a crumpled piece of paper into the 
 waste-paper basket. It missed the basket but 
 hit the smoking-table, which went down like a 
 wooden soldier. When my fire went out, just 
 because I had taken my eyes off it for a moment, 
 I called it names and flung the tongs at it. There 
 was a crash the smoking-table again. In time 
 I might have remedied this ; but there is one 
 weakness which I could not stand in any smok- 
 ing-table. A smoking-table ought to be so con- 
 structed that from where you are sitting you can 
 stretch out your feet, twist them round the stalk, 
 and so lift the table to the spot where it will be 
 handiest. This my smoking-table would never 
 do. The moment I had it in the air it wanted to 
 stand on its head. 
 
 Though I still admired smoking-tables as much 
 as ever, I began to want very much to give this 
 one away. The difficulty was not so much to 
 know whom to give it to as how to tie it up. My 
 brother was the very person, for I owed him a 
 letter, and this, I thought, would do instead. 
 For a month I meant to pack the table up and 
 send it to him ; but I always put off doing it, and 
 at last I thought the best plan would be to give it 
 to Scrymgeour, who liked elegant furniture. As 
 a smoker, Scrymgeour seemed the very man to 
 appreciate a pretty, useful little table. Besides, 
 all I had to do was to send William John down
 
 M Y LAD Y NICO TINE. 215 
 
 with it. Scrymgeour was out at the time; but 
 we left it at the side of his fireplace as a pleasant 
 surprise. Next morning, to my indignation, it 
 was back at the side of my fireplace, and in the 
 evening Scrymgeour came and upbraided me for 
 trying, as he most unworthily expressed it, " to 
 palm the thing off on him." He was no sooner 
 gone than I took the table to pieces to send it to 
 my brother. I tied the stalk up in brown paper, 
 meaning to get a box for the other parts. William 
 John sent off the stalk, and for some days the 
 other pieces littered the floor. My brother wrote 
 me saying he had received something from me, 
 for which his best thanks ; but would I tell him 
 what it was, as it puzzled everybody ? This was 
 his impatient way ; but I made an effort, and sent 
 off the other pieces to him in a hat-box. 
 
 That was a year ago, and since then I have 
 only heard the history of the smoking-table in 
 fragments. My brother liked it immensely ; but 
 he thought it was too luxurious for a married man, 
 so he sent it to Reynolds, in Edinburgh. Not 
 knowing Reynolds, I cannot say what his opinion 
 was ; but soon afterward I heard of its being in 
 the possession of Grayson, who was charmed 
 with it, but gave it to Pelle, because it was hardly 
 in its place in a bachelor's establishment. Later 
 a town man sent it to a country gentleman as 
 just the thing for the country; and it was after- 
 ward in Liverpool as the very thing for a town. 
 There I thought it was lost, so far as I was con- 
 cerned. One day, however, Boyd, a friend of 
 mine who lives in Glasgow, came to me for a 
 week, and about six hours afterward he said that 
 he had a present for me. He brought it into my 
 sitting-room a bulky parcel and while he was
 
 2 16 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 undoing the cords he told me it was something 
 quite novel ; he had bought it in Glasgow the day 
 before. When I saw a walnut leg I started ; in 
 another two minutes I was trying to thank Boyd 
 for my own smokir. g-table. I recognized it by 
 the dents. I was too much the gentleman to in- 
 sist on an explanation from Boyd ; but, though it 
 seems a harsh thing to say, my opinion is that 
 these different persons gave the table away be- 
 cause they wanted to get rid of it William John 
 has it now. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 OILRAY. 
 
 GILRAY is an actor, whose life I may be said to 
 have strangely influenced, for it was I who brought 
 him and the Arcadia Mixture together. After that 
 his coming to live on our stair was only a matter 
 of rooms being vacant. 
 
 We met first in the Meredith's house-boat, the 
 "Tawny Owl," which was then lying at Molesey. 
 Gilray, as I soon saw, was a man trying to be 
 miserable, and finding it the hardest task in life. 
 It is strange that the philosophers have never hit 
 upon this profound truth. No man ever tried 
 harder to be unhappy than Gilray ; but the luck 
 was against him, and he was always forgetting 
 himself. Mark Tapley succeeded in being jolly 
 in adverse circumstances ; Gilray failed, on the 
 whole, in being miserable in a delightful house- 
 boat. It is, however, so much more difficult to 
 keep up misery than jollity that I like to think of
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. a 1 7 
 
 his attempt as what the dramatic critics call succts 
 d'estime. 
 
 The "Tawny Owl" lay on the far side of the 
 island. There were ladies in it ; and Gilray's 
 misery was meant tt> date from the moment when 
 he asked one of them a question, and she said 
 "No.'' Gilray was strangely unlucky during the 
 whole of his time on board. His evil genius was 
 there, though there was very little room for him, 
 and played sad pranks. Up to the time of his 
 asking the question referred to, Gilray meant to 
 create a pleasant impression by being jolly, and 
 he only succeeded in being as depressing as 
 Jaques. Afterward he was to be unutterably 
 miserable ; and it was all he could do to keep 
 himself at times from whirling about in waltz 
 tune. But then the nearest boat had a piano on 
 board, and some one was constantly playing 
 dance music. Gilray had an idea that it would 
 have been the proper thing to leave Molesey when 
 she said "No;" and he would have done so 
 had not the barbel fishing been so good. The 
 barbel fishing was altogether unfortunate at 
 least Gilray's passion for it was. I have thought 
 and so sometimes has Gilray that if it had not 
 been for a barbel she might not have said "No." 
 He was fishing from the house-boat when he asked 
 the question. You know how you fish from a 
 house-boat. The line is flung into the water 
 and the rod laid down on deck. You keep an 
 a eye on it. Barbel fishing, in fact, reminds one 
 of the independent sort of man who is quite will- 
 ing to play host to you, but wishes you clearly to 
 understand at the same time that he can do with- 
 out you. "Glad to see you with us if you have 
 nothing better to do ; but please yourself," is
 
 2 18 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 what he says to his friends. This is also the form 
 of invitation to barbel. Now it happened that she 
 and Gilray were left alone in the house-boat. It 
 was evening ; some Chinese lanterns had been 
 lighted, and Gilray, though you would not think 
 it to look at him, is romantic. He cast his line, 
 and, turning to his companion, asked her the 
 question. From what he has told me he asked 
 it very properly, and all seemed to be going well. 
 She turned away her head (which is said not to 
 be a bad sign) and had begun to reply, when a 
 woful thing happened. The line stiffened, and 
 there was a whirl of the reel. Who can withstand 
 that music? You can ask a question at anytime, 
 but, even at Molesey, barbel are only to be got 
 now and then. Gilray rushed to his rod and be- 
 gan playing the fish. He called to his companion 
 to get the landing net. She did so ; and after 
 playing his barbel for ten minutes Gilray landed 
 it. Then he turned to her again, and she said 
 "No." 
 
 Gilray sees now that he made a mistake in not 
 departing that night by the last train. He over- 
 estimated his strength. However, we had some- 
 thing to do with his staying on, and he persuaded 
 himself that he remained just to show her that she 
 had ruined his life. Once, I believe, he repeated 
 his question ; but in reply she only asked him if 
 he had caught any more barbel. Considering the 
 surprisingly fine weather, the barbel fishing, and 
 the piano on the other boat, Gilray was perhaps 
 as miserable as could reasonably have been ex- 
 pected. Where he ought to have scored best, 
 however, he was most unlucky. She had a ham- 
 mock swung between two trees, close to the boat, 
 and there she lay, holding a novel in her hand.
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 2 19 
 
 From the hammock she had a fine view of the 
 deck, and this was Gilray's chance. As soon as 
 he saw her comfortably settled, he pulled a long 
 face and climbed on deck. There he walked up 
 and down, trying to look the image of despair. 
 When she made some remark to him, his plan 
 was to show that, though he answered cor- 
 dially, his cheerfulness was the result of a terrible 
 inward struggle. He did not contrive to accom- 
 plish this if he was waiting for her observation ; 
 but she sometimes took him unawares, starting a 
 subject in which he was interested. Then, for- 
 getting his character, he would talk eagerly or 
 jest with her across the strip of water, until with 
 a start he remembered what he had become. He 
 would seek to recover himself after that ; but of 
 course it was too late to create a really lasting 
 impression. Even when she left him alone, 
 watching him, I fear, over the top of her novel, he 
 disappointed himself. For five minutes or so 
 everything would go well ; he looked as dejected 
 as possible ; but as he felt he was succeeding he 
 became so self-satisfied that he began to strut. 
 A pleased expression crossed his face, and instead 
 of allowing his head to hang dismally, he put it 
 well back. Sometimes, when we wanted to please 
 him, we said he looked as glum as a mute at a 
 funeral. Even that, however, defeated his object, 
 for it flattered him so much that he smiled with 
 gratification. 
 
 Gilray made one great sacrifice by giving up 
 smoking, though not indeed such a sacrifice as 
 mine, for up to this time he did not know the 
 Arcadia Mixture. Perhaps the only time he really 
 did look as miserable as he wished was late at 
 night when we men sat up for a second last pipe
 
 220 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 before turning in. He looked wistfully at us from 
 a corner. Yet as She had gone to rest, cruel fate 
 made this of little account. His gloomy face 
 saddened us too, and we tried to entice him to 
 shame by promising not to mention it to the 
 ladies. He almost yielded, and showed us that 
 while we smoked he had been holding his empty 
 brier in his right hand. For a moment he hesi- 
 tated, then said fiercely that he did not care for 
 smoking. Next night he was shown a novel, the 
 hero of which had been "refused." Though the 
 lady's hard-heartedness had a terrible effect on this 
 fine fellow, he " strode away blowing great 
 clouds into the air. " ' ' Standing there smoking in 
 the moonlight," the authoress says in her next 
 chapter, "De Courcy was a strangely romantic 
 figure. He looked like a man who had done 
 everything, who had been through the furnace 
 and had not come out of it unscathed." This 
 was precisely what Gilray wanted to look like. 
 Again he hesitated, and then put his pipe in his 
 pocket. 
 
 It was now that I approached him with the 
 Arcadia Mixture. I seldom recommend the 
 Arcadia to men whom I do not know intimately, 
 lest in the after years I should find them unworthy 
 of it But just as Aladdin doubtless rubbed his 
 lamp at times for show, there were occasions 
 when I was ostentatiously liberal. If, after try- 
 ing the Arcadia, the lucky smoker to whom I 
 presented it did not start or seize my hand, or 
 otherwise show that something exquisite had 
 come into his life, I at once forgot his name and 
 his existence. I approached Gilray, then, and 
 without a word handed him my pouch, while the 
 others drew nearer. Nothing was to be heard
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. i 
 
 but the water oozing out and in beneath the 
 house-boat. Gilray pushed the tobacco from 
 him, as he might have pushed a bag of dia- 
 monds that he mistook for pebbles. I placed it 
 against his arm, and motioned to the others not 
 to look. Then I sat down beside Gilray, and 
 almost smoked into his eyes. Soon the aroma 
 reached him, and rapture struggled into his face. 
 Slowly his fingers fastened on the pouch. He 
 filled his pipe without knowing what he was do- 
 ing, and I handed him a lighted spill. He took 
 perhaps three puffs, and then gave me a look of 
 reverence that I know well. It only comes to a 
 man once in all its glory the first time he tries 
 the Arcadia Mixture but it never altogether 
 leaves him. 
 
 ' ' Where do you get it ? " Gilray whispered, in 
 hoarse delight. 
 
 The Arcadia had him for its own. 
 
 HARRIOT. 
 
 I HAVE hinted that Harriot was our sentimental 
 member. He was seldom sentimental until after 
 midnight, and then only when he and I were 
 alone. Why he should have chosen me as the 
 pail into which to pour his troubles I cannot say. 
 I let him talk on, and when he had ended I 
 showed him plainly that I had been thinking most 
 of the time about something else. Whether 
 Harriot was entirely a humbug or the most con- 
 scientious person on our stair, readers may de-
 
 222 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 cide. He was fond of argument if you did not 
 answer him, and often wanted me to tell him if I 
 thought he was in love ; if so, why did I think 
 so; if not, why not. What makes me on reflec- 
 tion fancy that he was sincere is that in his state- 
 ments he would let his pipe go out. 
 t Of course I cannot give his words, but he 
 would wait till all my other guests had gone, then 
 softly lock the door, and returning to the cane 
 chair empty himself in some such way as this : 
 
 " I have something I want to talk to you about. 
 Pass me a spill. Well, it is this. Before I came 
 to your rooms to-night I was cleaning my pipe, 
 when all at once it struck me that I might be in 
 love. This is the kind of shock that pulls a man 
 up and together. My first thought was, if it be 
 love, well and good ; I shall go on. As a gentle- 
 man I know my duty both to her and to myself. 
 At present, however, I am not certain which she 
 is. In love there are no degrees ; of that at least 
 I feel positive. It is a tempestuous, surging 
 passion, or it is nothing. The question for me, 
 therefore, is, Is this the beginning of a tempestu- 
 ous, surging passion ? But stop ; does such a 
 passion have a beginning ? Should it not be in 
 flood before we know what we are about ? I 
 don't want you to answer. 
 
 "One of my difficulties is that I cannot reason 
 from experience. I cannot say to myself, Dur- 
 ing the spring of 1886, and again in October, 
 1888, your breast has known the insurgence of 
 a tempestuous passion. Do you now note the 
 same symptoms? Have you experienced a 
 sudden sinking at the heart, followed by thrills 
 of exultation ? Now I cannot even say that my 
 appetite has fallen off, but I am smoking more
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 223 
 
 than ever, and it is notorious that I experience 
 sudden chills and thrills. Is this passion ? No, 
 I am not done ; I have only begun. 
 
 " In 'As You Like it,' you remember, the love 
 symptoms are described at length. But is Rosa- 
 lind to be taken seriously ? Besides, though she 
 wore boy's clothes, she had only the woman's 
 point of view. I have consulted Stevenson's 
 chapters on love in his delightful 'Virginibus 
 Puerisque,' and one of them says, 'Certainly, if 
 I .could help it, I would never marry a wife who 
 wrote.' Then I noticed a book published after 
 that one, and entitled, ' The New Arabian Nights, 
 by Mr. and Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson.' I 
 shut 'Virginibus Puerisque' with a sigh, and put 
 it away. 
 
 "But this inquiry need not, I feel confident, 
 lead to nothing. Negatively I know love ; for I do 
 not require to be told what it is not, and I have 
 my ideal. Putting my knowledge together and 
 surveying it dispassionately in the mass, I am 
 inclined to think that this is really love. 
 
 "I may lay down as Proposition I. that surg- 
 ing, tempestuous passion comes involuntarily. 
 You are heart-whole, when, as it were, the gates 
 of your bosom open, in she sweeps, and the gates 
 closes. So far this is a faithful description of my 
 case. Whatever it is, it came "without any desire 
 or volition on my part, and it looks as if it meant 
 to stay. What I ask myself is first, What is it ? 
 secondly, Where is it? thirdly, Who is it? and 
 fourthly, What shall I do with it ? I have thus 
 my work cut out for me. 
 
 "What is it? I reply that I am stumped at 
 once, unless I am allowed to fix upon an object 
 definitely and precisely. This, no doubt, is argu-
 
 224- MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 
 
 ing in a circle ; but Descartes himself assumed 
 what he was to try to prove. This, then, being 
 permitted, I have chosen my object, and we can 
 now go on again. What is it? Some might 
 evade the difficulty by taking a middle course. 
 You are not, they might say, in love as yet, but 
 you are on the brink of it. The lady is no idol 
 to you at present, but neither is she indifferent. 
 You would not walk four miles in wet weather 
 to get a rose from her ; but if she did present 
 you with a rose, you would not willingly drop it 
 down an area. In short you have all but lost 
 your heart. To this I reply simply, love is not a 
 process, it is an event. You may unconsciously 
 be on the brink of it, when all at once the ground 
 gives way beneath you, and in you go. The 
 difference between love and not-love, if I may be 
 allowed the word, being so wide, my inquiry 
 should produce decisive results. On the whole, 
 therefore, and in the absence of direct proof to 
 the contrary, I believe that the passion of love 
 does possess me. 
 
 "Where is it? This is the simplest question 
 of the four. It is in the heart. It fills the heart 
 to overflowing, so that if there were one drop 
 more the heart would run over. Love is thus 
 plainly a liquid : which accounts to some extent 
 for its well-recognized habit of surging. Among 
 its effects this may be noted : that it makes you 
 miserable if you be not by the loved one's side. 
 To hold her hand is ecstasy, to press it, rapture. 
 The fond lover as it might be myself sees his 
 beloved depart on a railway journey with appre- 
 hension. He never ceases to remember that 
 engines burst and trains run off the line. In an 
 agony he awaits the telegram that tells him she
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 225 
 
 has reached Shepherd's Bush in safety. When 
 he sees her talking, as if she liked it, to another 
 man, he is torn, he is rent asunder, he is dis- 
 membered by jealousy. He walks beneath her 
 window till the policeman sees him home ; and 
 when he wakes in the morning, it is to murmur 
 her name to himself until he falls asleep again 
 and is late for the office. Well, do. 1 experience 
 such sensations, or do I not ? Is this love, after 
 all ? Where are the spills ? 
 
 "I have been taking for granted that I know 
 who it is. But is this wise? Nothing puzzles 
 me so much as the way some men seem to know, 
 by intuition, as it were, which is the woman for 
 whom they have a passion. They take a girl 
 from among their acquaintance, and never seem 
 to understand that they may be taking the wrong 
 one. However, with certain reservations, I do 
 not think I go too far in saying that I know who 
 she is. There is one other, indeed, that I have 
 sometimes thought but it fortunately happens 
 that they are related, so that in any case I can- 
 not go far wrong. After I have seen them again, 
 or at least before I propose, I shall decide defi- 
 nitely on this point. * 
 
 'We have now advanced as far as Query IV. 
 Now, what is to be done ? Let us consider this 
 calmly. In the first place, have I any option in 
 the matter, or is love a hurricane that carries one 
 hither and thither as a bottle is tossed in a chop- 
 ping sea? I reply that it all depends on myself. 
 Rosalind would say no ; that we are without con- 
 trol over love. But Rosalind was a woman. It 
 is probably true that a woman cannot conquer 
 love. Man, being her ideal in the abstract, is 
 irresistible to her in the concrete. But man,
 
 226 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 being an intellectual creature, can make a mag- 
 nificent effort and cast love out. Should I think it 
 advisable, I do not question my ability to open 
 the gates of my heart and bid her go. That 
 would be a serious thing for her ; and, as man is 
 powerful, so, I think, should he be merciful. She 
 has, no doubt, gained admittance, as it were, 
 furtively ; but can I, as a gentleman, send away 
 a weak, confiding woman who loves me simply 
 because she cannot help it? Nay, more, in a 
 pathetic case of this kind, have I not a certain 
 responsibility ? Does not her attachment to me 
 give her a claim upon me? She saw me, and 
 love came to her. She looks upon me as the 
 noblest and best of my sex. I do not say I am ; 
 it may be that I am not. But I have the child's 
 happiness in my hands ; can I trample it beneath 
 my feet? It seems to be my plain duty to take 
 her to me. 
 
 " But there are others to consider. For me, 
 would it not be the better part to show her that 
 the greatest happiness of the greatest number 
 should be my first consideration ? Certainly there 
 is nothing in a man I despise more than conceit 
 in affairs of this sort. When I hear one of my 
 sex boasting of his ' conquests,' J turn from him 
 in disgust. 'Conquest' implies effort; and to 
 lay one's self out for victories over the other sex 
 always reminds me of pigeon-shooting. On the 
 other hand, we must make allowances for our 
 position of advantage. These little ones come into 
 contact with us ; they see us, athletic, beautiful, in 
 the hunting-field or at the wicket ; they sit beside us 
 at dinner and listen to our brilliant conversation. 
 They have met us, and the mischief is done. 
 Every man except, perhaps, yourself and Jimmy
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 227 
 
 knows the names of a few dear girls who have 
 lost their hearts to him some more, some less. I 
 do not pretend to be in a different position from 
 my neighbors, or in a better one. To some slight 
 extent I may be to blame. But, after all, when 
 a man sees cheeks redden and eyes brighten at 
 his approach, he loses prudence. At the time he 
 does not think what may be the consequences. 
 But the day comes when he sees that he must 
 take heed what he is about. He communes with 
 himself about the future, and if he be a man of 
 honor he maps out in his mind the several courses 
 it is allowed him to follow, and chooses that one 
 which he may tread with least pain to others. 
 May that day for introspection come to few as it 
 has come to me. Love is, indeed, a madness in 
 the brain. Good-night." 
 
 When he finished I would wake up, open the 
 door for Harriot, and light him to his sleeping- 
 chamber with a spill. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 JIMMY. 
 
 WITH the exception of myself, Jimmy Moggridge 
 was no doubt the most silent of the company that 
 met so frequently in my rooms. Just as Harriot's 
 eyebrows rose if the cane chair was not empty 
 when he strode in, Jimmy held that he had 
 a right to the hearth-rug, on which he loved to 
 lie prone, his back turned to the company and 
 his eyes on his pipe. The stem was a long cherry- 
 wood, but the bowl was meerschaum, and Jimmy,
 
 228 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 as he smoked, lay on the alert, as it were, to see 
 the meerschaum coloring. So one may strain his 
 eyes with intent eagerness until he can catch the 
 hour-hand of a watch in action. With tobacco 
 in his pocket Jimmy could refill his pipe without 
 moving, but sometimes he crawled along the 
 hearth-rug to let the firelight play more exqui- 
 sitely on his meerschaum bowl. In time, of course, 
 the Arcadia Mixture made him more and more 
 like the rest of us, but he retained his individual- 
 ity until he let his bowl fall off. Otherwise he 
 only differed from us in one way. When he saw 
 a match-box he always extracted a few matches 
 and put them dreamily into his pocket. There 
 were times when, with a sharp blow on Jimmy's 
 person, we could doubtless have had him blazing 
 like a chandelier. 
 
 Jimmy was a barrister though this is scarcely 
 worth mentioning and it had been known to us 
 for years that he made a living by contributing 
 to the "Saturday Review." How the secret 
 leaked out I. cannot say with certainty. Jimmy 
 never forced it upon us, and I cannot remember 
 any paragraphs in the London correspondence of 
 the provincial papers coupling his name with 
 "Saturday" articles. On the other hand, I dis- 
 tinctly recall having to wait one day in his cham- 
 bers while Jimmy was shaving, and noticing 
 accidentally a long, bulky envelope on his table, 
 with the " Saturday Review's " mystic crest on it. 
 It was addressed to Jimmy, and contained, I con- 
 cluded, a bundle of proofs. That was so long 
 ago as 1885. If further evidence is required, 
 there is the undoubted fact, to which several of 
 us could take oath, that, at Oxford, Jimmy was 
 notorious for his sarcastic pen nearly being sent
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. z 2$ 
 
 down, indeed, for the same. Again, there was 
 the certainty that for years Jimmy had been en- 
 gaged upon literary work of some kind. We had 
 been with him buying the largest-sized scribbling 
 paper in the market ; we had heard him mutter- 
 ing to himself as if in pain ; and we had seen him 
 correcting proof-sheets. When we caught him at 
 them he always thrust the proofs into a drawer 
 which he locked by putting his leg on it for the 
 ordinary lock was broken and remaining in that 
 position till we had retired. Though he rather 
 shunned the subject as a rule, he admitted to us 
 that the work was journalism and not a sarcastic 
 history of the nineteenth century, on which we 
 felt he would come out strong. Lastly, Jimmy 
 had lost the brightness of his youth, and was be- 
 come silent and moody, which is well known to 
 be the result of writing satire. 
 
 Were it not so notorious that the thousands who 
 write regularly for the " Saturday" have reasons 
 of their own for keeping it dark and merely ad- 
 mitting the impeachment with a nod or smile, 
 we might have marveled at Jimmy's reticence. 
 There were, however, moments when he thawed 
 so far as practically to allow, and everyone knows 
 what that means, that the "Saturday" was his 
 chief source of income. " Only," he would add, 
 " should you be acquainted with the editor, don't 
 mention my contributions to him." From this 
 we saw that Jimmy and the editor had an under- 
 standing on the subject, though we were never 
 agreed which of them it was who had sworn the 
 other to secrecy. We were proud of Jimmy's 
 connection with the press, and every week we 
 discussed his latest article. Jimmy never told us, 
 except in a roundabout way, which were his
 
 230 MY LAD Y MICOTIME. 
 
 articles ; but we knew his style, and it was quite 
 exhilarating to pick out his contributions week 
 by week. We were never baffled, for "Jimmy's 
 touches" were unmistakable; and, "Have you 
 seen Jimmy this week in the ' Saturday' on Lewis 
 Morris?" or, "I say, do you think Buchanan 
 knows it was Jimmy who wrote that ? " was what 
 we said when we had lighted our pipes. 
 
 Now I come to the incident that drew from 
 Jimmy his extraordinary statement. I was smok- 
 ing with him in his rooms one evening, when a 
 clatter at his door was followed by a thud on the 
 floor. I knew as well as Jimmy what had happened. 
 In his pre-" Saturday" days he had no letter-box, 
 only a slit in the door ; and through this we used 
 to denounce him on certain occasions when we 
 called and he would not let us in. Lately, how- 
 ever, he had fitted up a letter-box himself, which 
 kept together if you opened the door gently, but 
 came clattering to the floor under the weight of 
 heavy letters. The letter to which it had suc- 
 cumbed this evening was quite a package, and 
 could even have been used as a missile. Jimmy 
 snatched it up quickly, evidently knowing the 
 contents by their bulk ; and I was just saying to 
 myself, ' ' More proofs from the ' Saturday, ' " when 
 the letter burst at the bottom, and in a moment 
 a score of smaller letters were tumbling about 
 my feet. In vain did Jimmy entreat me to let 
 him gather them up. I helped, and saw, to my 
 bewilderment, that all the letters were addressed 
 in childish hands to <f Uncle Jim, care of Editor 
 of ' Mothers' Pets. ' " It was impossible that 
 Jimmy could have so many nephews and nieces. 
 
