THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 JAMES J. MC BRIDE
 
 \
 
 THE HOUSE WITH 
 THE GREEN SHUTTEBS
 
 WITH THE 
 
 GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 BY 
 
 M9CLURE, PHILLIPS & C9 
 1902
 
 Copyright, igoi, by 
 McCLURE, PHILLIPS &f CO. 
 
 Eighth Impression
 
 PR 
 
 TO 
 
 William a^apbitt 
 
 ^ 712508
 
 THE HOUSE WITH 
 THE GEEEN SHUTTERS
 
 The frowsy chamber-maid of the " Red Lion " had 
 just finished washing the front door steps. She rose 
 from her stooping posture, and, being of slovenly habit, 
 flung the water from her pail, straight out, without 
 moving from where she stood. The smooth round arch 
 of the falling water glistened for a moment in mid-air. 
 John Gourlay, standing in front of his new house at the 
 head of the brae, could hear the swash of it when it fell. 
 The morning was of perfect stillness. 
 
 The hands of the clock across " the Square " were 
 pointing to the hour of eight. They were yellow in 
 the sun. 
 
 Blowsalinda, of the Eed Lion, picked up the big 
 bass that usually lay within the porch and, carrying it 
 clumsily against her breast, moved off round the corner 
 of the public house, her petticoat gaping behind. Half- 
 way she met the ostler with whom she stopped in amor- 
 ous dalliance. He said something to her, and she 
 laughed loudly and vacantly. The silly tee-hee echoed 
 up the street. 
 
 A moment later a cloud of dust drifting round the 
 corner, and floating white in the still air, shewed that 
 she was pounding the bass against the end of the house. 
 
 ri]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 All over the little town the women of Barbie were equally 
 busy with their steps and door-mats. There was scarce 
 a man to be seen either in the Square, at the top of 
 which Gourlay stood, or in the long street descending 
 from its near corner. The men were at work; the chil- 
 dren had not yet appeared; the women were busy with 
 their household cares. 
 
 The freshness of the air, the smoke rising thin and 
 far above the red chimneys, the sunshine glistering on 
 the roofs and gables, the rosy clearness of everything 
 beneath the dawn, above all the quietness and peace, made 
 Barbie, usually so poor to see, a very pleasant place to 
 look down at on a summer morning. At this hour there 
 was an unfamiliar delicacy in the familiar scene, a fresh- 
 ness and purity of aspect — almost an unearthliness — as 
 though you viewed it through a crystal dream. But it 
 was not the beauty of the hour that kept Gourlay musing 
 at his gate. He was dead to the fairness of the scene, 
 even w^hile the fact of its presence there before him 
 wove most subtly with his mood. He smoked in silent 
 enjoyment because on a morning such as this, everything 
 he saw was a delicate flattery to his pride. At the be- 
 ginning of a new day to look down on the petty burgh 
 in which he was the greatest man, lilled all his being 
 with a consciousness of importance. His sense of pros- 
 perity was soothing and pervasive; he felt it all round 
 him like the pleasant air, as real as that and as subtle; 
 bathing him, caressing. It was the most secret and in- 
 timate joy of his life to go out and smoke on summer 
 mornings bv his big gate, musing over Barbie ere he 
 possessed it with his merchandise. 
 
 He had growled at the quarry carters for being late in 
 
 [2]
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 setting out this morning (for like most resolute dullards 
 he was sternly methodical), but in his heart he was 
 secretly pleased. The needs of his business were so 
 various that his men could rarely start at the same hour, 
 and in the same direction. To-day, however, because of 
 the delay, all his carts would go streaming through the 
 town together, and that brave pomp would be a slap in 
 the face to his enemies. " I'll shew them," he thought, 
 proudly. " Them " was the town-folk, and what he 
 would shew them was what a big man he was. For, like 
 most scorners of the world's opinion, Gourlay was its 
 slave, and shewed his subjection to the popular estimate 
 by his anxiety to flout it. He was not great enough 
 for the carelessness of perfect scorn. 
 
 Through the big green gate behind him came the sound 
 of carts being loaded for the day. A horse, weary of 
 standing idle between the shafts, kicked ceaselessly and 
 steadily against the ground with one impatient hinder 
 foot, clink, clink, clink upon the paved yard. " Easy, 
 damn ye; ye'll smash the bricks! " came a voice. Then 
 there was the smart slap of an open hand on a sleek neck, 
 a quick start, and the rattle of chains as the horse quiv- 
 ered to the blow. 
 
 "Run a white tarpaulin across the cheese, Jock, to 
 keep them frae melting in the heat," came another 
 voice. "And canny on the top there wi' thae big feet o' 
 yours; d'ye think a cheese was made for you to dance on 
 wi'your mighty brogues?" Then the voice sank to the 
 hoarse warning whisper of impatience; loudish in anx- 
 iety, yet throaty from fear of being heard. "Hurry up, 
 man — hurry up, or he'll be down on us. like bleezes for 
 being so late in getting ofF! " 
 
 [3]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Gourlay smiled, grimly, and a black gleam shot from 
 his eye as he glanced round to the gate and caught the 
 words. His men did not know he could hear them. 
 
 The clock across the Square struck the hour, eight 
 soft slow strokes, that melted away in the beauty of the 
 morning. Five minutes passed. Gourlay turned his 
 head to listen, but no further sound came from the 
 yard. He walked to the green gate, his slippers making 
 no noise. 
 
 " Are ye sleeping, my pretty men? " he said, softly. 
 . . . "Eih?" 
 
 The " Eih " leapt like a sword, with a slicing sharp- 
 ness in its tone, that made it a sinister contrast to the 
 first sweet question to his " pretty men." " Eih ? " he 
 said again, and stared with open mouth and fierce dark 
 eyes. 
 
 " Hurry up, Peter," whispered the gaffer, " hurry up, 
 for Godsake. He has the black glower in his e'en." 
 
 " Ready, sir; ready now! " cried Peter Riney, running 
 out to open the other half of the gate. Peter was a 
 wizened little man, with a sandy fringe of beard be- 
 neath his chin, a wart on the end of his long, slanting- 
 out nose, light blue eyes, and bushy eyebrows of a red- 
 dish gray. The bearded red brows, close above the pale 
 blueness of his eyes, made them more vivid by contrast; 
 they were like pools of blue light amid the brownness of 
 his face. Peter always ran about his work with eager 
 alacrity. A simple and willing old man, he affected 
 the quick readiness of youth to atone for his insignifi- 
 cance. 
 
 " Hup horse ; hup then ! " cried courageous Peter, 
 walking backwards with curved body through the gate, 
 
 [4]
 
 CHAPTER OITE 
 
 and tugging at the reins of a horse the feet of which 
 struck sparks from the paved ground as they stressed 
 painfully on edge to get weigh on the great waggon 
 behind. The cart rolled through, then another, and 
 another, till twelve of them had passed. Gourlay stood 
 aside to watch them. All the horses were brown; " he 
 makes a point of that," the neighbours would have told 
 you. As each horse passed the gate the driver left its 
 head, and took his place by the wheel, cracking his 
 whip, with many a "hup horse; yean horse; woa lad; 
 steady! " 
 
 In a dull little country town the passing of a single 
 cart is an event, and a gig is followed with the eye 
 till it disappears. Anything is welcome that breaks 
 the long monotony of the hours, and suggests a topic 
 for the evening's talk. "Any news?" a body will 
 gravely enquire; " Ou aye," another will answer with 
 equal gravity, " I saw Kennedy's gig going past in the 
 forenoon." "Aye, man, where would he be off till? 
 He's owre often in his gig, I'm thinking — " and then 
 Kennedy and his affairs will last them till bedtime. 
 
 Thus the appearance of Gourlay's carts woke Barbie 
 from its morning lethargy. The smith came out in his 
 leather apron, shoving back, as he gazed, the grimy 
 cap from his white-sweating brow; bowed old men stood 
 in front of their doorways, leaning with one hand on 
 short trembling staffs, while the slaver slid unheeded 
 along the cutties which the left hand held to their 
 toothless mouths; white-mutched grannies were keeking 
 past the jambs; an early urchin, standing wide-legged 
 to stare, waved his cap and shouted, " Hooray! " — and 
 all because John Gourlay's carts were setting off upon 
 
 [5]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 their morniDg rounds, a brave procession for a single 
 town! Gourlay, standing great-shouldered in the mid- 
 dle of the road, took in every detail, devoured it grimly 
 as a homage to his pride. " Ha! ha! ye dogs," said the 
 soul within him. Past the pillar of the Red Lion 
 door he could see a white peep of the landlord's waist- 
 coat — though the rest of the mountainous man was hid- 
 den deep within his porch. (On summer mornings the 
 vast totality of the landlord was always inferential to 
 the town from the tiny white peep of him revealed.) 
 Even fat Simpson had waddled to the door to see the 
 carts going past. It was fat Simpson — might the Uni- 
 verse blast his adipose — who had once tried to infringe 
 Gourlay's monopoly as the sole carrier in Barbie. 
 There had been a rush to him at first, but Gourlay set 
 his teeth and drove him off the road, carrying stuff for 
 nothing till Simpson had nothing to carry, so that the 
 local wit suggested "a wee parcel in a big cart" as a new 
 sign for his hotel. The twelve browns prancing past 
 would be a pill to Simpson! There was no smile about 
 Gourlay's mouth — a fiercer glower was the only sign of 
 his pride — but it put a bloom on his morning, he felt, 
 to see the suggestive round of Simpson's waistcoat, down 
 yonder at the porch. Simpson, the swine! He had 
 made short work o' Mm] 
 
 Ere the last of the carts had issued from the yard at 
 the House with the Green Shutters the foremost was 
 already near the Red Lion. Gourlay swore beneath 
 his breath when Miss Toddle — described in the local 
 records as " a spinster of independent means " — came 
 fluttering out with a silly little parcel to accost one of 
 the carriers. Did tlie auld fool mean to stop Andy Gow 
 
 [6]
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 about her petty affairs — and thus break the line of carts 
 on the only morning they had ever been able to go down 
 the brae together? But no. Andy tossed her parcel 
 carelessly up among his other packages, and left her 
 bawling instructions from the gutter, with a porten- 
 tous shaking of her corkscrew curls. Gourlay's men 
 took their cue from their master, and were contemptu- 
 ous of Barbie, most unchivalrous scorners of its old 
 maids. 
 
 Gourlay was pleased with Andy for snubbing Sandy 
 Toddle's sister. When he and Elshie Hogg reached 
 the Cross they would have to break off from the rest to 
 complete their loads, but they had been down Main 
 Street over night as usual picking up their commis- 
 sions, and until they reached the Bend o' the Brae it 
 was unlikely that any business should arrest them now. 
 Gourlay hoped that it might be so, and he had his de- 
 sire, for, with the exception of Miss Toddle, no customer 
 appeared. The teams went slowly down the steep side 
 of the Square in an unbroken line, and slowly down 
 the street leading from its near corner. On the slope 
 the horses were unable to go fast — being forced to stell 
 themselves back against the heavy propulsion of the 
 carts behind; and thus the procession endured for a 
 length of time worthy its surpassing greatness. Wlien 
 it disappeared round the Bend o' the Brae the watching 
 bodies disappeared too; the event of the day had passed 
 and vacancy resumed her reign. The street and the 
 Square lay empty to the morning sun. Gourlay alone 
 stood idly at his gate, lapped in his own satisfaction. 
 
 It had been a big morning, he felt. It was the first 
 time for many a year that all his men, quarry-men and
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 carriers, carters of cheese and carters of grain, had led 
 their teams down the brae together in the full view of 
 his rivals. " I hope they liked it! " he thought, and he 
 nodded several times at the town beneath his feet, with 
 a slow up and down motion of the head, like a man nod- 
 ding grimly to his beaten enemy. It was as if he said, 
 " See what I have done to ye! " 
 
 [S]
 
 II 
 
 Only a man of Gourlay's brute force of character 
 could have kept all the carrying trade of Barbie in his 
 own hands. Even in these days of railways, nearly 
 every parish has a pair of carriers at the least, journey- 
 ing once or twice a week to the nearest town. In the 
 days when Gourlay was the great man of Barbie, rail- 
 ways were only beginning to thrust themselves among 
 the quiet hills, and the bulk of inland commerce was 
 still being drawn by horses along the country roads. 
 Yet Gourlay was the only carrier in the town. The 
 wonder is diminished when we remember that it had 
 been a decaying burgh for thirty years, and that its 
 trade, at the best of times, was of meagre volume. 
 Even so, it w^as astonishing that he should be the only 
 carrier. If you asked the natives how he did it, 
 " Ou," they said, " he makes the one hand wash the 
 other, doan't ye know? " — meaning thereby that he had 
 so many horses travelling on his own business, that he 
 could afford to carry other people's goods at rates that 
 must cripple his rivals. 
 
 " But that's very stupid, surely," said a visitor once, 
 who thought of entering into competition. " It's cut- 
 ting off his nose to spite his face! Why is he so anxious 
 to be the only carrier in Barbie that he carries stuff for 
 next to noathing the moment another man tries to work 
 the roads ? It's a daft-like thing to do ! " 
 
 [9]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " To be sure is't, to be sure is't! Just the stupeedity 
 o' spite! Oh, there are thnes when Gourlay makes 
 little or noathing from the carrying; but then, ye see, it 
 gies him a fine chance to annoy folk! If you ask him to 
 bring ye ocht, ' Oh,' he growls, ' I'll see if it suits my 
 own convenience.' And ye have to be content. He has 
 made so much money of late that the pride of him's not 
 to be endured." 
 
 It was not the insolence of sudden wealth however 
 that made Gourlay haughty to his neighbors; it was a 
 repressiveness natural to the man and a fierce contempt 
 of their scoffing envy. But it was true that he had 
 made large sums of money during recent years. From 
 his father (who had risen in the world) he inherited a 
 fine trade in cheese; also the carrying to Skeighan on 
 the one side and Fleckie on the other. When he mar- 
 ried Miss Eichmond of Tenshillingland, he started as 
 a corn broker with the snug dowry that she brought 
 him. Then, greatly to liis own benefit, he succeeded 
 in establishing a valuable connection with Templand- 
 muir. 
 
 It was partly by sheer impact of character that Gour- 
 lay obtained his ascendancy over hearty and careless 
 Templandmuir, and partly by a bluff joviality which he 
 — so little cunning in other things — knew to affect 
 among the petty lairds. The man you saw trying to be 
 jocose with Templandmuir, was a very different being 
 from the autocrat who " downed " his fellows in the 
 town. It was all " How are ye the day, Templand- 
 muir? " and " How d'ye doo-oo, Mr. Gourlay? " and the 
 immediate production of the big decanter. 
 
 More than ten years ago now, Templandmuir gave 
 
 [10]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 this fine dour upstanding friend of his a twelve-year 
 tack of the Eed Quarry — and that was the making of 
 Gourlay. The quarry yielded the best building stone 
 in a circuit of thirty miles, easy to work and hard 
 against wind and weather. When the main line went 
 north through Skeighan and Poltandie, there was a 
 great deal of building on the far side, and Gourlay sim- 
 ply coined the money. He could not have exhausted 
 the quarry had he tried — he would have had to howk 
 down a hill — but he took thousands of loads from it for 
 the Skeighan folk; and the commission he paid the 
 laird on each was ridiculously small. He built wooden 
 stables out on Templandmuir's estate — the Templar 
 had seven hundred acres of hill land — and it was there 
 the quarry horses generally stood. It was only rarely 
 — once in two years, perhaps — that they came into the 
 House with the Green Shutters. Last Saturday they 
 had brought several loads of stuff for Gourlay's own use; 
 and that is why they were present at the great proces- 
 sion on the Monday following. 
 
 It was their feeling that Gourlay's success was out of 
 all proportion to his merits that made other great-men- 
 in-a-small-way so bitter against him. They were an able 
 lot, and scarce one but possessed fifty times his weight 
 of brain. Yet he had the big way of doing, though 
 most of them were well enough to pass. Had they not 
 been aware of his stupidity they would never have 
 minded his triumphs in the countryside, but they felt it 
 with a sense of personal defeat that he — the donkey, as 
 they thought him — should scoop every chance that was 
 going, and leave them, the long-headed ones, still mud- 
 dling in their old concerns. They consoled themselves 
 
 . [11]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 with sneers, he retorted with brutal scorn, and the feud 
 kept increasing between them. 
 
 They were standing at the Cross, to enjoy their Satur- 
 day at e'en, when Gourlay's " quarriers " — as the quarry 
 horses liad been named — came through the town last 
 week-end. There were groups of bodies in the streets, 
 washed from toil to enjoy the quiet air; dandering 
 slowly or gossiping at ease; and they all turned to watch 
 the quarriers stepping bravely up, their heads tossing 
 to the hill. The big-men-in-a-small-way glowered and 
 said nothing. 
 
 " I wouldn't mind," said Sandy Toddle at last, " I 
 wouldn't mind if he weren't such a demned ess! " 
 
 " Ess ? " said the Deacon unpleasantly. He puck- 
 ered his brow and blinked, pretending not to under- 
 stand. 
 
 " Oh, a cuddy, ye know," said Toddle, colouring. 
 
 " Gourlay'th stupid enough," lisped the Deacon. 
 " We all know that. But there'tli one thing to be said 
 on hith behalf. He's not such a ' demned ess ' as to try 
 and thpeak fancy English! " 
 
 When the Deacon was not afraid of a man he 
 stabbed him straight. When he was afraid of him 
 he stabbed him on the sly. He was annoyed by the 
 passing of Gourlay's carts, and he took it out of Sandy 
 Toddle. 
 
 "It's extr'ornar! " blurted the Provost (who was a 
 man of brosey speech, large-mouthed and fat of utter- 
 ance). ''It's extr'ornar. Yass; it's extr'ornar! I 
 mean the luck of that man — for gumption he has noan. 
 Noan whatever! But if the railway came hereaway I 
 wager Gourlay would go down," he added, less in cer- 
 
 [12]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 tainty of knowledge than as prophet of the thing de- 
 sired. " I wager he'd go down, sirs." 
 
 " Likely enough," said Sandy Toddle; " he wouldn't 
 be quick enough to Jump at the new way of doing." 
 
 " Moar than that ! " cried the Provost, spite sharpen- 
 ing his insight, "moar than that! He'd be owre dour 
 to abandon the auld way. I'm. tailing ye. He would 
 just be left entirely! It's only those, like myself, who 
 approach him on the town's affairs that know the full 
 extent of his stupeedity." 
 
 " Oh, he's a ' demned. ess,' " said the Deacon, rubbing 
 it into Toddle and Gourlay at the same time. 
 
 " A-ah, but then, ye see, he has the abeelity that 
 comes from character," said Johnny Coe, who was a 
 sage philosopher. " For there are two kinds of abeelity, 
 don't ye understa-and? There's a scattered abeelity 
 that's of no use! Auld Eandie Donaldson was good at 
 fifty different things, and he died in the poorhouse! 
 There's a dour kind of abeelity, though, that has 
 no cleverness, but just gangs tramping on; and 
 that's " 
 
 " The easiest beaten by a flank attack," said the Dea- 
 con, snubbing him. 
 