 Seeing that I had him, Jimmy advanced to the 
 hearth-rug as if about to make his statement;
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 431 
 
 then changed his mind, and thrusting a dozen of 
 the letters into my hands, invited me to read. 
 The first letter ran : " Dearest Uncle Jim, I must 
 tell you about my canary. I love my canary 
 very much. It is a yellow canary, and it sings 
 so sweetly. I keep it in a cage, and it is so 
 tame. Mamma and me wishes you would come 
 and see us and our canary. Dear Uncle Jim, I 
 love you. Your little friend, Milly (aged four 
 years." Here is the second: " Dear Uncle Jim, 
 You will want to know about my blackbird. 
 It sits in a tree and picks up the crumbs on the 
 window, and Thomas wants to shoot it for eating 
 the cherries ; but I won't let Thomas shoot it, for 
 it is a nice blackbird, and I have wrote all this 
 myself. Your loving little Bobby (aged five 
 years)." In another, Jacky (aged four and a 
 half) described his parrot, and I have also vague 
 recollections of Harry (aged six) on his chaffinch, 
 and Archie (five) on his linnet. "What does it 
 mean ? " I demanded of Jimmy, who, while I 
 read, had been smoking savagely. "Don't you 
 see they are in for the prize ! " he growled. Then 
 he made his statement 
 
 "I have never," Jimmy said, "contributed to 
 the 'Saturday,' nor, indeed, to any well-known 
 paper. That, however, was only because the 
 editors would not meet me half-way. After many 
 disappointments, fortune whether good or bad, 
 I cannot say introduced me to the editor of 
 'Mothers' Pets,' a weekly journal whose title 
 sufficiently suggests its character. Though you 
 may never have heard of it, ' Mothers' Pets ' has 
 a wide circulation and is a great property. I was 
 asked to join the staff under the name of 'Uncle 
 Jim,' and did not see my way to refuse. I in-
 
 2$? MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 augurated a new feature. Mothers' pets were cor- 
 dially invited to correspond with me on topics to 
 be suggested week by week, and prizes were to 
 be given for the best letters. This feature has 
 been an enormous success, and I get the most 
 affectionate letters from mothers, consulting me 
 about teething and the like, every week. They 
 say that I am dearer to their children than most 
 real uncles, and they often urge me to go and 
 stay with them. There are lots of kisses awaiting 
 me. I also get similar invitations from the little 
 beasts themselves. Pass the Arcadia." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SCRYMGEOUR. 
 
 SCRYMGEOUR was an artist and a man of means, 
 so proud of his profession that he gave all his 
 pictures fancy prices, and so wealthy that he 
 could have bought them. To him I went when 
 I wanted money though it must not be thought 
 that I borrowed. In the days of the Arcadia 
 Mixture I had no bank account. As my checks 
 dribbled in I stuffed them into a torn leather case 
 that was kept together by a piece of twine, and 
 when Want tapped at my chamber door, I drew 
 out the check that seemed most willing to come, 
 and exchanged with Scrymgeour. In his detesta- 
 tion of argument Scrymgeour resembled myself, 
 but otherwise we differed as much as men may 
 differ who smoke the Arcadia. He read little, yet 
 surprised us by a smattering of knowledge about 
 all important books that had been out for a few
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 233 
 
 months, until we discovered that he got his in> 
 formation from a friend in India. He had also, I 
 remember, a romantic notion that Africa might 
 be civijized by the Arcadia Mixture. As I shall 
 explain presently, his devotion to the Arcadia 
 very nearly married him against his will ; but 
 first I must describe his boudoir. 
 
 We always called it Scrymgeour's boudoir 
 after it had ceased to deserve the censure, just as 
 we called Moggridge Jimmy because he was 
 Jimmy to some of us as a boy. Scrymgeour 
 deserted his fine rooms in Bays water for the inn 
 some months after the Arcadia Mixture had recon- 
 structed him, but his chambers were the best on 
 our stair, and with the help of a workman from 
 the Japanese Village he converted them into an 
 Oriental dream. Our housekeeper thought little 
 of the rest of us while the boudoir was there to 
 be gazed at, and even William John would not 
 spill the coffee in it. When the boudoir was ready 
 for inspection, Scrymgeour led me to it, and as 
 the door opened I suddenly remembered that my 
 boots were muddy. The ceiling was a great 
 Japanese Christmas card representing the heavens ; 
 heavy clouds floated round a pale moon, and 
 with the dusk the stars came out. The walls, 
 instead of being papered, were hung with a soft 
 Japanese cloth, and fantastic figures frolicked 
 round a fireplace that held a bamboo fan. There 
 was no mantelpiece. The room was very small ; 
 but when you wanted a blue velvet desk to write 
 on, you had only to press a spring against the 
 wall ; and if you leaned upon the desk the Jap- 
 anese workmen were ready to make you a new 
 one. There were springs everywhere, shaped 
 like birds and mice and butterflies; and when
 
 234 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 you touched one of them something was sure to 
 come out. Blood-colored curtains separated the 
 room from the alcove where Scrymgeour was to 
 rest by night, and his bed became a bath by 
 simply turning it upside down. On one side of 
 the bed was a wine-bin, with a ladder running up 
 to it. The door of the sitting-room was a sym- 
 phony in gray, with shadowy reptiles crawling 
 across the panels ; and the floor dark, mysteri- 
 ous presented a fanciful picture of the infernal 
 regions. Scrymgeour said hopefully that the 
 place would look cozier after he had his pictures 
 in it ; but he stopped me when I began to fill my 
 pipe. He believed, he said, that smoking was 
 not a Japanese custom ; and there was no use 
 taking Japanese chambers unless you lived up to 
 them. Here was a revelation. Scrymgeour pro- 
 posed to live his life in harmony with these rooms. 
 I felt too sad at heart to say much to him then, 
 but, promising to look in again soon, I shook 
 hands with my unhappy friend and went away. 
 
 It happened, however, that Scrymgeour had 
 been several times in my rooms before I was able 
 to visit him again. My hand was on his door- 
 bell when I noticed a figure I thought I knew 
 lounging at the foot of the stair. It was Scrym- 
 geour himself, and he was smoking the Arcadia. 
 We greeted each other languidly on the doorstep, 
 Scrymgeour assuring me that "Japan in London " 
 was a grand idea. It gave a zest to life, banish- 
 ing the poor, weary conventionalities of one's 
 surroundings. This was said while we still stood 
 at the door, and I began to wonder why Scrym- 
 geour did not enter his rooms. "A beautiful 
 night ! " he said, rapturously. A cruel east wind 
 was blowing. He insisted that evening was the
 
 MY LADY MCOTIN&. 2$$ 
 
 time for thinking and that east winds brace you 
 up. Would I have a cigar ? I would if he asked 
 me inside to smoke it. My friend sighed. "I 
 thought I told you," he said, " that I don't smoke 
 in my chambers. It isn't the thing." Then he 
 explained, hesitatingly, that he hadn't given up 
 smoking. "I come down here," he said, "with 
 my pipe, and walk up and down. I assure you 
 it is quite a new sensation, and I much prefer it 
 to lolling in an easy-chair." The poor fellow 
 shivered as he spoke, and I noticed that his great- 
 coat was tightly buttoned up to the throat. He 
 had a hacking cough and his teeth were chatter- 
 ing. "Let us go in," I said ; "I don't want to 
 smoke." He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, 
 and opened his door with an affectation of 
 gayety. 
 
 The room looked somewhat more home-like 
 now, but it was very cold. Scrymgeour had no 
 fire yet. He had been told that the smoke would 
 blacken his moon. Besides, I question if he 
 would have dared to remove the fan from the fire- 
 place without consulting a Japanese authority. 
 He did not even know whether the Japanese 
 burned coal. I missed a number of the articles of 
 furniture that had graced his former rooms. The 
 easels were gone ; there were none of the old 
 canvases standing against the wall, and he had 
 exchanged his comfortable, plain old screen for 
 one with lizards crawling over it. "It would 
 never have done," he explained, "to spoil the 
 room with English things, so I got in some more 
 Japanese furniture." 
 
 I asked him if he had sold his canvasss ; 
 whereupon he signed me to follow him to the 
 wine-bin. It was full of them. There were no
 
 236 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 newspapers lying about ; but Scrymgeour hoped 
 to manage to take one in by and by. He was 
 only feeling his way at present, he said. In the 
 dim light shed by a Japanese, lamp, I tripped 
 over a rainbow-colored slipper that tapered to the 
 hee and turned up at the toe. "I wonder you 
 can get into these things," I whispered, for the 
 place depressed me ; and he answered, with sim- 
 ilar caution, that he couldn't. "I keep them 
 lying about," he said, confidentially ; "but after 
 I think nobody is likely to call I put on an old 
 pair of English ones." At this point the house- 
 keeper knocked at the door, and Scrymgeour 
 sprung like an acrobat into a Japanese dressing- 
 gown before he cried ' ' Come in ! " As I left I 
 asked him how he felt now, and he said that he 
 had never been so happy in his life. But his hand 
 was hot, and he did not look me in the face. 
 
 Nearly a month elapsed before I looked in 
 again. The unfortunate man had now a Japanese 
 rug over his legs to keep out the cold, and he 
 was gazing dejectedly at an outlandish mess 
 which he called his lunch. He insisted that it 
 was not at all bad ; but it had evidently been on 
 the table some time when I called, and he had 
 not even tasted it. He ordered coffee for my 
 benefit, but I do not care for coffee that has salt 
 in it instead of sugar. I said that I had merely 
 looked in to ask him to an early dinner at the 
 club, and it was touching to see how he grasped 
 at the idea. So complete, however, was his sub- 
 jection to that terrible housekeeper, who believed 
 in his fad, that he dared not send back her dishes 
 untasted. As a compromise I suggested that he 
 could wrap up some of the stuff in paper and 
 drop it quietly into the gutter. We sallied forth,
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 237 
 
 and I found him so weak that he had to be as- 
 sisted into a hansom. He still maintained, how- 
 ever, that Japanese chambers were worth mak- 
 ing some sacrifice for ; and when the other Arca- 
 dians saw his condition they had the delicacy not 
 to contradict him. They thought it was con- 
 sumption. 
 
 If we had not taken Scrymgeour in hand I 
 dare not think what his craze might have reduced 
 him to. A friend asked him into the country 
 for ten days, and of course he was glad to go. 
 As it happened, my chambers were being repa- 
 pered at the time, and Scrymgeour gave me per- 
 mission to occupy his rooms until his return. 
 The other Arcadians agreed to meet me there 
 nightly, and they were indefatigable in their 
 efforts to put the boudoir to rights. Jimmy wrote 
 letters to editors, of a most cutting nature, on the 
 moon, breaking the table as he stepped on and 
 off it, and we gave the butterflies to William 
 John. The reptiles had to crawl off the door, 
 and we made pipe-lights of the Japanese fans. 
 Harriot shot the candles at the mice and birds ; 
 and Gilray, by improvising an entertainment be- 
 hind the blood-red curtains, contrived to give 
 them the dilapidated appearance without which 
 there is no real comfort. In short, the boudoir 
 soon assumed such a homely aspect that Scrym- 
 geour on his return did not recognize it. When 
 he realized where he was he lighted up at once.
 
 2^8 ^y LAD Y N2COTIN&. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 HIS WIFE'S CIGARS. 
 
 THOUGH Pettigrew, who is a much more suc- 
 cessful journalist than Jimmy, says pointedly of 
 his wife that she encourages his smoking instead 
 of putting an end to it, I happen to know that he 
 has cupboard skeletons. Pettigrew has been 
 married for years, and frequently boasted of his 
 wife's interest in smoking, until one night an ac- 
 cident revealed the true state of matters to me. 
 Late in the night, when traffic is hushed and the 
 river has at last a chance of making itself heard, 
 Pettigrew's window opens cautiously, and he 
 casts something wrapped in newspaper into the 
 night. The window is then softly closed, and 
 all is again quiet. At other times Pettigrew steals 
 along the curbstone, dropping his skeletons one 
 by one. Nevertheless, his cupboard beneath the 
 bookcase is so crammed that he dreams the lock 
 has given way. The key is always in his pocket, 
 yet when his children approach the cupboard he 
 orders them away, so fearful is he of something 
 happening. When his wife has retired he some- 
 times unlocks the cupboard with nervous hand, 
 when the door bursts gladly open, and the things 
 roll on to the carpet. They are the cigars his 
 wife gives him as birthday presents, on the an- 
 niversary of his marriage, and at other times, and 
 such a model wife is she that he would do any- 
 thing for her except smoke them. They are Cele- 
 bros, Regalia Rothschilds, twelve and six the
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 239 
 
 hundred I discovered Pettigrew's secret one 
 night, when, as I was passing his house, a pack- 
 age of Celebros alighted on my head. I demand- 
 ed an explanation, and I got it on the promise 
 that I would not mention the matter to the other 
 Arcadians. 
 
 ' ' Several years having elapsed, " said Pettigrew, 
 "since I pretended to smoke and enjoy my first 
 Celebro, I could not now undeceive my wife it 
 would be such a blow to her. At the time it could 
 have been done easily. She began by making trial 
 of a few. There were seven of them in an en- 
 velope ; and I knew at once that she had got them 
 for a shilling. She had heard me saying that 
 eightpence is a sad price to pay for a cigar 
 I prefer them at tenpence and a few days 
 afterward she produced her first Celebros. Each 
 of them had, and has, a gold ribbon round it, 
 bearing the legend, ' Non plus ultra.' She was 
 shy and timid at that time, and I thought it very 
 brave of her to go into the shop herself and ask 
 for the Celebros, as advertised; so I thanked her 
 warmly. When she saw me slipping them into 
 my pocket she looked disappointed, and said 
 that she would like to see me smoking one. My 
 reply would have been that I never cared to 
 smoke in the open air, if she had not often seen 
 me do so. Besides, I wanted to please her very 
 much ; and if what I did was weak I have been 
 severely punished for it. The pocket into which 
 I had thrust the Celebros also contained my cigar- 
 case ; and with my hand in the pocket I covertly 
 felt for a Villar y Villar and squeezed it into the en- 
 velope. This I then drew forth, took out the cigar, 
 as distinguished from the Celebros, and smoked it 
 with unfeigned content. My wife watched me
 
 240 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 eagerly, asking six or eight times how I liked it. 
 From the way she talked of fine rich bouquet and 
 nutty flavor I gathered that she had been in con- 
 versation with the tobacconist, and I told her the 
 cigars were excellent. Yes, they were as choice 
 a brand as I had ever smoked. She clapped her 
 hands joyously at that, and said that if she had not 
 made up her mind never to do so she would tell 
 me what they cost. Next she asked me to guess 
 the price ; I answered eighty shillings a hun- 
 dred ; and then she confessed that she got the 
 seven for a shilling. On our way home she made 
 arch remarks about men who judged cigars 
 simply by their price. I laughed gayly in reply, 
 begging her not to be too hard on me ; and I did 
 not even feel uneasy when she remarked that of 
 course I would never buy those horridly expen- 
 sive Villar y Villars again. When I left her I 
 gave the Celebros to an acquaintance against 
 whom I had long had a grudge we have not 
 spoken since but I preserved the envelope as a 
 pretty keepsake. This, you see, happened shortly 
 before our marriage. 
 
 " I have had a consignment of Celebros every 
 month or two since then, and, dispose of them 
 quietly as I may, they are accumulating in the 
 cupboard. I despise myself; but my guile was 
 kindly meant at first, and every thoughtful man 
 will see the difficulties in the way of a confession 
 now. Who can say what might happen if I were 
 to fling that cupboard door open in presence of 
 my wife ? I smoke less than I used to do ; for 
 if I were to buy my cigars by the box I could not 
 get them smuggled into the house. Besides, she 
 would know I don't say how, I merely make the 
 statement that I had been buying cigars. So I
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 241 
 
 get half a dozen at a time. Perhaps you will 
 sympathize with me when I say that I have had 
 to abandon my favorite brand. I cannot get 
 Villar y Villars that look like Celebros, and my 
 wife is quicker in those matters than she used to 
 be. One day, for instance, she noticed that the 
 cigars in my case had not the gold ribbon round 
 them, and I almost fancied she became suspi- 
 cious. I explained that the ribbon was perhaps a 
 little ostentatious ; but she said it was an intima- 
 tion of nutty flavor : and now I take ribbons off 
 the Celebros and put them on the other cigars. 
 The boxes in which the Celebros arrive have a 
 picturesque design on the lid and a good deal of 
 lace frilling round the edge, and she likes to have 
 a box lying about. The top layer of that box is 
 cigars in gold ribbons, placed there by myself, 
 and underneath are the Celebros. I never get 
 down to the Celebros. 
 
 "For a long time my secret was locked in my 
 breast as carefully as I shall lock my next week's 
 gift away in the cupboard, if I can find room for 
 it ; but a few of my most intimate friends have 
 an inkling of it now. When my friends drop in 
 I am compelled to push the Celebro box toward 
 them, and if they would simply take a cigar and 
 ask no questions all would be well ; for, as I have 
 said, there are cigars on the top. But they spoil 
 everything by remarking that they have not seen 
 the brand before. Should my wife not be present 
 this is immaterial, for I have long had a reputa- 
 tion of keeping good cigars. Then I merely re- 
 mark that it is a new brand ; and they smoke, 
 probably observing that it reminds them of a Ca- 
 bana, which is natural, seeing that it is a Cabana 
 in disguise. If my wife is present, however, she 
 16
 
 242 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 comes forward smiling, and remarks, with a fond 
 look in my direction, that they are her birthday 
 present to her Jack. Then they start back and 
 say they always smoke a pipe. These Celebros 
 were making me a bad name among my friends, 
 so I have given a few of them to understand I 
 don't care to put it more plainly that if they will 
 take a cigar from the top layer they will find it 
 all right. One of them, however, has a personal 
 ill-will to me because my wife told his wife that 
 I preferred Celebro cigars at twelve and six a 
 hundred to any other. Now he is expected to 
 smoke the same ; and he takes his revenge by 
 ostentatiously offering me a Celebro when I call 
 on him." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 GILRAY'S FLOWER-POT. 
 
 I CHARGE Gilray's unreasonableness to his ig- 
 noble passion for cigarettes ; and the story of his 
 flower-pot has therefore an obvious moral. The 
 want of dignity he displayed about that flower- 
 pot, on his return to London, would have made 
 any one sorry for him. I had my own work to 
 look after, and really could not be tending his 
 chrysanthemum all day. After he came back, 
 however, there was no reasoning with him, and 
 I admit that I never did water his plant, though 
 always intending to do so. 
 
 The great mistake was in not leaving the 
 flower-pot in charge of William John. No doubt 
 I readily promised to attend to it, but Gilray de- 
 ceived me by speaking as if the watering of a
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 2 43 
 
 plant was the merest pastime. He had to leave 
 London for a short provincial tour, and, as I see 
 now, took advantage of my good nature. 
 
 As Gilray had owned his flower-pot for several 
 months, during which time (I take him at his 
 word) he had watered it daily, he must have 
 known he was misleading me. He said that you 
 got into the way of watering a flower-pot regu- 
 larly just as you wind up your watch. That cer- 
 tainly is not the case. I always wind up my 
 watch, and I never watered the flower-pot. Of 
 course, if I had been living in Gilray's rooms with 
 the thing always before my eyes I might have 
 done so. I proposed to take it into my chambers 
 at the time, but he would not hear of that. 
 Why ? How Gilray came by this chrysanthemum 
 I do not inquire ; but whether, in the circum- 
 stances, he should not have made a clean breast 
 of it to me is another matter. Undoubtedly it 
 was an unusual thing to put a man to the trouble 
 of watering a chrysanthemum daily without giv- 
 ing him its history. My own belief has always 
 been that he got it in exchange for a pair of boots 
 and his old dressing-gown. He hints that it was 
 a present ; but, as one who knows him well, I 
 may say that he is the last person a lady would 
 be likely to give a chrysanthemum to. Besides, 
 if he was so proud of the plant he should have 
 stayed at home and watered it himself. 
 
 He says that I never meant to water it, which 
 is not only a mistake, but unkind. My plan was 
 to run downstairs immediately after dinner every 
 evening and give it a thorough watering. One 
 thing or another, however, came in the way. I 
 often remembered about the chrysanthemum 
 while I was in the office ; but even Gilray could
 
 244 MY LAD Y NTCO TINE. 
 
 hardly have expected me to ask leave of absence 
 merely to run home and water his plant. You 
 must draw the line somewhere, even in a govern- 
 ment office. When I reached home I was tired, 
 inclined to take things easily, and not at all in a 
 proper condition for watering flower-pots. Then 
 Arcadians would drop in. I put it to any sensible 
 man or woman, could I have been expected to 
 give up my friends for the sake of a chrysan- 
 themum ? Again, it was my custom of an even- 
 ing, if not disturbed, to retire with my pipe into 
 my cane chair, and there pass the hours commun- 
 ing with great minds, or, when the mood was on 
 me, trifling with a novel. Often when I was in 
 the middle of a chapter Gilray's flower-pot stood 
 #p before my eyes crying for water. He does 
 not believe this, but it is the solemn truth. At 
 those moments it was touch and go, whether I 
 watered his chrysanthemum or not. Where I 
 lost myself was in not hurrying to his rooms 
 at once with a tumbler. I said to myself that I 
 would go when I had finished my pipe ; but by 
 that time the flower-pot had escaped my memory. 
 This may have been weakness ; all I know is 
 that I should have saved myself much annoyance 
 if I had risen and watered the chrysanthemum 
 there and then. But would it not have been 
 rather hard on me to have had to forsake my 
 books for the sake of Gilray's flowers and flower- 
 pots and plants and things. What right has' a 
 man to go and make a garden of his chambers ? 
 
 All the three weeks he was away, Gilray kept 
 pestering me with letters about his chrysanthe- 
 mum. He seemed to have no faith in me a de- 
 testable thing in a man who calls himself your 
 friend. I had promised to water his flower-pot ;
 
 Mr LAD Y NICO TIN& 245 
 
 and between friends a promise is surely sufficient 
 It is not so, however, when Gilray is one of 
 them. I soon hated the sight of my name in his 
 handwriting. It was not as if he had said out- 
 right that he wrote entirely to know whether I 
 was watering his plant. His references to it 
 were introduced with all the appearance of after- 
 thoughts. Often they took the form of post- 
 scripts : ' ' By the way, are you watering my 
 chrysanthemum?" or, "The chrysanthemum 
 ought to be a beauty by this time ; " or, "You 
 must be quite an adept now at watering plants." 
 Gilray declares now that, in answer to one of 
 these ingenious epistles, I wrote to him saying 
 that " I had just been watering his chrysanthe- 
 mum." My belief is that I did no such thing ; 
 or, if I did, I meant to water it as soon as I had 
 finished my letter. He has never been able to 
 bring this home tome, he says, because he burned 
 my correspondence. As if a business man would 
 destroy such a letter. It was yet more annoying 
 when Gilray took to post-cards. To hear the 
 postman's knock and then discover, when you 
 are expecting an important communication, that 
 it is only a post-card about a flower-pot that is 
 really too bad. And then I consider that some 
 of the post-cards bordered upon insult One of 
 them said, ' ' What about chrysanthemum ? reply 
 at once." This was just like Gilray's overbear- 
 ing way ; but I answered politely, and so far as 
 I knew, truthfully, "Chrysanthemum all right" 
 
 Knowing that there was no explaining things 
 to Gilray, I redoubled my exertions to water his 
 flower-pot as the day for his return drew near. 
 Once, indeed, when I rang for water, I could not 
 for the life of me remember what I wanted it
 
 246 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 for when it was brought. Had I had any fore- 
 thought I should have left the tumbler stand just 
 as it was to show it to Gilray on his return. But, 
 unfortunately, William John had misunderstood 
 What I wanted the water for, and put a decanter 
 down beside it. Another time I was actually on 
 the stair rushing to Gilray's door, when I met the 
 houskeeper, and, stopping to talk to her, lost my 
 opportunity again. To show how honestly anx- 
 ious I was to fulfill my promise, I need only add 
 that I was several times awakened in the watches 
 of the night by a haunting consciousness that I 
 had forgotten to water Gilray's flower-pot. On 
 these occasions I spared no trouble to remember 
 again in the morning. I reached out of bed to a 
 chair and turned it upside down, so that the sight 
 of it when I rose might remind me that I had 
 something to do. With the same object I crossed 
 the tongs and poker on the floor. Gilray main- 
 tains that instead of playing " fool's tricks " like 
 these ("fool's tricks ! ") I should have got up and 
 gone at once to his rooms with my water-bottle. 
 What ? and disturbed my neighbors ? Besides, 
 could I reasonably be expected to risk catching 
 my death of cold for the sake of a wretched chrys- 
 anthemum ? One reads of men doing such 
 things for young ladies who seek lilies in danger- 
 ous ponds or edelweiss on overhanging cliffs. But 
 Gilray was not my sweetheart, nor, I feel certain, 
 any other person's. 
 
 I come now to the day prior to Gilray's return. 
 I had just reached the office when I remembered 
 about the chrysanthemum. It was my last 
 chance. If I watered it once I should be in a 
 position to state that, whatever condition it might 
 be in, I had ccrt.inly been watering it. I jumped
 
 MY LAD Y N1CO TINE. 247 
 
 into a hansom, told the cabby to drive to the 
 inn, and twenty minutes afterward had one hand 
 on Gilray's door, while the other held the largest 
 water-can in the house. Opening the door I 
 rushed in. The can nearly fell from my hand. 
 There was no flower-pot ! I rang the bell. " Mr. 
 Gilray's chrysanthemum ! " I cried. What do 
 you think William John said? He coolly told 
 me that the plant was dead, and had been flung 
 out days ago. I went to the theater that night to 
 keep myself from thinking. All next day I con- 
 trived to remain out of Gilray's sight. When we 
 met he was stiff and polite. He did not say 
 a word about the chrysanthemum for a week, and 
 then it all came out with a rush. I let him talk. 
 With the servants flinging out the flower-pots 
 faster than I Could water them, what more could I 
 have done ? A coolness between us was inevit- 
 able. This I regretted, but my mind was made 
 up on one point : I would never do Gilray a 
 favor again. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE GRANDEST SCENE IN HISTORY. 
 
 THOUGH Scrymgeour only painted in water- 
 colors, I think I never looked at his pictures 
 he had one superb idea, which we often advised 
 him to carry out. When he first mentioned it the 
 room became comparatively animated, so much 
 struck were we all, and we entreated him to retire 
 to Stratford for a few months before beginning 
 the picture. His idea was to paint Shakespeare 
 smoking his first pipe of the Arcadia Mixture,
 
 248 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 Many hundreds of volumes have been written 
 about the glories of the Elizabethan age, the sub- 
 lime period in our history. Then were English- 
 men on fire to do immortal deeds. High aims and 
 noble ambitions became their birthright. There 
 was nothing they could not or would not do for 
 England. Sailors put a girdle round the world. 
 Every captain had a general's capacity; every 
 fighting-man could have been a captain. All the 
 women, from the queen downward, were heroines. 
 Lofty statesmanship guided the conduct of affairs, 
 a sublime philosophy was in the air. The period 
 of great deeds was also the period of our richest 
 literature. London was swarming with poetic 
 geniuses. Immortal dramatists wandered in 
 couples between stage doors and taverns. 
 
 All this has been said many times ; and we read 
 these glowing outbursts about the Elizabethan 
 age as if to the beating of a drum. But why was 
 this period riper for magnificent deeds and noble 
 literature than any other in English history? 
 We all know how the thinkers, historians, and 
 critics of yesterday and to-day answer that ques- 
 tion ; but our hearts and brains tell us that they 
 are astray. By an amazing oversight they have 
 said nothing of the Influence of Tobacco. The 
 Elizabethan age might be better named the begin- 
 ning of the smoking era. No unprejudiced per- 
 son who has given thought to the subject can 
 question the propriety of dividing our history into 
 two periods the pre-smoking and the smoking. 
 When Raleigh, in honor of whom England should 
 have changed its name, introduced tobacco into 
 this country, the glorious Elizabethan age began. I 
 am aware that those hateful persons called Original 
 Researchers now maintain that Raleigh was not
 
 My LAD Y NICO TINE. 249 
 
 the man ; but to them I turn a deaf ear. I know, 
 I feel, that with the introduction of tobacco Eng- 
 land woke up from a long sleep. Suddenly a new 
 zest had been given to life. The glory of exist- 
 ence became a thing to speak of. Men who had 
 hitherto only concerned themselves with the 
 narrow things of home put a pipe into their 
 mouths and became philosophers. Poets and 
 dramatists smoked until all ignoble ideas were 
 driven from them, and into their place rushed such 
 high thoughts as the world had not known before. 
 Petty jealousies no longer had hold of statesmen, 
 who smoked, and agreed to work together for 
 the public weal. Soldiers and sailors felt, when 
 engaged with a foreign foe, that they were fight- 
 ing for their pipes. The whole country was 
 stirred by the ambition to live up to tobacco. 
 Every one, in short, had now a lofty ideal con- 
 stantly before him. Two stories of the period, 
 never properly told hitherto, illustrate this. We 
 all know that Gabriel Harvey and Spenser lay in 
 bed discussing English poetry and the forms it 
 ought to take. This was when tobacco was only 
 known to a select few, of whom Spenser, the 
 friend of Raleigh, was doubtless one. That the 
 two friends smoked in bed I can not doubt. 
 Many poets have done the same thing since. 
 Then there is the beautiful Armada story. In a 
 famous Armada picture the English sailors are 
 represented smoking ; which makes it all the 
 more surprising that the story to which I refer 
 has come down to us in an incorrect form. Ac- 
 cording to the historians, when the Armada hove 
 in sight the English captains were playing at 
 bowls. Instead of rushing off to their ships on 
 receipt of the news, they observed, " Let us first
 
 250 MY LADY XICOT1N&. 
 
 finish our game. " I can not believe that this is 
 what they said. My conviction is that what was 
 really said was, "Let us first finish our pipes " 
 surely a far more impressive and memorable 
 remark. 
 
 This afternoon Marlowe's "Jew of Malta " was 
 produced for the first time ; and of the two men 
 who have just emerged from the Blackfriars 
 Theater one is the creator of Barabas. A marvel 
 to all the " piperly makeplaies and make-bates," 
 save one, is "famous Ned Alleyn ; " for when 
 money comes to him he does not drink till it be 
 done, and already he is laying- by to confound the 
 ecclesiastics, who say hard things of him, by 
 founding Dulwich College. "Not Roscius nor 
 ^Esope," said Tom Nash, who was probably in 
 need of a crown at the time, "ever performed 
 more in action. " A good fellow he is withal ; 
 for it is Ned who gives the supper to-night at the 
 "Globe," in honor of the new piece, if he can get 
 his friends together. The actor-manager shakes 
 his head, for Marlowe, who was to meet him 
 here, must have been seduced into a tavern by 
 the way ; but his companion, Robin Greene, is 
 only wondering if that is a bailiff at the corner. 
 Robin of the " ruffianly haire, " utriusque academics 
 in artibus magister, is nearing the end of his tether, 
 and might call to-night at shoemaker Islam's 
 house nearDowgate, to tell a certain "bigge, fat, 
 lusty wench " to prepare his last bed and buy a 
 garland of bays. Ned must to the sign of the 
 "Saba" in Gracious Street, where Burbage and 
 " honest gamesom Armin," are sure to be found ; 
 but Greene durst not show himself in the street 
 without Cutting Ball and other choice ruffians as 
 a body-guard. Ned is content to leave them
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 451 
 
 behind ; for Robin has refused to be of the com- 
 pany to-night if that "upstart Will" is invited 
 too, and the actor is fond of Will. There is no 
 more useful man in the theater, he has said to 
 "Signior Kempino"this very day, for 'touching 
 up old plays ; and Will is a plodding young fel- 
 low, too, if not overbrilliant. 
 
 Ned Alleyn goes from tavern to tavern, picking 
 out his men. There is an ale-house in Seacoal 
 Lane the same where ladylike George Peele 
 was found by the barber, who had subscribed an 
 hour before for his decent burial, "all alone with 
 a peck of oysters " and here Ned is detained an 
 unconscionable time. Just as he is leaving with 
 Kempe and Cowley, Armin and Will Shakespeare 
 burst in with a cry for wine. It is Armin who 
 gives the orders, but his companion pays. They 
 spy Alleyn, and Armin must tell his news. He 
 is the bearer of a challenge from some merry 
 souls at the "Saba"to the actor-manager; and 
 Ned Alleyn turns white and red when he hears it. 
 Then he laughs a confident laugh, and accepts 
 the bet. Some theater-goers, flushed with wine, 
 have dared him to attempt certain parts in which 
 Bentley and Knell vastly please them. Ned is 
 incredulons that men should be so willing to fling 
 away their money ; yet here is Will a witness, 
 and Burbage is staying on at the " Saba" not to 
 let the challengers escape. 
 
 The young man of twenty-four, at the White 
 Horse in Friday Street, is Tom Nash ; and it is 
 Peele who is swearing that he is a monstrous 
 clever fellow, and helping him to finish his wine. 
 But Peele is glad to see Ned and Cowley in the 
 doorway, for Tom has a weakness for reading 
 aloud the good things from his own manuscripts.
 
 252 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 There is only one of the company who is not now 
 sick to death of Nash's satires on Martin Marpre- 
 late ; and perhaps even he has had enough of them, 
 only he is as yet too obscure a person to say so. 
 That is Will ; and Nash detains him for a moment 
 just to listen to his last words on the Mar- 
 prelate controversy. Marprelate now appears 
 "with a wit worn into the socket, twingling- 
 and pinking like the snuff of a candle; quan- 
 tum mutatus ab illo I how unlike the knave he 
 was before, not for malice but for sharpness. 
 The hogshead was even come to the hauncing, 
 and nothing could be drawne from him but dregs. " 
 Will says it is very good ; and Nash smiles to 
 himself as he puts the papers in his pockets and 
 thinks vaguely that he might do something for 
 Will. Shakespeare is not a university man, and 
 they say he held horses at the doors of the Globe 
 not long ago ; but he knows a good thing when 
 he hears it. 
 
 All this time Marlowe is at the Globe, wondering 
 why the others are so long in coming ; but not 
 wondering very much for it is good wine they 
 give you at the Globe. Even before the feast is 
 well begun Kit's eyes are blood-shot and his 
 hands unsteady. Death is already seeking for 
 him at a tavern in Deptford, and the last scene 
 in a wild, brief life starts up before us. A miser- 
 able ale-house, drunken words, the flash of a 
 knife, and a man of genius has received his 
 death-blow. What an epitaph for the greatest 
 might-have-been in English literature : Christo- 
 pher Marlowe, slain by a serving-man in a drunken 
 brawl, aged twenty-nine ! " But by the time 
 Shakespeare had reached his fortieth birthday 
 every one of his fellow playwrights round that 
 table had rushed to his death.
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 253 
 
 The short stout gentleman who is fond of mak- 
 ing jokes, and not particular whom he confides 
 them to, has heard another good story about 
 Tarleton. This is the low comedian Kempe, who 
 stepped into the shoes of flat-nosed, squinting 
 Tarleton the other day, but never quite manages 
 to fill them. He whispers the tale across Will's 
 back to Cowley, before it is made common prop- 
 erty, and little fancies, as he does so, that any 
 immortality he and his friend may gain will be 
 owing to their having played, before the end of 
 the sixteenth century, the parts of Dogberry and 
 Verges in a comedy by Shakespeare, whom they 
 are at present rather in the habit of patronizing. 
 The story is received with boisterous laughter, for 
 it suits the time and place. 
 
 Peele is in the middle of a love song when Kit 
 stumbles across the room to say a kind word to 
 Shakespeare. That is a sign that George is not 
 yet so very tipsy ; for he is a gallant and a squire 
 of dames so long as he is sober. There is not a 
 maid in any tavern in Fleet Street who does not 
 think George Peele the properest man in London. 
 And yet, Greene being absent, scouring the streets 
 with Cutting Ball whose sister is mother of poor 
 Fortunatus Greene Peele is the most dissolute 
 man in the Globe to-night. There is a sad little 
 daughter sitting up for him at home, and she will 
 have to sit wearily till morning. Mario w'es praises 
 would sink deeper into Will's heart if the author 
 of the "Jew of Malta" were less unsteady on 
 his legs. And yet he takes Kit's words kindly, 
 and is glad to hear that "Titus Andronicus," pro- 
 duced the other day, pleases the man whose praise 
 is most worth having. Will Shakespeare looks 
 up to Kit Marlowe, and "Titus Andronicus " ia
 
 254 MY LAD Y NrcO TIME. 
 
 the work of a young playwright who has tried to 
 write like Kit. Marlowe knows it and he takes 
 it as something of a compliment, though he does 
 not believe in imitation himself. He would re- 
 turn now to his seat beside Ned Alleyn ; but the 
 floor of the room is becoming unsteady, and Ned 
 seems a long way off. Besides Shakespeare's 
 cup would never require refilling if there were 
 not some one there to help him drink. 
 
 The fun becomes fast and furious ; and the 
 landlord of the Globe puts in an appearance, os- 
 tensibly to do his guests honor by serving them 
 himself. But he is fearful of how the rioting may 
 end, and, if he dared, he would turn Nash into 
 the street, Tom is the only man there whom the 
 landlord if that man had only been a Boswell 
 personally dislikes ; indeed, Nash is no great 
 favorite even with his comrades. He has a bit- 
 ter tongue, and his heart is not to be mellowed 
 by wine. The table roars over his sallies, of 
 which the landlord himself is dimly conscious 
 that he is the butt, and Kempe and Cowley wince 
 under his satire. Those excellent comedians fall 
 out over a trifling difference of opinion ; and 
 handsome Nash he tells us himself that he was 
 handsome, so there can be no doubt about it 
 maintains that they should decide the dispute by 
 fisticuffs without further loss of time. While 
 Kempe and Cowley threaten to break each other's 
 heads which, indeed, would be no great matter 
 if they did it quietly Burbage is reciting vehe- 
 mently, with no one heeding him ; and Marlowe 
 insists on quarelling with Armin about the exist- 
 ence of a Deity. For when Kit is drunk he is an 
 infidel. Armin will not quarrel with anybody, 
 and Marlowe is exasperated.
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 255 
 
 But where is Shakespeare all this time ? He 
 has retired to a side-table with Alleyn, who has 
 another historical play that requires altering. 
 Their conversation is of comparatively little im- 
 portance ; what we are to note with bated breath 
 is that Will is filling a pipe. His face is placid, 
 for he does not know that the tobacco .Ned is 
 handing him is the Arcadia Mixture. I love Ned 
 Alleyn, and like to think that Shakespeare got the 
 Arcadia from him. 
 
 For a moment let us turn from Shakespeare at 
 this crisis in his life. Alleyn has left him and is 
 paying the score. Marlowe remains where he 
 fell. Nash has forgotten where he lodges, and 
 so sets off with Peele to an ale-house in Pye Cor- 
 ner, where George is only too well known. 
 Kempe and Cowley are sent home in baskets. 
 
 Again we turn to the figure in the corner, and 
 there is such a light on his face that we shade our 
 eyes. He is smoking the Arcadia, and as he smokes 
 the tragedy of Hamlet takes form in his brain. 
 
 This is the picture that Scrymgeour will never 
 dare to paint. I know that there is no mention 
 of tobacco in Shakespeare's plays, but those who 
 smoke the Arcadia tell their secret to none, and 
 of other mixtures they scorn to speak. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MY BROTHER HENRY. 
 
 STRICTLY speaking I never had a brother Henry, 
 and yet I can not say that Henry was an impos- 
 tor. He came into existence in a curious way,
 
 256 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 and I can think of him now without malice as a 
 child of smoke. The first I heard of Henry was 
 at Pettigrew's house, which is in a London suburb. 
 so conveniently situated that I can go there and 
 back in one day. I was testing some new Caba- 
 nas, I remember, when Pettigrew remarked that 
 he had been lunching with a man who knew my 
 brother Henry. Not having any brother but Alex- 
 ander, I felt that Pettigrew had mistaken the name. 
 "Oh, no," Pettigrew said; "he spoke of Alex- 
 ander too." Even this did not convince me, and 
 I asked my host for his friend's name. Scuda- 
 mour was the name of the man, and he had met 
 my brothers Alexander and Henry years before 
 in Paris. Then I remembered Scudamore, and I 
 probably frowned, for I myself was my own 
 brother Henry. I distinctly recalled Scudamour 
 meeting Alexander an<J me in Paris, and calling 
 me Henry, though my name begins with a J. I 
 explained the mistake to Pettigrew, and here, for 
 the time being, the matter rested. However I 
 had by no means heard the last of Henry. 
 
 Several times afterward I heard from various 
 persons that Scudamour wanted to meet me be- 
 cause he knew my brother Henry. At last we 
 did meet, in Jimmy's chambers ; and, almost as 
 soon as he saw me, Scudamour asked where 
 Henry was now. This was precisely what I 
 feared. I am a man who always looks like a 
 boy. There are few persons of my age in Lon- 
 don who retain their boyish appearance as long 
 as I have done ; indeed, this is the curse of my 
 life. Though I am approaching the age of thirty, 
 I pass for twenty ; and I have observed old gen- 
 tlemen frown at my precocity when I said a good 
 thing or helped myself to a second glass of wine
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 257 
 
 There was, therefore, nothing surprising in Scud- 
 amour's remark, that, when he had the pleasure 
 of meeting Henry, Henry must have been about 
 the age that I had now reached. All would have 
 been well had I explained the real state of affairs 
 to this annoying man ; but, unfortunately for 
 myself, I loathe entering upon explanations to 
 anybody about anything. This it is to smoke the 
 Arcadia. When I ring for a time-table and 
 William John brings coals instead I accept the 
 coals as a substitute. Much, then, did I dread a 
 discussion with Scudamour, his surprise when he 
 heard that I was Henry, and his comments on 
 my youthful appearance. Besides, I was smoking 
 the best of all mixtures. There was no likelihood 
 of my meeting Scudamour again, so the easiest 
 way to get rid of him seemed to be to humor him. 
 I therefore told him that Henry was in India, 
 married, and doing well. "Remember me to 
 Henry when you write to him," was Scudamour's 
 last remark to me that evening. 
 
 A few weeks later some one tapped me on the 
 shoulder in Oxford Street. It was Scudamour. 
 "Heard from Henry?" he asked. I said I had 
 heard by the last mail. "Anything particular in 
 the letter ? " I felt it would not do to say that 
 there was nothing particular in a letter which had 
 come all the way from India, so I hinted that 
 Henry was having trouble with his wife. By this 
 I meant that her health was bad ; but he took it 
 up in another way, and I did not set him right. 
 ' ' Ah, ah ! " he said, shaking his head sagaciously ; 
 "I'm sorry to hear that. Poor Henry ! " " Poor 
 old boy ! " was all I could think of replying. 
 " How about the children?" Scudamour asked. 
 "Oh, the children," I said, with what I thought 
 17
 
 258 MY LAD Y NICO TTNE. 
 
 presence of mind, "are coming to England. " 
 " To stay with Alexander ?" he asked. My an- 
 swer was that Alexander was expecting them by 
 the middle of next month ; and eventually Scud- 
 amour went away muttering', "Poor Henry!" 
 In a month or so we met again. "No word of 
 Henry's getting leave of absence ? " asked Scud- 
 amour. I replied shortly that Henry had gone to 
 live in Bombay, and would not be home for years. 
 He saw that I was brusque, so what does he do 
 but draw me aside for a quiet explanation. "I 
 suppose," he said, "you are annoyed because I 
 told Pettigrew that Henry's wife had run away 
 from him. The fact is, I did it for your good. 
 You see, I happened to make a remark to Petti- 
 grew about your brother Henry, and he said that 
 there was so such person. Of course I laughed 
 at that, and pointed out not only that I had the 
 pleasure of Henry's acquaintance, but that you 
 and I had talked about the old fellow every time 
 we met. 'Well,' Pettigrew said, 'this is a most 
 remarkable thing ; for he,' meaning you, 'said to 
 me in this very room, sitting in that very chair, 
 that Alexander was his only brother.' I saw that 
 Pettigrew resented your concealing the existence 
 of your brother Henry from him, so I thought the 
 most friendly thing I could do was to tell him that 
 your reticence was doubtless due to the unhappy 
 state of poor Henry's private affairs. Naturally 
 in the circumstances you did not want to talk 
 about Henry." I shook Scudamour by the hand, 
 telling him that he had acted judiciously ; but if 
 I could have stabbed him in the back at that 
 moment I dare say I would have done it. 
 
 I did not see Scudamour again for a long time, 
 for I took care to keep out of his way ; but I
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 2 S9 
 
 heard first from him and then of him. On day 
 he wrote to me saying that his nephew was going 
 to Bombay, and would I be so good as to give 
 the youth an introduction to my brother Henry ? 
 He also asked me to dine with him and his 
 nephew. I declined the dinner, but I sent the 
 nephew the required note of introduction to 
 Henry. The next I heard of Scudamour was from 
 Pettigrew. " By the way," said Pettigrew, 
 "Scudamour is in Edinburgh at present." I trem- 
 bled, for Edinburgh is where Alexander lives. 
 "What has taken him there f " I asked, with as- 
 sumed carelessness. Pettigrew believed it was 
 business; "but," he added, "Scudamour asked 
 me to tell you that he meant to call on Alexander, 
 as he was anxious to see Henry's children." A 
 few days afterward I had a telegram from Alex- 
 ander, who generally uses this means of commu- 
 nication when he corresponds with me. 
 
 "Do you know a man, Scudamour? Reply," 
 was what Alexander said. I thought of answer- 
 ing that we had met a man of that name when 
 we were in Paris ; but after consideration, I re- 
 plied boldly : "Know no one of name of Scud- 
 amour." 
 
 About two months ago I passed Scudamour in 
 Regent Street, and he scowled at me. This I 
 could have borne if there had been no more of 
 Henry ; but I knew that Scudamour was now 
 telling everybody about Henry's wife. 
 
 By and by I got a letter from an old friend of 
 Alexander's asking me if there was any truth in 
 a report that Alexander was going to Bombay. 
 Soon afterward Alexander wrote to me saying he 
 had been told by several persons that I was go- 
 ing to Bombay. In short, I saw that the time
 
 260 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 had come for killing Henry. So I told Pettigrew 
 that Henry had died of fever, deeply regretted ; 
 and asked him to be sure to tell Scudamour, who 
 had always been interested in the deceased's wel- 
 fare. Pettigrew afterward told me that he had 
 communicated the sad intelligence to Scudamour. 
 ' ' How did he take it ? " I asked. ' ' Well/' Petti- 
 grew said, reluctantly, "he told me that when he 
 was up in Edinburgh he did not get on well with 
 Alexander. But he expressed great curiosity as 
 to Henry's children. " ' ' Ah, " I said, ' ' the children 
 were both drowned in the Forth ; a sad affair 
 we can't bear to talk of it. " I am not likely to 
 see much of Scudamour again, nor is Alexander. 
 Scudamour now goes about saying that Henry 
 was the only one of us he really liked. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HOUSE-BOAT "ARCADIA." 
 
 SCRYMGEOUR had a house-boat called, of course, 
 the "Arcadia," to which he was so ill-advised as 
 to invite us all at once. He was at that time 
 lying near Cookham, attempting to catch the 
 advent of summer on a canvas, and we were all, 
 unhappily, able to accept his invitation. Look- 
 ing back to this nightmare of a holiday, I am puz- 
 zled at our not getting on well together, for who 
 should be happy in a house-boat if not five 
 bachelors, well known to each other, and all 
 smokers of the same tobacco ? Harriot says now 
 that perhaps we were happy without knowing it ; 
 but that is nonsense. We were miserable.
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE, 261 
 
 I have concluded that we knew each other too 
 well. Though accustomed to gather together in 
 my rooms of an evening in London, we had each 
 his private chambers to retire to, but in the "Ar- 
 cadia " solitude was impossible. There was no 
 escaping from each other. 
 
 Scrymgeour, I think, said that we were un- 
 happy because each of us acted as if the house- 
 boat was his own. We retorted that the boy 
 by no means a William John was at the bottom 
 of our troubles, and then Scrymgeour said that 
 he had always been against having a boy. We 
 had been opposed to a boy at first, too, fancying 
 that we should enjoy doing our own cooking. 
 Seeing that there were so many of us, this should 
 not have been difficult, but the kitchen was small 
 and we were always striking against each other 
 and knocking things over. We had to break a 
 window-pane to let the smoke out ; then Gilray, 
 in kicking the stove because he had burned his 
 fingers on it, upset the thing, and, before we had 
 time to intervene, a leg of mutton jumped out 
 and darted into the coal-bunk. Jimmy foolishly 
 placed our six tumblers on the window-sill to dry 
 and a gust of wind toppled them into the river. 
 The draughts were a nuisance. This was owing 
 to windows facing each other being left open, 
 and as a result articles of clothing disappeared so 
 mysteriously that we thought there must be a 
 thief or a somnambulist on board. The third or 
 fourth day, however, going into the saloon un- 
 expectedly, I caught my straw hat disappearing 
 on the wings of the wind. When last seen it was 
 on its way to Maidenhead, bowling along at the 
 rate of several miles an hour. So we thought 
 it would be as well to have a boy. As far as I
 
 26* MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 remember, this was the only point unanimously 
 agreed upon during the whole time we were 
 aboard. They told us at the Ferry Hotel that 
 boys were rather difficult to get in Cookham ; 
 but we instituted a vigorous house-to-house 
 search, and at last we ran a boy to earth and 
 carried him off. 
 
 It was most unfortunate for all concerned that 
 the boy did not sleep on board. There was, 
 however, no room for him ; so he came at seven 
 in the morning, and retired when his labors were 
 over for the day. I say he came ; but in point of 
 fact that was the difficulty with the boy. He 
 couldn't come. He came as far as he could : 
 that is to say, he walked up the tow-path until 
 he was opposite the house-boat, and then he hal- 
 looed to be taken on board, whereupon some one 
 had to go in the dingey for him. All the time 
 we were in the house-boat that boy was never 
 five minutes late. Wet or fine, calm or rough, 
 7 A. M. found the boy on the tow-path hallooing. 
 No sooner were we asleep than the dewy morn 
 was made hideous by the boy. Lying in bed 
 with the blankets over our heads to deaden his 
 cries, his fresh, lusty young voice pierced wood- 
 work, blankets, sheets, everything. "Ya-ho, 
 ahoy, ya-ho, aho, ahoy ! " So he kept it up. 
 What followed may easily be guessed. We all 
 lay as silent as the grave, each waiting for some 
 one else to rise and bring the impatient lad across. 
 At last the stillness would be broken by some 
 one's yelling out that he would do for that boy. 
 A second would mutter horribly in his sleep ; a 
 third would make himself a favorite for the mo- 
 ment by shouting through the wooden partition 
 that it was the fifth's turn this morning. The
 
 M? LA>Y MCOTI&M. 463 
 
 fifth would tell us where he would see the boy 
 before he went across for him. Then there 
 would be silence again. Eventually some one 
 would put an ulster over his night-shirt, and 
 sternly announce his intention of going over and 
 taking the boy's life. Hearing this, the others at 
 once dropped off to sleep. For a few days we 
 managed to trick the boy by pulling up our blinds 
 and so conveying to his mind the impression that 
 we were getting up. Then he had not our break- 
 fast ready when we did get up, which naturally 
 enraged us. 
 
 As soon as he got on board that boy made his 
 presence felt. He was very strong and energetic 
 in the morning, and spent the first half hour or so 
 in flinging coals at each other. This was his way 
 of breaking them ; and he was by nature so 
 patient and humble that he rather flattered him- 
 self when a coal broke at the twentieth attempt. 
 We used to dream that he was breaking coals 
 on our heads. Often one of us dashed into the 
 kitchen, threatening to drop him into the river if 
 he did not sit quite still on a chair for the next 
 two hours. Under these threats he looked suffi- 
 ciently scared to satisfy anybody ; but as soon as 
 all was quiet again he crept back to the coal-bunk 
 and was at his old games. 
 
 It didn't matter what we did, the boy put a 
 stop to it We tried whist, and in ten minutes 
 there was a "Hoy, hie, ya-ho!." from the oppo- 
 site shore. It was the boy come back with the 
 vegetables. If we were reading, " Ya-ho, hie ! " 
 and some one had to cross for that boy and the 
 water-can. The boy was on the tow-path just 
 when we had fallen into a snooze ; he had to be 
 taken across for the milk immediately we had
 
 264 MY LAD Y NICOTJNJL 
 
 lighted our pipes. On the whole it was an open 
 question whether it was not even more annoying 1 
 to take him over than to go for him. Two or 
 three times we tried to be sociable and went into 
 the village together ; but no sooner had we begun 
 to enjoy ourselves than we remembered that we 
 must go back and let the boy ashore. Tennyson 
 speaks of a company making believe to be merry 
 while all the time the spirit of a departed one 
 haunted them in their play. That was exactly the 
 effect of the boy on us. 
 
 Even without the boy I hardly think we should 
 have been a sociable party. The sight of so 
 much humanity gathered in one room became a 
 nuisance. We resorted to all kinds of subterfuges 
 to escape from each other; and the one who 
 finished breakfast first generally managed to 
 make off with the dingey. The others were then 
 at liberty to view him in the distance, in mid- 
 stream, lying on his back in the bottom of the 
 boat ; and it was almost more than we could 
 stand. The only way to bring him back was to 
 bribe the boy into saying that he wanted to go 
 across to the village for bacon or black lead or 
 sardines. Thus even the boy had his uses. 
 
 Things gradually got worse and worse. I re- 
 member only one day when as many as four of 
 us were on speaking terms. Even this tempor- 
 ary sociability was only brought about in order 
 that we might combine and fall upon Jimmy 
 with the more crushing force. Jimmy had put 
 us in an article, representing himself as a kind of 
 superior person who was making a study of us. 
 The thing was of such a gross caricature, and so 
 dull, that it was Jimmy we were sorry for rather 
 than ourselves. Still, we gathered round him in
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 265 
 
 a body and told him what we thought of the 
 matter. Affairs might have gone more smoothly 
 after this if we four had been able to hold to- 
 gether. Unfortunately, Jimmy won Harriot over, 
 and next day there was a row all round, which 
 resulted in our division into five parties. 
 
 One day Pettigrew visited us. He brought his 
 Gladstone bag with him, but did not stay over 
 night. He was glad to go ; for at first none of 
 us, I am afraid, was very civil to him, though we 
 afterward thawed a little. He returned to London 
 and told every one how he found us. I admit we 
 were not prepared to receive company. The 
 house-boat consisted of five apartments a saloon, 
 three bedrooms, and a kitchen. When he boarded 
 us we were distributed as follow : I sat smoking 
 in the saloon, Marriot sat smoking in the first 
 bedroom, Gilray in the second, Jimmy in the 
 third, and Scrymgeour in the kitchen. The boy 
 did not keep Scrymgeour company. He had been 
 ordered on deck, where he sat with his legs crossed, 
 the picture of misery because he had no coals to 
 break. A few days after Pettigrew's visit we fol- 
 lowed him to London, leaving Scrymgeour behind, 
 where we soon became friendly again. 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 THE ARCADIA MIXTURE AGAIN. 
 