 [13]
 
 Ill 
 
 With the sudden start of a man roused from a day- 
 dream Gourlay turned from the green gate and entered 
 the yard. Jock Gilmour, the " orra " man, was washing 
 down the legs of a horse beside tlie trough. It was Gour- 
 lay's own cob, which he used for driving round the 
 countryside. It was a black — Gourlay " made a point " 
 of driving with a black. " The brown for sturdiness, 
 the black for speed," he would say, making a maxim of 
 his whim to giye it the sanction of a higher law. 
 
 Gilmour was in a wild temper because he had been 
 forced to get up at five o'clock in order to turn several 
 hundred cheeses, to prevent them bulging out of shape 
 owing to the heat, and so becoming cracked and spoiled. 
 He did not raise his head at his master's approach. 
 And his head being bent, the eye was attracted to a 
 patent leather collar which he wore, glazed with black 
 and red stripes. It is a collar much affected by plough- 
 men, because a dip in the horse-trough once a month 
 suffices for its washing. Between the striped collar 
 and his hair (as he stooped) the sunburned redness of 
 his neck struck the eye vividly — the cropped fair hairs 
 on it shewing whitish on the red skin. 
 
 The horse quivered as the cold water swashed about 
 its logs, and turned playfully to bite its groom. Gil- 
 mour, still stooping, dug his elbow^ up beneath its ribs. 
 The animal wheeled in anger, but Gilmour ran to its 
 
 [U]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 head with most iiumful blasphemy and led it to the 
 stable door. The off hind leg was still unwashed. 
 
 "Has the horse but the three legs?" said Gourlay 
 suavely. 
 
 Gilmour brought the horse back to the trough, mut- 
 tering sullenly. 
 
 " Were ye saying anything? " said Gourlay. " Eih? " 
 
 Gilmour sulked out and said nothing; and his mas- 
 ter smiled grimly at the sudden redness that swelled his 
 neck and ears to the verge of bursting. 
 
 A boy, standing in his shirt and trousers at an open 
 window of the house above, had looked down at the 
 scene with craning interest — ^big-eyed. He had been 
 alive to every turn and phase of it — the horse's quiver 
 of delight and fear, his skittishness, the groom's ill- 
 temper, and Gourlay's grinding will. Eh, but his 
 father was a caution! How easy he had downed Jock 
 Gilmour! The boy was afraid of his father himself, 
 but he liked to see him send other folk to the right 
 about. For he was John Gourlay, too. — Hokey, but his 
 father could down them! 
 
 Mr. Gourlay passed on to the inner yard, which was 
 close to the scullery door. The paved little court, 
 within its high wooden walls, was curiously fresh and 
 clean. A cock-pigeon strutted round, pufRng his gleam- 
 ing breast and rooketty-cooing in the sun. Large clear 
 drops fell slowly from the spout of a wooden pump, and 
 splashed upon a flat stone. The place seemed to enfold 
 the stillness. There was a sense of inclusion and peace. 
 
 There is a distinct pleasure to the eye in a quiet brick 
 court where everything is fresh and prim; in sunny 
 weather you can lounge in a room and watch it through 
 
 [15]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 an open door, in a kind of lazy dream. The boy, stand- 
 ing at the window above to let the fresh air blow round 
 his neck, was alive to that pleasure; he was intensely 
 conscious "of the pigeon swelling in its bravery, of the 
 clean yard, the dripping pump, and the great stillness. 
 His father on the step beneath had a difEerent pleasure 
 in the sight. The fresh indolence of morning was 
 round him too, but it was more than that that kept him 
 gazing in idle happiness. He was delighting in the 
 sense of his own property around him, the most sub- 
 stantial pleasure possible to man. His feeling, deep 
 though it was, was quite vague and inarticulate. If 
 you had asked Gourlay what he was thinking of he 
 could not have told you, even if he had been willing to 
 answer you civilly — which is most unlikely. Yet his 
 whole being, physical and mental (physical, indeed, 
 rather than mental), was surcharged with the feeling 
 that the fine buildings around him were his, that he 
 had won them by his own effort and built them large 
 and significant before the world. He was lapped in the 
 thought of it. 
 
 All men are suffused with that quiet pride in looking 
 at the houses and lands which they have won by their 
 endeavours — in looking at the houses more than at the 
 lands, for the house which a man has built seems to 
 express his character and stand for him before the 
 world, as a sign of his success. It is more personal than 
 cold acres, stamped with an individuality. All men 
 know that soothing pride in the contemplation of their 
 own property., But in Gourlay's sense of property 
 there was another element, an element peculiar to 
 itself, which endowed it with its warmest glow. Con- 
 
 [16]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 scious always that he was at a disadvantage among his 
 cleverer neighbours, who could achieve a civic emi- 
 nence denied to him, he felt nevertheless that there 
 was one means, a material means, by which he could 
 hold his own and reassert himself; by the bravery of 
 his business, namely, and all the appointments thereof 
 — among which his dwelling was the chief. That was 
 why he had spent so much money on the House. That 
 was why he had such keen delight in surveying it. 
 Every time he looked at the place he had a sense of 
 triumph over what he knew in his bones to be an ad- 
 verse public opinion. There was anger in his pleasure, 
 and the pleasure that is mixed with anger often gives 
 the keenest thrill. It is the delight of triumph in 
 spite of opposition. Gourlay's house was a material 
 expression of that delight, stood for it in stone and 
 lime. 
 
 It was not that he reasoned deliberately when he 
 built the house. But every improvement that he made 
 — and he was always spending money on improvements 
 — had for its secret motive a more or less vague desire 
 to score off his rivals. " ThafW be a slap in the face to 
 the Provost! " he smiled, when he planted his great 
 mound of shrubs. " There's noathing like that about 
 the Provost's! Ha, ha! " 
 
 Encased as he was in his hard and insensitive na- 
 ture he was not the man who in new surroundings would 
 be quick to every whisper of opinion. But he had been 
 born and bred in Barbie, and he knew his townsmen — 
 oh, yes, he knew them. He knew^ they laughed because 
 he had no gift of the gab, and could never be Provost, 
 or Bailie, or Elder — or even Chairman of the Gasworks! 
 
 [17]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Oh, verra well, verra well; let Connal and Brodie and 
 Allardyce have the talk, and manage the town's affairs 
 (he was damned if they should manage his!) — he, for 
 his part, preferred the substantial reality. He could 
 never aspire to the Provostship, but a man with a house 
 like that, he was fain to think, could afford to do with- 
 out it. Oh, yes; he was of opinion he could do without 
 it! It had run him short of cash to build the place so 
 big and braw, but. Lord! it was worth it. There wasn't 
 a man in the town who had such accommodation! 
 
 And so, gradually, his dwelling had come to be a 
 passion of Gourlay's life. It was a by-word in the 
 place that if ever his ghost was seen, it would be haunt- 
 ing the House with the Green Shutters. Deacon Allar- 
 dyce, trying to make a phrase with him, once quoted 
 the saying in his presence. "Likely enough!" said 
 Gourlay. " It's only reasonable I should prefer my 
 own house to you rabble in the graveyard! " 
 
 Both in appearance and position the house was a 
 worthy counterpart of its owner. It was a substantial 
 two-story dwelling, planted firm and gawcey on a little 
 natural terrace that projected a considerable distance 
 into the Square. At the foot of the steep little bank 
 shelving to the terrace ran a stone wall, of no great 
 height, and the iron railings it uplifted were no higher 
 than the sward within. Thus the whole house was bare 
 to the view from the ground up, nothing in front to 
 screen its admirable qualities. From each corner, be- 
 hind, flanking walls went out to the right and left, and 
 hid the yard and the granaries. In front of these walls 
 the dwelling seemed to thrust itself out for notice. It 
 took the eye of a stranger the moment he entered the 
 
 [18]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 Square — " \Miosc place is that? " was his natural ques- 
 tion. A house that challenges regard in that way 
 should have a gallant brav.ery in its look; if its aspect be 
 mean, its assertive position but directs the eye to its in- 
 firmities. There is something pathetic about a tall, 
 cold, barn-like house set high upon a brae; it cannot 
 hide its naked shame; it thrusts its ugliness dumbly on 
 your notice, a manifest blotch upon the world, a place 
 for the winds to whistle round. But Gourlay's house 
 was worthy its commanding station. A little dour and 
 blunt in the outlines like Gourlay himself, it drew and 
 satisfied your eye as he did. 
 
 And its position, " cockit up there on the brae," 
 made it the theme of constant remark, to men because 
 of the tyrant who owned it, and to women because of 
 the poor woman who mismanaged its affairs. " 'Deed, 
 I don't wonder that gurly Gourlay, as they ca' him, has 
 an ill temper," said the gossips gathered at the pump, 
 with their big bare arms akimbo; " whatever led him to 
 marry that dishclout of a woman clean beats me! I 
 never could make head nor tail o't! " As for the men, 
 they twisted every item about Gourlay and his domicile 
 into fresh matter of assailment. " What's the news? " 
 asked one, returning from a long absence — to whom the 
 smith, after smoking in silence for five minutes, said, 
 " Gourlay has got new rones! " " Ha — aye, man, Gour- 
 lay has got new rones! " buzzed the visitor, and 
 then their eyes, diminished in mirth, twinkled at each 
 other from out their ruddy wrinkles, as if wit had vol- 
 leyed between them. In short, the House with the 
 Green Shutters was on every tongue — and with a scoff 
 in the voice if possible. 
 
 [ 19 ]
 
 IV 
 
 GouELAY went swiftly to the kitchen from the inner 
 yard. He had stood so long in silence on the step, and 
 his coming was so noiseless, that he surprised a long 
 thin trollop of a woman, with a long thin scraggy neck, 
 seated by the slatternly table, and busy with a frowsy 
 paper-covered volume, over which her head was bent 
 in intent perusal. 
 
 " At your novelles? " said he. " Aye, woman; will it 
 be a good story? " 
 
 She rose in a nervous flutter when she saw him; yet 
 needlessly shrill in her defence, because she was angry 
 at detection. 
 
 " Ah, well ! " she cried, in weary petulance, " it's an 
 unco thing if a body's not to have a moment's rest after 
 such a morning's darg! I just sat down wi' the book 
 for a little, till John should come till his breakfast! " 
 
 "So?" said Gourlay. 
 
 " God aye! " he went on, " you're making a nice job of 
 Jiim. He'll be a credit to the House. Oh, it's right, 
 no doubt, that you should neglect your work till Jie con- 
 sents to rise." 
 
 " Eh, the puir la-amb," she protested, dwelling on the 
 vowels in fatuous maternal love, " the bairn's wea- 
 ried, man! He's ainy thing but strong, and the school- 
 ing's owre sore on him." 
 
 [30]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 " Poor lamb, atweel," said Gourlay. " It was a 
 muckle sheep that dropped him." 
 
 It was Gourlay's pride in his house that made him 
 harsher to his wife than others, since her sluttishness 
 was a constant offence to the order in which he loved to 
 have his dear possessions. He, for his part, liked every- 
 thing precise. His claw-toed hammer always hung by 
 the head on a couple of nails close together near the 
 big clock; his gun always lay across a pair of wooden 
 pegs, projecting from the brown rafters, just above the 
 hearth. His bigotry in trifles expressed his character. 
 Strong men of a mean understanding often deliberately 
 assume, and passionately defend, peculiarities of no im- 
 portance, because they have nothing else to get a repute 
 for. " No, no," said Gourlay; " you'll never see a 
 brown cob in my gig — I wouldn't take one in a present!" 
 He was full of such fads, and nothing should persuade 
 him to alter the crotchets, which, for want of something 
 better, he made the marks of his dour character. He 
 had worked them up as part of his personality, and his 
 pride of personality was such that he would never con- 
 sent to change them. Hence the burly and gurly man 
 was prim as an old maid with regard to his belongings. 
 Yet his wife was continually infringing the order on 
 which he set his heart. If he went forward to the big 
 clock to look for his hammer, it was sure to be gone — 
 the two bright nails staring at him vacantly. " Oh," she 
 would say in weary complaint, " I just took it to break a 
 wheen coals "; — and he would find it in the coal-hole, 
 greasy and grimy finger-marks engrained on the handle 
 which he loved to keep so smooth and clean. Innumer- 
 able her offences of the kind. Independent of these, 
 
 [21]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 the sight of her general incompetence filled him with a 
 seething rage, which found vent not in lengthy tirades 
 but the smooth venom of his tongue. Let him keep the 
 outside of the House never so spick and span, inside was 
 awry with her untidiness. She was unworthy of the 
 House with the Green Shutters — that was the gist of it. 
 Every time he set eyes on the poor trollop, the fresh 
 perception of her incompetence which the sudden sight 
 of her flashed, as she trailed aimlessly about, seemed to 
 fatten his rage and give a coarser birr to his tongue. 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay had only four people to look after, her 
 husband, her two children, and Jock Gilmour, the 
 orra man. And the wife of Dru'cken Wabster — wlio 
 had to go charing because she was the wife of Dru'cken 
 Wabster — came in every day, and all day long, to help 
 her with the work. Yet the house was always in confu- 
 sion. Mrs. Gourlay had asked for another servant, but 
 Gourlay would not allow that; " one's enough," said he_, 
 and what he once laid down, he never went back on. 
 Mrs. Gourlay had to muddle along as best she could, 
 and having no strength either of mind or body, she let 
 tilings drift and took refuge in reading silly fiction. 
 
 As Gourlay shoved his feet into his boots, and 
 stamped to make them easy, he glowered at the kitchen 
 from under his heavy brows with a huge disgust. The 
 table was littered with unwashed dishes, and on the cor- 
 ner of it next him was a great black sloppy ring, show- 
 ing where a wet saucepan had been laid upon the bare 
 board. The sun streamed through the window in yel- 
 low heat right on to a pat of melting butter. There 
 was a basin of dirty water beneath the table, with the 
 dishcloth slopping over on the ground. 
 
 [22]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 " It's a tidy house! " said he. 
 
 " Aeh well/' she cried, " you and your kitchen-range! 
 It was that that did it! The masons could have redd 
 out the fireplace to make room for't in the afternoon 
 before it comes hame. They could have done't brawly, 
 but ye wouldna hear o't — oh, no — ye bude to have the 
 whole place gutted out yestreen. I had to boil every- 
 thing on the parlour fire this morning — no wonder Fm 
 a little tousy! " 
 
 The old fashioned kitchen grate had been removed 
 and the jambs had been widened on each side of the fire- 
 place; it yawned, empty and cold. A little rubble of 
 mortar, newly dried, lay about the bottom of the square 
 recess. The sight of the crude, unfamiliar scraps of 
 dropped lime in the gaping place where warmth should 
 have been, increased the discomfort of the kitchen. 
 
 "Oh, that's it!" said Gourlay. "1 see! It was 
 want of the fireplace that' kept ye from washing the 
 dishes that we used yestreen. That was terrible ! How- 
 ever, ye'll have plenty of boiling water when I put in 
 the grand new range for ye; there winna be its equal 
 in the parish! We'll maybe have a clean house than.'" 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay leaned, with the outspread thumb and 
 red raw knuckles of her right hand, on the sloppy table, 
 and gazed away through the back window of the kitchen 
 in a kind of mournful vacancy. Always when her first 
 complaining defence had failed to turn aside her hus- 
 band's tongue, her mind became a blank beneath his 
 heavy sarcasms, and sought refuge by drifting far away. 
 She would fix her eyes on the distance in dreary con- 
 templation, and her mind would follow her eyes, in a 
 vacant and wistful regard. The preoccupation of her 
 
 [23]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 mournful gaze enabled her to meet her husband's sneers 
 with a kind of numb unheeding acquiescence. She 
 scarcely heard them. 
 
 Her head hung a little to one side as if too heavy 
 for her wilting neck. Her hair, of a dry red brown, 
 curved low on either side of her brow, in a thick un- 
 tidy mass, to her almost transparent ears. As she 
 gazed in weary and dreary absorption her lips had fallen 
 heavy and relaxed, in unison with her mood; and 
 through her open mouth her breathing was quick, and 
 short, and noiseless. She wore no stays, and her slack 
 cotton blouse shewed the flatness of her bosom, and 
 the faint outlines of her withered and pendulous breasts 
 hanging low within. 
 
 There was something tragic in her pose, as she stood, 
 sad and abstracted, by the dirty table. She was scraggy 
 helplessness, staring in sorrowful vacancy. But Gour- 
 lay eyed her with disgust — why, by Heaven, even now 
 her petticoat was gaping behind, worse than the sloven's 
 at the Red Lion. She was a pr-r-retty wife for John 
 Oourlay! The sight of her feebleness would have 
 roused pity in some: Gourlay it moved to a steady and 
 seething rage. As she stood helpless before him he 
 stung her with crude, brief irony. 
 
 Yet he was not wilfully cruel ; only a stupid man with 
 a strong character, in which he took a dogged pride. 
 Stupidity and pride provoked the brute in him. He 
 was so dull — only dull is hardly the word for a man 
 of his smouldering fire — he was so dour of wit that 
 he could never hope to distinguish himself by any- 
 thing in the shape of cleverness. Yet so resolute a 
 man must make tbe strong personality of which he was 
 
 [34]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 proud, tell in some way. How, then, should he assert 
 his superiority and hold his own? Only by affecting 
 a brutal scorn of everything said and done unless it 
 was said and done by John Gourlay. His lack of un- 
 derstanding made his affectation of contempt the easier. 
 A man can never sneer at a thing which he really 
 understands. Gourlay, understanding nothing, was able 
 to sneer at everything. "Hah! I don't understand 
 that; it's damned nonsense!" — that was his attitude to 
 life. If " that " had been an utterance of Shakespeare 
 or Napoleon it would have made no difference to John 
 Gourlay. It would have been damned nonsense just 
 the same. And he would have told them so, if he had 
 met them. 
 
 The man had made dogged scorn a principle of life 
 to maintain himself, at the height which his courage 
 warranted. His thickness of wit was never a bar to 
 the success of his irony. For the irony of the ignorant 
 Scot is rarely the outcome of intellectual qualities. It 
 depends on a falsetto voice and the use of a recognized 
 number of catchwords. " Dee-ee-ar me, dee-ee-ar me "; 
 "Just so-a, just so-a "; " Im-phm! " "D'ye tell me 
 that? " " Wonderful, serr, wonderful "; " Ah, well, 
 may-ay-be, may-ay-be," — these be words of potent irony 
 when uttered with a certain birr. Long practice had 
 made Gourlay an adept in their use. He never spoke to 
 those he despised or disliked, without " the birr." Not 
 that he was voluble of speech; he wasn't clever enough 
 for lengthy abuse. He said little and his voice was 
 low, but every word from the hard, clean lips was a 
 stab. And often his silence was more withering than 
 any utterance. It struck life like a black frost. 
 