 ONE day, some weeks after we had left Scrym- 
 geour's house-boat, I was alone in my rooms, 
 very busy smoking, when William John entered 
 with a telegram. It was from Scrymgeour, and
 
 *66 Mr LAD y wcottiriL 
 
 said, " You have got me into a dreadful fness 
 Come down here first train." 
 
 Wondering what mess I could have got Scrym- 
 geour into, I good-naturedly obeyed his summons, 
 and soon I was smoking placidly on the deck of 
 the house-boat, while Scrymgeour, sullen and 
 nervous, tramped back and forward. I saw 
 quickly that the only tobacco had something to 
 do with his troubles, for he began by announcing 
 that one evening soon after we left him he found 
 that we had smoked all his Arcadia. He would 
 have dispatched the boy to London for it, but the 
 boy had been all day in the village buying a loaf, 
 and would not be back for hours. Cookham 
 cigars Scrymgeour could not smoke ; cigarettes 
 he only endured if made from the Arcadia. 
 
 At Cookham he could only get tobacco that 
 made him uncomfortable. Having recently be- 
 gun to use a new pouch, he searched his pockets 
 in vain for odd shreds of the Mixture to which he 
 had so contemptibly become a slave. In a very 
 bad temper he took to his dingey, vowing for a 
 little while that he would violently break the 
 chains that bound him to one tobacco, and after- 
 ward, when he was restored to his senses, that 
 he would jilt the Arcadia gradually. He had 
 pulled some distance down the river, without 
 regarding the Cliveden Woods, when he all but 
 ran into a blaze of Chinese lanterns. It was a 
 house-boat called let us change its name to the 
 " Heathen Chinee." Staying his dingey with a 
 jerk, Scrymgeour looked up, when a wonderful 
 sight met his eyes. On the open window of an 
 apparently empty saloon stood a round tin of 
 tobacco, marked " Arcadia Mixture." 
 
 Scrymgeour sat gaping. The only sound to be
 
 MY LADY #ICO f n#JL 
 
 heard, except a soft splash of water under the 
 house-boat, came from the kitchen, where a ser- 
 vant was breaking crockery for supper. The ro- 
 mantic figure in the dingey stretched out his hand 
 and then drew it back, remembering that there 
 was a law against this sort of thing. He thought 
 to himself, "If I were to wait until the owner 
 returns, no doubt a man who smokes the Arcadia 
 would feel for me." Then his fatal horror of ex- 
 planations whispered to him, "The owner may 
 be a stupid, garrulous fellow who will detain you 
 here half the night explaining your situation." 
 Scrymgeour, I want to impress upon the reader, 
 was, like myself, the sort of a man who, if asked 
 whether he did not think "InMemoriam" Mr. 
 Browning's greatest poem, would say Yes, as the 
 easiest way of ending the conversation. Obvi* 
 ously he would save himself trouble by simply 
 annexing the tin. He seized it and rowed off. 
 
 Smokers, who know how tobacco develops the 
 finer feelings hardly require to be told what hap- 
 pened next. Suddenly Scrymgeour remembered 
 that he was probably leaving the owner of the 
 " Heathen Chinee" without any Arcadia Mixture. 
 He at once filled his pouch, and, pulling softly 
 back to the house-boat, replaced the tin on the 
 window, his bosom swelling with the pride of 
 those who give presents. At the same moment 
 a hand gripped him by the neck, and a girl, some- 
 where on deck, screamed. 
 
 Scrymgeour's captor, who was no other than 
 the owner of the "Heathen Chinee," dragged 
 him fiercely into the house-boat and stormed at 
 him for five minutes. My friend shuddered as he 
 thought of the explanations to come when he was 
 allowed to speak, and gradually he realized that
 
 268 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 he had been mistaken for some one else appar- 
 ently for some young blade who had been carry- 
 ing on a clandestine flirtation with the old gentle- 
 man's daughter. It will take an hour, thought 
 Scrymgeour, to convince him that I am not that 
 person, and another hour to explain why I am 
 really here. Then the weak creature had an idea : 
 " Might not the simplest plan be to say that his 
 surmises are correct, promise to give his daughter 
 up, and row away as quickly as possible ? " He 
 began to wonder if the girl was pretty ; but saw 
 it would hardly do to say that he reserved his 
 defense until he could see her. 
 
 "I admit," he said, at last, "that I admire 
 your daughter ; but she spurned my advances, 
 and we parted yesterday forever." 
 
 "Yesterday ! " 
 
 "Or was it the day before?" 
 
 "Why, sir, I have caught you red-handed ! " 
 
 "This is an accident," Scrymgeour explained, 
 " and I promised never to speak to her again." 
 Then he added, as an after-thought, "however 
 painful that may be to me." 
 
 Before Scrymgeour returned to his dingey he 
 had been told that he would be drowned if he 
 came near that house-boat again. As he sculled 
 away he had a glimpse of the flirting daughter, 
 whom he described to me briefly as being of such 
 engaging appearance that six yards was a trying 
 distance to be away from her. 
 
 "Here," thought Scrymgeour that night over a 
 pipe of the Mixture, "the affair ends; though I 
 dare say the young lady will call me terrible 
 names when she hears that I have personated her 
 lover. I must take care to avoid the father now, 
 for he will feel that I have been following him.
 
 JVY LAD Y NICOTXNM. 269 
 
 Perhaps I should have made a clean breast of it ; 
 but I do loathe explanations." 
 
 Two days afterward Scrymgeour passed the 
 father and daughter on the river. The lady said 
 "Thank you," to him with her eyes, and, still 
 more remarkable, the old gentleman bowed. 
 Scrymgeour thought it over. " She is grateful to 
 me," he concluded, "for drawing away suspicion 
 from the other man, but what can have made the 
 father so amiable ? Suppose she has not told him 
 that I am an impostor, he should still look upon 
 me as a villain ; and if she has told him, he should 
 be still more furious. It is curious, but no affair 
 of mine." Three times within the next few days 
 he encountered the lady on the tow-path or else- 
 where with a young gentleman of empty counte- 
 nance, who, he saw, must be the real Lothario. 
 Once they passed him when he was in the shadow 
 of a tree, and the lady was making pretty faces 
 with a cigarette in her mouth. The house-boat 
 " Heathen Chinee" lay but a short distance off, 
 and Scrymgeour could see the owner gazing after 
 his daughter placidly, a pipe between his lips. 
 
 " He must be approving of her conduct now," 
 was my friend's natural conclusion. Then one 
 forenoon Scrymgeour traveled to town in the same 
 compartment as the old gentleman, who was 
 exceedingly frank, and made sly remarks about 
 romantic young people who met by stealth when 
 there was no reason why they should not meet 
 openly. "What does he mean?" Scrymgeour 
 asked himself, uneasily. He saw terribly elabor- 
 ate explanations gathering and shrunk from them. 
 
 Then Scrymgeour was one day out in a punt, 
 when he encountered the old gentleman in a 
 canoe. The old man said, purple with passion,
 
 HY LADY tiico'rtA^. 
 
 that he was on his way to pay Mr. Scrymgeour a 
 business visit. "Oh, yes," he continued, "I 
 know who you are ; if I had not discovered you 
 were a man of means I would not have let the 
 thing go on, and now I insist on an explanation." 
 
 Explanations 1 
 
 They made for Scrymgeour's house-boat, with 
 almost no words on the young man's part ; but 
 the father blurted out several things as that his 
 daughter knew where he was going when he left 
 the " Heathen Chinee," and that he had an hour 
 before seen Scrymgeour making love to another 
 girl. 
 
 "Don't deny it!" cried the indignant father; 
 "I recognized you by your velvet coat and broad 
 hat" 
 
 Then Scrymgeour begun to see more clearly. 
 The girl had encouraged the deception, and had 
 been allowed to meet her lover because he was 
 supposed to be no adventurer but the wealthy 
 Mr. Scrymgeour. She must have told the fellow 
 to get a coat and hat like his to help the plot. At 
 the time the artist only saw all this in a jumble. 
 
 Scrymgeour had bravely resolved to explain 
 everything now ; but his bewilderment may be 
 conceived when, on entering his saloon with the 
 lady's father, the first thing they saw was the lady 
 herself. The old gentleman gasped, and his 
 daughter looked at Scrymgeour imploringly. 
 
 " Now," said the father fiercely, " explain I " 
 
 The lady's tears became her vastly. Hardly 
 knowing what he did, Scrymgeour put his arm 
 round her. 
 
 "Well, go on," I said, when at this point 
 Scrymgeour stopped. 
 
 " There is no more to tell," he replied ; "you
 
 MY LAD y NICOTINE. 27 1 
 
 see the girl allowed me to well, protect her and 
 and the old gentleman thinks we are engaged." 
 
 " I don't wonder. What does the lady say? " 
 
 " She says that she ran along the bank and got 
 into my house-boat by the plank, meaning to see 
 me before her father arrived and to entreat me to 
 run away." 
 
 "With her?" 
 
 "No, without her." 
 
 " But what does she say about explaining mat- 
 ters to her father ? " 
 
 " She says she dare not, and as for me, I could 
 not. That was why I telegraphed to you." 
 
 " You want me to be intercessor ? No, Scrym- 
 geour ; your only honorable course is marriage." 
 
 "But you must help me. It is all your fault, 
 teaching me to like the Arcadia Mixture." 
 
 I thought this so impudent of Scrymgeour that 
 I bade him good-night at once. All the men on 
 the stair are still confident that he would have 
 married her had the lady not cut the knot by elop- 
 ing with Scrymgeour's double. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF A PIPE-CLEANEX. 
 
 WE continued to visit the "Arcadia," though 
 only one at a time now, and Gilray, who went 
 most frequently, also remained longest. In other 
 words, he was in love again, and this time she 
 lived at Cookham. Harriot's love affairs I pushed 
 from me with a wave of my pipe, but Gilray 's 
 second case was serious.
 
 272 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 In time, however, he returned to the Arcadia 
 Mixture, though not until the house-boat was in 
 its winter quarters. I witnessed his complete re- 
 covery, the scene being his chambers. Really it 
 is rather a pathetic story, and so I give the telling 
 of it to a rose, which the lady once presented to 
 Gilray. Conceive the rose lying, as I saw it, on 
 Gilray's hearth-rug, and then imagine it whisper- 
 ing as follows : 
 
 "A wire was round me that white night on the 
 river when she let him take me from her. Then 
 I hated the wire. Alas ! hear the end. 
 
 "My moments are numbered ; and if I would 
 expose him with my dying sigh, I must not senti- 
 mentalize over my own decay. They were in a 
 punt, her hand trailing in the water, when I became 
 his. When they parted that night at Cookham 
 Lock he held her head in his hands, and they 
 gazed in each other's eyes. Then he turned away 
 quickly ; when he reached the punt again he was 
 whistling. Several times before we came to the 
 house-boat in which he and another man lived, 
 he felt in his pocket to make sure thai; I was still 
 there. At the house-boat he put me in a tumbler 
 of water out of sight of his friend, and frequently 
 he stole to the spot like a thief to look r.t me. 
 Early next morning he put me in his button-hole, 
 calling me sweet names. When his friend saw 
 me, he too whistled, but not in the same way. 
 Then my owner glared at him. This happened 
 many months ago. 
 
 "Next evening I was in a garden that slopes 
 to the river. I was on his breast, and so for a 
 moment was she. His voice was so soft and low 
 as he said to her the words he had said to me the 
 night before, that I slumbered in a dream. When
 
 My LAD Y NICO TINE. 273 
 
 I awoke suddenly he was raging at her, and she 
 cried. I know not why they quarreled so quickly, 
 but it was about some one whom he called 'that 
 fellow,' while she called him a ' friend of papa's.' 
 He looked at her for a long time again, and then 
 said coldly that he wished her a very good-even- 
 ing. She bowed and went toward a house, hum- 
 ming a merry air, while he pretended to light a 
 cigarette made from a tobacco of which he was 
 very fond. Till very late that night I heard him 
 walking up and down the deck of the house-boat, 
 his friend shouting to him not to be an ass. Me 
 he had flung fiercely on the floor of the house- 
 boat. About midnight he came downstairs, his 
 face white, and, snatching me up, put me in his 
 pocket. Again we went into the punt, and he 
 pushed it within sight of the garden. There he 
 pulled in his pole and lay groaning in the punt, 
 letting it drift, while he called her his beloved and 
 a little devil. Suddenly he took me from his 
 pocket, kissed me, and cast me down from him 
 into the night. I fell among reeds, head down- 
 ward ; and there I lay all through the cold, horrid 
 night. The gray morning came at last, then the 
 sun, and a boat now and again. I thought I had 
 found my grave, when I saw his punt coming 
 towaid the reeds. He searched everywhere for 
 me, and at last he found me. So delighted and 
 affectionate was he that I forgave him my suffer- 
 ings, only I was jealous of a letter in his other 
 pocket, which he read over many times, murmur- 
 ing that it explained everything. 
 
 " Her I never saw again, but I heard her voice. 
 
 He kept me now in a leather case in an inner 
 
 pocket, where I was squeezed very flat What 
 
 they said to each other I could not catch ; but I 
 
 18
 
 274 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 
 
 understood afterward, for he always repeated to 
 me what he had been saying to her, and many 
 times, he was loving, many times angry, like a 
 bad man. At last came a day when he had a 
 letter from her containing many things he had 
 given her, among them a ring on which she had 
 seemed to set great store. What it all meant I 
 never rightly knew, but he flung the ring into the 
 Thames, calling her all the old wicked names and 
 some new ones. I remember how he rushed to 
 her house, along the bank this time, and that she 
 asked him to be her brother ; but he screamed 
 denunciations at her, again speaking of ' that 
 fellow,' and saying that he was going to-morrow 
 to Manitoba. 
 
 "So far as I know, they saw each other no 
 more. He walked on the decks so much now that 
 his friend went back to London, saying he could 
 get no sleep. Sometimes we took long walks 
 alone ; often we sat for hours looking at the river, 
 for on those occasions he would take me out of 
 the leather case and put me on his knee. One 
 day his friend came back and told him that he 
 would soon get over it, he himself having once 
 had a similar experience ; but my master said no 
 one had ever loved as he loved, and muttered 
 'Vixi, vixi' to himself till the other told him not 
 to be a fool, but to come to the hotel and have 
 something to eat. Over this they quarreled, my 
 master hinting that he would eat no more ; but 
 he eat heartily after his friend was gone. 
 
 "After a time we left the house-boat, and were 
 in chambers in a great inn. I was still in his 
 pocket, and heard many conversations between 
 him and people who came to see him, and he 
 would tell them that he loathed the society of
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 275 
 
 women. When they told him, as one or two 
 did, that they were in love, he always said that 
 he had gone through that stage ages ago. Still, 
 at nights he would take me out of my case, when 
 he was alone, and look at me ; after which he 
 walked up and down the room in an agitated man- 
 ner and cried, ' Vixi.' 
 
 "By and by he left me in a coat that he was 
 no longer wearing. Before this he had always 
 put me into whatever coat he h#d on. I lay neg- 
 lected, I think, for a month, until one day he felt 
 the pockets of the coat for something else, and 
 pulled me out. I don't think he remembered 
 what was in the leather case at first ; but as he 
 looked at me his face filled with sentiment, and 
 next day he took me with him to Cookham. The 
 winter was come, and it was a cold day. There 
 were no boats on the river. He walked up the 
 bank to the garden where was the house in which 
 she had lived ; but the place was now deserted. 
 On the garden gate he sat down, taking me from 
 his pocket ; and here, I think, he meant to recall 
 the days that were dead. But a cold, piercing 
 wind was blowing, and many times he looked at 
 his watch, putting it to his ear as if he thought it 
 had stopped. After a little he took to flinging 
 stones into the water, for something to do ; and 
 then he went to the hotel and stayed there till he 
 got a train back to London. We were home many 
 hours before he meant to be back, and that night 
 he went to a theater. 
 
 "That was my last day in the leather case. 
 He keeps something else in it now. He flung me 
 among old papers, smoking-caps, slippers, and 
 other odds and ends into a box, where I have 
 remained until to-night A month or more ago
 
 276 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 he rummaged in the box for some old letters, and 
 coming upon me unexpectedly, he jagged his 
 finger on the wire. 'Where on earth did you 
 come from ? he asked me. Then he remembered, 
 and flung me back among the papers with a 
 laugh. Now we come to to-night. An hour ago 
 I heard him blowing down something, then stamp- 
 ing his feet. From his words I knew that his 
 pipe was stopped. I heard him ring a bell and 
 ask angrily who had gone offwith his pipe-cleaners. 
 He bustled through the room looking for them or 
 for a substitute, and after a time he cried aloud, 
 ' I have it ; that would do ; but where was it I saw 
 the thing last ? ' He pulled out several drawers, 
 looked through his desk, and then opened the box 
 in which I lay. He tumbled its contents over 
 until he found me, and then he pulled me out, 
 exclaiming, ' Eureka ! ' My heart sunk, for I 
 understood all as I fell leaf by leaf on the hearth- 
 rug where I now lie. He took the wire off me and 
 used it to clean his pipe. " 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 THIS was another of Harriot's perplexities of the 
 heart. He had been on the Continent, and I knew 
 from his face, the moment he returned, that I 
 would have a night of him. 
 
 " On the 4th of September," he began, playing 
 agitatedly with my tobacco-pouch, which was 
 not for hands like his, "I had walked from 
 Spondinig to Franzenshohe, which is a Tyrolese
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 277 
 
 inn near the top of Stelvio Pass. From the inn 
 to a very fine glacier is only a stroll of a few 
 minutes ; but the path is broken by a roaring 
 stream. The only bridge across this stream is a 
 plank, which seemed to give way as I put my 
 foot on it I drew back, for the stream would be 
 called one long water-fall in England. Though 
 a passionate admirer of courage, I easily lose my 
 head myself, and I did not dare to venture across 
 the plank. I walked up the stream, looking in 
 vain for another crossing, and finally sat down 
 on a wilderness of stones, from which I happened 
 to have a good view of the plank. In parties of 
 two and three a number of tourists strolled down 
 the path ; but they were all afraid to cross the 
 bridge. I saw them test it with their alpenstocks ; 
 but none would put more than one foot on it. 
 They gathered there at their wit's end. Suddenly 
 I saw that there was some one on the plank. It 
 was a young lady. I stood up and gazed. She 
 was perhaps a hundred yards away from me ; but 
 I could distinctly make out her swaying, girlish 
 figure, her deer-stalker cap, and the ends of her 
 boa (as, I think, those long, furry things are 
 called) floating in the wind. In a moment she 
 was safe on the other side ; but on the middle of 
 the plank she had turned to kiss her hand to some 
 of her more timid friends, and it was then that I 
 fell in love with her. No doubt it was the very 
 place for romance, if one was sufficiently clad ; 
 but I am not 'susceptible,' as it is called, and I 
 had never loved before. On the other hand, I 
 was always a firm believer in love at first sight, 
 which, as you will see immediately, is at the very 
 root of my present sufferings. 
 
 "The other tourists, their fears allayed, now
 
 278 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 crossed the plank, but I hurried away anywhere ; 
 and found myself an hour afterward on a hillside, 
 surrounded by tinkling cows. All that time I 
 had been thinking of a plank with a girl on it. I 
 returned hastily to the inn, to hear that the hero- 
 ine of the bridge and her friends had already 
 driven off up the pass. My intention had been 
 to stay at Franzenshohe over night, but of course 
 I at once followed the line of carriages which 
 could be seen crawling up the winding road. It 
 was no difficult matter to overtake them, and in 
 half an hour I was within a few yards of the hind- 
 most carriage. It contained her of whom I was 
 in pursuit Her back was toward me, but I rec- 
 ognized the cap and the boa. I confess that I was 
 nervous about her face, which I had not yet 
 seen. So often had I been disappointed in ladies 
 when they showed their faces, that I muttered 
 Jimmy's aphorism to myself : ' The saddest thing 
 in life is that most women look best from the 
 back.' But when she looked round all anxiety 
 was dispelled. So far as your advice is concerned, 
 it cannot matter to you what she was like. 
 Briefly, she was charming. 
 
 "I am naturally shy, and so had more difficulty 
 in making her acquaintance than many travelers 
 would have had. It was at the baths of Bormio 
 that we came together. I had bribed a waiter to 
 seat me next her father at dinner; but, when 
 the time came, I could say nothing to him, so 
 anxious was I to create a favorable impression. 
 In the evening, however, I found the family 
 gathered round a pole, with skittles at the foot of 
 it They were wondering how Italian skittles 
 was played, and, though I had no idea, I volun- 
 teered to teach them. Fortunately none of them
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 279 
 
 understood Italian, and consequently the ex- 
 postulations of the boy in charge were disregarded. 
 It is not my intention to dwell upon the never-to- 
 be-forgotten days ah, and still more the evenings 
 we spent at the baths of Bormio. I had loved 
 her as she crossed the plank ; but daily now had 
 I more cause to love her, and it was at Bormio that 
 she learned I say it with all humility to love 
 me. The seat in the garden on which I proposed 
 is doubtless still to be seen, with the chair near 
 it on which her papa was at that very moment 
 sitting, with one of his feet on a small table. 
 During the three sunny days that followed, my 
 life was one delicious dream, with no sign that 
 the awakening was at hand. 
 
 "So far I had not mentioned the incident at 
 Franzenshohe to her. Perhaps you will call my 
 reticence contemptible ; but the fact is, I feared 
 to fall in her esteem. I could not have spoken 
 of the plank without admitting that I was afraid 
 to cross it ; and then what would she, who was 
 a heroine, think of a man who was so little 
 of a hero? Thus, though I had told her many 
 times that I fell in love with her at first sight, she 
 thought I referred to the time when she first saw 
 me. She liked to hear me say that I believed in 
 no love but love at first sight ; and, looking back, 
 I can recall saying it at least once on every seat 
 in the garden at the baths of Bormio. 
 
 "Do you know Tirano, a hamlet in a nest of 
 vines, where Italian soldiers strut and women 
 sleep in the sun beside baskets of fruit ? How 
 happily we entered it ; were we the same persons 
 who left it within an hour ? I was now traveling 
 with her party ; and at Tirano, while the others 
 rested, she and I walked down a road between
 
 8o MY LADY WCOTlttR. 
 
 vines and Indian corn. Why I should then have 
 told her that I loved her for a whole day before 
 she saw me I cannot tell. It may have been 
 something she said, perhaps only an irresistible 
 movement of her head ; for her grace was ever 
 taking me by surprise, and she was a revelation 
 a thousand times a day. But whatever it was 
 that made me speak out, I suddenly told her that 
 I fell in love with her as she stood upon the plank 
 at Franzenshohe. I remember her stopping short 
 at a point where there had probably once been 
 a gate to the vineyard, and I thought she was 
 angry with me for not having told her of the 
 Franzenshohe incident before. Soon the pallor of 
 her face alarmed me. She entreated me to say it 
 was not at Franzenshohe that I first loved her, 
 and I fancied she was afraid lest her behavior on 
 the bridge had seemed a little bold. I told her it 
 was divine, and pictured the scene as only an 
 anxious lover could do. Then she burst into 
 tears, and we went back silently to her relatives. 
 She would not say a word to me. 
 
 " We drove to Sondrio, and before we reached 
 it I dare say I was as pale as she. A horrible 
 thought had flashed upon me. At Sondrio I took 
 her papa aside, and, without telling him what had 
 happened, questioned him about his impressions 
 of Franzenshohe. ' You remember the little bridge," 
 he said, ' that we were all afraid to cross ; by 
 Jove 1 I have often wondered who that girl was 
 that ventured over it first.' 
 
 "I hastened away from him to think. My 
 fears had been confirmed It was not she who 
 had first crossed the plank. Therefore it was not 
 she with whom I had fallen in love. Nothing 
 could be plainer than that I was in love with the
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. a8l 
 
 wrong person. All the time I had loved another. 
 But who was she ? Besides, did I love her ? 
 Certainly not. Yes, but why did I love this one ? 
 The whole foundation of my love had been swept 
 away. Yet the love remained. Which is absurd. 
 
 "At Colico I put the difficulty to her father ; but 
 he is stout, and did not understand its magnitude. 
 He said he could not see how it mattered. As 
 for her, I have never mentioned it to her again ; 
 but she is always thinking of it, and so am I. A 
 wall has risen up between us, and how to get 
 over it or whether I have any right to get over it, 
 I know not. Will you help me and her?" 
 
 "Certainly not," I said. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 PRIMUS. 
 
 PRIMUS is my brother's eldest son, and he once 
 spent his Easter holidays with me. I did not want 
 him, nor was he anxious to come, but circum- 
 stances were too strong for us, and, to be just to 
 Primus, he did his best to show me that I was not 
 ''in his way. He was then at the age when boys 
 begin to address each other by their surnames. 
 
 I have said that I always took care not to know 
 how much tobacco I smoked in a week, and there- 
 fore I may be hinting a libel on Primus when I 
 say that while he was with me the Arcadia dis- 
 appeared mysteriously. Though he spoke re- 
 spectfully of the Mixture as became my nephew 
 he tumbled it on to the table, so that he might 
 make a telephone out of the tins, and he had 
 a passion for what he called "snipping cigars."
 
 282 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 Scrymgeour gave him a cigar-cutter which was 
 pistol-shaped. You put the cigar end in a hole, 
 pull the trigger, and the cigar was snipped. The 
 simplicity of the thing fascinated Primus, and after 
 his return to school I found that he had broken 
 into my Cabana boxes and snipped nearly three 
 hundred cigars. 
 
 As soon as he arrived Primus laid siege to the 
 heart of William John, captured it in six hours, 
 and demoralized it in twenty-four. We who had 
 known William John for years, considered him 
 very practical, but Primus fired him with tales of 
 dark deeds at ' ' old Poppy's '' which was Primus's 
 handy name for his preceptor and in a short 
 time William John was so full of romance that we 
 could not trust him to black our boots. He and 
 Primus had a scheme for seizing a lugger and be- 
 coming pirates, when Primus was to be captain, 
 William John first lieutenant, and old Poppy a 
 prisoner. To the crew was added a boy with 
 a catapult,- one Johnny Fox, who was another 
 victim of the tyrant Poppy, and they practiced 
 walking the plank at Scrymgeour's window. 
 The plank was pushed nearly half-way out at the 
 window, and you walked up it until it toppled and 
 you were flung into the quadrangle. Such was 
 the romance of William John that he walked the 
 plank with his arms tied, shoutingscornfully, by re- 
 quest, "Captain Kidd, I defy you ! ha, ha ! the buc- 
 caneer does not live who will blanch the cheeks 
 of Dick, the Doughty Tar ! " Then William John 
 disappeared, and had to be put in poultices. 
 
 While William John was in bed slowly recover- 
 ing from his heroism, the pirate captain and 
 Johnny Fox got me into trouble by stretching a 
 string across the square, six feet from the ground,
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 383 
 
 against which many tall hats struck, to topple in 
 the dust. An improved sling from the Lowther 
 Arcade kept the glazier constantly in the inn. 
 Primus and Johnny Fox strolled into Holburn, 
 knocked a bootblack's cap off, and returned with 
 lumps on their foreheads. They were observed 
 one day in Hyde Park whither it may be feared 
 they had gone with cigarettes running after sheep 
 from which ladies were flying, while street arabs 
 chased the pirates, and a policeman chased the 
 street arabs. The only book they read was the 
 "Comic History of Rome," the property of Gilray. 
 This they liked so much that Primus papered the 
 inside of his box with pictures from it. The only 
 authors they consulted me about were "two big 
 swells " called Descartes and James Payn, of whom 
 Primus discovered that the one could always work 
 best in bed, while the other thought Latin and 
 Greek a mistake. It was the intention of the 
 pirates to call old Poppy's attention to these gen- 
 tlemen's views. 
 
 Soon after Primus came to me I learned that 
 his school-master had given him a holiday task. 
 All the ' ' fellows" in his form had to write an 
 essay entitled "My Holidays, and How I Turned 
 Them to Account," and to send it to their pre- 
 ceptor. Primus troubled his head little about the 
 task while the composition of it was yet afar off ; 
 but as his time drew near he referred to it with 
 indignation, and to his master's action in pre- 
 scribing it as a "low trick." He frightened the 
 housekeeper into tears by saying that he would 
 not write a line of the task, and, what was more, 
 he would "cheek" his master for imposing it-, 
 and I also heard that he and Johnny had some 
 thought of writing the essay in a form suggested
 
 384 *Y LA&Y NICOTINE. 
 
 by their perusal of the " Comic History of 
 Rome." One day I found a paper in my cham- 
 bers which told me that the task was nevertheless 
 receiving 1 serious consideration. It was the in- 
 structions given by Primus's master with regard 
 to the essay, which was to be "in the form of a 
 letter," and " not less than five hundred words in 
 length." The writer, it was suggested, should 
 give a general sketch of how he was passing his 
 time, what books he was reading, and "how he 
 was making the home brighter." I did not know 
 that Primus had risen equal to the occasion until 
 one day after his departure, when I received his 
 epistle from the school-master, who wanted me 
 to say whether it was a true statement. Here is 
 Primus's essay on his holidays and how he made 
 the home brighter : 
 
 " RESPECTED SIR, I venture to address you on 
 a subject of jeneral interest to all engaged in 
 education, and the subject I venture to address 
 you on is, 'My Hollidays and How I Turned 
 Them to Account.' Three weeks and two days 
 has now elapsed since I quitted your scholastic 
 establishment, and I quitted your scholastic es- 
 tablishment with tears in my eyes, it being the 
 one of all the scholastic establishments I have 
 been at that I loved to reside in, and everybody 
 was of an amiable disposition. Hollidays is good 
 for making us renew our studdies with redoubled 
 vigor, the mussels needing to be invigorated, and 
 I have not overworked mind and body in my 
 hollidays. I found my uncle well, and drove in a 
 handsome to the door, and he thought I was 
 much improved both in appearance and manners ; 
 and I said it was jew to the loving care of my
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 teacher making improvement in appearance and 
 manners a pleasure to the youth of England. 
 My uncle was partiklarly pleased with the im- 
 provement I had made, not only in my appear- 
 ance and manners, but also in my studies ; and I 
 told him Casear was the Latin writer I liked best, 
 and quoted 'veni, vidi, vici/ and some others 
 which I regret I cannot mind at present. With 
 your kind permission I should like to write you a 
 line about how I spend my days during the holli- 
 days ; and my first way of spending my days 
 during the hollidays is whatsoever my hands find 
 to do doing it with all my might ; also setting 
 my face nobly against hurting the fealings of 
 others, and minding to say, before I go to sleep, 
 ' Something attempted, something done, to earn 
 a night's repose,' as advised by you, my esteemed 
 communicant. I spend my days during the holli- 
 days getting up early, so as to be down in time 
 for breakfast, and not to give no trouble. At 
 breakfast I behave like a model, so as to set a 
 good example ; and then I go out for a walk with 
 my esteemed young friend, John Fox, whom I 
 chose carefully for a friend, fearing to corrupt my 
 morals by holding communications with rude 
 boys. TheJ. Fox whom I mentioned is esteemed 
 by all who knows him as of a unusually gentle 
 disposition ; and you know him, respected sir, 
 yourself, he being in my form, and best known 
 in regretble slang as ' Foxy.' We walks in Hyde 
 Park admiring the works of nature, and keeps up 
 our classics when we see a tree by calling it 
 'arbor* and then going through the declensions ; 
 but we never climbs trees for fear of messing the 
 clothes bestowed upon us by our beloved parents 
 in the sweat of their brow ; and we scorns to fling
 
 286 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 stones at the beautiful warblers which fill the 
 atmosfere with music. In the afternoons I spend 
 my days during the hollidays talking with the 
 housekeeper about the things she understands, 
 like not taking off my flannels till June 15, and 
 also praising the matron at the school for seeing 
 about the socks. In the evening I devote myself 
 to whatever good cause I can think of ; and I 
 always take off my boots and put on my slippers, 
 so as not to soil the carpet. I should like, re- 
 spected sir, to inform you of the books I read 
 when my duties does not call me elsewhere ; and 
 the books I read are the works of William 
 Shakespeare, John Milton, Albert Tennyson, and 
 Francis Bacon. Me and John Fox also reads the 
 ' History of Rome,' so as to prime ourselves with 
 the greatness of the past ; and we hopes the glori- 
 ous examples of Romulus and Remus, but espe- 
 cially Hannibal, will sink into our minds to spur 
 us along. I am desirous to acquaint you with 
 the way I make my uncle's home brighter ; but 
 the 500 words is up. So looking forward eagerly 
 to resume my studdies, I am, respected sir, your 
 dilligent pupil." 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 PRIMUS TO HIS UNCLE. 
 
 THOUGH we all pretended to be glad when 
 Primus went, we spoke of him briefly at times, 
 and I read his letters aloud at our evening meet- 
 ings. Here is a series of them from my desk. 
 Primus was now a year and a half older, and hi 
 spelling had improved.
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 287 
 
 I. 
 
 November i6/h. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, Though I have not written to 
 you for a long time I often think about you and 
 Mr. Gilray and the rest and the Arcadia Mixture, 
 and I beg to state that my mother will have in- 
 formed you I am well and happy but a little over- 
 worked, as I am desirous of pleasing my preceptor 
 by obtaining a credible position in the exams, 
 and we breakfast at 7 : 30 sharp. I suppose you 
 are to give me a six-shilling thing again as a 
 Christmas present, so I drop you a line not to buy 
 something I don't want, as it is only thirty-nine 
 days to Christmas. I think I'll have a book again, 
 but not a fairy tale or any of that sort, nor the 
 "Swiss Family Robinson," nor any of the old 
 books. There is a rattling story called "Kid- 
 napped," by H. Rider Haggard, but it is only five 
 shillings, so if you thought of it you could make 
 up the six shillings by giving me a football belt. 
 Last year you gave me "The Formation of Char- 
 acter," and I read it with great mental improve- 
 ment and all that, but this time I want a change, 
 namely, (i) not a fairy tale, (2) not an old book, 
 (3) not mental improvement book. Don't fix on 
 anything without telling me first what it is. Tell 
 William John I walked into Darky and settled 
 him in three rounds. Best regards to Mr. Gilray 
 and the others. 
 
 IL 
 
 November iqth. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, Our preceptor is against us writ- 
 ing letters he doesn't see, so I have to carry the 
 paper to the dormitory up my waistcoat and write 
 there, and I wish old Poppy smoked the Arcadia
 
 *8S MY LADY tfZCOTWE. 
 
 Mixture to make him more like you. Never mind 
 about the football belt, as I got Johnny Fox's for 
 two white mice ; so I don't want " Kidnapped," 
 which I wrote about to you, as I want you to 
 stick to six-shilling book. There is one called 
 "Dead Man's Rock" that Dickson Secundus has 
 heard about, and it sounds well ; but it is never 
 safe to go by the name, so don't buy it till I hear 
 more about it If you see biographies of it in the 
 newspapers you might send them to me, as it 
 should be about pirates by the title, but the author 
 does not give his name, which is rather suspi- 
 cious. So, remember, don't buy it yet, and also 
 find out price, whether illustrated, and how 
 many pages. Ballantyne's story this year is about 
 the fire-brigade ; but I don't think I'll have it, as 
 he is getting rather informative, and I have one 
 of his about the fire-brigade already. Of course 
 I don't fix not to have it, only don't buy it at 
 present Don't buy " Dead Man's Rock " either. 
 I am working diligently, and tell the housekeeper 
 my socks is all right We may fix on "Dead 
 Man's Rock," but it is best not to be in a hurry. 
 
 in. 
 
 November 24/h. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, I don't think I'll have "Dead 
 Man's Rock," as Hope lias two stories out this 
 year, and he is a safe man to go to. The worst 
 of it is that they arethree-and-six each, and Dick- 
 son Secundus says they are continuations of each 
 other, so it is best to have them both or neither. 
 The two at three-and-six would make seven shil- 
 lings, and I wonder if you would care to go that 
 length this year. I am getting on first rate with
 
 IfY LAD Y NICOTINE. 189 
 
 my Greek, and will do capital if my health does 
 not break down with over-pressure. Perhaps if 
 you bought the two you would get them for 6s. 
 6d. Or what do you say to the houskeeper's 
 giving me a shilling of it, and not sending the 
 neckties ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 November z6th. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, I was disappointed at not hear- 
 ing from you this morning, but conclude you are 
 very busy. I don't want Hope's books, but I 
 think I'll rather have a football. We played Glou- 
 cester on Tuesday and beat them all to sticks 
 (five goals two tries to one try ! ! !). It would cost 
 75. 6d., and I'll make up the one-and-six myself 
 out of my pocket-money ; but you can pay it all 
 just now, and then I'll pay you later when I am 
 more flush than I am at present. I'd better buy 
 it myself, or you might not get the right kind, so 
 you might send the money in a postal order by 
 return. You get the postal orders at the nearest 
 post-office, and inclose them in a letter. I want 
 the football at once, (i) Not a book of any kind 
 whatever; (2) a football, but I'll buy it myself; 
 (3) price 75. 6d. ; (4) send postal order. 
 
 v. 
 
 November 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, Kindly inform William John that 
 I am in receipt of his favor of yesterday prox., and 
 also your message, saying am I sure it is a foot- 
 ball I want. I have to inform you that I have 
 changed my mind and think I'll stick to a book 
 (or two books according to price), after all Dick- 
 '9
 
 ago 
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 son Secundus has seen a newspaper biography of 
 "Dead Man's Rock" and it is ripping, but un- 
 fortunately, there is a lot 'in it about a girl. So 
 don't buy "Dead Man's Rock" forme. I told 
 Fox about Hope's two books and he advises me to 
 get one of them (35. 6d.), and to take the rest of 
 the money (zs. 6d.) in cash, making in all six 
 shillings. I don't know if I should like that plan, 
 though fair to both parties, as Dickson Secundus 
 once took money from his father instead of a 
 book and it went like winking with nothing left 
 to show for it ; but I'll think it over between my 
 scholastic tasks and write to you again, so do 
 nothing till you hear from me, and mind I don't 
 want football. 
 
 VI. 
 
 December $d. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, Don't buy Hope's books. There 
 is a grand story out by Jules Verne about a man 
 who made a machine that enabled him to walk 
 on his head through space with seventy-five illus- 
 trations ; but the worst of it is that it costs half a 
 guinea. Of course I don't ask you to give so 
 much as that ; but it is a pity it costs so much, as 
 it is evidently a ripping book, and nothing like it. 
 Ten-and-six is a lot of money. What do you 
 think ? I inclose for your consideration a news- 
 paper account of it, which says it will fire the 
 imagination and teach boys to be manly and self- 
 reliant. Of course you could not give it to me ; 
 but I think it would do me good, and am work- 
 ing so hard that I have no time for physical exer- 
 cise. It is to be got at all book-sellers. P. S.- 
 Fox has read "Dead Man's Rock," and likes it 
 A I.
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 29 1 
 
 VIL 
 
 December 4/k. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, I was thinking about Jules 
 Verne's book last night after I went to bed, and 
 I see a way of getting it which both Dickson 
 Secundus and Fox consider fair. I want you to 
 give it to me as my Christmas present for both 
 this year and next year. Thus I won't want a 
 present from you next Christmas ; but I don't 
 mind that so long as I get this book. One six- 
 shilling book this year and another next year 
 would come to I2S. , and Jules Verne's book is 
 only IDS. 6d., so this plan will save you is. 6d. in 
 the long run. I think you should buy it at once, 
 in case they are all sold out before Christmas. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 December ^th. 
 
 MY DEAR UNCLE, I hope you hav'n't bought 
 the book yet, as Dickson Secundus has found out 
 that there is a shop in the Strand where all the 
 books are sold cheap. You get threepence off 
 every shilling, so you would get a ten-and-six 
 book for ys. io^d. That will let you get me a 
 cheapish one next year, after all. I inclose the 
 address. 
 
 IX. 
 
 December fth. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE, Dickson Secundus was looking 
 to-day at "The Formation of Character," which 
 you gave me last year, and he has found out that 
 it was bought in the shop in the Strand that I 
 wrote you about, so you got it for 4s. 6d. We 
 have been looking up the books I got from you at 
 other Christmases, and they all have the stamp on
 
 292 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 them which shows they were bought at that shop. 
 Some of them I got when I was a kid, and that 
 was the time you gave me 23. and $s. 6d. books ; 
 but Dickson Secundus and Fox have been helping 
 me to count up how much you owe me, as 
 follows : 
 
 Nominal Price, 
 f.. s. d. 
 
 Price Paid. 
 t. J. 
 
 1880 
 1881 
 1882 
 1883 
 1884 
 1885 
 1886 
 
 " Sunshine and Shadow " 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 o 
 
 2 
 2 
 
 3 
 3 
 3 
 
 o 
 o 
 6 
 6 
 6 
 o 
 o 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 2 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 6 
 
 6 
 
 f 
 
 " Honesty Jack " 
 
 " The Boy Makes the Man "... 
 " Great Explorers " . 
 
 " Shooting the Rapids " 
 
 
 " The Formation of Character ". 
 
 i 
 o 
 
 5 
 *9 
 
 6 
 
 J 9 
 
 1)1 
 
 o 6 4# 
 
 Thus 6s. 4j^d. is the exact sum. The best plan 
 will be for you not to buy anything for me till I 
 get my holidays, when my father is to bring me 
 to London. Tell William John I am coming. 
 
 P. S. I told my father about the Arcadia Mix- 
 ture, and that is why he is coming to London. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ENGLISH-GROWN TOBACCO. 
 
 PETTIGREW asked me to come to his house one 
 evening and test some tobacco that had been 
 grown in his brother's Devonshire garden. I had 
 so far had no opportunity of judging for myself 
 whether this attempt to grow tobacco on English
 
 M Y LAD Y NICOTIXB. 293 
 
 soil was to succeed. Very complimentary was 
 
 Pettigrew's assertion that he had restrained him- 
 self from trying the tobacco until we could test it 
 in company. At the dinner-table while Mrs. Pet- 
 tigrew was present we managed to talk for a time 
 of other matters ; but the tobacco was on our 
 minds, and I was glad to see that, despite her 
 raillery, my hostess had a genuine interest in the 
 coming experiment. She drew an amusing pict- 
 ure, no doubt a little exaggerated, of her husband's 
 difficulty in refraining from testing the tobacco 
 until my arrival, declaring that every time she 
 entered the smoking-room she found him staring 
 at it. Pettigrew took this in good part, and in- 
 formed me that she had carried the tobacco sev- 
 eral times into the drawing-room to show it 
 proudly to her friends. He was very delighted, 
 he said, that I was to remain over night, as that 
 would give us a long even-'ag to test the tobacco 
 thoroughly. A neighbor of hie had also been ex- 
 perimenting ; and Pettigrew, who has a consider- 
 erable sense of humor, told me a diverting story 
 about this gentleman and his friends having passed 
 judgment on home-grown tobacco after smoking 
 one pipe of it ! We were laughing over the 
 ridiculously unsatisfactory character of this test 
 (so-called) when we adjourned to the smoking- 
 room. Before we did so Mrs. Pettigrew bade me 
 good-night. She had also left strict orders with 
 the servants that we were on no account to be 
 disturbed. 
 
 As soon as we were comfortably seated in our 
 smoking-chairs, which takes longer than some 
 people think, Pettigrew offered me a Cabana. I 
 would have preferred to begin at once with the 
 tobacco ; but of course he was my host, and I
 
 294 MY LADY MICGTINE, 
 
 put myself entirely in his hands. I noticed that, 
 from the moment his wife left us, he was a little 
 excited, talking more than is his wont. He 
 seemed to think that he was not doing his duty 
 as a host if the conversation flagged for a moment, 
 and what was still more curious, he spoke of 
 everything except his garden tobacco. I em- 
 phasize this here at starting, lest any one should 
 think that I was in any way responsible for the 
 manner in which our experiment was conducted. 
 If fault there was, it lies at Pettigrew's door. I 
 remember distinctly asking him not in a half- 
 hearted way, but boldly to produce his tobacco. 
 I did this at an early hour of the proceedings, 
 immediately after I had lighted a second cigar. 
 The reason I took that cigar will be obvious to 
 every gentleman who smokes. Had I declined 
 it, Pettigrew might have 'thought that I disliked 
 the brand, which would have been painful to 'him. 
 However, he did not at once bring out the to- 
 bacco ; indeed, his precise words, I remember, 
 were that we had lots of time. As his guest I 
 could not press him further. 
 
 Pettigrew smokes more quickly than I do, and 
 he had reached the end of his second cigar when 
 there was still five minutes of mine left. It dis- 
 tresses me to have to say what followed. He 
 hastily lighted a third cigar, and then, unlock- 
 ing a cupboard, produced about two ounces of 
 his garden tobacco. His object was only too 
 plain. Having just begun a third cigar he could 
 nor be expected to try the tobacco at present, but 
 there was nothing to prevent my trying it. I 
 regarded Pettigrew rather contemptuously, and 
 then I looked with much interest at the tobacco. 
 It was of an inky color. When I looked up I
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 295 
 
 caught Pettigrew's eye on me. He withdrew it 
 hurriedly, but soon afterward I saw him looking 
 in the same sly way again. There was a rather 
 painful silence for a time, and then he asked me 
 if I had anything to say. I replied firmly that I 
 was looking forward to trying the tobacco with 
 very great interest. By this time my cigar was 
 reduced to a stump, but, for reasons that Petti- 
 grew misunderstood, I continued to smoke it. 
 Somehow our chairs had got out of position now, 
 and we were sitting with our backs to each other. 
 I felt that Pettigrew was looking at me covertly 
 over his shoulder, and took a side glance to make 
 sure of this. Our eyes met, and I bit my lip. If 
 there is one thing I loathe, it is to be looked at in 
 this shame-faced manner. 
 
 I continued to smoke the stump of my cigar 
 until it scorched my under-lip, and at intervals 
 Pettigrew said, without looking round, that my 
 cigar seemed everlasting. I treated his innuendo 
 with contempt ; but at last I had to let the cigar- 
 end go. Not to make a fuss, I dropped it very 
 quietly ; but Pettigrew must have been listening 
 for the sound. He wheeled round at once, and 
 pushed the garden tobacco toward me. Never, 
 perhaps, have I thought so little of him as at that 
 moment. My indignation probably showed in 
 my face, for he drew back, saying that he thought 
 I "wanted to try it." Now I had never said that 
 I did not want to try it. The reader has seen 
 that I went to Pettigrew's house solely with the ob- 
 ject of trying the tobacco. Had Pettigrew, then, 
 any ground for insinuating that I did not mean to 
 try it ? Restraining my passion, I lighted a third 
 cigar, and then put the question to him bluntly. 
 Pid he, or did he not, mean to try that tobacco?
 
 296 MY LAD Y NICOTItfE. 
 
 I dare say I was a little brusque ; but it must be 
 remembered that I had come all the way from the 
 inn, at considerable inconvenience, to give the 
 tobacco a thorough trial. 
 
 As is the way with men of Pettigrew's type, 
 when you corner them, he attempted to put the 
 blame on me. "Why had I not tried the to- 
 bacco," he asked, "instead of taking a third 
 cigar ? " For reply, I asked bitingly if that was 
 not his third cigar. He admitted it was, but 
 said that he smoked more quickly than I did, as 
 if that put his behavior in a more favorable light. 
 I smoked my third cigar very slowly, not be- 
 cause I wanted to put off the experiment ; for, 
 as every one must have noted, I was most anx- 
 ious to try it, but just to see what would happen. 
 When Pettigrew had finished his cigar and I 
 thought he would never be done with it he 
 gazed at the garden tobacco for a time, and then 
 took a pipe from the mantelpiece. He held it 
 first in one hand, then in the other, and then he 
 brightened up and said he would clean his pipes. 
 This he did very slowly. When he had cleaned 
 all his pipes he again looked at the garden to- 
 bacco, which I pushed toward him. He glared 
 at me as if I had not been doing a friendly thing, 
 and then said, in an apologetic manner, that he 
 would smoke a pipe until my cigar was finished. 
 I said "All right " cordially, thinking that he now 
 meant to begin the experiment ; but conceive 
 my feelings when he produced a jar of the Ar- 
 cadia Mixture. He filled his pipe with this and 
 proceeded to light it, looking at me defiantly. 
 His excuse about waiting till I had finished was 
 too pitiful to take notice of. I finished my cigar 
 in a few minutes, and now was the time when I
 
 MY LAD y NICOTINE. 297 
 
 would have liked to begin the experiment. As 
 Pettigrew's guest, however, I could not take that 
 liberty, though he impudently pushed the garden 
 tobacco toward me. I produced my pipe, my 
 intention being only to half fill it with Arcadia, 
 so that Pettigrew and I might finish our pipes at 
 the same time. Custom, however, got the better 
 of me, and inadvertently I filled my pipe, only 
 noticing this when it was too late to remedy the 
 mistake. Pettigrew thus finished before me ; and 
 though I advised him to begin on the garden to- 
 bacco without waiting for me, he insisted on 
 smoking half a pipeful of Arcadia, just to keep 
 me company. It was an extraordinary thing 
 that, try as we might, we could not finish our 
 pipes at the same time. 
 
 About 2 A. M. Pettigrew said something about 
 going to bed ; and I rose and put down my pipe. 
 We stood looking at the fireplace for a time, and 
 he expressed regret that I had to leave so early in 
 the morning. Then he put out two of the lights, 
 and after that we both looked at the garden to- 
 bacco. He seemed to have a sudden idea; for 
 rather briskly he tied the tobacco up into a neat 
 paper parcel and handed it to me, saying that I 
 would perhaps give it a trial at the inn. I took 
 it without a word, but opening my hand suddenly 
 I let it fall. My first impulse was to pick it up ; 
 but then it struck me that Pettigrew had not no- 
 ticed what had happened, and that, were he to 
 see me pick it up, he might think that I had not 
 taken sufficient care of it. So I let it lie, and, 
 bidding him good-night, went off to bed. I was 
 at the foot of the stair when I thought that, after 
 all, I should like the tobacco, so I returned. I 
 could not see the package anywhere, but some-
 
 298 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 thing was fizzing up the chimney, and Pettigrew 
 had the tongs in his hand. He muttered some- 
 thing about his wife taking up wrong notions. 
 Next morning that lady was very satirical about 
 our having smoked the whole two ounces. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 HOW HEROES SMOKE. 
 
 ON a tiger-skin from the ice-clad regions of the 
 sunless north, recline the heroes of Ouida, rose- 
 scented cigars in their mouths ; themselves glori- 
 ously indolent and disdainful, but, perhaps, hud- 
 dled a little too closely together on account of 
 the limited accommodation. Strathmore is here. 
 But I never felt sure of Strathmore. Was there 
 not less in him than met the eye ? His place, 
 Whiteladies, was a home for kings and queens ; 
 but he was not the luxurious, magnanimous creat- 
 ure he feigned to be. A host may be known by 
 the cigars he keeps ; and, though it is perhaps a 
 startling thing to say, we have good reason for 
 believing that Strathmore did not buy good cigars. 
 I question very much whether he had many Ha- 
 vanas, even of the second quality, at Whiteladies ; 
 if he had, he certainly kept them locked up. 
 Only once does he so much as refer to them 
 when at his own place, and then in the most 
 general and suspicious way. "Bah!" he ex- 
 claims to a friend ; "there is Phil smoking these 
 wretched musk-scented cigarettes again ! they are 
 only fit for Lady Georgie or Eulalie Papellori. 
 What taste, when there are my Havanas and
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 299 
 
 cheroots ! " The remark, in whatever way con- 
 sidered, is suggestive. In the first place, it is 
 made late in the evening, after Strathmore and 
 his friend have left the smoking-room. Thus it 
 is a safe observation. I would not go so far as 
 to say that he had no Havanas in the house ; the 
 likelihood is that he had a few in his cigar-case, 
 kept there for show rather than use. These, if I 
 understand the man, would be a good brand, but 
 of small size perhaps Reinas and they would 
 hardly be of a well-known crop. In color they 
 would be dark say maduro and he would ex- 
 plain that he bought them because he liked full- 
 flavored weeds. Possibly he had a Villar y Vil- 
 lar box with six or eight in the bottom of it ; but 
 boxes are not cigars. What he did provide his 
 friends with was Manillas. He smoked them 
 himself, and how careful he was of them is seen 
 on every other page. He is constantly stopping 
 in the middle of his conversation to "curl a loose 
 leaf round his Manilla;" when one would have 
 expected a hero like Strathmore to fling away a 
 cigar when its leaves began to untwist, and light 
 another. So thrifty is Strathmore that he even 
 laboriously ' ' curls the leaves round his cigarettes " 
 he does not so much as pretend that they are 
 Egyptian ; nay, even when quarreling with Errol 
 his beloved friend (whom he shoots through the 
 heart), he takes a cigarette from his mouth and 
 " winds a loosened leaf" round it. 
 
 If Strathmore's Manillas were Captain Generals 
 they would cost him about 245. a hundred. The 
 probability, however, is that they were of inferior 
 quality; say, iys. 6d. It need hardly be said 
 that a good Manilla does not constantly require 
 to have its leaves "curled." When Errol goes
 
 300 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 into the garden to smoke, he has every other 
 minute to "strike a fusee ; " from which it may 
 be inferred that his cigar frequently goes out. 
 This is in itself suspicious. Errol, too, is more 
 than once seen by his host wandering in the 
 
 f rounds at night, with a cigar between his teeth, 
 trathmore thinks his susceptible friend has a love 
 affair on hand ; but is it not at least as probable 
 an explanation that Errol had a private supply 
 of cigars at Whiteladies, and from motives of 
 delicacy did not like to smoke them in his host s 
 presence? Once, indeed, we do see Strath- 
 more smoking a good cigar, though we are not 
 told how he came by it. When talking of the 
 Vavasour, he "sticks his penknife through his 
 Cabana," with the object, obviously, of smoking 
 it to the bitter end. Another lady novelist, who 
 is also an authority on tobacco, Miss Rhoda 
 Broughton, contemptuously dismisses a claimant 
 for the heroship of one of her stories, as the kind 
 of man who turns up his trousers at the foot. It 
 would have been just as withering to say that he 
 stuck a penknife through his cigars. 
 