 [25]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 In those early days, to be sure, Gourlay had less occa- 
 sion for the use of his crude but potent irony, since the 
 sense of his material well-being warmed him and made 
 him less bitter to the world. To the substantial farm- 
 ers and petty squires around he was civil, even hearty, 
 in his manner — unless they offended him. For they 
 belonged to the close corporation of " bien men," and 
 his familiarity with them was a proof to the world of 
 his greatness. Others, again, were far too far beneath 
 him already for him to "down" them. He reserved 
 his jibes for his immediate foes, the assertive bodies 
 his rivals in the town — and for his wife, who was a 
 constant eyesore. As for her, he had baited the poor 
 woman so long that it had become a habit; he never 
 spoke to her without a sneer. " Aye, where have you 
 been stravaiging to?" he would drawl, and if she an- 
 swered meekly, " I was taking a dander to the linn 
 owre-bye," ' " The linn!" he would take her up; "ye 
 had a heap to do to gang there; your Bible would fit 
 you better on a bonny Sabbath afternune! " Or it 
 might be: "What's that you're burying your nose in 
 now? " and if she faltered, " It's the Bible," " Hi! " he 
 would laugh, " you're turning godly in your auld age. 
 Weel, I'm no saying but it's time." 
 
 "Where's Janet?" he demanded, stamping his boots 
 once more, now he had them laced. 
 
 " Eh? " said his wife vaguely, turning her eyes from 
 the window. "Wha-at?" 
 
 " Ye're not turning deaf, I hope. I was asking ye 
 where Janet was." 
 
 " I sent her down to Scott's for a can o' milk/' she 
 answered him wearily. 
 
 [26]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 " No doubt je had to send her," said he. " What 
 ails the lamb that ye couldna send him? Eh?" 
 
 " Oh, she was about when I wanted the milk, and 
 she volunteered to gang. Man, it seems I never do a 
 thing to please ye! What harm Avill it do her to run 
 for a drop milk? " 
 
 " Noan," he said gravely, " noan. And it's right, no 
 doubt, that her brother should still be a-bed — oh, it';^ 
 right that he should get the privilege — seeing he's the 
 eldest!" 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay Avas wdiat the Scotch call " browdened * 
 on her boy." In spite of her slack grasp on life — per- 
 haps, because of it — she clung with a tenacious fond- 
 ness to him. He was all she had, for Janet was a 
 thowless f thing, too like her mother for her mother to 
 like her. And Gourlay had discovered that it was one 
 way of getting at his wife to be hard upon the thing 
 she loved. In his desire to nag and annoy her, he 
 adopted a manner of hardness and repression to his 
 son — which became permanent. He was always 
 " down " on John. The more so because Janet was 
 his own favourite — perhaps, again, because her mother 
 seemed to neglect her. Janet was a very unlovely 
 child, with a long tallowy face and a pimply brow, over 
 which a stiff fringe of wdiitish hair came down almost 
 to her staring eyes, the eyes themselves being large, 
 pale blue, and saucer-like, with a great margin of un- 
 healthy white. But Gourlay, though he never petted 
 her, had a silent satisfaction in his daughter. He took 
 
 * Browdened: a Scot devoted to his children is said to be 
 "browdened on his bairns." 
 f Tltowlesfi, weak, nseless. 
 
 [27]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 her about with him in the gig, on Saturday afternoons, 
 when he went to buy cheese and grain at the outlying 
 farms. And he fed lier rabbits when she had the fever. 
 It was a curious sight to see the dour silent man mixing 
 oatmeal and wet tea-leaves in a saucer at the dirty kitch- 
 en-table, and then marching off to the hutch, with the 
 ridiculous dish in his hand, to feed his daughter's pets. 
 
 A sudden yell of pain and alarm rang through the 
 kitchen. It came from the outer yard. 
 
 When the boy, peering from the window above, saw 
 his father disappear through the scullery door, he stole 
 out. The coast was clear at last. 
 
 He passed through to the outer yard. Jock Gilmour 
 had been dashing water on the paved floor, and was 
 now sweeping it out with a great whalebone besom. 
 The hissing whalebone sent a splatter of dirty drops 
 showering in front of it. John set his bare feet wide 
 (he was only in his shirt and knickers) and eyed the 
 man whom his father had " downed " with a kind of 
 silent swagger. He felt superior. His pose was in- 
 stinct with the feeling: " My father is your master, and 
 ye daurna stand up till him." Children of masterful 
 sires often display that attitude towards dependants. 
 The feeling is not the less real for being subconscious, 
 
 Jock Gilmour was still seething with a dour anger 
 because Gourlay's quiet will had ground him to the 
 task. When John came out and stood there, he felt 
 tempted to vent on him, the spite he felt against his 
 father. The subtle suggestion of criticism and superi- 
 ority in tlie boy's pose intensified the wish. Not that 
 Gilmour acted from deliberate malice; his irritation 
 
 [28]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 was instinctive. Our wrath against those whom we 
 fear is generally wreaked upon those whom we don't. 
 
 John, with his hands in his pockets, strutted across 
 the yard, still watching Gilmour with that silent offen- 
 sive look. He came into the path of the whalebone. 
 " Get out, you smeowt! " cried Gilmour, and with a 
 vicious shove of the brush he sent a shower of dirty 
 drops spattering about the boy's bare legs. 
 
 "Hallo you! what are ye after?" bawled the boy. 
 " Don't you try that on again, I'm telling ye. What are 
 you, onyway. Ye're just a servant. Hay-ay-ay, my 
 man, my faithcr's the boy for ye. He can put ye in your 
 place." 
 
 Gilmour made to go at him with the head of the 
 whalebone besom. John stooped and picked up the 
 wet lump of cloth with which Gilmour had been wash- 
 ing down the horse's legs. 
 
 " Would ye ? " said Gilmour, threateningly. 
 
 "Would I no?" said John, the wet lump poised for 
 throwing, level with his shoulder. 
 
 But he did not throw it for all his defiant air. He 
 hesitated. He would have liked to slash it into Gil- 
 mour's face, but a swift vision of what would happen 
 if he did, withheld his craving arm. His irresolution 
 was patent in his face; in his eyes there was both a 
 threat and a watchful fear. He kept the dirty cloth 
 poised in mid-air. 
 
 " Drap the clout,' said Gilmour. 
 
 " I'll no," said John. 
 
 Gilmour turned sideways and whizzed the head of 
 the besom round so that its dirty spray rained in the 
 boy's face and eyes. John let him have the wet lump 
 
 [29]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 slash in his mouth. Gilmour dropped the besom and 
 hit him a sounding thwack on the ear. John hulla- 
 balooed. Murther and desperation! 
 
 Ere he had gathered breath for a second roar his 
 mother was present in the yard. She was passionate in 
 defence of her cub, and rage transformed her. Her 
 tense frame vibrated in anger; you would scarce have 
 recognised the weary trollop of the kitchen. 
 
 *' What's the matter, Johnny dear? " she cried, with 
 a fierce glance at Gilmour. 
 
 "Gilmour hut me!" he bellowed angrily. 
 
 " Ye muckle lump! " she cried shrilly, the two 
 scraggy muscles of her neck standing out long and 
 thin as she screamed; " ye muckle lump — to strike a 
 defenceless wean! — Dinna greet, my lamb, I'll no let 
 him meddle ye. — Jock Gilmour, how daur ye lift your 
 finger to a wean of mine. But I'll learn ye the better 
 o't! Mr. Gourlay'll gie you the order to travel ere the 
 day's muckle aulder. I'll have no servant about mtj 
 hoose to ill-use my bairn." 
 
 She stopped, panting angrily for breath, and glared 
 at her darling's enemy. 
 
 " Your servant ! " cried Gilmour in contempt. 
 " Ye're a nice-looking object to talk about servants." 
 He pointed at her slovenly dress and burst into a bla- 
 tant laugh: "Huh, huh, huh!" 
 
 Mr. Gourlay had followed more slowly from the 
 kitchen as befitted a man of his superior character. 
 He heard the row well enough, but considered it be- 
 neath him to hasten to a petty squabble. 
 
 "What's this?" he demanded, with a widening look. 
 Gilmour scowled at the crpound.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 "This!" shrilled Mrs. Gourlay, who had recovered 
 her breath again; " this! Look at him there, the 
 muckle slabber," and she pointed to Gilmour who was 
 standing with a red-lowering, downcast face ; " look 
 at him! A man of that size to even himsell to a 
 wean! " 
 
 " He deserved a' he got," said Gilmour sullenly. 
 " His mother spoils him at ony rate. And I'm damned 
 if the best Gourlay that ever dirtied leather's gaun to 
 trample owre me." 
 
 Gourlay jumped round with a quick start of the 
 whole body. For a full minute he held Gilmour in the 
 middle of his steady glower. 
 
 " Walk," he said, pointing to the gate. 
 
 " Oh, I'll walk," bawled Gilmour, screaming now 
 that anger gave him courage. " Gie me time to get 
 my kist, and I'll walk mighty quick. And damned 
 glad I'll be, to get redd o' you and your hoose. The 
 Hoose wi' the Green Shutters," he laughed, "hi, hi, hi! 
 the Hoose wi' the Green Shutters!" 
 
 Gourlay went slowly up to him, opening his eyes on 
 him black and wide. " You swine! " he said with quiet 
 vehemence; " for damned little I would kill ye wi' a 
 glower! " Gilmour shrank from the blaze in his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, dinna be fee-ee-ared," said Gourlay quietly, 
 " dinna be fee-ee-ared. I wouldn't dirty my hand on 
 'ee! But get your bit kist, and I'll see ye off the prem- 
 ises. Suspeecious characters are worth the watching." 
 
 " Suspeecious! " stuttered Gilmour, "suspeecious! 
 Wh-wh-whan was I ever suspeecious ? I'll have the law 
 of ye for that. I'll make ye answer for your wor-rds." 
 
 " Imphm! " said Gourlay. " In the meantime, look 
 
 [31]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 slippy wi' that bit box o' yours. I don't like daft folk 
 about my hoose." 
 
 " There'll be dafter folk as me in your hoose yet," 
 spluttered Gilmour angrily as he turned away. 
 
 He went up to the garret where he slept and brought 
 down his trunk. As he passed through the scullery, 
 bowed beneath the clumsy burden on his left shoulder, 
 John, recovered from his sobbing, mocked at him. 
 
 " Hay-ay-ay," he said, in throaty derision, " my fai- 
 ther's the boy for ye. Yon was the way to put ye 
 down! " 
 
 [32]
 
 V 
 
 In every little Scotch community there is a distinct 
 type known as " the bodie." " What does he do, that 
 man ? " you may ask, and the answer will be, " Really, 
 I could hardly tell ye what he does — he's juist a bodie! " 
 The " bodie " may be a gentleman of independent 
 means (a hundred a year from the Funds) fussing about 
 in spats and light check breeches; or he may be a job- 
 bing gardener; but he is equally a " bodie." The chief 
 occupation of his idle hours (and his hours are chiefly 
 idle) is the discussion of his neighbour's affairs. He is 
 generally an " auld residenter "; great, therefore, at 
 the redding up of pedigrees. He can tell you exactly, 
 for instance, how it is that young Pin-oe's taking geyly 
 to the dram : for his grandfather, it seems, was a ter- 
 rible man for the drink — ou, just terrible — why, he 
 went to bed with a full jar of whiskey once, and when 
 he left it, he was dead, and it was empty. So ye see, 
 that's the reason o't. 
 
 The genus "bodie" is divided into two species: the 
 " harmless bodies " and the " nesty bodies." The 
 bodies of Barbie mostly belonged to the second variety. 
 Johnny Coe, and Tam Wylie, and the baker, were de- 
 cent enough fellows in their way, but the others were 
 the sons of scandal. Gourlay spoke of them as a 
 " wheen damned auld wives." — But Gourlay, to be sure, 
 was not an impartial witness. 
 
 [33]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 The Bend o' the Brae was the favourite stance of the 
 bodies; here they foregathered every day to pass judg- 
 ment on the town's affairs. And, indeed, the place had 
 many things to recommend it. Among the chief it was 
 within an easy distance of the Eed Lion, farther up 
 the street, to which it was really very convenient to 
 adjourn nows and nans. Standing at the Bend o' the 
 Brae, too, you could look along two roads to the left 
 and right, or down upon the Cross beneath, and the 
 three low streets that guttered away from it. Or you 
 might turn and look up Main Street, and past the side 
 of the Square, to the House with the Green Shutters, 
 the highest in the town. The Bend o' the Brae, you 
 will gather, was a fine post for observation. It had 
 one drawback, true; if Gourlay turned to the right 
 in his gig he disappeared in a moment, and you could 
 never be sure where he was off to. But even that 
 afforded matter for pleasing speculation which often 
 lasted half an hour. 
 
 It was about nine o'clock when Gourlay and Gilmour 
 quarrelled in the yard, and that was the hour when the 
 bodies foregathered for their morning dram. 
 
 " Good moarning, Mr. Wylie! " said the Provost. — 
 When the Provost wished you good morning, with 
 a heavy civic eye, you felt sure it was going to be 
 good. 
 
 " Mornin', Provost, mornin'! Fine weather for the 
 fields," said Tam, casting a critical glance at the blue 
 dome in which a soft white-bosomed cloud floated high 
 above the town. " If this weather bauds, it'll be a 
 blessing for us poor farming bodies." 
 
 Tam was a wealthy old hunks, but it suited his hu- 
 
 [34]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 inoiir to refer to himself constantly as " a poor farming 
 bodie." And he dressed in accordance with his humour. 
 His clean old crab-apple face was always grinning at 
 you from over a white-sleeved moleskin waistcoat, as 
 if he had been no better than a breaker of road-mettle. 
 
 "Faith aye! " said the Provost, cunning and quick — 
 " fodder should be cheap " — and he shot the covetous 
 glimmer of a bargain-making eye at Mr. Wylie. 
 
 Tam drew himself up. He saw what was coming. 
 
 " We're needing some hay for the burgh horse," said 
 the Provost. " Ye'll be willing to sell at fifty shillings 
 the ton, since it's like to be so plentiful." 
 
 " Oh," said Tam solemnly, " that's on-possible! 
 Gourlay's seeking the three pound! And where he 
 leads we maun, a' gang. Gourlay sets the tune and 
 Barbie dances till't." 
 
 That was quite untrue so far as the speaker was con- 
 cerned. It took a clever man to make Tam Wylie dance 
 to his piping. But Thomas, the knave, knew that he 
 could always take a rise out the Provost by cracking up 
 the Gourlays, and that to do it now was the best way 
 of fobbing him off about the hay. 
 
 "Gourlay!" muttered the Provost in disgust. And 
 Tam winked at the baker. 
 
 "Losh!" said Sandy Toddle, "yonder's the Free 
 Kirk Minister going past the Cross! Where'll lie be off 
 till, at this hour of the day? He's not often up so 
 soon." 
 
 " They say he sits late studying," said Johnny Coe. 
 
 " H'mph, studying! " grunted Tam Brodie, a big 
 heavy wall-cheeked man, whose little side-glancing eyes 
 seemed always alert for scandal amid the massive inso- 
 
 [35]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 lence of his smooth face. " I see few signs of studying 
 in him. He's noathing but a stink wi' a skin on't." 
 
 T. Brodie was a very important man, look you, and 
 wrote " Leather Mercht." above his door, though he 
 cobbled with his own hands. He was a staunch Con- 
 servative, and down on the Dissenters. 
 
 " What road'th he taking? " lisped Deacon Allardyce, 
 craning past Brodie's big shoulder to get a look. 
 
 " He's stoppit to speak to Widow Wallace. What will 
 he be saying to her? " 
 
 " She's a greedy bodie that Mrs. Wallace; I wouldna 
 wonder but she's spiering him for bawbees." 
 
 " Will he take the Skeighan Koad, I wonder ? " 
 
 " Or the Fechars? " 
 
 " He's a great man for gathering gowans and other 
 sic trash. He's maybe for a dander up the burn juist. 
 They say he's a great botanical man." 
 
 " Aye," said Brodie, " paidling in a burn's the ploy 
 for him. He's a weanly gowk." 
 
 "A-a-ah!" protested the baker, who was a Burnso- 
 maniac, " there's waur than a Avalk by the bank o' a 
 bonny burn. Ye ken what Mossgiel said: 
 
 " ' The Muse nae poet ever fand her, 
 Till by himsel he learned to wauder, 
 Adown some trottin burn's meander, 
 
 And no thick lang; 
 Oh sweet, to muse and pensive ponder 
 
 A heartfelt sang.' " 
 
 Poetical quotations however made the Provost 
 uncomfortable. "Aye," he said drily in his throat; 
 "verra good, baker, verra good! — Whose yellow 
 
 [36]
 
 CHAPTEE FIVE 
 
 doag's that? I never saw the beast about the town 
 before! " 
 
 " Nor me either. It's a perfect stranger! " 
 
 " Ifs like a herd's doag! " 
 
 "Man, you're right! That's Just what it will be. 
 The morn's Fleckie lamb fair, and some herd or other'U 
 be in about the town." 
 
 " He'll be drinking in some public house, I'se war- 
 rant, and the doag will have lost him." 
 
 " Imph, that'll be the way o't." 
 
 " I'm demned if he hasn't taken the Skeighan Road! " 
 said Sandy Toddle, who had kept his eye on the min- 
 ister. — Toddle's accent was a varying quality. When 
 he remembered he had been a packman in England it 
 was exceedingly fine. But he often forgot. 
 
 "The Skeighan Eoad! The Skeighan Road! Who'll 
 he be going to see in that airt? Will it be Templand- 
 muir? " 
 
 " Gosh, it canna be Tomplandmuir. He was there 
 no later than yestreen!" 
 
 "Here's a man coming down the brae!" announced 
 Johnny Coe in a solemn voice, as if a man " coming 
 down the brae " was something unusual. In a moment 
 every head was turned to the hill. 
 
 "What's yon he's carrying on his shouther?" pon- 
 dered Brodie. 
 
 " It looks like a boax," said the Provost, slowly, bend- 
 ing every effort of eye and mind to discover what it 
 really was. He was giving his profoundest cogitations 
 to the " boax." 
 
 "It -is a boax! But who is it though? I canna 
 make him out." 
 
 [37]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 " Dod, I canna tell either; his head's so bent with 
 his burdenl " 
 
 At last the man, laying his " boax " on the ground, 
 stood up to ease his spine, so that his face was visible. 
 
 " Losh, it's Jock Gilmour, the orra man at Gour- 
 lay's! What'll he be doing out on the street at this 
 hour of the day? I thocht he was always busy on the 
 2-)remises! Will Gourlay be sending him off with some- 
 thing to somebody? But no; that canna be. He would 
 have sent it with the carts." 
 
 " I'll wager ye," cried Johnny Coe quickly, speaking 
 more loudly than usual in the animation of discovery, 
 " I'll wager ye Gourlay has quarrelled him and put him 
 to the door! " 
 
 " Man, you're right! That'll just be it, that'll just 
 be it! Aye; aye; faith aye; and yon'll be his kist he's 
 carrying! Man, you're right, Mr. Coe; you have just 
 put your finger on't. We'll hear news tliis morning." 
 
 They edged forward to the middle of the road, the 
 Provost in front, to meet Gilmour coming down. 
 
 " Ye've a heavy burden this morning, John," said the 
 Provost graciously. 
 
 " jSTo wonder, sir," said Gilmour with big-eyed so- 
 lemnity, and set down the chest ; " it's no wonder, see- 
 ing that I'm carrying my a-all." 
 