 There is another true hero with me, whose 
 creator has unintentionally misrepresented him. 
 It is he of "Comin' thro' the Rye," a gentleman 
 whom the maidens of the nineteenth century will 
 not willingly let die. He is grr.r.f!. no doubt ; and 
 yet, the more one thinks about him, the plainer 
 it becomes that had the heroine married him she 
 would have been bitterly disenchanted. In her 
 company he was magnanimous, god-like, prodi- 
 gal ; but in his smoking-room he showed himself 
 in his true colors. Every lady will remember the 
 scene where he rushes to the aeroine's home and 
 implores her to return with him to the bedside of
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 301 
 
 his dying wife. The sudden announcement that 
 his wife whom he had thought in a good state 
 of health is dying, is surely enough to startle 
 even a miser out of his niggardliness, much less a 
 hero; and yet what do we find Vasher doing? 
 The heroine, in frantic excitement, has to pass 
 through his smoking-room, and on the table she 
 sees what? " A half-smoked cigar." He was 
 in the middle of it when a servant came to tell him 
 of his wife's dying request ; and, before hasten- 
 ing to execute her wishes, he carefully laid what 
 was left of his cigar upon the table meaning of 
 course, to relight it when he came back. Though 
 she did not think so, our heroine's father was a 
 much more remarkable man than Vasher. He 
 "blew out long, comfortable clouds " that made 
 the whole of his large family "cough and wink 
 again." No ordinary father could do that. 
 
 Among my smoking-room favorites is the hero 
 of Miss Adeline Sergeant's story, "Touch and 
 Go." He is a war correspondent ; and when he 
 sees a body of the enemy bearing down upon 
 him and *he wounded officer whom he has 
 sought to save, he imperturbably offers his com- 
 panion a cigar. They calmly smoke on while 
 the foe gallop up. There is something grand in 
 this, even though the kind of cigar is not men- 
 tioned. 
 
 I see a bearded hero, with slouch hat and 
 shepherd's crook, a clay pipe in his mouth. He 
 is a Bohemian ever a popular type of hero ; and 
 the Bohemian is to be known all the world over 
 by the pipe, which he prefers to a cigar. The 
 tall, scornful gentleman who leans lazily against 
 the door, "blowing great clouds of smoke into 
 the air," is the hero of a hundred novels. That
 
 302 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 
 
 is how he is always standing when the heroine, 
 having need of something she has left in the draw- 
 ing-room, glides down the stairs at night in her 
 dressing-gown (her beautiful hair, released from its 
 ribbons, streaming down her neck and shoulders), 
 and comes most unexpectedly upon him. He is 
 young. The senior, over whose face "a smile 
 flickers for a moment " when the heroine says 
 something naive, and whom she (entirely mis- 
 understanding her feelings) thinks she hates, 
 smokes unostentatiously ; but though a little in- 
 clined to quiet " chaff," he is a man of deep feel- 
 ing. By and by he will open out and gather her 
 up in his arms. The scorner's chair is filled. I 
 see him, shadow-like, a sad-eyed, blast gentleman, 
 who has been adored by all the beauties of fifteen 
 seasons, and yet speaks of woman with a con- 
 temptuous sneer. Great, however, is love ; and 
 the vulgar little girl who talks slang will prove to 
 him in our next volume that there is still one 
 peerless beyond all others of her sex. Ah, a 
 wondrous thing is love ! On every side of me 
 there are dark, handsome men, with something 
 sinister in their smile, " casting away their cigars 
 with a muffled curse." No novel would be com- 
 plete without them. When they are foiled by the 
 brave girl of the narrative, it is the recognized 
 course with them to fling away their cigars with a 
 muffled curse. Any kind of curse would do, but 
 muffled ones are preferred.
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 303 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS-EVE. 
 
 A FEW years ago, as some may remember, a 
 startling ghost paper appeared in the monthly 
 organ of the Society for Haunting Houses. The 
 writer guaranteed the truth of his statement, and 
 even gave the name of the Yorkshire manor house 
 in which the affair took place. The article and the 
 discussion to which it gave rise agitate?! me a 
 good deal, and I consulted Pettigrew about the 
 advisability of clearing up the mystery. The 
 writer wrote that he " distinctly saw his arm pass 
 through the apparition and come out at the other 
 side," and indeed I still remember his saying so 
 next morning. He had a scared face, but I had 
 presence of mind to continue eating my rolls and 
 marmalade as if my brier had nothing to do with 
 the miraculous affair. 
 
 Seeing that he made a " paper" of it, I suppose 
 he is justified in touching up the incidental details. 
 He says, for instance, that we were told the story 
 of the ghost which is said to haunt the house just 
 before going to bed. As far as I remember, it 
 was only mentioned at luncheon, and then 
 skeptically. Instead of there being snow falling 
 outside and an eerie wind wailing through the 
 skeleton trees, the night was still muggy. Lastly, 
 I did not know, until the journal reached my 
 hands, that he was put into the room known as the 
 Haunted Chamber, nor that in that room the fire 
 is noted for casting weird shadows upon the walls. 
 This, however, may be so. The legend of the
 
 304 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 manor house ghost he tells precisely as it 
 is known to me. The tragedy dates back to the 
 time of Charles I., and is led up to by a pathetic 
 love story, which I need not give. Suffice it that 
 for seven days and nights the old steward had 
 been anxiously awaiting the return of his young 
 master and mistress from their honeymoon. On 
 Christmas-eve, after he had gone to bed, there 
 was a great clanging of the door-bell. Flinging 
 on a dressing-gown, he hastened downstairs. 
 According to the story, a number of servants 
 watched him, and saw by the light of his candle 
 that his face was an ashy white. He took off the 
 chains of the door, unbolted it, and pulled it open. 
 What he saw no human being knows ; but it must 
 have been something awful, for, without a cry, 
 the old steward fell dead in the hall. Perhaps 
 the strangest part of the story is this : that the 
 shadow of a burly man, holding a pistol in his 
 hand, entered by the open door, stepped over the 
 steward's body, and, gliding up the stairs, dis- 
 appeared, no one could say where. Such is the 
 legend. I shall not tell the many ingenious ex- 
 planations of it that have been offered. Every 
 Christmas-eve, however, the silent scene is said 
 to be gone through again ; and tradition declares 
 that no person lives for twelve months at whom 
 the ghostly intruder points his pistol. 
 
 On Christmas day the gentleman who tells the 
 tale in a scientific journal created some sensation 
 at the breakfast-table by solemnly asserting that 
 he had seen the ghost. Most of the men present 
 scouted his story, which may be condensed into 
 a few words. He had retired to his bedroom at 
 a fairly early hour, and as he opened fie door his 
 candle-light was blown out. He tried to get a
 
 M Y LAD Y NICO TINE. 305 
 
 light from the fire, but it was too low, and event- 
 ually he went to bed in the semi-darkness. He 
 was wakened he did not know at what hour 
 by the clanging of a bell. He sat up in bed, and 
 the ghost story came in a rush to his mind. His 
 fire was dead, and the room was consequently 
 dark ; yet by and by he knew, though he heard 
 no sound, that his door had opened. He cried 
 out, "Who is that ?" but got no answer. By an 
 effort he jumped up and went to the door, which 
 was ajar. His bedroom was on the first floor, 
 and looking up the stairs he could see nothing. 
 He felt a cold sensation at his heart, however, 
 when he looked the other way. Going slowly 
 and without a sound down the stairs, was an old 
 man in a dressing-gown. He carried a candle. 
 From the top of the stairs only part of the hall 
 is visible, but as the apparition disappeared the 
 watcher had the courage to go down a few steps 
 after him. At first nothing was to be seen, for the 
 candle-light had vanished. A dim light, however, 
 entered by the long, narrow windows which flank 
 the hall door, and after a moment the on-looker 
 could see that the hall was empty. He was mar- 
 veling at this sudden disappearance of the steward, 
 when, to his horror, he saw a body fall upon the 
 hall door within a few feet of the door. The 
 watcher cannot say whether he cried out, nor how 
 long he stood there trembling. He came to him- 
 self with a start as he realized that something was 
 coming up the stairs. Fear prevented his taking 
 flight, and in a moment the thing was at his side. 
 Then he saw indistinctly that it was not the figure 
 he had seen descend. He saw a younger man, 
 in a heavy overcoat, but with no hat on his head. 
 He wore on his face a look of extravagant triumph. 
 
 20
 
 306 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 The guest boldly put out his hand toward the 
 figure. To his amazement his arm went through 
 it. The ghost paused for a moment and looked 
 behind it. It was then the watcher realized that 
 it carried a pistol in its right hand. He was by 
 this time in a highly strung condition, and he 
 stood trembling lest the pistol should be pointed 
 at him. The apparition, however, rapidly glided 
 up the stairs and was soon lost to sight. Such 
 are the main facts of the story, none of which I 
 contradicted at the time. 
 
 I cannot say absolutely that I can clear up this 
 mystery, but my suspicions are confirmed by a 
 good deal of circumstantial evidence. This will 
 not be understood unless I explain my strange 
 infirmity. Wherever I went I used to be troubled 
 with a presentiment that I had left my pipe behind. 
 Often, even at the dinner-table, I paused in the 
 middle of a sentence as if stricken with sudden 
 pain. Then my hand went down to my pocket. 
 Sometimes, even after I felt my pipe, I had a con- 
 viction that it was stopped, and only by a des- 
 perate effort did I keep myself from producing it 
 and blowing down it. I distinctly remember 
 once dreaming three nights in succession that I 
 was on the Scotch express without it. More than 
 once, I know, I have wandered in my sleep, look- 
 ing for it in all sorts of places, and after I went 
 to bed I generally jumped out, just to make sure 
 of it. My strong belief, then, is that I was the 
 ghost seen by the writer of the paper. I fancy 
 that I rose in my sleep, lighted a candle, and 
 wandered down to the hall to feel if my pipe was 
 safe in my coat, which was hanging there. The 
 light had gone out when I was in the hall. 
 Probably the body seen to fall on the hall floor
 
 MY LADY NIC '0 TINE. 
 
 37 
 
 was some other coat which I had flung there to 
 get more easily at my own. I cannot account 
 for the bell ; but perhaps the gentleman in the 
 Haunted Chamber dreamed that part of the affair. 
 I had put on the overcoat before reascending ; in- 
 deed, I may say that next morning I was sur- 
 prised to find it on a chair in my bedroom, also to 
 notice that there were several long streaks of 
 candle-grease on my dressing-gown. I conclude 
 that the pistol, which gave my face such a look 
 of triumph, was my brier, which I found in the 
 morning beneath my pillow. The strangest thing 
 of all, perhaps, is that when I awoke there was a 
 smell of tobacco smoke in the bedroom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 NOT THE ARCADIA. 
 
 THOSE who do not know the Arcadia may have 
 a mixture that their uneducated palate loves, but 
 they are always ready to try other mixtures. The 
 Arcadian, however, will never help himself from 
 an outsider's pouch. Nevertheless, there was one 
 black week when we all smoked the ordinary to- 
 baccoes. Owing to a terrible oversight on the part 
 of our purveyor, there was no Arcadia to smoke. 
 
 We ought to have put our pipes aside and existed 
 on cigars ; but the pipes were old friends, and 
 desert them we could not. Each of us bought a 
 different mixture, but they tasted alike and were 
 equally abominable. I fell ill. Doctor South- 
 wick, knowing no better, called my malady by a 
 learned name, but I knew to what I owed it.
 
 308 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 Never shall I forget my delight when Jemmy broke 
 into my room one day with a pound tin of the 
 Arcadia. Weak though I was, I opened my 
 window, and seizing the half-empty packet of 
 tobacco that had made me ill, hurled it into the 
 street. The tobacco scattered before it fell, but 
 I sat at the window gloating over the packet, 
 which lay, a dirty scrap of paper, where every cab 
 might pass over it. What I call the street is more 
 strictly a square, for my windows were at the back 
 of the inn, and their view was somewhat plebeian. 
 The square is the meeting-place of five streets, 
 and at the corner of each the paper was caught 
 up in a draught that bore it along to the next. 
 
 Here, it may be thought, I gladly forgot the 
 cause of my troubles, but I really watched the 
 paper for days. My doctor came in while I was 
 still staring at it, and instead of prescribing more 
 medicine, he made a bet with me. It was that 
 the scrap of paper would disappear before the 
 dissolution of the government. I said it would 
 be fluttering around after the government was 
 dissolved, and if I lost, the doctor was to get a 
 new stethoscope. If I won, my bill was to be 
 accounted discharged. Thus, strange as it 
 seemed, I had now cause to take a friendly in- 
 terest in paper that I had previously loathed. 
 Formerly the sight of it made me miserable ; now 
 I dreaded losing it. But I looked for it when I 
 rose in the morning, and I could tell at once by 
 its appearance what kind of night it had passed. 
 Nay, more : I believed I was able to decide how 
 the wind had been since sundown, whether there 
 had been much traffic, and if the fire-engine had 
 been out. There is a fire-station within view of 
 he windows, and the paper had a specially
 
 \ 
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 309 
 
 crushed appearance, as if the heavy engine ran 
 over it However, though I felt certain that I 
 could pick my scrap of paper out of a thousand 
 scraps, the doctor insisted on making sure. The 
 bet was consigned to writing on the very piece 
 of paper that suggested it. The doctor went out 
 and captured it himself. On the back of it the 
 conditions of the wager were formally drawn up 
 and signed by both of us. Then we opened the 
 window and the paper was cast forth again. The 
 doctor solemnly promised not to interfere with it, 
 and I gave him a convalescent' sword of honor 
 to report progress honestly. 
 
 Several days elapsed, and I no longer found 
 time heavy on my hands. My attention was 
 divided between two papers, the scrap in the 
 square and my daily copy of the "Times." Any 
 morning the one might tell me that I had lost my 
 bet, or the other that I had won it ; and I hurried 
 to the window fearing that the paper had migrated 
 to another square, and hoping my ' ' Times " might 
 contain the information that the government was 
 out. I felt that neither could last very much longer. 
 It was remarkable how much my interest in pol- 
 itics had increased since I made this wager. 
 
 The doctor, I believe, relied chiefly on the 
 scavengers. He thought they were sure to pounce 
 upon the scrap soon. I did not, however, see 
 why I should fear them. They came into the 
 square so seldom, and stayed so short a time when 
 they did come, that I disregarded them. If the 
 doctor knew how much they kept away he might 
 say I bribed them. But perhaps he knew their 
 ways. I got a fright one day from a dog. It 
 was one of those low-looking animals that infest 
 the square occasionally in half dozens, but seldom
 
 3 1 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 alone. It ran up one of the side streets, and be- 
 fore I realized what had happened it had the paper 
 in its mouth. Then it stood still and looked 
 around. For me that was indeed a trying mo- 
 ment. I stood at the window. 
 
 The impulse seized me to fling open the sash 
 and shake my fist at the brute ; but luckily I re- 
 membered in time my promise to the doctor. I 
 question if man was ever so interested in mongrel 
 before. At one of the street corners there was a 
 house to let, being meantime, as I had reason to 
 believe, in the care of the wife of a police con- 
 stable. A cat was often to be seen coming up 
 from the area to lounge in the doorway. To that 
 cat I firmly believe I owe it that I did not then lose 
 my wager. Faithful animal ! it came up to the 
 door, it stretched itself ; in the act of doing so it 
 caught sight of the dog, and put up its back. The 
 dog, resenting this demonstration of feeling, 
 dropped the scrap of paper and made for the cat. 
 I sunk back into my chair. 
 
 There was a greater disaster to be recorded 
 next day. A working-man in the square, looking 
 about him for a pipe-light, espied the paper frisk- 
 ing near the curb-stone. He picked it up with 
 the obvious intention of lighting it at the stove 
 of a wandering vender of hot chestnuts who had 
 just crossed the square. The working-man fol- 
 lowed, twisting the paper as he went, when 
 good luck again ! a young butcher almost ran 
 into him, and the loafer, with true presence of 
 mind, at once asked him for a match. At any 
 rate a match passed between them ; and, to my 
 infinite relief, the paper was flung away. 
 
 I concealed the cause of my excitement from 
 William John. He nevertheless wondered to see
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 31 1 
 
 me run to the window every time the wind seemed 
 to be rising, and getting anxious when it rained. 
 Seeing that my health prevented my leaving the 
 house, he could not make out why I should be so 
 interested in the weather. Once I thought he 
 was fairly on the scent. A sudden blast of wind 
 had caught up the paper and whirled it high in 
 the air. I may have uttered an ejaculation, for 
 he came hurrying to the window. He found me 
 pointing unwittingly to what was already a white 
 speck sailing to the roof of the fire-station. "Is 
 it a pigeon ? " he asked. I caught at the idea. 
 "Yes, a carrier-pigeon," I murmured in reply; 
 "they sometimes, I believe, send messages to 
 the fire-stations in that way." Coolly as I said 
 this, I was conscious of grasping the window-sill 
 in pure nervousness till the scrap began to flutter 
 back into the square. 
 
 Next it was squeezed between two of the bars 
 of a drain. That was the last I saw of it, and 
 the following morning the doctor had won his 
 stethoscope only by a few hours, however, for 
 the government's end was announced in the 
 evening papers. My defeat discomfited me for a 
 little, but soon I was pleased that I had lost I 
 would not care to win a bet over any mixture but 
 the Arcadia. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A FACE THAT HAUNTED MARRIOT. 
 
 "Tnis is not a love affair," Harriot shouted, 
 apologetically. 
 
 He had sat the others out again, but when I
 
 312 MY LAD Y NICO TINE. 
 
 saw his intention I escaped into my bedroom, 
 and now refused to come out. 
 
 "Look here," he cried, changing his tone, "if 
 you don't come out I'll tell you all about it through 
 the keyhole. It is the most extraordinary story, 
 and I can't keep it to myself. On my word of 
 honor it isn't a love affair at least, not exactly. " 
 
 I let him talk after I had gone to bed. 
 
 " You must know," he said, dropping cigarette 
 ashes onto my pillow every minute, "that some 
 time ago I fell in with Jack Goring's father, Col- 
 onel Goring. Jack and I had been David and 
 Jonathan at Cambridge, and though we had not 
 met for years, I looked forward with pleasure to 
 meeting him again. He was a widower, and his 
 father and he kept joint house. But the house 
 was dreary now, for the colonel was alone in it. 
 Jack was off on a scientific expedition to the 
 Pacific ; all the girls had been married for years. 
 After dinner my host and I had rather a dull hour 
 in the smoking-room. I could not believe that 
 Jack had grown very stout. ' I'll show you his 
 photograph/ said the colonel. An album was 
 brought down from a dusty shelf, and then I had 
 to admit that my old friend had become positively 
 corpulent. But it is not Jack I want to speak 
 about. I turned listlessly over the pages of the 
 album, stopping suddenly at the face of a beauti- 
 ful girl. You are not asleep, are you ? 
 
 " I am not naturally sentimental, as you know, 
 and even now I am not prepared to admit that I 
 fell in love with this face. It was not, I think, 
 that kind of attraction. Possibly I should have 
 passed the photograph by had it not suggested 
 old times to me old times with a veil over 
 them, for I could not identify the face. That I
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 3'3 
 
 had at some period of my life known the original 
 I felt certain, but I tapped my memory in vain. 
 The lady was a lovely blonde, with a profusion 
 of fair hair, and delicate features that were Roman 
 when they were not Greek. To describe a beau- 
 tiful woman is altogether beyond me. No doubt 
 this face had faults. I fancy, for instance, that 
 there was little character in the chin, and that the 
 eyes were ' melting ' rather than expressive. It 
 was a vignette, the hands being clasped rather 
 fancifully at the back of the head. My fingers 
 drummed on the album as I sat there pondering ; 
 but when or where I had met the original I could 
 not (Jecide. The colonel could give me no in- 
 formation. The album was Jack's, he said, and 
 probably had not been opened for years. The 
 photograph, too, was an old one ; he was sure it 
 had been in the house long before his son's mar- 
 riage, so that (and here the hard-hearted old gen- 
 tleman chuckled) it could no longer be like the 
 original. As he seemed inclined to become witty 
 at my expense, I closed the album, and soon 
 afterward I went away. I say, wake up ! 
 
 "From that evening the face haunted me. I 
 do not mean that it possessed me to the exclusion 
 of everything else, but at odd moments it would 
 rise before me, and then I fell into a reverie. 
 You must have noticed my thoughtfulness of late. 
 Often I have laid down my paper at the club and 
 tried to think back to the original. She was prob- 
 ably better known to Jack Goring than to myself. 
 All I was sure of was that she had been known to 
 both of us. Jack and I had first met at Cam- 
 bridge. I thought over the ladies I had known 
 there, especially those who had been friends of 
 Goring's. Jack had never been a ' lady's man '
 
 3 1 4 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 precisely : but, as he used to say, comparing 
 himself with me, ' he had a heart.' The annals of 
 our Cambridge days were searched in vain. I 
 tried the country house in which he and I had 
 spent a good many of our vacations. Suddenly I 
 remembered the reading-party in Devonshire 
 but no, she was dark. Once Jack and I had a 
 romantic adventure in Glencoe in which a lady 
 and her daughter were concerned. We tried to 
 make the most of it ; but in our hearts we knew, 
 after we had seen her by the morning light, that 
 the daughter was not beautiful. Then there was 
 the French girl at Algiers. Jack had kept me 
 hanging on in Algiers a week longer than we 
 meant to stay. The pose of the head, the hands 
 clasped behind it, a trick so irritatingly familiar to 
 me was that the French girl ? No, the lady I 
 was struggling to identify was certainly English. 
 I'm sure you're asleep. 
 
 " A month elapsed before I had an opportunity 
 of seeing the photograph again. An idea had 
 struck me which I meant to carry out. This was 
 to trace the photograph by means of the photog- 
 rapher. I did not like, however, to mention the 
 subject to Colonel Goring again, so I contrived to 
 find the album while he was out of the smoking- 
 room. The number of the photograph and the 
 address of the photographer were all I wanted ; 
 but just as I had got the photograph out of the 
 album my host returned. I slipped the thing 
 quickly into my pocket, and he gave me no 
 chance of replacing it. Thus it was owing to an 
 accident that I carried the photograph away. My 
 theft rendered me no assistance. True, the pho- 
 tographer's name and address were there ; but 
 when I went to the place mentioned it had dis-
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 315 
 
 appeared to make way for ' residential chambers. ' 
 I have a few other Cambridge friends here, and I 
 showed some of these the photograph. One, I 
 am now aware, is under the impression that I am 
 to be married soon, but the others were rational. 
 Grierson, of the War Office, recognized the por- 
 trait at once. ' She is playing small parts at the 
 Criterion,' he said. Finchley, who is a promising 
 man at the bar, also recognized her. ' Her por- 
 traits were in all the illustrated papers five years 
 ago,' he told me, ' at the time when she got twelve 
 months.' They contradicted each other about 
 her, however, and I satisfied myself that she 
 was neither an actress at the Criterion nor the 
 adventuress of 1883. It was, of course, con- 
 ceivable that she was an actress, but if so her 
 face was not known in the fancy stationers' 
 windows. Are you listening? 
 
 "I saw that the mystery would remain un- 
 solved until Jack's return home ; and when I had a 
 letter from him a week ago, asking me to dine 
 with him to-night, I accepted eagerly. He was 
 just home, he said, and I would meet an old 
 Cambridge man. We were to dine at Jack's club, 
 and I took the photograph with me. I recog- 
 nized Jack as soon as I entered the waiting-room 
 of the club. A very short, very fat, smooth-faced 
 man was sitting beside him, with his hands 
 clasped behind his head. I believe I gaped 
 'Don't you remember Tom Rufus,' Jack asked, 
 ' who used to play the female part at the Cam- 
 bridge A. D. C. ? Why, you helped me to choose 
 his wig at Fox's. I have a photograph of him in 
 costume somewhere at home. You might recall 
 him by his trick of sitting with his hands clasped 
 behind his head.' I shook Rufus's hand. I
 
 3l6 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 
 
 went in to dinner, and probably behaved myself. 
 Now that it is over I cannot help being thankful 
 that I did not ask Jack for the name of the lady 
 before I saw Rufus. Good-night. I think I've 
 burned a hole in the pillow. " 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ARCADIANS AT BAY. 
 
 I HAVE said that Jimmy spent much of his time 
 in contributing to various leading waste-paper 
 baskets, and that of an evening he was usually 
 to be found prone on my hearth-rug. When he 
 entered my room he was ever willing to tell us 
 what he thought of editors, but his meerschaum 
 with the cherry-wood stem gradually drove all 
 passion from his breast, and instead of upbraid- 
 ing more successful men than himself, he then 
 lazily scribbled letters to them on my wall-paper. 
 The wall to the right of the fireplace was thick 
 with these epistles, which seemed to give Jimmy 
 relief, though William John had to scrape and 
 scrub at them next morning with india-rubber. 
 Jimmy's sarcasm to which that wall-paper can 
 probably still speak generally took this form : 
 
 To G. BUCKLE, ESQ. , Columbia Road, Shoreditch. 
 
 SIR, I am requested by Mr. James Moggridge, 
 editor of the " Times," to return you the inclosed 
 seven manuscripts, and to express his regret that 
 there is at present no vacancy in the sub-editorial
 
 Aty LADY NKOTIN& 3 1 7 
 
 department of the " Times" such as Mr. Buckle 
 kindly offers to fill. Yours faithfully, 
 
 P. R. (for J. Moggridge, Ed. "Times"). 
 
 To MR. JAMES KNOWLES, Brick Lane, Spitalfields. 
 
 DEAR SIR, I regret to have to return the in- 
 closed paper, which is not quite suitable for the 
 "Nineteenth Century." I find that articles by 
 unknown men, however good in themselves, at- 
 tract little attention. I inclose list of contributors 
 for next month, including, as you will observe, 
 seven members of upper circles, and remain your 
 obedient servant, 
 
 J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. "Nineteenth Century." 
 
 To MR. W. POLLOCK, Mile-End Road, Stepney. 
 
 SIR, I have on two previous occasions begged 
 you to cease sending daily articles to the " Satur- 
 day." Should this continue we shall be reluct- 
 antly compelled to take proceedings against you. 
 Why don't you try the ' ' Sporting Times ? " 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 . J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. ' ' Saturday Review. " 
 
 To Messrs. SAMPSON, Low & Co., Peabody Build- 
 ings, Islington. 
 
 DEAR SIRS, The manuscript which you for- 
 warded for our consideration has received care- 
 ful attention ; but we do not think it would prove 
 a success, and it is therefore returned to you here- 
 with. We do not care to publish third-rate books. 
 We remain yours obediently, 
 
 J. MOGGRIDGE & Co. , (late Sampson, Low & Co. ).
 
 318 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 To H. QUILTER, ESQ., P. O. Bethnal Green. 
 
 SIR, I have to return your paper on Universal 
 Art. It is not without merit ; but I consider art 
 such an important subject that I mean to deal 
 with it exclusively myself. With thanks for kindly 
 appreciation of my new venture, I am yours 
 faithfully, 
 
 J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. "Universal Review." 
 
 To JOHN MORLEY, ESQ. , Smith Street, Blackwall. 
 
 SIR, Yes, I distinctly remember meeting you 
 on the occasion to which you refer, and it is nat- 
 uarally gratifying to me to hear that you enjoy 
 my writings so much. Unfortunately, however, 
 I am unable to accept your generous offer to do 
 Lord Beaconsfield for the " English Men of Let- 
 ters " series, as the volume has been already ar- 
 ranged for. Yours sincerely, 
 
 J. MOGGRIDGE, 
 Ed. " English Men of Letters " series. 
 
 To F. C. BURNAND, ESQ., Peebles, N. B. 
 
 SIR, The jokes which you forwarded to 
 "Punch "on Monday last are so good that we 
 used them three years ago. Yours faithfully, 
 J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. "Punch.** 
 
 To Mr. D'OYLEY CARTE, Cross Stone Buildings. 
 Westminster Bridge Road. 
 
 DEAR SIR, The comic opera by your friends 
 Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan which you have 
 submitted to me, as sole lessee and manager of
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 3 1 9 
 
 the Savoy Theater, is now returned to you un- 
 read. The little piece, judged from its title-page, 
 is bright and pleasing, but 'I have arranged with 
 two other gentlemen to write my operas for the 
 next twenty-one years. Faithfully yours, 
 
 J. MOGGRIKGE, 
 Sole Lessee and Manager, Savoy Theater. 
 
 To JAMES RUSKIN, ESQ., Railway Station Hotel, 
 Willisden. 
 
 SIR, I warn you that I will not accept any 
 more copies of your books. I do not know the 
 individual named Tennyson to whom you refer ; 
 but if he is the scribbler who is perpetually send- 
 ing me copies of his verses, please tell him that I 
 read no poetry except my own. Why can't you 
 leave me alone? 
 
 J. MOGGRIDGE, Poet Laureate. 
 
 These letters of Jimmy's remind me of our 
 famous competition, which took place on the 
 night of the Jubilee celebrations. When all the 
 rest of London (including William John) was in 
 the streets, the Arcadians met as usual, and Scrym- 
 geour, at my request, put on the shutters to 
 keep out the din. It so happened that Jimmy 
 and Gilray were that night in wicked moods, for 
 Jimmy, who was so anxious to be a journalist, 
 had just had his seventeenth article returned from 
 the "St. John's Gazette," and Gilray had been 
 "slated" for his acting of a new part, in all the 
 leading papers. They were now disgracing the 
 tobacco they smoked by quarreling about whether 
 critics or editors were the more disreputable class,
 
 320 MY LADY NICOTfNE. 
 
 when in walked Pettigrew, who had not visited 
 us for months. Pettigrew is as successful a jour- 
 nalist as Jimmy is unfortunate, and the paltor of 
 his face showed how many Jubilee articles he 
 had written during the past two months. Petti- 
 grew offered each of us a Splendidad (his wife's 
 new brand), which we dropped into the fireplace. 
 Then he filled my little Remus with Arcadia, and 
 sinking weariedly into a chair, said : 
 
 " My dear Jimmy, the curse of journalism is 
 not that editors won't accept our articles, but 
 that they want too many from us." 
 
 This seemed such monstrous nonsense to Jimmy 
 that he turned his back on Pettigrew, and Gilray 
 broke in with a diatribe against critics. 
 
 "Critics," said Pettigrew, "are to be pitied 
 rather than reviled. " 
 
 Then Gilray and Jimmy had a common foe. 
 Whether it was Pettigrew's appearance among us 
 or the fire-works outside that made us unusually 
 talkative that night I cannot say, but we became 
 quite brilliant, and when Jimmy began to give us 
 his dream about killing an editor, Gilray said that 
 he had a dream about criticising critics ; and 
 Pettigrew, not to be outdone, said that he had a 
 dream of what would become of him if he had to 
 write any more Jubilee articles. Then it was 
 that Harriot suggested a competition. "Let 
 each of the grumblers," he said, "describe his 
 dream, and the man whose dream seems the 
 most exhilarating will get from the judges a Jubi- 
 lee pound-tin of the Arcadia." The grumblers 
 agreed, but each wanted the others to dream first 
 At last Jimmy began as follows :
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 33 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 JIMMY'S DREAM. 
 
 I SEE before me (said Jimmy, savagely) a court, 
 where I, James Moggridge, am arraigned on a 
 charge of assaulting the editor of the "St. John's 
 Gazette," so as to cause death. Little interest is 
 manifested in the case. On being arrested I had 
 pleaded guilty, and up to to-day it had been an- 
 ticipated that the matter would be settled out of 
 court. No apology, however, being forthcom- 
 ing, the law has to take its course. The defense 
 is that the assault was fair comment on a matter 
 of public interest, and was warranted in sub- 
 stance and in fact On making his appearance 
 in the dock the prisoner is received with slight 
 cheering. 
 
 Mr. John Jones is the first witness called for 
 the prosecution. He says : I am assistant editor 
 of the "St. John's Gazette." It is an evening 
 newspaper of pronounced Radical views. I 
 never saw the prisoner until to-day, but I have 
 frequently communicated with him. It was part 
 of my work to send him back his articles. This 
 often kept me late. 
 
 In cross-examination the witness denies that 
 he has ever sent the prisoner other people's 
 articles by mistake. Pressed, he says, he may 
 have done so once. The defendant generally in- 
 closed letters with his articles, in which he called 
 attention to their special features. Sometimes 
 these letters were of a threatening nature, but 
 there was nothing unusual in that 
 31
 
 322 My LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 Cross-examined : The letters were not what 
 he would call alarming. He had not thought of 
 taking any special precautions himself. Of 
 course, in his position, he had to take his chance. 
 So far as he could remember, it was not for his 
 own sake that the prisoner wanted his articles 
 published, but in the interests of the public. He, 
 the prisoner, was vexed, he said, to see the paper 
 full of such inferior matter. Witness had fre- 
 quently seen letters to the editor from other dis- 
 interested contributors couched in similar lan- 
 guage. If he was not mistaken, he saw a number 
 of these gentlemen in court. (Applause from the 
 persons referred to). 
 
 Mr. Snodgrass says : I am a poet. I do not 
 compose during the day. The strain would be 
 too great. Every evening I go out into the 
 streets and buy the latest editions of the evening 
 journals. If there is anything in them worthy 
 commemoration in verse, I compose. There is 
 generally something. I cannot say to which 
 paper I send most of my poems, as I send to all. 
 One of the weaknesses of the "St. John's Gazette" 
 is its poetry. It is not worthy of the name. It 
 is doggerel. I have sought to improve it, but 
 the editor rejected my contributions. I continued 
 to send them, hoping that they would educate his 
 taste. One night I had sent him a very long poem 
 which did not appear in the paper next day. I 
 was very indignant, and went straight to the 
 office. That was on Jubilee-day. I was told 
 that the editor had left word that he had just gone 
 into the country for two days. (Hisses. ) I forced 
 my way up the stairs, however, and when I 
 reached the top I did not know which way to go. 
 There were a number of doors with " No admit-
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 3*3 
 
 tance" printed on them. (More hissing.) I 
 heard voices in altercation in a room near me. 
 I though that was likely to be the editor's. I 
 opened the door and went in. The prisoner was 
 in the room. He had the editor on the floor and 
 was jumping on him. I said, "is that the edi- 
 tor?" He said, "Yes," I said, "Have you 
 killed him?" He said, "Yes," again. I said, 
 " Oh ! " and went away. That is all I remember 
 of the affair. 
 
 Cross-examined : It did not occur to me to in- 
 terfere. I thought very little of the affair at the 
 time. I think I mentioned it to my wife in the 
 evening ; but I will not swear to that. I am not 
 the Herr Bablerr who compelled his daughter to 
 marry a man she did not love, so that I might 
 write an ode in celebration of the nuptials. I 
 have no daughter. I am a poet. 
 
 The foreman printer deposes to having had his 
 attention called to the murder of the editor about 
 three o'clock. He was very busy at the time. 
 About an hour afterward he saw the body and put 
 a placard over it. He spoke of the matter to the 
 assistant editor, who suggested that they had 
 better call in the police. That was done. 
 
 A clerk in the counting-house says : I distinctly 
 remember the afternoon of the murder. I can 
 recall it without difficulty, as it was on the follow- 
 ing evening that I went to the theater a rare 
 occurrence with me. I was running up the stairs 
 when I met a man coming down. I recognize 
 the prisoner as that man. He said, "I have 
 kilied your editor." I replied, " Then you ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself." We had no further 
 conversation. 
 
 J. O'Leary is next called. He says : I am an
 
 MY LAD Y NJCO TINE. 
 
 Irishman by birth. I had to fly my country when 
 an iniquitous Coercion Act was put in force. At 
 present I am a journalist, and I write Fenian 
 letters for the "St. John's Gazette." I remember 
 the afternoon of the murder. It was the sub- 
 editor who told me of it. He asked me if I would 
 write a "par " on the subject for the fourth edition. 
 I did so ; but as I was in a hurry to catch a train 
 it was only a few lines. We did him fuller justice 
 next day. 
 
 Cross-examined : witness denies that he felt 
 any elation on hearing that a new topic had been 
 supplied for writing on. He was sorry rather. 
 
 A policeman gave evidence that about half-past 
 four on Jubilee-day he saw a small crowd gather 
 round the entrance to the offices of the "St. 
 John's Gazette." He thought it his duty to 
 inquire into the matter. He went inside and 
 asked an office-boy what was up. The boy said 
 he thought the editor had been murdered, but 
 advised him to inquire upstairs. He did so, and 
 the boy's assertion was confirmed. He came 
 down again and told the crowd that it was the 
 editor who had been killed. The crowd then 
 dispersed. 
 
 A detective from Scotland Yard explains the 
 method of the prisoner's capture. Moggridgo 
 wrote to the superintendent saying that he would 
 be passing Scotland Yard on the following Wed- 
 nesday on business. Three detectives, including 
 witness, were told off to arrest him, and they 
 succeeded in doing so. (Loud and prolongad ap- 
 plause.^ 
 
 The judge interposes here. He fails, he says, 
 to see that this evidence is relevant. So far as he 
 can see, the question is not whether a murder has
 
 MY LADY NICOTWM. 
 
 325 
 
 been committed, but whether, under the circum- 
 stances, it is a criminal offense. The prisoner 
 should never have been tried here at all. It was 
 a case for the petty sessions. If the counsel can- 
 not give some weighty reason for proceeding 
 with further evidence, he will now put it to the 
 
 jury- 
 After a few remarks from the counsel for the 
 prosecution and the counsel for the defense, who 
 calls attention to the prisoner's high and unblem- 
 ished character, the judge sums up. It is for the 
 jury, he says, to decide whether the prisoner has 
 committed a criminal offense. That was the 
 point ; and in deciding it the jury should bear in 
 mind the desirability of suppressing merely vexa- 
 tious cases. People should not go to law over 
 trifles. Still, the jury must remember that, with- 
 out exception, all human life was sacred. After 
 some further remarks from the judge, the jury 
 (who deliberate for rather more than three-quarters 
 of an hour) return a verdict of guilty. The pris- 
 oner is sentenced to a fine of five florins, or three 
 days' imprisonment 
 
 CHAPTER XXVHi 
 
 GILRAY'S DREAM. 
 
 me (said Gilray, with glowing face) 
 invited to write a criticism of the Critics' Dra- 
 matic Society for the " Standard. " I select th 
 "Standard," because that paper has treated me 
 most cruelly. However, I loathe them all. My 
 dream in the following criticism :
 
 326 MY LADY NICOTINM. 
 
 What ia the Critics' Dramatic Society? W 
 found out on Wednesday afternooon, and, as we 
 went to Drury Lane in the interests of the public, 
 it is only fair that the public should know too. 
 Besides, in that case we can all bear it together. 
 Be it known, then, that this Dramatic Society is 
 composed of "critics" who gave "The School 
 for Scandal " at a matinee on Wednesday just to 
 show how the piece should be played. Mr. 
 Augustus Harris had "kindly put the theater at 
 their disposal," for which he will have to answer 
 when he joins Sheridan in the Elysian Fields. 
 As the performance was by far the worst ever 
 perpetrated, it would be a shame to deprive the 
 twentieth century of the programme. Some of 
 the players, as will be seen, are too well known 
 to escape obloquy. The others may yet be abl 
 to sink into oblivion. 
 
 Sir Peter Teazle MR. JOHN RUSKIN. 
 
 Joseph Surface MR. W. E. HENLEY. 
 
 Charles Surface MR. HARRY LABOUCHERE. 
 
 Crabtree MR. W. ARCHER. 
 
 Sir Benjamin Backbite MR. CLEMENT SCOTT. 
 
 Moses MR. WALTER SICHEL. 
 
 Old Rowley MR. JOSEPH KNIGHT, 
 
 Sir Oliver MR. W. H. POLLOCK. 
 
 Trip MR. G. A. SALA. 
 
 Snake MR. MOY THOMAS. 
 
 Sir Harry Bumper (with song) MR. GEORGE MOORE. 
 
 Servants, Guests, etc., MESSRS. SAVILLE CLARKE, JOSKPH 
 
 HATTON, PERCY FITZGERALD, etc. 
 
 Assisted by, 
 
 Lady Teazle Miss ROSIE LE DKNK. 
 
 Mrs. Candour Miss JENNY MONTALBAN. 
 
 Lady Sneerwell Miss ROSALIND LABELLK. 
 
 (The Hon. Mrs. Major TURNLEY). 
 Maria...., Miss JONES. 
 
 It was a sin of omission on the part of the
 
 UY LADY NICOTINE, 
 
 3*7 
 
 Critics' Dramatic Society not to state that the 
 piece played was "a new and original comedy" 
 in many acts. Had they had the courage to do 
 this, and to change the title, no one would even 
 have known. On the other hand, it was a sin of 
 commission to allow that Professor Henry Morley 
 was responsible for the stage management ; Mr. 
 Morley being a man of letters whom some worthy 
 people respect. But perhaps sins of omission 
 -ind commission counterbalance. The audience 
 was put in a bad humor before the performance 
 began, owing to the curtain's rising fifteen min- 
 utes late. However, once the curtain did rise, it 
 was an unconscionable time in falling. What is 
 known as the "business" of the first act, includ- 
 ing the caterwauling of Sir Benjamin Backbite 
 and Crabtree in their revolutions round Joseph, 
 was gone through with a deliberation that was 
 cruelty to the audience, and just when the act 
 seemed over at last these indefatigable amateurs 
 began to dance a minuet. A sigh ran round the 
 theater at this a sigh as full of suffering as when 
 a minister, having finished his thirdly and lastly, 
 starts off again, with, "I cannot allow this op- 
 portunity to pass." Possibly the Critics' Dramatic 
 Society are congratulating themselves on the un- 
 deniable fact that the sighs and hisses grew beauti- 
 fully less as the performance proceeded. But 
 that was because the audience diminished too. 
 One man cannot be expected to sigh like twenty ; 
 though, indeed, some of the audience of Wednes- 
 day sighed like at least half a dozen. 
 
 If it be true that all men even critics have 
 their redeeming points and failings, then was 
 there no Charles and no Joseph Surface at this 
 unique matinee. For the ungainly gentleman
 
 3*8 my LAD y NICOTINE. 
 
 who essayed tne part of Charles mad, or rather 
 meant to make, him spotless ; and Mr. Henley'* 
 Joseph was twin-brother to Mr. Irving's Mephis- 
 topheles. Perhaps the idea of Mr. Labouchere 
 and his friend, Mr. Henley, was that they would 
 make one young man between them. They 
 "ound it hard work. Mr. Labouchere has yet to 
 learn that buffoonery is not exactly wit, and that 
 Charles Surfaces who dig their uncle Olivers in 
 the libs, and then turn to the audience for ap- 
 plause, are among the things that the nineteenth 
 century can do without. According to the pro- 
 gramme, Mr. George Moore the Sir Harry Bum- 
 per was to sing the song, " Here's to the Maiden 
 of Bashful Fifteen." Mr. Moore did not sing it, 
 but Mr. Labouchere did. The explanation of 
 'his, we understand, was not that Sir Harry's 
 heart failed him at the eleventh hour, but that Mr 
 Labouchere threatened to fling up his part unless 
 the song was given to him. However, Mr. 
 Moore heard Mr. Labouchere singing the song, 
 and that was revenge enough for any man. To 
 Mr. Henley the part of Joseph evidently presented 
 no serious difficulties. In his opinion, Joseph is 
 a whining hypocrite who rolls his eyes when he 
 wishes to look natural. Obviously he is a slavish 
 admirer of Mr. Irving. If Joseph had taken his 
 snuff as this one does, Lady Sneerwell would 
 have sent him to the kitchen. If he had made 
 love to Lady Teazle as this one does, she would 
 have suspected him of weak intellect. Sheri- 
 dan's Joseph was a man of culture : Mr. Henley's 
 is a buffoon. It is not, perhaps, so much this 
 gentleman's fault as his misfortune that his acting 
 is without either art or craft ; but then he was 
 not compelled to play Joseph Surfac*. Indeed,
 
 A/7 LAD Y NTCO TIME. 3 19 
 
 w may go further, and say that if he ! a man 
 with friends he must have been dissuaded from it. 
 The Sir Peter Teazle of Mr. Ruskin reminded us 
 of other Sir Peter Teazles probably because Sir 
 Peter is played nowadays with his courtliness 
 omitted. 
 
 Mr. William Archer was the Crabtree, or rather 
 Mr. Archer and the prompter between them. 
 Until we caught sight of the prompter we had 
 credited Mr. Archer with being a ventriloquist 
 given to casting his voice to the wings. Mr. 
 Clement Scott the Sir Benjamin Backbite was 
 a ventriloquist, too, but not in such a large way 
 as Mr. Archer. His voice, so far as we could 
 make out from an occasional rumble, was in his 
 boots, where his courage kept it company. 
 There was no more ambitious actor in the cast 
 than Mr. Pollock. Mr. Pollock was Sir Oliver, 
 and he gave a highly original reading of that old 
 gentleman. What Mr. Pollock's private opinion 
 of the character of Sir Oliver may be we cannot 
 say ; it would be worth an interviewer's while to 
 find out. But if he thinks Sir Oliver was a wind- 
 mill, we can inform him at once that he is mis- 
 taken. Of Mr. Sichel's Moses all that occurs to 
 us to say is that when he let his left arm hang 
 down and raised the other aloft, he looked very 
 like a tea-pot. Mr. Joseph Knight was old Row- 
 ley. In that character all we saw of him was his 
 back ; and we are bound to admit that it was un- 
 exceptional. Sheridan calls one of his servants 
 Snake and the other Trip. Mr. Moy Thomas tried 
 to look as like a snake as he could, and with some 
 success. The Trip of Mr. Sala, however, was a 
 little heavy, and when he came between the audi- 
 ence and the other actors there was a temporary
 
 330 MY LAD Y NICOTINE. 
 
 eclipse. As for the minor parts, the gentleman 
 who personated them gave a capital rendering of 
 supers suffering from stage fever. Wednesday is 
 memorable in the history of the stage, but we 
 would forget it if we could. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 PETTIGREW'S DREAM. 
 
 MY dream (said Pettigrew) contrasts sadly with 
 those of my young friends. They dream of re- 
 venge, but my dream is tragic. I see my editor 
 writing my obituary notice. This is how it 
 reads : 
 
 Mr. Pettigrew, M, A., whose sad death is re- 
 corded in another column, was in his forty-second 
 year (not his forty-fourth, as stated in the evening 
 papers), and had done a good deal of Jubilee 
 work before he accepted the commission that led 
 to his death. It is an open secret that he wrote 
 seventy of the Jubilee sketches which have ap- 
 peared in this paper. The pamphlet now selling 
 in the streets for a penny, entitled "Jubilees of 
 the Past," was his. He wrote the introductory 
 chapter to "Fifty Years of Progress," and his 
 "Jubilee Statesmen " is now in a second edition. 
 The idea of a collection of Jubilee odes was not 
 his, but the publisher's. At the same time, his 
 friends and relatives attach no blame to them. 
 Mr. Pettigrew shivered when the order was given 
 to him, but he accepted it, and the general impres- 
 sion among those who knew him was that a man 
 who had survived "Jubilee Statesmen" could do
 
 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 33* 
 
 anything. As it turns out, we had overestimated 
 Mr. Pettigrew's powers of endurance. 
 
 As "The Jubilee Odes" will doubtless yet be 
 collected by another hand, little need be said here 
 of the work. Mr. Pettigrew was to make his col- 
 lection as complete as the limited space at his 
 disposal (two volumes) would allow ; the only 
 original writing in the book being a sketch of the 
 various schemes suggested for the celebration of 
 the Jubilee. It was .this sketch that killed him. On 
 the morning of the 2yth, when he intended begin- 
 ning it, he rose at an unusually early hour, and was 
 seen from the windows of the house pacing the 
 garden in an apparently agitated state of mind. 
 He eat no breakfast One of his daughters states 
 that she noticed a wild look in his eyes during 
 the morning meal ; but, as she did not remark on 
 it at the time, much stress need not be laid on 
 this. The others say that he was unusually quiet 
 and silent. All, however, noticed one thing. 
 Generally, when he had literary work to do, he 
 was anxious to begin upon his labors, and spent 
 little time at the breakfast-table. On this occasion 
 he sat on. Even after the breakfast things were 
 removed he seemed reluctant to adjourn to the 
 study. His wife asked him several times if he 
 meant to begin "The Jubilee Odes" that day, 
 and he always replied in the affirmative. But he 
 talked nervously of other things ; and to her sur- 
 prise though she thought comparatively little 
 of it at the time drew her on to a discussion on 
 summer bonnets. As a rule, this was a subject 
 which he shunned. At last he rose, and, going 
 slowly to the window, looked out for a quarter of 
 an hour. His wife asked him again about " The 
 Jubilee Odes," and he replied that he meant to
 
 33* MT LAD Y NICOTINE. 
 
 begim directly. Thn he went round th morn- 
 ing-room, looking at the pictures on the walls as if 
 for the first time. After that he leaned for a little 
 whil against th mantelpiece, and then, as if an 
 idea had struck him, began to wind up the clock. 
 He went through the house winding up the clocks, 
 though this duty was usually left to a servant ; 
 and when that was over he came back to the 
 breakfast-room and talked about Waterbury 
 watches. His wife had to go t to the kitchen, and 
 he followed her. On their way back they passed 
 the nursery, and he said he thought he would go 
 in and talk to the nurse. This was very unlike 
 him. At last his wife said that it would soon be 
 luncheon time, and then he went to the study. 
 Some ten minutes afterward he wandered into 
 the dining-room, where she was arranging some 
 flowers. He seemed taken aback at seeing her, 
 but said, after a moment's thought, that the study 
 door was locked and he could not find the key. 
 This astonished her, as she had dusted the room 
 herself that morning. She went to see and found 
 the study door standing open. When she re- 
 turned to the dining-room he had disappeared. 
 They searched for him everywhere, and event- 
 ually discovered him in the drawing-room, turn- 
 ing over a photograph album. He, then went 
 back to the study. His wife accompanied him, 
 and, as was her custom, filled his pipe for him. 
 He smoked a mixture to which he was passion- 
 ately attached. He lighted his pipe several times, 
 but it always went out. His wife put a new nib 
 into his pen, placed some writing material on 
 the table, and then retired, shutting the door 
 behind her. 
 
 About half an hour afterward Mrs. Pettigrew
 
 HfY LADY NICOTINK, 
 
 333 
 
 aent ne of th children to the study on a trifling- 
 rrand. As hs did not return she followed him. 
 She found him sitting on his fathers knee, where 
 she did not remember ever having seen him be- 
 fore. Mr. Pettigrew was holding his watch to 
 the boy's ears. The study table was littered with 
 several hundreds of Jubilee odes. Other odes 
 had slipped to the floor. Mrs. Pettigrew asked 
 how he was getting on, and her unhappy hus- 
 band replied that he was just going to begin. 
 His hands were trembling, and he had given up 
 trying to smoke. He sought to detain her by 
 talking about the boy's curls ; but she went away, 
 taking the child with her. As she closed the 
 door he groaned heavily, and she reopened it to 
 ask if he felt unwell. He answered in the nega- 
 tive, and she left him. The last person to see 
 Mr. Pettigrew alive was Eliza Day, the house- 
 maid. She took a letter to him between twelve 
 and one o'clock. Usually he disliked being dis- 
 turbed at his writing ; but this time, in answer to 
 her knock, he cried eagerly, "Come in ! " When 
 she entered he insisted on her taking a chair, and 
 asked her how all her people were, and if there 
 was anything he could do for them. Several 
 times she rose to leave, but he would not allow 
 her to do so. Eliza mentioned this in the kitchen 
 when she returned to it. Her master was natu- 
 rally a reserved man who seldom spoke to his 
 servants, which rendered his behavior on this 
 occasion the more remarkable. 
 
 As announced in the evening papers yesterday, 
 the servant sent to the study at half-past one to 
 see why Mr. Pettigrew was not coming to lunch, 
 found him lifeless on the floor. The knife clutched 
 in his hand showed that he had done the fatal
 
 334 *W LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 deed himself ; and Dr. Southwick, of Hyde Park, 
 who was on the spot within ten minutes of the 
 painful discovery, is of opinion that life had been 
 extinct for about half an hour. The body was 
 lying among Jubilee odes. On the table were a 
 dozen or more sheets of " copy," which, though 
 only spoiled pages, showed that the deceased had 
 not succumbed without a struggle. On one he 
 had begun, "Fifty years have come and gone 
 since a fair English maiden ascended the throne 
 of England." Another stopped short at, "To 
 every loyal Englishman the Jubil " A third 
 sheet commenced with, ' ' Though there have been 
 a number of royal Jubilees in the history of the 
 world, probably none has awakened the same 
 
 interest as " and a fourth began, " 1887 will be 
 
 known to all future ages as the year of Jub " 
 
 One sheet bore the sentence, " Heaven help 
 me ! " and it is believed that these were the last 
 words the deceased ever penned. 
 
 Mr. Pettigrew was a most estimable man in 
 private life, and will be greatly missed in the 
 circles to which he had endeared himself. He 
 leaves a widow and a small family. It may be 
 worth adding that when discovered dead there 
 was a smile upon his face, as if he had at last 
 found peace. He must have suffered great agony 
 that forenoon, and his death is best looked upon 
 as a happy release. 
 
 Harriot, Scrymgeour and I awarded the tin of 
 Arcadia to Pettigrew, because he alone of the 
 competitors seemed to believe that his dream 
 might be realized.
 
 J/y LAD* NICOTItf*. XS 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE MURDER IN TH INN. 
 
 SOMETIMES I think it is all a dream, and that I 
 did not really murder the waits. Perhaps they 
 are living still. Yet the scene is very vivid before 
 me, though the affair took place if it ever did 
 take place so long ago that I cannot be ex- 
 pected to remember the details. The time when 
 I must give up smoking was drawing near, so 
 that I may have been unusually irritable, and de- 
 termined, whatever the cost, to smoke my last 
 pound tin of the Arcadia in peace. I think my 
 brier was in my mouth when I did it, but after 
 the lapse of months I cannot say whether there 
 were three of them or only two. So far as I can 
 remember, I took the man with the beard first. 
 