 " Aye, man, John. How's that na? " 
 
 To be the centre of interest and the object 6f gra- 
 cious condescension was balm to the wounded feelings 
 of Gilmour. Gourlay had lowered him, but this recep- 
 tion restored him to liis own good opinion. He was 
 usually called " Jock '' (except l)y his mother, to whom, 
 of course, he was " oor Johnny ") but tlie best mer- 
 
 [38]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 cliants in the town were addressing him as " John." 
 It was a great occasion. Gilmour expanded in gossip 
 beneath its influence benign. 
 
 He welcomed, too, this first and fine opportunity of 
 venting his wrath on the Gourlays. 
 
 " Oh, I just telled Gourlay what I thocht of him, and 
 took the door ahint me. I let him have it hot and 
 hardy, I can tell ye. He'll no' forget me in a hurry " — 
 Gilmour bawled angrily, and nodded his head signifi- 
 cantly, and glared fiercely, to sliow what good cause 
 he had given Gourlay to remember him — " he'll no for- 
 get me for a mouth of Sundays." 
 
 "Aye, man, John, what did ye say till him?" 
 
 " Na, man, what did he say to you? " 
 
 " Wath he angry, Dyohn ? " 
 
 " How did the thing begin? " 
 
 " Tell us, man, John." 
 
 " What was it a-all about, John? " 
 
 "Was Mrs. Gourlay there?" 
 
 Bewildered by this pelt of questions Gilmour an- 
 swered the last that hit his ear. " There, aye; faith, 
 she was there. It was her was the cause o't." 
 
 " D'ye tell me that, John? Man, you surprise me. I 
 would have thocht the thowless trauchle * hadna the 
 smeddum left to interfere." 
 
 " Oh, it was yon boy of hers. He's aye swaggerin' 
 aboot, interferin' wi' folk at their wark — he follows his 
 faither's example in that, for as the auld cock craws the 
 young ane learns — and his mither's that daft aboot him 
 that ye daurna give a look! He came in my road when 
 I was sweeping out the close, and some o' the dirty 
 
 * Trauchle, a poor trollop who trails about ; smeddum, grit, 
 
 [39]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 jaups splashed about his shins; but was I to blame for 
 that? — ye maun walk wide o' a whalebone besom if ye 
 dinna want to be splashed. Afore I kenned where 1 
 was, he up wi' a dirty was«hing-clout and slashed me 
 in the face wi't! I hit him a thud in the ear — as wha 
 wadna ? Out come his mither like a fury, skirling about 
 her hoose, and her servants, and her weans. ' Your serv- 
 ant ! ' says I, ' your servant ! You're a nice-looking 
 trollop to talk aboot servants,' says I.'' 
 
 "Did ye really, John?" 
 
 " Man, that wath bauld o' ye." 
 
 " And what did she say? " 
 
 " Oh, she just kept skirling! And then, to be sure, 
 Gourlay must come out and interfere ! But I tailed 
 him to his face what I thocht of him\ ' The best Gour- 
 lay that ever dirtied leather,' says I, ' 's no gaun to 
 make dirt of me,' says I." 
 
 "Aye man, Dyohn!" lisped Deacon Allardyce, with 
 bright and eagerly enquiring eyes. " And what did he 
 thay to that, na? Tliat wath a dig for him! I'the war- 
 rant he wath angry." 
 
 " Angry ? He foamed at the mouth ! But I up and 
 says to him, ' I have had enough o' you,' says I, ' you 
 and your Hoose wi' the Green Shutters,' says I, ' you're 
 no fit to have a decent servant,' says I. ' Pay me ni!/ 
 wages and I'll be redd o' ye,' says I. And wi' that I 
 flang my kist on my shouther and slapped the gate 
 ahint me." 
 
 " And did he pay ye your wages? " Tam Wylie probed 
 him slily, with a sideward glimmer in his eye. 
 
 " Ah, Avell, no; not exactly," said Gilmour drawing 
 in. " But I'll get them right enough for a' that. He'll 
 
 [40]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 no get the better o' me" Having grounded unpleas- 
 antly on the question of the wages he thought it best to 
 be off ere the bloom was dashed from his importance, 
 so he shouldered his chest and went. The bodies 
 watched him down the street. 
 
 " He's a lying brose, that," said the baker. " We a' 
 ken what Gourlay is. He would have flung Gilmour out 
 by the scruff o' the neck, if he had daured to set his 
 tongue against him! " 
 
 " Faith, that's so," said Tam Wylie and Johnny Coe 
 together. 
 
 But the others were divided between their perception 
 of the fact and their wish to believe that Gourlay had 
 received a thrust or two. At other times they would 
 have been the first to scoff at Gilmour's swagger. Now 
 their animus against Gourlay prompted them to back 
 it up. 
 
 " Oh, I'm not so sure of tha-at, baker," cried the 
 Provost, in the false loud voice of a man defending a 
 position which he knows to be unsound. " I'm no so 
 sure of that, at a-all. A-a-ah, mind ye," he drawled per- 
 suasively, " he's a hardy fallow, that Gilmour. I've no 
 doubt he gied Gourlay a good dig or two. Let us howp 
 they will do him good." 
 
 For many reasons intimate to the Scot's character, 
 envious scandal is rampant in petty towns such as Bar- 
 bie. To go back to the beginning, the Scot, as pundits 
 will tell you, is an individualist. His religion alone is 
 enough to make him so. For it is a scheme of personal 
 salvation significantly described once by the Reverend 
 Mr. Struthers of Barbie. " At the Pay of Judgment, 
 my frehnds," said Mr. Slrulliers; " at tlie Pay of Judg- 
 
 [41]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 ment every herring must hang by his own tail! " Self- 
 dependence was never more luridly expressed. His- 
 tory, climate, social conditions, and the national bever- 
 age have all combined (the pundits go on) to make the 
 Scot an individualist, fighting for his own hand. The 
 better for him if it be so; from that he gets the grit 
 that tells. 
 
 From their individualism, however, comes inevitably 
 a keen spirit of competition (the more so because Scotch 
 democracy gives fine chances to compete), and from 
 their keen spirit of competition comes, inevitably again, 
 an envious belittlement of rivals. If a man's success 
 offends your individuality, to say everything you can 
 against him is a recognised weapon of the fight. It 
 takes him down a bit. And (inversely) elevates his rival. 
 
 It is in a small place like Barbie that such malignity 
 is most virulent, because in a small place like Barbie 
 every man knows everything to his neighbour's detri- 
 ment. He can redd up his rival's pedigree, for example, 
 and lower his pride (if need be) by detailing the dis- 
 graces of his kin. " I have grand news the day! " a big- 
 hearted Scot will exclaim (and when their hearts are 
 big they are big to hypertrophy) — " I have grand news 
 the day! Man, Jock Goudie has won the C. B." — " Jock 
 Goudie," an envious bodie will pucker as if he had never 
 heard the name; "Jock Goudie? Wha's he for a Gou- 
 die? Oh aye, let me see now. He's a brother o' — eh, a 
 brother o' — eh (tit-tit-titting on his brow) — oh, just a 
 brother o' Dru'cken Will Goudie o' Auchterwheeze! 
 Oo-ooh I ken him fine. His grannie keepit a sweetie- 
 shop in Strathbungo." — There you have the " nesty " 
 Scotsman. 
 
 [42]
 
 CHAPTER FIYE 
 
 Even if Gourlay had been a placable and inoffensive 
 man, then, the malignants of the petty burgh (it was 
 scarce bigger than a village) would have fastened on 
 his character, simply because he was above them. No 
 man has a keener eye for behaviour than the Scot (espe- 
 cially when spite wings his intuition), and Gourlay's 
 thickness of wit, and pride of place, would in any case 
 have drawn their sneers. So, too, on lower grounds, 
 would liis wife's sluttishness. But his repressiveness 
 added a hundred-fold to their hate of him. That 
 was the particular cause, which acting on their 
 general tendency to belittle a too-successful rival, 
 made their spite almost monstrous against him. Not 
 a man among them but had felt the weight of his tongue 
 — for edge it had none. He walked among them like 
 the dirt below his feet. There was no give and take in 
 the man; he could be verra jocose with the lairds, to be 
 sure, but he never dropped in to tlie Eed Lion for a 
 crack and a dram with the town-folk; he just glowered 
 as if he could devour them! And who was he, I should 
 like to know? His grandfather had been noathing but 
 a common carrier! 
 
 Hate was the greater on both sides because it was 
 often impotent. Gourlay frequently suspected offence, 
 and seethed because he had no idea how to meet it 
 — except by driving slowly down the brae in his new 
 gig and never letting on when the Provost called to him. 
 That was a wipe in the eye for the Provost! The " bod- 
 ies," on their part, could rarely get near enough Gourlay 
 to pierce his armour; he kept them off him by his brutal 
 doumess. For it was not only pride and arrogance, 
 but a consciousness, also, that he was no match for 
 
 [43]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 them at their own game, that kept Gourlay away from 
 their society. They were adepts at the under stroke 
 and tliey would have given him many a dig if he had 
 only come amongst them. But, oh, no; not he; he was 
 the big man; he never gave a body a chance! Or if you 
 did venture a bit jibe when you met him, he glowered 
 you off the face of the earth with thae black e'en of his. 
 Oh, how they longed to get at him! It was not the least 
 of the evils caused by Gourlay's black pride that it per- 
 verted a dozen characters. The " bodies " of Barbie 
 may have been decent enough men in their own way, 
 but against him their malevolence was monstrous. It 
 shewed itself in an insane desire to seize on every scrap 
 of gossip they might twist against him. That was why 
 tlie Provost lowered municipal dignity to gossip in the 
 street with a discharged servant. As the baker said 
 afterwards, it was absurd for a man in his " poseetion." 
 But it was done with the sole desire of hearing some- 
 thing that might tell against Gourlay. Even Count- 
 esses, we are told, gossip with malicious maids, about 
 other Countesses. Spite is a great leveller. 
 
 "Shall we adjourn?" said Brodie, when they had 
 watched Jock Gilmour out of sight. He pointed across 
 his shoulder to the Red Lion. 
 
 " Better noat just now," said the Provost, nodding in 
 slow authority; " better noat just now! I'm very anx- 
 ious to see Gourlay about yon matter we were speaking 
 of, doan't ye undersfa-and? But I'm determined not to 
 go to his house! On the other hand if we go into the 
 Red Lion the now, we may miss him on the street. 
 We'll noat have loang to wait, though; he'll be down 
 the town directly, to look at the horses he has at the 
 
 [44]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 gerse out the Fechars Eoad. But Fni tailing ye, I sim- 
 ply will noat go to his house — to put up with a wheen 
 damned insults! " he puffed in angry recollection. 
 
 " To tell the truth/' said Wylie, " I don't like to call 
 upon Gourlay, either. I'm aware of his eyes on my 
 back when I slink beaten through his gate — and I feel 
 that my hurdles are wanting in dignity! " 
 
 "Huh!" spluttered Brodie, "that never affects me. 
 I come stunting out in a bleeze of wrath and slam the 
 yett ahint me! " 
 
 " Oh, well," said the Deacon, " that'th one way of 
 being dignified." 
 
 " I'm afraid," said Sandy Toddle, " that he won't be 
 in a very good key to consider our request this morning, 
 after his quarrel with Gilmour." 
 
 "No," said the Provost, "he'll be blazing angry! 
 It's most unfoartunate. But we maun try to get his 
 consent be his temper what it will. It's a matter of 
 importance to the town, doan't ye see, and if he refuses, 
 we simply can-noat proceed wi' the improvement." 
 
 " It was Gilmour's jibe at the House wi' the Green 
 Shutters that would anger him the most — for it's the 
 perfect god of his idolatry. Eh, sirs, he has wasted 
 an awful money upon yon house! " 
 
 "Wasted's the word!" said Brodie with a blatant 
 laugh. "Wasted's the word! They say he has verra 
 little lying cash! And I shouldna be surprised at all. 
 For, ye see, Gibson the builder diddled him owre the 
 building o't." 
 
 " Oh, I'se warrant Cunning Johnny would get the 
 better of an ass like Gourlay. But how in par- 
 ticular, Mr. Brodie? ITare v" heard ainy details? " 
 
 [45]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " I've been on the track o' the thing for a while back, 
 but it was only yestreen I had the proofs o't, Itwas Robin 
 Wabster that telled me. He's a jouking bodie, Robin, 
 and he was ahint a dyke up the Skeighan Road when 
 Gibson and Gourlay foregathered — the}'^ stoppit just 
 forenenst him! Gourlay began to curse at the size of 
 Gibson's bill, but Cunning Johnny kenned the way to 
 get round him brawly. ' Mr. Gourlay/ says he, ' there's 
 not a thing in your house that a man in your poseetion 
 can afford to be without — and ye needn't expect the best 
 house in Barbie for an oald song! ' And Gourlay was 
 pacified at once! It appeared frae their crack, how- 
 ever, that Gibson has diddled him tremendous. ' Verra 
 well then/ Robin heard Gourlay cry, ' you must allow 
 me a while ere I pay that! ' I wager, for a' sae muckle 
 as he's made of late, that his balance at the bank's a sma' 
 yin." 
 
 " More thyow than thubstanth," said the Deacon. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure! " said the Provost, " he needn't have 
 built such a gra-and house to put a slut of a wife like 
 yon in! " 
 
 " I was surprised," said Sandy Toddle, " to hear about 
 her firing up. I wouldn't have thought she had the 
 spirit, or that Gourlay would have come to her sup- 
 port! " 
 
 " Oh," said the Provost, " it wasn't her he was think- 
 ing of! It was his own pride, the brute. He leads the 
 woman the life of a doag. I'm surprised that he ever 
 married her! " 
 
 " I ken fine how he married her," said Johnny Coe. 
 •'* I was acquaint wi' her faither, auld Tenshillingland 
 owre at Fechars — a grand farmer he was, wi' land o' his 
 
 [46]
 
 CHAPTER FIYE 
 
 nain, and a gey pickle bawbees. It was the bawbees, 
 and not the woman, that Gouiiay went after! It was her 
 money, as ye ken, that set him on his feet, and made him 
 such a big man. He never cared a preen for her, and 
 then when she proved a dirty trollop, he couldna endure 
 her look! That's what makes him so sore upon her now. 
 And yet I mind her a braw lass, too," said Johnny the 
 sentimentalist, " a braw lass she was," he mused, " wi' 
 fine, brown glossy hair, I mind, and, — ochonee! ochonee! 
 — as daft as a yett in a windy day. She had a cousin, 
 Jenny Wabster, that dwelt in Tenshillingland than, and 
 mony a summer nicht up the Fechars Road, when ye 
 smelled the honey-suckle in the gloaming, I have heard 
 the two o' them tee-heeing owre the lads thegither, skirl- 
 ing in the dark and lauching to themselves. They 
 were of the glaikit kind ye can always hear loang 
 before ye see. Jock Allan (that has done so well in 
 Embro) was a herd at Tenshillingland than, and he 
 likit her, and I think she likit him, but Gourlay 
 came wi' his gig and whisked her away. She doesna 
 lauch sae muckle now, puir bodie! But a braw lass 
 she " 
 
 " It's you maun speak to Gourlay, Deacon," said the 
 Provost, brushing aside the reminiscent Coe. 
 
 " How can it be that. Provost? It'th your place, 
 surely. You're the head of the town! " 
 
 When Gourlay was to be approached there was always 
 a competition for who should be hindmost. 
 
 " Yass, but you know perfectly well, Deacon, that I 
 cannot thole the look of him. I simply cannot thole 
 the look! And he knows it too. The thing'll gang 
 smash at the outset — Pm tailing ye, now — it'll go smash 
 
 [47]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 at the outset if it's left to me, — And than, ye see, you 
 have a better way of approaching folk! " 
 
 "Ith that tho?" said the Deacon drily. He shot 
 a suspicious glance to see if the Provost was guy- 
 ing him. 
 
 " Oh, it must be left to you. Deacon," said the baker 
 and Tarn Wylie in a breath. 
 
 " Certainly, it maun be left to the Deacon," assented 
 Johnny Coe, when he saw how the others were giving 
 their opinion. 
 
 " Tho be it, then," snapped the Deacon. 
 
 " Here he comes," said Sandy Toddle. 
 
 Gourlay came down the street towards them, his chest 
 big, his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. He 
 had the power of staring steadily at those whom he ap- 
 proached without the slightest sign of recognition oi 
 intelligence appearing in his eyes. As he marched 
 down upon the bodies he fixed them with a wide-open 
 glower that was devoid of every expression but cour- 
 ageous steadiness. It gave a kind of fierce vacancy to 
 his look. 
 
 The Deacon limped forward on his thin shanks to the 
 middle of the road. 
 
 " It'th a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay," he simpered. 
 
 *' There's noathing wrong with the morning," grunted 
 Gourlay, as if there was something wrong with the 
 Deacon. 
 
 " We wath wanting to thee ye on a very important 
 matter, ]\Iithter Gourlay," lisped the Deacon, smiling up 
 at the big man's face, with his head on one side, 
 and rubbing his fingers in front of him. " It'th a mat- 
 ter of the common good, you thee; and Ave all agreed 
 
 [48]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 that we should speak to you, ath the foremost merchant 
 of the town! " 
 
 AUardyce meant his compliment to fetch Gourlay. 
 But Gourlay knew his AUardyce and was cautious. It 
 was well to be on your guard when the Deacon was com- 
 plimentary. When his language was most flowery there 
 was sure to be a serpent hidden in it somewhere. He 
 would lisp out an innocent remark and toddle away, and 
 Gourlay would think nothing of the matter till a week 
 afterwards, perhaps, when something would flash a light 
 — then "Damn him, did he mean ''that'?" he would 
 seethe, starting back and staring at the " that " while his 
 fingers strangled the air in place of the Deacon. 
 
 He glowered at the Deacon now till the Deacon 
 blinked. 
 
 " You thee, Mr. Gourlay," AUardyce shuffled uneas- 
 ily, " it's for your own benefit just ath much ath ourth. 
 We were thinking of you ath well ath of ourthelves! 
 Oh, yeth, oh, yeth! " 
 
 "Aye, man!" said Gourlay, "that was kind of ye! 
 I'll be the first man in Barbie to get ainy benefit from 
 the fools that mismanage our affairs." 
 
 The gravel grated beneath the Provost's foot. The 
 atmosphere was becoming electric, and the Deacon has- 
 tened to the point. 
 
 " You thee, there'th a fine natural supply of water — 
 a perfect reservore the Provost sayth — on the brae-face 
 just above yoitr garden, Mr. Gourlay. Now, it would 
 be easy to lead that water down and alang through all 
 the gardenth on the high side of Main Street — and, 
 'deed, it might feed a pump at the Cross, too, to supply 
 the lower portionth o' the town. It would really be a 
 
 [49]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 grai-ait convenience. — Every man on the high side o' 
 ]\Iain Street would have a running spout at his own back 
 door! If your garden didna run tho far back, Mr. Gour- 
 lay, and ye hadna tho muckle land about your place " — 
 that should fetch him, thought the Deacon! — "if it 
 werena for that, Mr. Gourlay, we could easily lead the 
 water round to the other gardenth without interfering 
 with your property. But, ath it ith, we simply can- 
 noat move without ye. The water must come through 
 your garden, if it comes at a-all." 
 