 The incident would have made more impres- 
 sion on me had there been any talk about it So 
 far as I could discover, it never got into the 
 papers. The porters did not seem to think it any 
 affair of theirs, though one of them must have 
 guessed why I invited the waits upstairs. He 
 saw me open the door to them ; he was aware 
 that this was their third visit in a week ; and only 
 the night before he had heard me shout a warning 
 to them from my inn window. But of course the 
 porters must allow themselves a certain discretion 
 in the performance of their duties. Then there 
 was the pleasant gentleman of the next door but 
 two, who ran against me just as I was toppling 
 the second body over the railing. We were not 
 acquainted, but I knew him as the man who had
 
 MY LAD Y NICOTINM. 
 
 flung a water-jug at the waits the night before. 
 He stopped short when he saw the body (it had 
 rolled out of the sofa-rug), and looked at me sus- 
 piciously. "He is one of the waits," I said. " I 
 beg your pardon," he replied, "I did not under- 
 stand." When he had passed a few yaras he 
 turned round. "Better cover him up, " he said; 
 "our people will talk." Then he strolled away, 
 an air from "The Grand Duchess" lightly trol- 
 ling from his lips. We still meet occasionally, 
 and nod if no one is looking. 
 
 "I am going too fast, however. What I meant 
 to say was that the murder was premeditated. In 
 the case of a reprehensible murder I know this 
 would be considered an aggravation of the offense. 
 Of course, it is an open question whether all mur- 
 ders are not reprehensible ; but let that pass. To 
 my own mind I should have been indeed deserving 
 of punishment had I rushed out and slain the 
 waits in a moment of fury. If one were to give 
 way to his passion every time he is interrupted in 
 his work or his sleep by bawlers our thoroughfares 
 would soon be choked with the dead. No one 
 values human life or understands its sacredness 
 more than I do. I merely say that there may be 
 times when a man, having stood a great deal and 
 thought it over calmly, is justified in taking the 
 law into his own hands always supposing he 
 can do it decently, quietly, and without scandal. 
 The epidemic of waits broke out early in Decem- 
 ber, and every other night or so these torments 
 came in the still hours and burst into song beneath 
 my windows. They made me nervous. I was 
 more wretched on the nights they did not come 
 than on the nights they came ; for I had begun to 
 listen for them, and was never sure they had gone
 
 MY LADY WCOTUfM. jjy 
 
 into another locality before four o'clock in the 
 morning:. As for their songs, they were more like 
 music-hall ditties than Christmas carols. So one 
 morning it was, I think, the 23d of December 
 I warned them fairly, fully, and with particulars, 
 of what would happen if they disturbed me again. 
 Having given them this warning, can it be said 
 that I was to blame at least, to any considerable 
 extent ? 
 
 Christmas-eve had worn into Christmas morn- 
 ing before the waits arrived on that fateful occa- 
 sion. I opened the window if my memory does 
 not deceive me at once, and looked down at 
 them. I could not swear to their being the persons 
 whom I had warned the night before. Perhaps I 
 should have made sure of this. But in any case 
 these were practiced waits. Their whine rushed 
 in at my open window with a vigor that proved 
 them no tyros. Besides, the night was a cold 
 one, and I could not linger at an open casement 
 
 I nodded pleasantly to the waits and pointed 
 to my door. Then Iran downstairs and let them 
 in. They came up to my chambers with me. As 
 I have said, the lapse of time prevents my re- 
 membering how many of them there were ; three, 
 I fancy. At all events, I took them into my bed- 
 room and strangled them one by one. They went 
 off quite peaceably ; the only difficulty was in the 
 disposal of the bodies. I thought of laying them 
 on + .he curb-stone in different passages ; but I was 
 afraid the police might not see that they were waits, 
 in which case I might be put to inconvenience. So 
 I took a spade and dug two (or three) large holes 
 in the quadrangle of the inn. Then I carried the 
 bodies to the place in my rug, one at a time, 
 hoved them in and covered them up. A close 
 II
 
 33* MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 observer might have noticed in that part of tht 
 quadrangle, for some time after, a small mound, 
 such as might be made by an elbow under the 
 bedclothes. Nobody, however, seems to have 
 descried it, and yet I see it often evn now in my 
 dreams. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE PERILS OF NOT SMOKING. 
 
 WHEN the Arcadians heard that I had signed an 
 agreement to give up smoking they were first in- 
 credulous, then sarcastic, then angry. Instead of 
 coming, as usual, to my room, they went one 
 night in a body to Pettigrew's, and there, as I 
 afterward discovered, a scheme for "saving me" 
 was drawn up. So little did they understand the 
 firmness of my character, that they thought I had 
 weakly yielded to the threats of the lady referred 
 to in my first chapter, when, of course, I had 
 only yielded to her arguments, and they agreed 
 to make an appeal on my behalf to her. Petti- 
 grew, as a married man himself, was appointed 
 intercessor, and I understand that the others not 
 only accompanied him to her door, but waited in 
 an alley until he came out. I never knew whether 
 the reasoning brought to bear on the lady was of 
 Pettigrew's devising, or suggested by Jimmy and 
 the others, but it was certainly unselfish of Petti- 
 grew to lie so freely on my account. At the time, 
 however, the plot enraged me, for the lady con- 
 ceived the absurd idea that I had sent Pettigrew 
 to her. Undoubtedly it was a bold stroke. Petti- 
 grew'* scheme was to play upon his hostess'*
 
 J*r LAD v NICO TINS. 
 
 attachment for me by hinting to her that if I gave 
 up smoking I would probably die. Finding her 
 attentive rather than talkative, he soon dared to 
 assure her that he himself loathed tobacco and 
 only took it for his health. 
 
 "By the doctor's orders, mark you," he said, 
 impressively; *' Doctor Southwick, of Hyde 
 Park." 
 
 She expressed polite surprise at this, and then 
 Pettigrew, believing he had made an impression, 
 told his story as concocted. 
 
 "My own case," he said, "is one much in 
 point. I suffered lately from sore throat, accom- 
 panied by depression of spirits and loss of appe- 
 tite. The ailment was so unusual with me that I 
 thought it prudent to put myself in Doctor South- 
 wick's hands. As far as possible I shall give you 
 his exact words ! 
 
 " 'When did you give up smoking?* he asked, 
 abruptly, after examining my throat 
 
 " 'Three months ago,' I replied, taken by sur- 
 prise ; ' but how did you know I had given it up ? ' 
 
 " ' Never mind how I know,' he said, severely ; 
 ' I told you that, however much you might desire 
 to do so, you were not to take to not smoking. 
 This is how you carry out my directions.' 
 
 " ' Well/ I answered, sulkily, ' I have been feel- 
 ing so healthy for the last two years that I thought 
 I could indulge myself a little. You are aware 
 how I abominate tobacco.' 
 
 "'Quite so, 1 he said, 'and now you see the 
 result of this miserable self-indulgence. Two 
 years ago I prescribed tobacco for you, to be 
 taken three times a day, and you yourself admit 
 that it made a new man of you. Instead of feel- 
 ing thankful, you complain of the brief unplea*
 
 34* 
 
 antness that accompanies its consumption, and 
 now, in the teeth of my instructions, you give it 
 up. I must say the ways of patients are a con- 
 stant marvel to me. ' 
 
 " 'But how,' I asked, 'do you know that my 
 reverting to the pleasant habit of not smoking is 
 the cause of my present ailment?' 
 
 ' ' ' Oh J ' he said, ' you are not sure of that your- 
 self, are you ? " 
 
 " ' I thought,' I replied, ' there might be a doubt 
 about it ; though of course I have not forgotten 
 what you told me two years ago.' 
 
 " ' It matters very little,' he said, ' whether you 
 remember what I tell you if you do not follow my 
 orders. But as for knowing that indulgence in 
 not smoking is what has brought you to this state, 
 how long is it since you noticed these symptoms ? ' 
 
 "'I can hardly say,' I answered. 'Still, I 
 should be able to think back. I had my first sore 
 throat this year the night I saw Mr. Irving at the 
 Lyceum, and that was on my wife's birthday, the 
 3d of October. How long ago is that? ' 
 
 " 'Why, that is more than three months ago. 
 Are you sure of the date ? ' 
 
 "'Quite certain,' I told him; 'so, you see, I 
 had my first sore throat before I risked not smok- 
 ing again. ' 
 
 " 'I don't understand this,' he said. ' Do you 
 mean to say that in the beginning of May you 
 were taking my prescription daily ? You were 
 not missing a day now and then forgetting 
 to order a new stock of cigars when the others 
 were done, or flinging them away before they 
 were half smoked? Patients do such things.' 
 
 '"No, I assure you I compelled myself to 
 moke. At least'
 
 Mr LAD Y NlCOttf*. 34* 
 
 " 'At least what? Come, now, if I am to b 
 of any service to you, there must be no reserve.' 
 
 " 'Well, now that I think of it, I was only 
 smoking one cigar a day at that time.' 
 
 " 'Ah ! we have it now/ he cried. 'One cigar 
 a day, when I ordered you three I I might have 
 guessed as much. When I tell non-smokers that 
 they must smoke or I will not be answerable for 
 the consequences, they entreat me to let them 
 break themselves of the habit of not smoking 
 gradually. One cigarette a day to begin with, 
 they beg of me, promising to increase the dose 
 by degrees. Why, man, one cigarette a day is 
 poison ; it is worse than not smoking.' 
 
 " ' But that is not what I did.' 
 
 "'The idea is the same,' he said. 'Like the 
 others, you make all this moan about giving up 
 completely a habit you should never have acquired. 
 For my own part, I cannot even understand wher 
 the subtle delights of not smoking come in. Com- 
 pared with health, they are surely immaterial ? ' 
 
 " ' Of course, I admit that' 
 
 " 'Then, if you admit it, why pamper your- 
 self? ' 
 
 " 'I suppose because one is weak in matters 
 of habit. You have many cases like mine ? ' 
 
 " ' I have such cases every week,' he told me ; 
 ' indeed, it was having so many cases of the kind 
 that made me a specialist in the subject When I 
 began practice I had not the least notion how 
 common the non-tobacco throat, as I call it, is.' 
 
 " ' But the disease has been known, has it not, 
 for a long time ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes,' he said ; ' but the cause has only been 
 discovered recently. I could explain the malady 
 to you scientifically, as many medical men would
 
 prefer to do, but you are better to have it in plain 
 English.' 
 
 " ' Certainly ; but I should like to know whe- 
 ther the symptoms in other cases have been in 
 every way similar to mine.' 
 
 " ' They have doubtless differed in degree, but 
 not otherwise,' he answered. ' For instance, you 
 say your sore throat is accompanied by depres- 
 sion of spirits.' 
 
 " ' Yes; indeed the depression sometimes pre- 
 cedes the sore throat.' 
 
 " 'Exactly. I presume, too, that you feel most 
 depressed in the evening say, immediately after 
 dinner?' 
 
 " ' That is certainly the time I experience the 
 depression most.' 
 
 " ' The result,' he said, ' if I may venture on 
 somewhat delicate matters, is that your depres- 
 sion of spirits infects your wife and family, even 
 your servants ? ' 
 
 " ' That is quite true,' I answered. ' Our home 
 has by no means been so happy as formerly. 
 When a man is out of spirits, I suppose, he tends 
 to be brusque and undemonstrative to his wife, 
 and to be easily irritated by his children. Cer- 
 tainly that has been the case with me of late.' 
 
 " 'Yes,' he exclaimed, 'and all because you 
 have not carried out my directions. Men ought 
 to see that they have no right to indulge in not 
 smoking, if only for the sake of their wives and 
 families. A bachelor has more excuse, perhaps ; 
 but think of the example you set your children in 
 not making an effort to shake this self-indulgence 
 off. In short, smoke for the sake of your wife 
 and family, if you won't smoke for the sake of 
 your health,"'
 
 1/Y LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 343 
 
 I think this is pretty nearly the whole of Petti- 
 Brew's story, but I may add that he left the house 
 in depression of spirits, and then infected Jimmy 
 and the others with the same ailment, so that they 
 should all have hurried in a cab to the house of 
 Dr. Southwick. 
 
 " Honestly," Pettigrew said, " I don't think she 
 believed a word I told her." 
 
 "If she had only been a man," Harriot sighed, 
 " we could have got round her." 
 
 " ' How ? " asked Pettigrew. 
 
 " 'Why, of course," said Harriot, "we could 
 have sent her a tin of the Arcadia. " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 MY LAST PIPE. 
 
 THE night of my last smoke drew near without 
 any demonstration on my part or on that of my 
 friends. I noticed that none of them was now 
 comfortable if left alone with me, and I knew, I 
 cannot tell how, that though they had too much 
 delicacy to refer in my presence to my coming 
 happiness, they often talked of it among them- 
 selves. They smoked hard and looked covertly 
 at me, and had an idea that they were helping 
 me. They also addressed me in a low voice, and 
 took their seats noiselessly, as if some one were 
 ill in the next room. 
 
 "We have a notion," Scrymgeour said, with 
 an effort, on my second last night, "that you 
 would rather we did not feast you to-morrow 
 evening ? " 
 
 " Oh; I. want nothing of that kind," I aaid
 
 344 MY LADY NICOTINE. 
 
 "So I fancied," Jimmy broke in. "Thos 
 things are rather a mockery, but of course if you 
 thought it would help you in any way " 
 
 "Or if there is anything else we could do for 
 you," interposed Gilray, " you have only to men- 
 tion it" 
 
 Though they irritated rather than soothed me, 
 I was touched by their kindly intentions, for at 
 one time I feared my friends would be sarcastic. 
 The next night was my last, and I found that 
 they had been looking forward to it with genuine 
 pain. As will have been seen, their custom was 
 to wander into my room one by one, but this 
 time they came together. They had met in the 
 boudoir, and came up the stair so quietly that I 
 did not hear them. They all looked very sub- 
 dued, and Harriot took the cane chair so softly 
 that it did not creak. I noticed that after a fur- 
 tive glance at me each of them looked at the cen- 
 ter table, on which lay my brier, Romulus and 
 Remus, three other pipes that all had their merits, 
 though they never touched my heart until now, 
 my clay tobacco-jar, and my old pouch. I had 
 said good-bye to these before my friends came 
 in, and I could now speak with a comparatively 
 firm voice. Harriot and Gilray and Scrymgeour 
 signed to Jimmy, as if some plan of action had 
 been arranged, and Jimmy said huskily, sitting 
 upon the hearth-rug : 
 
 "Pettigrew isn't coming. He was afraid ht 
 would break down." 
 
 Then we began to smoke. It was as yet too 
 early in the night for my last pipe, but soon I re- 
 gretted that I had not arranged to spend this night 
 alone. Jimmy was the only one of the Arcadians 
 who had been at school with me, and he was full
 
 UY LADY KICOTINR. 
 
 345 
 
 ef reminiscences which he addressed to the other* 
 just as if I were not present 
 
 "He was the life of the old school," Jimmy 
 said, referring to me, "and when I shut my eyes 
 I can hear his merry laugh as if we were both in 
 knickerbockers still." 
 
 "What sort of character did he have among 
 the fellows ? " Gilray whispered. 
 
 "The very best. He was the soul of honor, 
 and we all anticipated a great future for him. 
 Even the masters loved him ; indeed, I question 
 if he had an enemy." 
 
 "I remember my first meeting with him at the 
 university," said Harriot, "and that I took to 
 him at once. He was speaking at the debating 
 society that night, and his enthusiasm quite car- 
 ried me away." 
 
 " And how we shall miss him here, " said Scrym- 
 geour, "and in my house-boat 1 I think I had 
 better sell the house-boat. Do you remember 
 his favorite seat at the door of the saloon ? " 
 
 "Do you know," said Harriot, looking a little 
 scared, " I thought I would be the first of our lot 
 to go. Often I have kept him up late in this 
 very room talking of my own troubles, and little 
 guessing why he sometimes treated them a little 
 testily." 
 
 So they talked, meaning very well, and by and 
 by it struck one o'clock A cold shiver passed 
 through me, and Harriot jumped from his chair. 
 It had been agreed that I should begin my last 
 pipe at one precisely. 
 
 Whatever my feelings were up to this point I 
 had kept them out of my face, but I suppose a 
 change came over me now. I tried to lift my brier 
 from the table, but my hand shook and the pipe
 
 346 MY LADY NICOTW&. 
 
 tapped, tapped on the deal like an auctioneer's 
 hammer. 
 
 " Let me fill it," Jimmy said, and he took my 
 old brier from me. He scraped it energetically 
 so that it might hold as much as possible, and 
 then he filled it. Not one of them, I am glad to 
 remember, proposed a cigar for my last smoke, 
 or thought it possible that I would say farewell 
 to tobacco through the medium of any other pipe 
 than my brier. I liked my brier best. I have 
 said this already, but I must say it again. Jimmy 
 handed the brier to Gilray, who did not surrender 
 it until it reached my mouth. Then Scrymgeour 
 made a spill, and Harriot lighted it. In another 
 moment I was smoking my last pipe. The others 
 glanced at one another, hesitated, and put their 
 pipes into their pockets. 
 
 There was little talking, for they all gazed at 
 me as if something astounding might happen at 
 any moment. The clock had stopped, but the 
 ventilator was clicking. Although Jimmy and 
 the others saw only me, I tried not to see only 
 them. I conjured up the face of a lady, and sh 
 smiled encouragingly, and then I felt safer. But 
 at times her face was lost in smoke, or suddenly 
 it was Marriot's face, eager, doleful, wistful. 
 
 At first I puffed vigorously and wastefully, then 
 I became scientific and sent out rings of smoke 
 so strong and numerous that half a dozen of them 
 were in the air at a time. In past days I had 
 often followed a ring over the table, across chairs, 
 and nearly out at the window, but that was when 
 I blew one by accident and was loath to let it go. 
 Now I distributed them among my friends, who 
 let them slip away into the looking-glass. I 
 think I had almost forgotten what I was doing
 
 MY LADY NICO TINE. 347 
 
 and where I was when an awful thing happened. 
 My pipe went out ! 
 
 "There are remnants in it yet," Jimmy cried, 
 with forced cheerfulness, while Gilray blew the 
 ashes off my sleeve, Harriot slipped a cushion 
 behind my back, and Scrymgeour made another 
 spill. Again I smoked, but no longer recklessly. 
 
 It is revealing no secret to say that a drowning 
 man sees his whole past unfurl before him like a 
 panorama. So little, however, was I, now on 
 the eve of a great happiness, like a drowning 
 man, that nothing whatever passed before me. 
 I lost sight even of my friends, and though 
 Jimmy was on his knees at my feet, his hand 
 clasping mine, he disappeared as if his open 
 mouth had swallowed the rest of his face. I had 
 only one thought that I was smoking my last 
 pipe. Unconsciously I crossed my legs, and one 
 of my slippers fell off; Jimmy, I think, slipped it 
 onto my foot. Harriot stood over me, gazing 
 into the bowl of my pipe, but I did not see him. 
 
 Now I was puffing tremendously, but no smoke 
 came. The room returned to me, I saw Jimmy 
 clearly, I felt Harriot overhead, and I heard them 
 all whispering. Still I puffed ; I knew that my 
 pipe was empty, but still I puffed. Gilray's 
 fingers tried to draw my brier from my mouth, 
 but I bit into it with my teeth, and still I puffed. 
 
 When I came to I was alone. I had a dim 
 consciousness of having been shaken by several 
 hands, of a voice that I think was Scrymgeour's 
 saying that he would often write to me though 
 my new home was to be within the four-mile 
 radius and of another voice that I think was 
 Jimmy's, telling Harriot not to let me see him 
 breaking down. But though I had ceased to
 
 34* UY LADY N1CO TIX. 
 
 puff, my brier was still in my mouth ; and, i- 
 deed, I found it there when William John shook 
 me into life next morning. 
 
 My parting with William John was almost 
 sadder than the scene of the previous night. I 
 rang for him when I had tied up all my treasures 
 in brown paper, and I told him to give the tobac- 
 co-jar lo Jimmy, Romulus to Harriot, Remus 
 to Gilray, and the pouch to Scrymgeour. Will- 
 iam John bore up till I came to the pouch, when 
 he fairly blubbered. I had to hurry into my bed- 
 room, but I mean to do something yet for Will- 
 iam John. Not even Scrymgeour knew so well 
 as he what my pouch had been to me, and till I 
 die I shall always regret that I did not give it to 
 William John. I kept my brier. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIIL 
 
 WHEN MY WIFE IS ASLEEP AND ALL THE KOUS1 1C 
 STILL. 
 
 PERHAPS the heading of this paper will deceive 
 some readers into thinking that I smoke nowa- 
 days in camera. It is, I know, a common jest 
 among smokers that such a promise as mine is 
 seldom kept, and I allow that the Arcadians 
 tempt me still. But never shall it be said of me 
 with truth that I have broken my word. I smoke 
 no more, and, indeed, though the scenes of my 
 bachelorhood frequently rise before me in dreams 
 painted as Scrymgeour could not paint them, I 
 am glad, when I wake up, that they are only 
 dreams. Those selfish days are done, and I see 
 that though they were happy days, the happiness 
 was a mistake. As for the struggle that is sup-
 
 J/y LADY NICOTINE. $49 
 
 posed to take place between a man and tobacco, 
 after he sees smoking in its true colors, I never 
 experienced it. I have not even any craving for 
 the Arcadia now, though it is a tobacco that 
 should only be smoked by our greatest men. 
 Were we to present a tin of it to our national 
 heroes, instead of the freedom of the city, they 
 would probably thank us more. Jimmy and the 
 others are quite unworthy to smoke it ; indeed, if 
 I had my way they would give up smoking alto- 
 gether. Nothing, perhaps, shows more com- 
 pletely how I have severed my bonds than this : 
 that my wife is willing to let our friends smoke 
 in the study, but I will not hear of it. There 
 shall be no smoking in my house ; and I have 
 determined to speak to Jimmy about smoking 
 out at our spare bedroom window. It is a mere 
 contemptible pretense to say that none of the 
 smoke comes back into the room. The curtains 
 positively reek of it, and we must have them 
 washed at once. I shall speak plainly to Jimmy 
 because I want him to tell the others. They 
 must understand clearly on what terms they are 
 received in this house, and if they prefer making 
 chimneys of themselves to listening to music, by 
 all means let them stay at home. 
 
 Bui when my wife is asleep and all the house 
 is still, I listen to the man through the wall. At 
 such times I have my brier in my mouth, but 
 there is no harm in that, for it is empty. I did 
 not like to give away my brier, knowing no one 
 who understood it, and I always carry it about 
 with me now to remind me of my dark past When 
 the man through the wall lights up I put my cold 
 pipe in my mouth and we have a quiet hour 
 together.
 
 3$0 MY LADY NICO TINE. 
 
 I have never, to my knowledge, seen the man 
 through the wall, for his door is round the corner, 
 and besides, I have no interest in him until half- 
 past eleven p. M. We begin then. I know him 
 chiefly by his pipes, and them I know by his taps 
 on the wall as he knocks the ashes out of them. 
 He does not smoke the Arcadia, for his temper is 
 hasty, and he breaks the coals with his foot. 
 Though I am compelled to say that I do not con- 
 sider his character very lovable, he has his good 
 points, and I like his attachment to his brier. He 
 scrapes it, on the whole, a little roughly, but that 
 is because he is so anxious to light up again, and I 
 discovered long ago that he has signed an agree- 
 ment with his wife to go to bed at half-past twelve. 
 For some time I could not understand why he 
 had a silver rim put on the bowl. I noticed the 
 change in the tap at once, and the natural con- 
 clusion would have been that the bowl had 
 cracked. But it never had the tap of a cracked 
 bowl. I was reluctant to believe that the man 
 through the wall was merely some vulgar fellow, 
 and I felt that he could not be so, or else he would 
 have smoked his meerschaum more. At last I 
 understood. The bowl had worn away on one 
 side, and the silver rim had been needed to keep 
 the tobacco in. Undoubtedly this was the ex- 
 planation, for even before the rim came I was a 
 little puzzled by the taps of the brier. He never 
 seemed to hit the wall with the whole mouth of 
 the bowl, but of course the reason was that he 
 could not At the same time I do not exonerate 
 him from blame. He is a clumsy smoker to burn 
 his bowl at one side, and I am afraid he lets the 
 stem slip round in his teeth. Of course, I se 
 that the mouthpiece is loose, but a piece of blot- 
 ting-paper would remedy that
 
 MY LAD Y NICO TIttM. j$ i 
 
 His meerschaum is not such a good one as 
 Jimmy's. Though Jimmy's boastfulness about 
 his meerschaum was hard to bear, none of us ever 
 denied the pipe's worth. The man through the 
 wall has not a cherry-wood stem to his meer- 
 schaum, and consequently it is too light. A ring 
 has been worn into the palm of his left hand, 
 owing to his tapping the meerschaum there, and 
 it is as marked Jimmy's ring, for, though Jimmy 
 tapped more strongly, the man through the wall 
 has to tap oftener. 
 
 What I chiefly dislike about the man through 
 the wall is his treatment of his clay. A clay, I 
 need scarcely say, has an entirely different tap 
 from a meerschaum, but the man through the wall 
 does not treat these two pipes as if they were on 
 an equality. He ought to tap his clay on the 
 palm of his hand, but he seldom does so, and I 
 am strongly of opinion that when he does, it is 
 only because he has forgotten that this is not the 
 meerschaum. Were he to tap the clay on the 
 walls oron the ribs of the fireplace he would smash 
 it, so he taps it on a coal. About this there is 
 something contemptible. I am not complaining 
 because he has little affection for his clay. In 
 face of all that has been said in honor of clays, 
 and knowing that this statement will occasion an 
 outcry against me, I admit that I never cared for 
 clays myself. A rank tobacco is less rank through 
 a church-warden, but to smoke the Arcadia 
 through a clay is to incur my contempt, and 
 even my resentment. But to disbelieve in clays 
 is one thing and to treat them badly is another. 
 If the man through the wall has decided, after 
 reflection and experiment, that his clay is a mis- 
 take, I say let him smoke it no more ; but so long
 
 as he does smoke it I would have it receive con 
 sideration from him. I very much question 
 whether, if he reads his heart, he could learn from 
 it that he loves his meerschaum more than his clay, 
 yet because the meerschaum cost more he taps 
 . on his palm. This is a serious charge to bring 
 against any man, but I do not make it lightly. 
 
 The man through the wall smokes each of these 
 three pipes nightly, beginning with the brier. Thus 
 he does not like a hot pipe. Some will hold that 
 he ought to finish with the brier, as it is his favor- 
 ite, but I am not of that opinion. Undoubtedly, 
 I think, the first pipe is the sweetest ; indeed I feel 
 bound to make a statement here. I have an un- 
 easy feeling that I never did justice to meer- 
 schaums, and for this reason : I only smoked them 
 after my brier was hot, so that I never gave them 
 a fair chance. If I had begun the day with a meer- 
 schaum, might it not have shown itself in a new 
 light? That is a point I shall never be able to 
 decide now, but I often think of it, and I leave 
 the verdict to others. 
 
 Even though I did not know that the man 
 through the wall must retire at half-past twelve, 
 his taps at that hour would announce it. He then 
 gives each of his pipes a final tap, not briskly as 
 before, but slowly, as if he was thinking between 
 each tap. I have sometimes decided to send him 
 a tin of the only tobacco to smoke, but on the 
 whole I could not undertake the responsibility of 
 giving a man whom I have only studied for a 
 few months such a testimonial. Therefore when 
 his last tap says good-night to me, I take my cold 
 brier out of my mouth, tap it on the mantelpiece, 
 cmile sadly, and go to bed. 
 
 THE END.
 
 A 000115164 e