 " The most o' you important men live on the high 
 side o' Main Street," birred Gourlay. " Is it the poor 
 folk at the Cross, or your ain bits o' back doors that 
 you're thinking o' ? " 
 
 " Oh — oh, Mr. Gourlay! " protested Allardyce, head 
 flung back, and palms in air, to keep the thought of self- 
 interest away, " oh— oh, Mr. Gourlay! We're thinking 
 of noathing but the common good, I do assure ye." 
 
 "Aye, man! You're dis-in-ter-ested! " said Gour- 
 lay, but he stumbled on the big word and spoiled the 
 sneer. That angered him, and, " it's likely," he rapped 
 out, "that I'll allow the land round my house to be 
 howked and trenched and made a mudhole of, to oblige 
 a Avheen things like you! " 
 
 " Oh— oh, but think of the convenience to nth— eh— 
 eh — I mean to the common good," said Allardyce. 
 
 "I howked wells for myself," snapped Gourlay. 
 " Let others do the like." 
 
 " Oh, but we haven't all the enterprithe of you, Mr. 
 Gourlay. You'll surely accommodate the town! " 
 
 " I'll see the town damned first," said Gourlay, and 
 passed on his steady way. 
 
 [50]
 
 VI 
 
 The bodies watched Gourlay in silence until he was 
 cut of ear-shot. Then, " It's monstrous! " the Provost 
 broke out in solemn anger; " I declare it's perfectly 
 monstrous! But I believe we could get Pow-ers to com- 
 pel him. Yass; I believe we could get Pow-ers. I do 
 believe we could get Pow-ers." 
 
 The Provost was fond of talking about " Pow-ers " 
 because it implied that he was intimate with the great 
 authorities who might delegate such " Pow-ers " to 
 him. To talk of " Pow-ers," mysteriously, was a trib- 
 ute to his own importance. He rolled the word on his 
 tongue as if he enjoyed the sound of it. 
 
 On the Deacon's cheek bones two red spots flamed, 
 round and big as a Scotch penny. His was the hurt 
 silence of the baffled diplomatist, to whom a defeat 
 means reflections on his own ability. 
 
 " Demn him! " he skirled, following the solid march 
 of his enemy with fiery eyes. 
 
 Never before had his Deaconship been heard to swear. 
 Tam Wylie laughed at the shrill oath till his eyes were 
 buried in his merry wrinkles, a suppressed snirt, a con- 
 tinuous gurgle in the throat and nose, in beaming sur- 
 vey the while of the withered old creature dancing in his 
 rage. (It was all a good joke to Tam, because, living 
 on the outskirts of the town, he had no spigot of his 
 
 [51]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 own to feed.) The Deacon turned the eyes of hate on 
 him. Demn Wylie too, — what was he laughing at! 
 
 " Oh, I darethay you could have got round him! " he 
 snapped. 
 
 " In my opinion, Allardyce," said the baker, " you 
 mismanaged the whole affair. Yon wasna the way to 
 approach him! " 
 
 " It'th a pity you didna try your hand, then, I'm sure! 
 No doubt a clever man like you would have worked 
 wonderth! " 
 
 So the bodies wrangled among themselves. Some- 
 how or other Gourlay had the knack of setting them by 
 the ears. It was not till they hit on a common topic 
 of their spite in railing at him, that they became a band 
 of brothers and a happy few. 
 
 " Whisht! " said Sandy Toddle, suddenly, " here's his 
 boy! " 
 
 John was coming towards them on his way to school. 
 The bodies watched him as he passed, with the fixed 
 look men turn on a boy of whose kinsmen they were 
 talking even now. They affect a stony and deliberate 
 regard, partly to include the new-comer in their critical 
 survey of his family, and partly to banish from their 
 own eyes any sign that they have just been running down 
 his people. John, as quick as his mother to feel, knew 
 in a moment they were watching Mm. He hung his 
 head sheepishly and blushed, and the moment he was 
 past he broke into a nervous trot, the bag of books 
 bumping on his back as he ran. 
 
 " He's getting a big boy, that son of Gourlay's," said 
 the Provost, " how oald will he be? " 
 
 "He's approaching twelve," said Johnny Coe, who 
 
 [52]
 
 CHAPTEK SIX 
 
 made a point of being able to supply such news 
 because it gained him consideration where he was 
 otherwise unheeded. " He was born the day the brig 
 on the Fleckie Eoad gaed down, in the year o' the great 
 flood; and since the great flood it's twelve year come 
 Lammas. Eab Tosh o' Fleckie's wife was heavy-footed 
 at the time, and Doctor Munn had been a' niclit wi' her, 
 and when he cam to Barbie Water in the morning it 
 was roaring wide frae bank to brae; where the brig 
 should have been there was naething but the swashing 
 of the yellow waves. Munn had to drive a' the way 
 round to the Fechars brig, and in parts o' the road the 
 water was so deep that it lapped his horse's bellyband. 
 A' this time Mrs. Gourlay was skirling in her pains and 
 praying to God she micht dee. Gourlay had been a 
 great crony o' Munn's, but he quarrelled him for being 
 late; he had trysted him, ye see, for the occasion, and he 
 had been twenty times at the yett to look for him, — ye 
 ken how little he would stomach that; he was ready to 
 brust wi' anger. Munn, mad for the want of sleep and 
 wat to the bane, swiire back at him; and than Gourlay 
 wadna let him near his wife! Ye mind what an awful 
 day it was; the thunder roared as if the heavens were 
 tumbling on the world, and the lichtnin sent the trees 
 daudin on the roads, and folk hid below their beds and 
 prayed — they thocht it was the Judgment! But Gourlay 
 rammed his black stepper in the shafts, and drave like 
 the devil o' hell to Skeighan Drone, where there was a 
 young doctor. The lad was feared to come, but Gourlay 
 swore by God that he should, and he garred him. In a' 
 the countryside driving like his that day was never 
 kenned or heard tell o'; they were back within the hour! 
 
 [53]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 I saw them gallop up Main Street; lichtnin struck the 
 ground before them; the young doctor covered his face 
 wi' his hands, and the horse nichered wi' fear and tried 
 to wheel, but Gourlay s^ood up in the gig and lashed 
 him on through the fire. It was thocht for lang that 
 Mrs. Gourlay would die; and she was never the same 
 woman after. Atweel aye, sirs, Gourlay has that 
 morning's work to blame for the poor wife he has now. 
 Him and Munn never spoke to each other again, and 
 Munn died within the twelvemonth, — he got his death 
 that morning on the Fleckie Road. But, for a' so 
 pack's they had been, Gourlay never looked near him." 
 Coe had told his story with enjoying gusto, and had 
 told it well — for Johnny, though constantly snubbed by 
 his fellows, was in many ways the ablest of them all. 
 His voice and manner drove it home. They knew, be- 
 sides, he was telling what himself liad seen. For they 
 knew he was lying prostrate with fear in the open 
 smiddyshed from the time Gourlay went to Skeighan 
 Drone to the time that he came back; and that he had 
 seen him both come and go. They wer^^ silent for a 
 while, impressed, in spite of themselves, by the vivid 
 presentment of Gourlay 's ma.ihood on the day that had 
 scared them all. The baker lelt inclined to cry out on 
 his cruelty for keeping his wife suffering to gratify his 
 wrath; but the sudden picture of the man's courage 
 changed that feeling to another of admiring awe; a man 
 so defiant of the angry heavens might do anything. 
 And so with the others; they hated Gourlay, but his 
 bravery was a fact of nature which they could not disre- 
 gard; they knew themselves smaller and said nothing 
 for a while. Tam Brodie, the most brutal among them, 
 
 [54]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 was the first to recover. Even lie did not try to belittle 
 at once, but he felt the subtle discomfort of the situa- 
 tion, and relieved it by bringing the conversation back 
 to its usual channel. 
 
 " That was at the boy's birth, Mr. Coe? " said he. 
 
 " Ou, aye, just the laddie. It was a' richt when the 
 lassie came. It was Doctor Dandy brocht her hame, for 
 Munn was deid by that time, and Dandy had his place." 
 
 " What will Gourlay be going to make of him? " the 
 Provost asked. "A doctor or a minister or wha-at? " 
 
 " Deil a fear of that," said Brodie; " he'll take him 
 into the business! It's a' that he's fit for. He's an in- 
 fernal dunce, just his father owre again, and the 
 Dominie thrashes him remorseless! I hear my own 
 weans speaking o't. Ou, it seems he's just a perfect 
 numbskull! " 
 
 " Ye couldn't expect ainything else from a son of 
 Gourlay," said the Provost. 
 
 Conversation languished. Some fillip was needed to 
 bring it to an easy flow, and tlie simultaneous scrape of 
 their feet turning round showed the direction of their 
 thoughts. 
 
 "A dram would be very acceptable now," murmured 
 Sandy Toddle, rubbing his chin. 
 
 " Ou, we wouldna be the waur o't," said Tam Wylie. 
 
 " We would all be the better of a little drope," 
 smirked the Deacon. 
 
 And they made for the Red Lion for the matutinal 
 dram. 
 
 [ 55 ]
 
 VII 
 
 John Gouelay, the 3^ounger, was late for school, in 
 spite of the nervous trot he fell into when he shrank from 
 the bodies' hard stare at him. There was nothing unusual 
 about that; he was late for school every other day. To 
 him it was a howling wilderness where he played a most 
 appropriate role. If his father was not about he 
 would hang roimd his mother till the last moment, 
 rather than be off to old " Bleach-the-boys " — as the 
 master had been christened by his scholars. " Mother, 
 I have a pain in my held/' he would whimper, and she 
 would condole with him and tell him she would keep 
 him at home with her — were it not for dread of 
 her husband. She was quite sure he was ainything 
 but strong, poor boy, and that the schooling was bad for 
 him; for it was really remarkable how quickly the pain 
 went if he was allowed to stay at home; why, he got bet- 
 ter just directly! It was not often she dared to keep 
 him from school, however, and if she did, she had to 
 hide him from his father. 
 
 On school mornings the boy shrank from going out 
 with a shrinking that was almost physical. When he 
 stole through the Green Gate with his bag slithering 
 at his hip (not braced between the shoulders like a bir- 
 kie scholar's) he used to feel ruefully that he was in for 
 it now — and the Lord alone knew what he would have 
 to put up with ere he came home! And he always had 
 
 [56]
 
 CHAPTER SEVEi^ 
 
 the feeling of a freed slave when he passed the gate on 
 his return, never failing to note with delight the clean 
 smell of the yard after the stuffiness of school, sucking 
 it in through glad nostrils, and thinking to himself, 
 " Oh, crickey, it's fine to be home! " On Friday nights, 
 in particular, he used to feel so happy that, becoming 
 arrogant, he would try his hand at bullying Jock Gil- 
 mour in imitation of his father. John's dislike of 
 school, and fear of its trampling bravoes, attached 
 him peculiarly to the House with the Green Shut- 
 ters; there was his doting mother, and she gave him 
 stories to read, and the place was so big that it was 
 easy to avoid his father and have great times with the 
 rabbits and the doos. He was as proud of the sonsy 
 house as Gourlay himself, if for a different reason, and 
 he used to boast of it to his comrades. And he never 
 left it, then or after, witliout a foreboding. 
 
 As he crept along the School Eoad with a rueful face, 
 he was alone, for Janet, who was cleverer than he, was 
 always earlier at school. The absence of children in 
 the sunny street lent to his depression. He felt for- 
 lorn; if there had been a chattering crowd marching 
 along, he would have been much more at his ease. 
 
 Quite recently the school had been fitted up with var- 
 nished desks, and John, who inherited his mother's ner- 
 vous senses with his father's lack of wit, was always 
 intensely alive to the smell of the desks the moment 
 he went in; and as his heart always sank when he went 
 in, the smell became associated in his mind with that 
 sinking of the heart, — to feel it, no matter where, filled 
 him with uneasiness. As he stole past the joiner's on 
 that sunny morning, when wood was resinous and 
 
 [57]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 pungent of odour, he was suddenly conscious of a var- 
 nishy smell, and felt a misgiving without knowing 
 why. It was years after, in Edinburgh, ere he knew 
 the reason; he found that he never went past an up- 
 holsterer's shop, on a hot day in spring, without being 
 conscious of a vague depression, and feeling like a boy 
 slinking into school. 
 
 In spite of his forebodings nothing more untoward 
 befell him that morning than a cut over the cowering 
 shoulders for being late, as he crept to the bottom of his 
 class. He reached " leave," the ten minutes' run at 
 twelve o'clock, without misadventure. Perhaps it was 
 this unwonted good fortune that made him boastful, 
 when he crouched near the pump among his cronies, 
 sitting on his hunkers with his back to the wall. Half 
 a dozen boys were about him, and Swipey Broon was in 
 front, making mud pellets in a trickle from the pump. 
 
 He began talking of the new range. 
 
 "Yah! Auld Gemmell needn't have let welp at me 
 for being late this morning," he spluttered big-eyed, 
 nodding his head in aggrieved and solemn protest. " It 
 wasna my faut! We're getting in a grand new range, 
 and the whole of the kitchen fireplace has been gutted 
 out to make room for't, and my mother couldna get my 
 breakfast in time this morning, because, ye see, she had 
 to boil everything in the parlour — and here, when she 
 gaed ben the house, the parlour fire was out! 
 
 " It's to be a splendid range, the new one," he went on, 
 with a conceited jerk of the head. " Peter Riney's 
 bringin'd from Skeighan in the afternune. My father 
 says there winna be its equal in the parish! " 
 
 The faces, of the boys lowered uncomfortably. They 
 
 [58]
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 felt it was a silly thing of Gourlay to blow his own 
 trumpet in this way, but, being boys, they could not 
 prick his conceit with a quick rejoinder. It is only 
 grown-ups who can be ironical; physical violence is the 
 boy's repartee. It had scarcely gone far enough for 
 that yet, so they lowered in uncomfortable silence. 
 
 " We're aye getting new things up at our place," he 
 went on, " I heard my father telling Gibson the build- 
 er he must have everything of the best! Mother says 
 it'll all be mine some day. I'll have the fine times when 
 I leave the schule, — and that winna be long now, for 
 I'm clean sick o't; I'll no bide a day longer than I need! 
 I'm to go into the business, and then I'll have the times; 
 I'll dash about the country in a gig wi' two dogs wal- 
 lopping ahin'. I'll have the great life o't." 
 
 "Ph-tt!" said Swipey Broon, and planted a gob of 
 mud right in the middle of his brow. 
 
 "Hoh! hoh! hoh! " yelled the others. They hailed 
 Swipey's action with delight because, to their minds, it 
 exactly met the case. It was the one fit retort to his 
 bouncing. 
 
 Beneath the wet plunk of the mud John started back, 
 bumping his head against the wall behind him. The 
 sticky pellet clung to his brow, and he brushed it 
 angrily aside. The laughter of the others added to his 
 wrath against Swipey. 
 
 " What are you after? " lie bawled. " Don't try your 
 tricks on me, Swipey Broon. Man, I could kill ye wi' 
 a glower! " 
 
 In a twinkling Swipey's jacket was off and he was 
 dancing in his shirt sleeves, inviting Gourlay to come 
 on and try't. 
 
 [59]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " G'way, nian/' said John, his face as white as the 
 wall; " g'way, man! Dou't have me getting up to ye, 
 or I'll knock the fleas out of your duds! " 
 
 Now the father of Swipey — so called because he al- 
 ways swiped when batting at rounders — the father of 
 Swipey was the rag and bone merchant of Barbie, and 
 it was said (with what degree of truth I know not) that 
 his home was verminous in consequence. John's taunt 
 was calculated, therefore, to sting him to the quick. 
 
 The scion of the Broons, fired for the honour of 
 hia house, drove straight at the mouth of the insulter. 
 But John jouked to the side, and Swipey skinned his 
 knuckles on the wall. 
 
 For a moment he rocked to and fro, doubled up in 
 pain, crying " Ooli! " with a rueful face, and squeezing 
 liis hand between his thighs to dull its sharper agonies. 
 Then, with redoubled wrath bold Swipey hurled him at 
 the foe. He grabbed Gourlay's head and, shoving it 
 down between his knees, proceeded to pummel his bent 
 back, while John bellowed angrily (from between 
 Swipey 's legs), " Let me up, see! " 
 
 Swipey let him up. John came at him with whirling 
 arms, but Swipey jouked and gave him one on the 
 mouth that split his lip. In another moment Gourlay 
 was grovelling on his hands and knees, and triumphant 
 Swipey, astride his back, was bellowing "Hurroo!" — 
 Swipey 's father was an Irisliman. 
 
 " Let him up, Broon! " cried Peter Wylie. " Let him 
 up, and meet each other square! " 
 
 " Oh, I'll let him up," cried Swipey and leapt to his 
 feet with magnificent pride. He danced round Gourlay 
 with his fists sawing the air. " T could fighL ten of him! 
 
 [60]
 
 CHArTER SEVEN 
 
 Come on, Gourlay! " he cried, "and I'll poultice the 
 road wi' your brose." 
 
 John rose, glaring. But when Swipey rushed he 
 turned and fled. The boys ran into the middle of the 
 street, pointing ofter the coward and shouting, " Yeh! 
 Yeh! Yeh! " with the infinite cruel derision of boyhood. 
 
 " Yeh! Yeh! Yeh! " the cries of execration and con- 
 tempt pursued him as he ran. 
 
 Ere he had gone a hundred yards he heard the shrill 
 whistle with which Mr. Gemmell summoned his schol- 
 ars from their jilay. 
 
 LGl]
 
 VIII 
 
 All the children had gone into school. The street 
 was lonely in the sudden stillness. The joiner slanted 
 across the road, brushing shavings and sawdust from his 
 white apron. There was no other sign of life in the 
 sunshine. Only from the sniiddy, far away, came at 
 times the tink of an anvil. 
 
 John crept on up the street, keeping close to the wall. 
 It seemed unnatural being there at that hour; every- 
 thing had a quiet unfamiliar look. The white walls of 
 the houses reproached the truant with their silent 
 faces. 
 
 A strong smell of wall flowers oozed through the 
 hot air. John thought it a lonely smell and ran to 
 get away. 
 
 "Johnny dear, what's wrong wi' ye?" cried his 
 mother, when he stole in through the scullery at last. 
 "Are ye ill, dear? " 
 
 " I wanted to come hame," he said. It was no de- 
 fence; it was the sad and simple expression of his wish. 
 
 " What for, my sweet? " 
 
 " I hate the school," he said, bitterly; " I aye want to 
 be at hame." 
 
 His mother saw his cut mouth. 
 
 " Johnny," she cried in concern, " what's the matter 
 with your lip, dear? Has ainybody been meddling ye? " 
 
 [62]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 " It was Swipey Broon," he said. 
 
 " Did ever a body hear? " she cried. " Things have 
 come to a fine pass when decent weans canna go to the 
 school without a wheen rag-folk yoking on them! But 
 what can a body ettle? Scotland's not what it used to 
 be ! It's owrerun wi' the dirty Eerish ! " 
 
 In her anger she did not see the sloppy dishclout 
 on the scullery chair, on which she sank exhausted 
 by her rage. 
 
 " Oh, but I let him have it," swaggered John. " I 
 threatened to knock the fleas off him. The other boys 
 were on his side, or I would have walloped him." 
 
 "Atweel, they would a' be on his side," she cried. 
 " But it's juist envy, Johnny. Never mind, dear; you'll 
 soon be left the school, and there's not wan of them has 
 the business that you have waiting ready to step intil." 
 
 " Mother," he pleaded, " let me bide here for the rest 
 o' the day! " 
 
 " Oh, but your father, Johnny? If he saw ye! " 
 
 " If you gie me some o' your novelles to look at, I'll 
 go up to the garret and hide, and ye can ask Jenny no 
 to tell." 
 
 She gave him a hunk of nuncheon and a bundle of 
 her novelettes, and he stole up to an empty garret and 
 squatted on ithe bare boards. The sun streamed through 
 the skylight window and lay, an oblong patch, in the 
 centre of the floor. John noted the head of a nail that 
 stuck gleaming up. He could hear the pigeons rooketty- 
 cooing on the roof, and every now and then a slithering 
 sound, as they lost their footing on the slates and went 
 sliding downward to the rones. But for that, all was 
 still, uncannily still. Once a zinc pail clanked in the 
 
 [63]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEES 
 
 yard, and lie started with fear, wondering if that was 
 his faither! 
 
 If young Gourlay had been the right kind of a boy he 
 would have been in his glory, with books to read and a 
 garret to read them in. For to snuggle close beneath 
 the slates is as dear to the boy as the bard, if somewhat 
 diverse their reasons for seclusion. Your garret is the 
 true kingdom of the poet, neighbouring the stars; side- 
 windows tether him to earth, but a skylight looks to the 
 heavens. (That is why so many poets live in garrets, no 
 doubt.) But it is the secrecy of a garret for him and his 
 books that a boy loves; there he is lord of his imagina- 
 tion; there, when the impertinent world is hidden from 
 his view, he rides with great Turpin at night beneath 
 the glimmer of the moon. What boy of sense would 
 read about Turpin in a mere respectable parlour? A 
 hayloft's the thing, where you can hide in a dusty cor- 
 ner, and watch through a chink the baffled minions of 
 Bow Street, and hear Black Bess — good Jade! — stamp- 
 ing in her secret stall, and be ready to descend when a 
 friendly ostler cries, " Jericho! " But if there is no hay- 
 loft at hand a mere garret will do very well. And so 
 John should have been in his glory, — as indeed for a 
 while he was. But he shewed his difference from the 
 right kind of a boy by becoming lonely. He had in- 
 herited from his mother a silly kind of interest in silly 
 books, but to him reading was a painful process, and he 
 could never remember the plot. Wiat he liked best 
 (though he could not have told you about it) was a vivid 
 physical picture. When the puffing steam of Black 
 Bess's nostrils cleared away from the moonlit pool, and 
 the white face of the dead man stared at Turpin through 
 
 [61]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 the water, John saw it and shivered, staring big-eyed at 
 the staring horror. He was alive to it all; he heard the 
 seep of the water through the mare's lips, and its hol- 
 low glug as it went down, and the creak of the saddle 
 beneath Turpin's hip; he saw the smear of sweat rough- 
 ening the hair on her slanting neck, and the great steam- 
 ing breath she blew out when she rested from drinking, 
 and then that awful face glaring from the pool. — Per- 
 haps he was not so far from being the right kind of boy, 
 after all, since that was the stuff that he liked. — He 
 wished he had some Turpin with him now, for his 
 mother's periodicals were all about men with impossibly 
 broad shoulders and impossibly curved waists who asked 
 Angelina if she loved them. Once, it is true, a some- 
 what too florid sentence touched him on the visual 
 nerve : " Through a chink in the Venetian blind a 
 long pencil of yellow light pierced the beautiful dim- 
 ness of the room and pointed straight to the dainty 
 bronze slipper peeping from under Angelina's gown; it 
 became a slipper of vivid gold amid the gloom." John 
 saw that and brightened, but the next moment they 
 began to talk about love and he was at sea immediately. 
 " Dagon them and their love!" quoth he. 
 
 To him, indeed, reading was never more than a means 
 of escape from something else; he never thought of a 
 book so long as there were things to see. Some things 
 were different from others, it is true. Things of the 
 outer world, where he swaggered among his fellows and 
 was thrashed, or bungled his lessons and was thrashed 
 again, imprinted themselves vividly on his mind, and he 
 hated the impressions. When Swipey Broon was hot 
 the sweat pores always glistened distinctly on the end 
 
 \ 65 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 of his mottled nose — John, as he thought angrily of 
 Swipey this afternoon, saw the glistening sweat pores 
 before him and wanted to bash them. The varnishy 
 smell of the desks, the smell of the wallflowers at Mrs, 
 Manzie's on the way to school, the smell of the school 
 itself — to all these he was morbidly alive, and he loathed 
 them. But he loved the impressions of his home. His 
 mind was full of perceptions of which he was uncon- 
 scious, till he found one of tliem recorded in a book, and 
 that was the book for him. The curious physical 
 always drew his mind to hate it or to love. In summer 
 he would crawl into the bottom of an old hedge, among 
 the black mould and the withered sticks, and watch a 
 red-ended beetle creep slowly up a bit of wood till near 
 the top, and fall suddenly down, and creep patiently 
 again, — this he would watch with curious interest and 
 remember always. "Johnny," said his mother once, 
 " what do you breenge into the bushes to watch those 
 nasty things for? " 
 
 " They're queer," he said musingly. 
 
 Even if he was a little dull wi' the book, she was sure 
 he would come to something, for, eh, he was such a no- 
 ticing boy. 
 
 But there was nothing to touch him in " The Wooing 
 of Angeline "; he was moving in an alien world. It was 
 a complicated plot, and, some of the numbers being lost, 
 he was not sharp enough to catch the idea of the story. 
 He read slowly and without interest. The sounds of the 
 outer world reached him in his loneliness and annoyed 
 him, because, while wondering what they were, he 
 dared not look out to see. He heard the rattle of wheels 
 entering the big yard; that would be Peter Riney back 
 
 [66]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 from Skeighan with the range. Once he heard the birr 
 of his father's voice in the lobby and his mother speak- 
 ing in shrill protest, and then — oh, horror! — his father 
 came up the stair. Would he come into the garret? 
 John, lying on his left side, felt his quickened heart 
 thud against the boards, and he could not take his big 
 frighted eyes from the bottom of the door. But the 
 heavy step passed and went into another room. John's 
 open mouth was dry, and his shirt was sticking to his 
 back. 
 
 The heavy steps came back to the landing. 
 
 "Whaur's my gimlet?" yelled his father down the 
 stair. 
 
 " Oh, I lost the corkscrew, and took it to open a 
 bottle," cried his mother, wearily. " Here it is, man, in 
 the kitchen drawer." 
 
 " Hall ! " his father barked, and he knew he was infer- 
 nal angry. If he should come in! 
 
 But he went tramping down the stair, and John, after 
 waiting till his pulses were stilled, resumed his reading. 
 He heard the masons in the kitchen, busy with the 
 range, and he would have liked fine to watch them, but he 
 dared not go down till after four. It was lonely up here 
 by himself. A hot wind had sprung up, and it crooned 
 through the keyhole drearily; " oo-woo-oo," it cried, 
 and the sound drenched him in a vague depression. 
 The splotch of yellow light had shifted round to the 
 fireplace; Janet had kindled a fire there last winter, and 
 the ashes had never been removed, and now the light 
 lay, yellow and vivid, on a red clinker of coal, and a 
 charred piece of stick. A piece of glossy white paper 
 had been flung in the untidy grate, and in the hollow 
 
 [67]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTKliS 
 
 curve of it a thin silt of black dust had gathered — the 
 light shewed it plainly. All these things the boy 
 marked and was subtly aware of their unpleasantness. 
 He was forced to read to escape the sense of them. 
 But it was words, words, words that he read; the sub- 
 stance mattered not at all. His head leaned heavy on 
 his left hand and his mouth hung open, as his eye trav- 
 elled dreamily along the lines. He succeeded in hyp- 
 notizing his brain at last, by the mere process of staring 
 at the page. 
 
 At last he heard Janet in the lobby. That meant thai' 
 school was over. He crept down the stair. 
 
 " You were playing the truant," said Janet, and shi^- 
 nodded her head in accusation, " I've a good mind to- 
 tell my faith er." 
 
 " If ye wud — " he said, and shook his fist at hei' 
 threateningly. She shrank away from him. They went 
 into the kitchen together. 
 
 Tlie range had been successfully installed, and Mr. 
 Gourlay was shewing it to Grant of Loranogie, the fore- 
 most farmer of the shire. Mrs. Gourlay, standing by 
 the kitchen table, viewed her new possession with a 
 faded simper of approval. She was pleased that Mr. 
 Grant should see the grand new thing that they had 
 gotten. She listened to the talk of the men with a 
 faint smile aboiit her weary lips, her eyes upon the sonsy 
 
 range. 
 
 " Dod, it's a handsome piece of furniture," said Lor- 
 anogie. " How did ye get it brought here, Mr. Gour- 
 lay? " 
 
 " I went to Glasgow and ordered it special. It came 
 to Skeighan by the train, and my own beasts brought 
 
 [68]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT . 
 
 it owre. That fender's a feature," he added, compla- 
 cently; " it's onusual wi' a range." 
 
 The massive fender ran from end to end of the fire- 
 place, projecting a little in front; its rim, a square bar of 
 heavy steel, with bright sharp edges. 
 
 " And that poker, too; man, there's a history wi' that. 
 I made a point of the making o't. He was an ill-bred 
 little whalp, the bodie in Glasgow. I happened to say 
 till um I would like a poker-heid just the same size as 
 the rim of the fender! 'What d'ye want wi' a heavy- 
 heided poker? ' says he; * a' ye need's a bit sma' thing to 
 rype the ribs wi'.' ' Is that so ? ' says I. ' How do you 
 ken what / want?' I made short work o' Mm! The 
 poker-heid's the identical size o' the rim; I had it made 
 to fit! " 
 
 Loranogie thought it a silly thing of Gourlay to con- 
 cern himself about a poker. But that was just like him, 
 of course. The moment the body in Glasgow opposed 
 his whim, Gourlay, he knew, would make a point o't. 
 
 The grain merchant took the bar of heavy metal in 
 his hand. " Dod, it's an awful weapon," he said, mean- 
 ing to be jocose. " You could inurder a man wi't." 
 
 " Deed you could," said Loranogie; " you could kill 
 him wi' the one lick." 
 
 The elders, engaged with more important matters, 
 paid no attention to the children, who liad puslied be- 
 tween them to the front and were looking up at their 
 faces, as they talked, with curious watching eyes. John, 
 with his instinct to notice things, took the poker up 
 when his father laid it down, to see if it was really the 
 size of the rim. It was too lieavy for him to raise by 
 tlie handle; he had to lift it by the middle. Janet was 
 
 [ 60 j
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 at his elbow, watching hiin, " You could kill a man 
 with that," he told her, importantly, though she had 
 heard it for herself. Janet stared and shuddered. 
 Then the boy laid the poker-head along the rim, fitting 
 edge to edge with a nice precision. 
 
 " Mother," he cried, turning towards her in his in- 
 terest, " Mother, look here! It's exactly the same size! " 
 
 " Put it down, sir," said his father with a grim smile 
 at Loranogie. " You'll be killing folk next." 
 
 [ 70 ]
 
 IX 
 
 "Are ye packit, Peter? " said- Goiirlay. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Peter Einey, running round to the 
 other side of a cart, to fasten a horse's bellyband to the 
 shaft. " Yes, sir, we're a' ready." 
 
 " Have the carriers a big load? " 
 
 "Andy has just a wheen parcels, but Elshie's as fu' 
 as he can baud. And there's a gey pickle stuff waiting 
 at the Cross." 
 
 The hot wind of yesterday had brought lightning 
 through the night, and this morning there was the gen- 
 tle drizzle that sometimes follows a heavy thunderstorm. 
 Hints of the further blue shewed themselves in a lofty 
 sky of delicate and drifting grey. The blackbirds and 
 thrushes welcomed the cooler air with a gush of musical 
 piping, as if the liquid tenderness of the morning had 
 actually got into their throats and made them softer, 
 
 " You had better snoove away then," said Gourlay. 
 " Donnerton's five mile ayont Fleckie, and by the time 
 you deliver the meal there, and load the ironwork, it'll 
 be late ere you get back. Snoove away, Peter; snoove 
 away! " 
 
 Peter shuffled uneasily, and his pale blue eyes blinked 
 at Gourlay from beneath their grizzled crow nests of 
 red hair. 
 
 "Are we a' to start thegither, sir? " he hesitated. 
 *' D'ye mean — d'ye mean the carriers, too ? " 
 
 [71]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 "Atweel, Peter! " said Gourlay. " What for no? " 
 
 Peter took a great old watch, with a yellow case, from 
 his fob, and, " It wants a wdiile o' aicht, sir," he volun- 
 teered. 
 
 "Aye, man, Peter, and what of that? " said Gourlay. 
 
 There was almost a twinkle in his eye. Peter Einey 
 was the only human being with whom he was ever really 
 at his ease. It is only when a mind feels secure in itself 
 that it can laugh unconcernedly at others. Peter was 
 so simple that in his presence Gourlay felt secure; and 
 he used to banter him. 
 
 " The folk at the Cross winna expect the carriers till 
 aicht, sir," said Peter, " and I doubt their stuff won't 
 be ready." 
 
 "Aye, man, Peter! " Gourlay joked lazily, as if Peter 
 was a little boy. "Aye, man, Peter! You think the 
 folk at the Cross winna be prepared ? " 
 
 " No, sir," said Peter, opening his eyes very solemnly, 
 " they winna be prepared." 
 
 "It'll do them good to hurry a little for once," 
 growled Gourlay, humour yielding to spite at the 
 thought of liis enemies. " It'll do them good to hurry 
 a little for once! Be off, the lot of ye! " 
 
 After ordering his carriers to start, to back down and 
 postpone their departure, just to suit the convenience 
 of his neighbours, would derogate from his own im- 
 portance. His men might think he was afraid of 
 Barbie. 
 
 He strolled out to the big gate and watched his teams 
 going down the brae. 
 
 There were only four carts this morning because the 
 two that had gone to Fechars yesterday with the cheese 
 
 [72]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 would not be back till the afternoon; and another had 
 already turned west to Auchterwheeze, to bring slates 
 for the flesher's new house. Of the four that went down 
 the street two were the usual carrier's carts, the other two 
 were off to Fleckie with meal, and Gourlay had started 
 them the sooner since they were to bring back the iron- 
 work which Templandmuir needed for his new improve- 
 ments. Though the Templar had reformed greatly 
 since he married his birkie wife, he was still far from 
 having his place in proper order, and he had often to 
 depend on Gourlay for the carrying of stuff which a 
 man in his position should have had horses of his own to 
 bring. 
 
 As Gourlay stood at his gate he pondered with heavy 
 cunning how much he might charge Templandmuir for 
 bringing the ironwork from Fleckie. He decided to 
 charge him for the whole day, though half of it would 
 be spent in taking his own meal to Donnerton. In that 
 he was carrying out his iisual policy — which was to make 
 each side of his business help the other. 
 
 As he stood puzzling his wits over Templandmuir's 
 account, his lips worked in and out, to assist the slow 
 process of his brain. His eyes narrowed between peer- 
 ing lids, and their light seemed to turn inward as he 
 fixed them abstractedly on a stone in the middle of the 
 road. His head was tilted that he might keep his 
 eyes upon the stone; and every now and then, as he 
 mused, he rubbed his chin slowly between the thumb 
 and fingers of his left hand. Entirely given up to 
 the thought of Templandmuir's account he failed to 
 see the figure advancing up the street. 
 
 At last the scrunch of a boot on the wet road struck 
 
 [73]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 his ear. He turned with his best glower on the man 
 who was approaching; more of the " Wha-the-bleezes- 
 are-you ? " look than ever in his eyes — because he had 
 been caught unawares. 
 
 The stranger wore a light yellow overcoat, and he had 
 been walking a long time in the rain, apparently, for the 
 shoulders of the coat were quite black with the wet, 
 these black patches showing in strong contrast with the 
 dryer, therefore yellower, front of it. Coat and jacket 
 were both hanging slightly open, and between was seen 
 the slight bulge of a dirty white waistcoat. The new- 
 comer's trousers were turned high at the bottom, and 
 the muddy spats he wore looked big and ungainly in 
 consequence. In his appearance there was an air of 
 dirty and pretentious well-to-do-ness. It was not 
 shabby gentility. It was like the gross attempt at 
 dress of your well-to-do publican who looks down on 
 his soiled white waistcoat with complacent and approv- 
 ing eye. 
 
 " It's a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay! " simpered the 
 stranger. His air was that of a forward tenant who 
 thinks it a great thing to pass remarks on the weather 
 with his laird. 
 
 Gourlay cast a look at the dropping heavens. 
 
 "Is that your opinion?" said he. "I fail to see't 
 mysell." 
 
 It was not in Gourlay to see the beauty of that grey 
 wet dawn. A fine morning to him was one that burnt 
 the back of your neck. 
 
 The stranger laughed; a little deprecating giggle. 
 " I meant it was fine weather for the fields," he ex- 
 plained. He had meant nothing of the kind, of course; 
 
 [74]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 he had merely been talking at random in his wish to 
 be civil to that important man, John Gourlay. 
 
 " Imphm/' he pondered, looking round on the 
 weather with a wise air; " Imphm; it's fine weather for 
 the fields! " 
 
 " Are you a farmer then? " Gourlay nipped him, with 
 his eye on the white waistcoat. 
 
 " Oh — oh, Mr, Gourlay! A farmer, no. Hi — hi! I'm 
 not a farmer. I daresay, now, you have no mind of me ! " 
 
 " No," said Grourlay, regarding him very gravely and 
 steadily with his dark eyes. " I cannot say, sir, that I 
 have the pleasure of remembering you ! " 
 
 " Man, I'm a son of auld John Wilson of Brigabee! " 
 
 " Oh, auld Wilson, the mole-catcher! " said con- 
 temptuous Gourlay. " What's this they christened him 
 now? * Toddling Johnnie,' was it noat? " 
 
 Wilson coloured. But he sniggered to gloss over the 
 awkwardness of the remark. A coward always sniggers 
 when insulted, pretending that the insult is only a joke 
 of his opponent, and therefore to be laughed aside. So 
 he escapes the quarrel which he fears a show of displeas- 
 ure might provoke. 
 
 But, though Wilson was not a hardy man, it was not 
 timidity only that caused his tame submission to 
 Gourlay, 
 
 He had come back after an absence of fifteen years, 
 with a good deal of money in his pocket, and he had a 
 fond desire that he, the son of the mole-catcher, should 
 get some recognition of his prosperity from the most 
 important man in the locality. If Gourlay had said, 
 with solemn and fat-lipped approval, " Man, I'm glad to 
 see that you have done so well! " he would have swelled 
 
 [75]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 with gratified pride. For it is often the favourable esti- 
 mate of their own little village — " What they'll think of 
 me at home " — that matters most to Scotsmen who go 
 out to make their way in the world. No doubt that is 
 why so many of them go home and cut a dash when 
 they have made their fortunes; they want the cronies 
 of their youth to see the big men they have become. 
 Wilson was not exempt from that weakness. As far 
 back as he remembered Gourlay had been the big man of 
 Barbie; as a boy he had viewed him with admiring awe; 
 to be received by him now, as one of the well-to-do, were 
 a sweet recognition of his greatness. It was a fawning 
 desire for that recognition that caused his smirking 
 approach to the grain merchant. So strong was the de- 
 sire that, though he coloured and felt awkward at the 
 contemptuous reference to his father, he sniggered and 
 went on talking, as if nothing untoward had been said. 
 He was one of the band impossible to snub, not because 
 they are endowed with superior moral courage, but be- 
 cause their easy self-importance is so great, that an in- 
 sult rarely pierces it enough to divert them from their 
 purpose. They walk through life wrapped comfort- 
 ably round in the wool of their own conceit. Gourlay, 
 though a dull man — perhaps because he was a dull man 
 — suspected insult in a moment. But it rarely entered 
 Wilson's brain (though he was cleverer than most) that 
 tlie world could find anything to scoff at in such a fine 
 fellow as James Wilson. A less ironic brute than Gour- 
 lay would never have pierced the thickness of his hide. 
 It was because Gourlay succeeded in piercing it that 
 morning, that Wilson hated him for ever — with a hate 
 the more bitter because he was rebuffed so seldom. 
 
 [ 76 ]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 "Is business brisk?" he asked, irrepressible. 
 
 Business! Heavens, did ye hear him talking? What 
 did Toddling Johnny's son know about business? What 
 was the world coming to? To hear him setting up his 
 face there, and asking the best merchant in the town 
 whether business was brisk! It was high time to put 
 him in his place, the conceited upstart, shoving himself 
 forward like an equal! 
 
 For it was the assumption of equality implied by Wil- 
 son's manner that offended Gourlay — as if mole-catch- 
 er's son and monopolist were discussing, on equal terms, 
 matters of interest to them both. 
 
 "Business!" he said gravely. "Well, I'm not well 
 acquainted with your line, but I believe mole traps are 
 cheap — if ye have any idea of taking up the oald trade! " 
 
 Wilson's eyes flickered over him, hurt and dubious. 
 His mouth opened — then shut — then he decided to 
 speak after all. " Oh, I was thinking Barbie would be 
 very quiet," said he, " compared wi' places where they 
 have the railway! I was thinking it would need stirring 
 up a bit." 
 
 " Oh, ye was thinking that, was ye? " birred Gourlay, 
 with a stupid man's repetition of his Jibe. " Well; I 
 believe there's a grand opening in the moleskin line, so 
 there'' s a chance for ye! My quarrymen wear out their 
 breeks in no time! " 
 
 Wilson's face, which had swelled with red shame, 
 went a dead white. " Good-morning! " he said, and 
 started rapidly away with a vicious dig of his stick upon 
 the wet road. 
 
 " Goo-ood mor-r-ning, serr! " Gourlay birred after 
 him; " Goo-ood mor-r-ning, serr! " He felt he had 
 
 [77]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 been bright this morning. He had put the branks on 
 Wilson! 
 
 AVilson was as furious at himself as at Gourlay. Why 
 the devil had he said " Good morning? " It had 
 slipped out of him unawares, and Gourlay had taken it 
 up with an ironic birr that rang in his ears now, poison- 
 ing his blood. He felt equal in fancy to a thousand 
 Gourlays now — so strong was he in wrath against him. 
 He had gone forward to pass pleasant remarks about the 
 weather, and why should he noat? — he was no disgrace 
 to Barbie, but a credit rather. It was not every work- 
 ing man's son that came back with five hundred in the 
 bank. And here Gourlay had treated him like a doag! 
 Ah, well, he would maybe be upsides with Gourlay yet, 
 so he might! 
 
 [78]
 
 X 
 
 *' Such a rickle of furniture I never saw! " said the 
 Provost. 
 
 " Whose is it? " said Brodie. 
 
 "Oh, have ye noat heard?" said the Head of the 
 Town with eyebrows in air. " It beloangs to that fel- 
 low Wilson, doan't ye know? He's a son of oald Wilson, 
 the mowdie-man of Brigabee. It seems we're to have 
 him for a neighbour, or all's bye wi't. I declare I doan't 
 loiow what this world's coming to! " 
 
 " Man, Provost," said Brodie, " d'ye tell me tha-at? 
 I've been over at Fleckie for the last ten days — my 
 brother Rab's dead and won away, as I daresay you have 
 heard — oh, yes, we must all go — so, ye see, I'm scarcely 
 abreast o' the latest intelligence. What's Wilson doing 
 here? I thought he had been a pawnbroker in Embro." 
 
 " Noat he! It's whispered indeed, that he left Briga- 
 bee to go and help in a pawmbroker's, but it seems he 
 married an Aberdeen lass and sattled there after awhile, 
 the manager of a store, I have been given to understa- 
 and. He has taken oald Rab Jamieson's barn at the 
 bottom of the Cross — for what purpose it beats even me 
 to tell! And that's his furniture " 
 
 "I declare!" said the astonished Brodie, "He's a 
 smart-looking boy that. Will that be a son of his? " 
 
 He pointed to a sharp-faced urchin of twelve who was 
 busy carrying chairs round the corner of the barn, to 
 
 [79]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 the tiny house where Wilson meant to live. He was a 
 red-haired boy with an upturned nose, dressed in shirt 
 and knickerbockers only. The cross of his braces came 
 comically near his neck — so short was the space of shirt 
 between the top line of his breeches and his shoulders. 
 His knickers were open at the knee, and the black stock- 
 ings below them were wrinkled slackly down his thin 
 legs, being tied loosely above the calf with dirty white 
 strips of cloth instead of garters. He had no cap, and it 
 was seen that his hair had a " cow-lick " in front; it 
 slanted up from his brow, that is, in a sleek kind of 
 tuft. There was a violent squint in one of his sharp 
 grey eyes, so that it seemed to flash at the world across 
 the bridge of his nose. He was so eager at his work that 
 his clumsy-looking boots — they only looked clumsy be- 
 cause the legs they were stuck to were so thin — skidded 
 on the cobbles as he whipped round the barn with a 
 chair inverted on his poll. When he came back for 
 another chair, he sometimes wheepled a tune of his own 
 making, in shrill disconnected jerks, and sometimes 
 wiped his nose on his sleeve. And the bodies watched 
 him. 
 
 " Faith, he's keen," said the Provost. 
 
 " But what on earth has Wilson ta'en auld Jamieson's 
 house and barn for? They have stude empty since I 
 kenna whan," quoth Alexander Toddle, forgetting his 
 English in surprise. 
 
 " They say he means to start a business! He's made 
 some bawbees in Aiberdeen, they're telling me, and he 
 thinks he'll set Barbie in a lowe wi't." 
 
 " Ou, he means to work a perfect revolution," said 
 Jolinny Coe. 
 
 [80]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 " In Barbie! " cried astounded Toddle. 
 
 " In Barbie e'en't," said the Provost. 
 
 " It would take a heap to revolutionize /li^," said the 
 baker, the ironic man. 
 
 " There's a chance in that hoose," Brodie burst out, 
 ignoring the baker's jibe. " Dod, there's a chance, sirs. 
 I wonder it never occurred to me before." 
 
 " Are ye thinking ye have missed a gude thing? " 
 grinned the Deacon. 
 
 But Brodie's lips were working in the throes of com- 
 mercial speculation, and he stared, heedless of the jibe. 
 So Johnny Coe took up his sapient parable. 
 
 " iVtweel," said he, " there's a chance, Mr. Brodie. 
 That road round to the back's a handy thing. You 
 could take a horse and cart brawly through an opening 
 like that. And there's a gey bit ground at the back, 
 too, when a body comes to think o't." 
 
 "What line's he meaning to purshoo?" queried 
 Brodie, whose mind, quickened by the chance he saw 
 at Xo. 1, The Cross, was hot on the hunt of its possi- 
 bilities. 
 
 " He's been very close about that," said the Provost. 
 " I asked Johnny Gibson — it was him had the selling o't 
 — but he couldn't give me ainy satisfaction. All he 
 could say was that Wilson had bought it and paid it. 
 ' But, losh ! ' said I, ' he maun 'a' lat peep what he 
 wanted the place for! ' But na; it seems he was owre 
 auld-farrant for the like of that. ' We'll let the folk 
 wonder for a while, Mr. Gibson,' he had said. ' The less 
 we tell them, the keener they'll be to ken; and they'll 
 advertise me for noathing by spiering one another what 
 I'm up till.' " 
 
 [81]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " Cunning! " said Brodie, breathing the word low in 
 expressive admiration. 
 
 " Demned cute! " said Sandy Toddle. 
 
 " Very thmart! " said the Deacon. 
 
 " But the place has been falling down since ever I 
 have mind o't/' said Sandy Toddle. " He's a very 
 clever man if he makes anything out of that." 
 
 " Well, well," said the Provost, " we'll soon see what 
 he's meaning to be at. Now that his furniture's in, he 
 surely canna keep us in the dark much loanger! " 
 
 Their curiosity was soon appeased. Within a week 
 they were privileged to read the notice here appended: 
 
 "Mr. James Wilson begs to announce to the inhabitants of 
 Barbie and surrounding neighbourhood that he has taken these 
 commodious premises, No. 1, The Cross, which he intends to 
 open shortly as a Grocery, Ironmongery, and General Provision 
 Store. J. W. is apprised that such an Emporium has long been 
 a felt want in the locality. To meet this want is J. W.'s inten- 
 tion. He will try to do so, not by making large profits on a 
 small business, but by making small profits on a large business. 
 Indeed, owing to his long acquaintance with the trade Mr. 
 Wilson will be able to supply all commodities at a very little 
 over cost price. For J. W. will use those improved methods 
 of business which have been confined hitherto to the larger 
 centres of population. At his Emporium you will be able, as 
 the saying goes, to buy everything from a needle to an anchor. 
 Moreover, to meet the convenience of his customers, J. W. will 
 deliver goods at your own doors, distributing them with his 
 own carts either in the town of Barbie or at any convenient 
 distance from the same. Being a native of the district, his 
 business hopes to secure a due share of your esteemed patron- 
 age. Thanking you, in anticipation, for the favour of an early 
 visit, Believe me. Ladies and Gentlemen, 
 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 "James Wilson." 
 
 [82]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 Such was the poster with which " Barbie and sur- 
 rounding neighbourhood " were besprinkled within a 
 week of " J. W.'s " appearance on the scene. He was 
 known as " J. W." ever after. To be known by your 
 initials is sometimes a mark of affection, and sometimes 
 a mark of disrespect. It was not a mark of affection 
 in the case of our " J. W." When Donald Scott slapped 
 him on the back and cried " Hullo, J. W., how are the 
 anchors selling? " Barbie had found a cue which it was 
 not slow to make use of. Wilson even received letters 
 addressed to "J. W., Anchor Merchant, No. 1, The 
 Cross." Ours is a nippy locality. 
 
 But Wilson, cosy and cocky in his own good opinion, 
 was impervious to the chilly winds of scorn. His post- 
 ers, in big blue letters, were on the smiddy door and on 
 the sides of every brig within a circuit of five miles; 
 they were pasted, in smaller red letters, on the gate- 
 posts of every farm; and Kobin Tam, the bellman, 
 handed them about from door to door. The folk could 
 talk of nothing else. 
 
 " Dod! " said the Provost when he read the bill, 
 "we've a new departure here! This is an unco splut- 
 ter, as the oald sow said when she tumbled in the 
 gutter." 
 
 "Aye," said Sandy Toddle, " a fuff in the pan, Pm 
 thinking. He promises owre muckle to last long! He 
 lauchs owre loud to be merry at the end o't. For the 
 loudest bummler's no the best bee, as my father, honest 
 man, used to tell the minister." 
 
 "Ah-ah, I'm no so sure o' that," said Tam Brodie. 
 " I foregathered wi' Wilson on Wednesday last, and I tell 
 ye, sirs, he's worth the watching. They'll need to stand 
 
 [83]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 on a baikie that put the branks on him. He has the 
 considering eye in his head — yon lang far-away glim- 
 mer at a thing from out the end of the eyebrow. He 
 turned it on mysell twa-three times, the cunning devil, 
 trying to keek into me, to see if he could use me. And 
 look at the chance he has! There's two stores in Barbie, 
 to be sure; but Kinnikum's a dirty beast, and folk have 
 a scunner at his goods, and Catherwood's a dru'cken 
 swine, and his place but sairly guided. That's a great 
 stroke o' polic}-, too, promising to deliver folk's goods 
 on their own doorstep to them. There's a whole jing- 
 bang of out-lying clachans round Barbie that he'll get 
 the trade of by a dodge like that. The like was never 
 tried hereaway before. I wadna wonder but it works 
 wonders." 
 
 It did. 
 
 It was partly policy and partly accident that brought 
 Wilson back to Barbie. He had been managing a 
 wealthy old merchant's store for a long time in Aber- 
 deen, and he had been blithely looking forward to the 
 goodwill of it, when jink, at the old man's death, in 
 stepped a nephew, and ousted the poo-oor fellow. He 
 had baAvled shrilly, but to no purpose; he had to be 
 travelling. When he rose to greatness in Barbie it was 
 whispered that the nephew discovered he was feathering 
 his own nest, and that this was the reason of his sharp 
 dismissal. But perhaps we should credit that report 
 to Barbie's disposition rather than to Wilson's misde- 
 meanour. 
 
 Wilson might have set up for himself in the nippy 
 northern town. But it is an instinct with men who 
 have met with a rebuff in a place, to shake its dust from 
 
 [84]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 their shoes, and be off to seek their fortunes in the larger 
 world. We take a scunner at the place that has ill-used 
 us. Wilson took a scunner at Aberdeen, and decided to 
 leave it and look around him. Scotland was opening 
 up, and there were bound to be heaps of chances for a 
 man like him! "A man like me," was a frequent phrase 
 of Wilson's retired and solitary speculation. "Aye," 
 he said, emerging from one of his business reveries, 
 " there's bound to be heaps o' chances for a man like me, 
 if I only look about me." 
 
 He was " looking about him " in Glasgow when he 
 foregathered with his cousin William — the borer he! 
 After many " How are ye, Jims's " and mutual spierings 
 over a " bit mouthful of yill " — so they phrased it, but 
 that was a meiosis, for they drank five quarts — they fell 
 to a serious discussion of the commercial possibilities 
 of Scotland. The borer was of the opinion that the 
 Braes of Barbie had a future yet, " for a' the gaifer was 
 so keen on keeping his men in the dark about the coal." 
 
 Now Wilson knew (as what Scotsman does not?) that 
 in the middle-fifties coal-boring in Scotland was not the 
 honourable profession that it now is. More than once, 
 speculators procured lying reports that there were no 
 minerals, and after landowners had been ruined by 
 their abortive preliminary experiments, stepped in, 
 bought the land and boomed it. In one notorious case 
 a family, now great in the public eye, bribed a laird's 
 own borers to conceal the trutli, and then buying the 
 Golconda from its impoverished owner, laid the basis of 
 a vast fortune. 
 
 " D'ye mean — to tell — me, Weelynm Wilson," said 
 James, giving him his full name in the solemnity of the 
 
 [85]
 
 ii 
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 moment, " d'ye mean — to tell — me, sir " — here he sank 
 his voice to a whisper — " that there's joukery-pawkery 
 at work? " 
 
 "A declare to God A div," said Weelyum with equal 
 solemnity, and he nodded with alarmed sapience across 
 his beer jug. 
 
 " You believe there's plenty of coal up Barbie Valley, 
 and that they're keeping it dark in the meantime for 
 some purpose of their own ? " 
 I do," said Weelyum. 
 
 God! " said James, gripping the table with both 
 hands in his excitement, " God, if that's so, what a 
 chance there's in Barbie! It has been a dead town for 
 twenty year, and twenty to the end o't. A verra little 
 would buy the hauf o't. But property 'ull rise in value 
 like a puddock stool at dark, serr, if the pits come round 
 it! It will that. If I was only sure o' your suspeecion, 
 Weelyum, I'd invest every bawbee I have in't. You're 
 going home the night, are ye not? " 
 
 " I was just on my road to the station when I met 
 ye," said Weelyum. 
 
 " Send me a scrape of your pen to-morrow, man, if 
 what you see on getting back keeps you still in the same 
 mind o't. And directly I get your letter, I'll run down 
 and look about me." 
 
 The letter was encouraging, and Wilson went forth 
 to spy the land, and initiate the plan of campaign. It 
 was an important day for him. He entered on his feud 
 with Gourlay, and bought Eab Jamieson's house and 
 barn (with the field behind it) for a trifle. He had five 
 hundred of his own, and he knew where more could be 
 had for the asking. 
 
 [86]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 Eab Jamieson's barn was a curious building to be 
 stranded in the midst of Barbie. In quaint villages and 
 little towns of England you sometimes see a mellow 
 red-tiled barn, with its rich yard, close upon the street; 
 it seems to have been hemmed in by the houses round, 
 while dozing, so that it could not escape with the fields 
 fleeing from the town. There it remains and gives a 
 ripeness to the place, matching fitly with the great horse- 
 chestnut yellowing before the door, and the old inn 
 further down, mantled in its blood-red creepers. But 
 that autumnal warmth and cosiness is rarely seen in the 
 barer streets of the north. How Eab Jamieson's barn 
 came to be stuck in Barbie nobody could tell. It was 
 a gaunt grey building with never a window, but a bole 
 high in one corner for the sheaves, and a door low in 
 another corner for auld Eab Jamieson. There was no 
 mill inside, and the place had not been used for years. 
 But the roof was good, and the walls stout and thick, 
 and Wilson soon got to work on his new possession. 
 He had seen all that could be made of the place the 
 moment he clapped an eye on it, and he knew that he 
 had found a good thing, even if the pits should never 
 come near Barbie. The bole and door next the street 
 were walled up, and a fine new door opened in the mid- 
 dle, flanked on either side by a great window. The in- 
 terior was fitted up with a couple of counters and 
 a wooden floor; and above the new wood ceiling 
 there was a long loft for a store room, lighted by 
 skylights in the roof. Th",t loft above the rafters, 
 thought the provident Wilson, will come in braw 
 and handy for storing things, so it will. And there, 
 hey presto! the transformation was achieved, and Wil- 
 
 [87]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 son's Emporium stood before you. It was crammed 
 with merchandise. On the white flapping slant of a 
 couple of awnings, one over each window, you might 
 read in black letters, "JAMES WILSON: EMPO- 
 RIUM." The letters of " James Wilson " made a tri- 
 umphal arch, to which " Emporium " was the base. It 
 seemed symbolical. 
 
 Now, the shops of Barbie (the drunken man's shop 
 and the dirty man's shop always excepted, of course) 
 had usually been low-browed little places with faded 
 black scrolls above the door, on which you might read 
 in dim gilt letters (or it might be, in white) 
 
 " LicENS'D To Sell Tea 5r Tobacco." 
 
 " Ljcens'd" wsiB on one corner of the ribboned scroll, 
 "To Sell Tea Sr " occupied the flowing arch above, 
 with "Tobacco" in the other corner. When you 
 mounted two steps and opened the door, a bell of some 
 kind went " ping " in the interior, and an old woman in a 
 mutch, with big specs slipping down her nose, would 
 come up a step from a dim little room behind, and wiping 
 her sunken mouth with her apron — she had just left 
 her tea — would say, " What's your wuU the day, sir? " 
 And if you said your " wull " was tobacco, she would 
 answer, " Ou, sir, I dinna sell ocht now but the tape 
 and sweeties." And then you went away, sadly. 
 
 With the exception of the dirty man's shop and the 
 drunken man's shop, that kind of shop was the Barbie 
 kind of shop. But Wilson changed all that. One side 
 of the Emporium was crammed with pots, pans, pails, 
 scythes, gardening implements, and saws, with a big 
 barrel of paraffin partitioned oil' in a corner. The rafters 
 
 [88]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 on that side were bristling and hoary with brushes of 
 all kinds dependent from the roof, so that the minister's 
 wife (who was a six-footer) went off with a brush in her 
 bonnet once. Behind the other counter were canisters 
 in goodly rows, barrels of flour and bags of meal, and 
 great yellow cheeses in the window. The rafters here 
 were heavy with their wealth of hams, brown-skinned 
 flitches of bacon interspersed with the white tight- 
 corded home-cured — " Barbie's Best," as Wilson chris- 
 tened it. All along the back, in glass cases to keep them 
 unsullied, were bales of cloth, layer on layer to the roof. 
 It was a pleasure to go into the place, so big and bien 
 was it, and to smell it on a frosty night set your teeth 
 watering. There was always a big barrel of American 
 apples just inside the door, and their homely fragrance 
 wooed you from afar, the mellow savour cuddling round 
 you half a mile off. Barbie boys had despised the pro- 
 vision trade, heretofore, as a mean and meagre occupa- 
 tion, but now the imagination of each gallant youth was 
 fired and radiant; he meant to be a grocer. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson presided over the Emporium. Wilson 
 had a treasure in his wife. She was Aberdeen born and 
 bred, but her manner was the manner of the South and 
 West. There is a broad difference of character between 
 the peoples of East and West Scotland. The East throws 
 a narrower and a nippier breed. In the West they take 
 Burns for their exemplar, and affect the jovial and ro- 
 bustious — in some cases it is affectation only, and a 
 mighty poor one at that. They claim to be bigger men 
 and bigger fools than the Eastern billies. xVnd the 
 Eastern billies are very willing to yield one half of the 
 contention. 
 
 [89]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTERS 
 
 Mrs. Wilson, though Eastie by nature, had the jovial 
 manner that you find in Kyle. More jovial, indeed, 
 than was common in nippy Barbie, which, in general 
 character, seems to liave been transplanted from some 
 sand dune looking out upon the German Ocean. She 
 was big of hip and bosom, with sloe-black hair and eyes, 
 and a ruddy cheek, and when she flung back her head 
 for the laugh her white teeth flashed splendid on the 
 world. That laugli of hers became one of the well- 
 known features of Barbie. "Lo'd-sake!" a startled 
 visitor would cry, " whatna skirl's tha-at! " "Oh, 
 dinna be alarmed," a native would comfort him, " it's 
 only Wilson's wife lauchin at the Cross! " 
 
 Her manner had a hearty charm. She had a laugh 
 and a joke for every customer, quick as a wink with her 
 answer; her jibe was in you and out again, before you 
 knew you were wounded. Some, it is true, took excep- 
 tion to the loudness of her skirl; the Deacon, for in- 
 stance, who " gave her a good one " the first time he 
 went in for snuff. But " Tut! " quoth she, " a mim cat's 
 never gude at the mice," and she lifted him out by the 
 scruff of his neck, crying, " Run, mousie, or I'll catch 
 ye! " On that day her popularity in Barbie was assured 
 for evei-. But she was as keen on tlie penny as a pe- 
 nurious weaver, for all her heartiness and laughing 
 ways. She combined the commercial merits of the East 
 and West. She could coax you to the buying like a 
 Cumnock quean, and fleece you in the selling like the 
 cadgers o' Kincardine. When Wilson was abroad on liis 
 affairs he had no need to be afraid that things were mis- 
 managing at liome. During his first year in Barbie 
 Mrs. Wilson was his sole helper. Slie had the brawny 
 
 [90]
 
 CHAPTER TEISr 
 
 arm of a giantess, and could toss a bag of meal like a 
 baby; to see her twirl a big ham on the counter was to 
 see a thing done as it should be. When Dru'cken Wab- 
 ster came in and was offensive once, " Poo-oor fellow! " 
 said she (with a wink to a customer) " I declare he's in 
 a high fever," and she took him kicking to the pump 
 and cooled him. 
 
 With a mate like that at the helm every sail of Wil- 
 son's craft was trimmed for prosperity. He began to 
 " look about " him to increase the fleet. 
 
 [91]
 
 XI 
 
 That the Scot is largely endowed with the commer- 
 cial imagination his foes will be ready to acknowledge. 
 Imagination may consecrate the world to a man, or it 
 may merely be a visualising faculty which sees that, 
 as already perfect, which is still lying in the raw 
 material. The Scot has the lower faculty in full de- 
 gree; he has the forecasting leap of the mind which 
 sees what to make of things — more, sees them made 
 and in vivid operation. To him there is a railway 
 through the desert where no railway exists, and mills 
 along the quiet stream. And his perfervidum ingenium 
 is quick to attempt the realising of his dreams. That 
 is why he makes the best of colonists. Gait is his type 
 — Gait, dreaming in boyhood of the fine water power a 
 fellow could bring round the hill, from the stream 
 where he went a-fishing (they have done it since), 
 dreaming in manhood of the cities yet to rise amid 
 Ontario's woods (they are there to witness to his fore- 
 sight). Indeed, so flushed and riotous can the Scottish 
 mind become over a commercial prospect that it some- 
 times sends native caution by the board, and a man's 
 really fine idea becomes an empty balloon, to carry him 
 off to the limbo of vanities. There is a megalomaniac 
 in every parish of Scotland. Well, not so much as that; 
 they're owre canny for that to be said of them. But 
 in every district, almost, vou may find a poor creature 
 
 [92]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 who for thirty years has cherished a great scheme by 
 which he means to revohitionize the world's commerce, 
 and amass a fortune in monstrous degree. He is gen- 
 erally to be seen shivering at the Cross, and (if you are 
 a nippy man) you shout carelessly in going by, " Good 
 morning, Tamson; how's the scheme? " And he would 
 be very willing to tell you, if only you would wait to 
 listen. " Man," he will cry eagerly behind you, " if I 
 only had anither wee wheel in my invention — she would 
 do, the besom! I'll sune have her ready noo." Poor 
 Tamson! 
 
 But these are the exceptions. Scotsmen, more than 
 other men perhaps, have the three great essentials of 
 commercial success — imagination to conceive schemes, 
 common sense to correct them, and energy to push them 
 through. Common sense, indeed, so far from being 
 wanting, is in most cases too much in evidence, perhaps, 
 crippling the soaring mind and robbing the idea of its 
 early radiance; in quieter language, she makes the aver- 
 age Scotsman to be over-cautious. His combinations 
 are rarely Napoleonic until he becomes an American. 
 In his native dales he seldom ventures on a daring pol- 
 icy. And yet his forecasting mind is always detecting 
 " possibeelities." So he contents himself by creeping 
 cautiously from point to point, ignoring big reckless 
 schemes and using the safe and small, till he arrives at 
 a florid opulence. He has expressed his love of festina 
 lente in business in a score of proverbs — " bit-by-bit's 
 the better horse, though big-by-big's the baulder "; 
 " ca' canny or ye'U cowp "; " many a little makes a 
 mickle "; and " creep before ye gang." This ming- 
 ling of caution and imagination is the cause of his stable 
 
 [93]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 prosperity. And its characteristic is a sure progressive- 
 ness. That sure progressiveness was the characteristic 
 of Wilson's prosperity in Barbie. In him, too, imagina- 
 tion and caution were equally developed. He was al- 
 ways foreseeing " chances " and using them, gripping 
 the good and rejecting the dangerous (had he not 
 gripped the chance of auld Rab Jamieson's barn? — there 
 was caution in that, for it was worth the money what- 
 ever happened, and there was imagination in the whole 
 scheme, for he had a vision of Barbie as a populous 
 centre and streets of houses in his holm). And every 
 "chance" he seized led to a better one, till almost 
 every " chance " in Barbie was engrossed by him alone. 
 This is how he went to work. Note the " bit-by-bit- 
 ness'' of his great career. 
 
 When Mrs. Wilson was behind the counter, Wilson 
 was out "distributing." He was not always out, of 
 course — his volume of trade at first was not big enough 
 for that, but in the mornings, and the long summer 
 dusks, he made his way to the many outlying places of 
 which Barbie was the centre. There, in one and the 
 same visit, he distributed goods and collected orders for 
 the future. Though his bill had spoken of " carts," 
 as if he had several, that was only a bit of splurge on 
 his part; his one conveyance at the first was a stout 
 spring cart, with a good brown cob between the shafts. 
 But with this he did such a trade as had never been 
 known in Barbie. The Provost said it was " shtupen- 
 dous." 
 
 When Wilson was jogging homeward in the balmy 
 evenings of his first summer at Barbie no eye had he for 
 the large evening star, tremulous above the woods, or for 
 
 [94]
 
 CHAPTEK ELEVEN 
 
 the dreaming sprays against the yellow west. It wasn't 
 his business — he had other things to mind. Yet Wil- 
 son was a dreamer, too. His close musing eye, peering 
 at the dusky-brown nodge of his pony's hip through 
 the gloom, saw not that, but visions of chances, oppor- 
 tunities, occasions. When the lights of Barbie twinkled 
 before him in the dusk he used to start from a pleasant 
 dream of some commercial enterprise suggested by the 
 country round. " Yon holm would make a fine bleach- 
 ing green — pure water, fine air, labour cheap, and every- 
 thing handy. Or the Lintie's Linn among the woodsy- 
 water power running to waste yonder — surely some- 
 thing could be made of that." He would follow his idea 
 through all its mazes and developments, oblivious of 
 the passing miles. His delight in his visions was ex- 
 actly the same as the author's delight in the figments of 
 his brain. They were the same good company along the 
 twilight roads. The author, happy with his thronging 
 thoughts (when they are kind enough to throng) is no 
 happier than Wilson was on nights like these. 
 
 He had not been a week on his rounds when he saw 
 a " chance " waiting for development. When out " de- 
 livering " he used to visit the upland farms to buy 
 butter and eggs for the Emporium. He got them 
 cheaper so. But more eggs and butter could be 
 had than were required in the neighbourhood of Barbie. 
 Here was a chance for Wilson! He became a collector 
 for merchants at a distance. Barbie, before it got the 
 railway, had only a silly little market once a fortnight, 
 which was a very poor outlet for stuff. Wilson 
 provided a better one. Another thing played into 
 his hands, too, in that connection. It is a cheese-mak- 
 
 [05]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 ing countryside about Barbie, and the less butter pro- 
 duced at a cheese-making place — the better for the 
 cheese. Still, a good many pounds are often churned 
 on the sly. What need the cheese merchant ken — it 
 keepit the gudewife in bawbees frae week to week — and 
 if she took a little cream frae the cheese now and than 
 they werena a pin the waur o't, for she aye did it wi^ de- 
 cency and caution! Still it is as well to dispose of this 
 kind of butter quietly, to avoid gabble among ill-speak- 
 ers. Wilson, slithering up the back road with his 
 spring cart in the gloaming, was the man to dispose of it 
 quietly. And he got it dirt cheap, of course, seeing it 
 was a kind of contraband. All that he made in this 
 way was not much to be sure — threepence a dozen on 
 the eggs, perhaps, and fourpence on the pound of butter 
 — still, you know, every little makes a mickle, and 
 hained gear helps weel.* x\nd more important than the 
 immediate profit was the ultimate result. For Wilson, 
 in this way, established with merchants, in far-off Fech- 
 ars and Poltandie, a connection for the sale of country 
 produce which meant a great deal to him in future, 
 when he launched out as cheese-buyer in opposition to 
 Gourlay. 
 
 It " occurred " to him also (things were always occur- 
 ring to Wilson) that the " Scotch Cuddy " business had 
 as fine a chance in " Barbie and surrounding neigh- 
 bourhood " as ever it had in North and Middle England. 
 The " Scotch Cuddy" is so called because he is a beast 
 of burden, and not from the nature of his wits. He is 
 a travelling packman, wlio infests communities of work- 
 ing men, and disposes of his goods on the credit system, 
 * Hained gear: saved money. 
 [96]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 receiving payment in instalments. You go into a work- 
 ing man's house (when he is away from home for prefer- 
 ence) and, laying a swatch of cloth across his wife's 
 knee, " What do you think of that, mistress? " you en- 
 quire, watching the effect keenly. Instantly all her 
 covetous heart is in her eye and, thinks she to herself, 
 " Oh, but John would look well in that, at the Kirk on 
 Sunday! " She has no ready money, and would never 
 have the cheek to go into a draper's and order the suit, 
 but when she sees it lying there across her knee, she just 
 cannot resist it. (And fine you knew that when you 
 clinked it down before her!) Now that the goods are 
 in the house she cannot bear to let them out the door 
 again. But she hints a scarcity of cash. " Tut, wo- 
 man! " quoth you, bounteous and kind, "• there's no ob- 
 stacle in that! — You can pay me in instalments!" 
 How much would the instalments be, she enquires. 
 " Oh, a mere trifle — half-a-crown a week, say." She 
 hesitates and hankers. " John's Sunday coat's getting 
 quite shabby, so it is, and Tam Macalister has a new 
 suit, she was noticing — the Macalisters are always 
 flaunting in their braws! And, there's that Paisley 
 shawl for herself, too; eh, but they would be the canty 
 pair, cocking down the road on Sunday in that rig! — 
 they would take the licht frae Meg IMacalister's e'en, 
 thae Macalisters are always so en-vy-fu'! " Love, 
 vanity, covetousness, present opportunity, are all at 
 work upon the poor body. She succumbs. But the 
 half-crown weekly payments have a habit of lengthen- 
 ing themselves out till the packman has made fifty per 
 cent by the business. And why not? — a man must 
 have some interest on his money! Then there's the 
 
 [97]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 risk of bad debts, too — that falls to be considered. But 
 there was little risk of bad debts when Wilson took to 
 cloth-distributing. For success in that game depends on 
 pertinacity in pursuit of your victim and Wilson was the 
 man for that. 
 
 He was jogging home from Brigabee, where he had 
 been distributing groceries at a score of wee houses, 
 when there flashed on his mind a whole scheme for 
 cloth-distribution on a large scale — for mining villages 
 were clustering in about Barbie by this time, and he 
 saw his way to a big thing. 
 
 He was thinking of Sandy Toddle, who had been a 
 Scotch Cuddy in the Midlands and had retired to Bar- 
 bie on a snug bit fortune — he was thinking of Sandy 
 when the plan rose generous on his mind. He would 
 soon have more horses than one on the road — why 
 shouldn't they carry swatches of cloth as well as gro- 
 ceries? If he had responsible men under him, it would 
 be their own interest, for a small commission on the 
 profits, to see that payments were levied correctly every 
 week. And those colliers were reckless with their cash, 
 far readier to commit themselves to buying than the 
 cannier country bodies round. Lord! there was money 
 in the scheme. No sooner thought of than put in prac- 
 tice. Wilson gave up the cloth-peddling after five or 
 six years — he had other fish to fry by that time — ^but 
 while he was at it he made money hand over fist at 
 the job. 
 
 But what boots it to tell of all his schemes? He had 
 the lucky eye — and everything he looked on prospered. 
 
 Before he had been a week in Barbie he met Gourlay, 
 just at the Bend o' the Brae, in full presence of the bod- 
 
 [98]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 ies. Remembering their first encounter the grocer tried 
 to outstare him, but Gourlay hardened his glower and 
 the grocer blinked. When the two passed, " I declare! " 
 said the bodies, " did ye see yon? — they're not on speak- 
 ing terms! " And they botched with glee to think that 
 Gourlay had another enemy. 
 
 Judge of their delight when they saw one day about 
 a month later, just as Gourlay was passing up the street, 
 Wilson come down it with a load of coals for a customer! 
 For he was often out Auchterwheeze road in the early 
 morning, and what was the use of an empty journey back 
 again, especially as he had plenty of time in the middle 
 of the day to attend to other folk's affairs — so here he 
 was, started as a carrier, in full opposition to Gourlay. 
 
 " Did you see Gourlay's face ? " chuckled the bodies 
 when the cart went by. " Yon v/as a bash in the eye to 
 him. Ha, ha! — he's not to have it all his own way 
 now! " 
 
 Wilson had slid into the carrying in the natural de- 
 velopment of business. It was another of the possibili- 
 ties which he saw and turned to his advantage. The 
 two other chief grocers in the place, Cunningham the 
 dirty, and Calderwood the drunken, having no carts or 
 horses of their own, were dependent on Gourlay for con- 
 veyance of their goods from Skeighan. But Wilson 
 brought his own. Naturally, he was asked by his cus- 
 tomers to bring a parcel now and then, and naturally, 
 being the man he was, he made them pay for the privi- 
 lege. With that for a start the rest was soon accom- 
 plished. Gourlay had to pay now for his years of inso- 
 lence and tyranny; all who had irked beneath his dom- 
 ineering ways got their carrying done by Wilson. Ere 
 
 [ 09 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTEES 
 
 loug that prosperous gentleman had three carts on the 
 road, and two men under him to help in his various 
 affairs. 
 
 Carting was only one of several new developments in 
 the business of J. W. When the navvies came in about 
 the town and accommodation was ill to find, Wilson 
 rigged up an old shed in the corner of his holm as a hos- 
 telry for ten of them — and they had to pay through the 
 nose for their night's lodging. Their food they ob- 
 tained from the Emporium^ and thus the Wilsons bled 
 them both ways. Then there was the scheme for sup- 
 plying milk — another of the " possibeelities." Hither- 
 to in winter. Barbie was dependent for its milk supply 
 on heavy farm-carts that came lumbering down the 
 street, about half-past seven in the morning, jangling 
 bells to waken sleepy customers, and carrying lanterns 
 that carved circles of hairy yellow out the raw air. 
 But Mrs. Wilson got four cows, back-calvers who would 
 be milking strong in December, and supplied milk to 
 all the folk about the Cross. 
 
 She had a lass to help her in the house now, and the 
 red-lieaded boy was always to be seen, jinking round 
 corners like a weasel, running messages hot-foot, er- 
 rand boy to the " bisness " in general. Yet, though 
 everybody was busy and skelping at it, such a stress 
 of work was accompanied with much disarray. Wil- 
 son's yard was the strangest contrast to Gourlay's. 
 Gourlay's was a pleasure to the eye, everything of the 
 best and everything in order, since the master's pride 
 would not allow it to be other. But, though Wilson's 
 Emporium was clean, his back yard was littered with 
 dirty straw, broken boxes, old barrels, stable refuse, and 
 
 [100]
 
 CHAPTEE ELEVEN 
 
 the sky-pointing shafts of carts, uptilted in between. 
 When boxes and barrels were flung out of the Em- 
 porium they were generally allowed to lie on the dung- 
 hill, until they were converted into firewood. " Mis- 
 tress, you're a trifle mixed," said the Provost in grave 
 reproof, when he went round to the back to see Wil- 
 son on a matter of business. But " Tut," cried IMrs. 
 Wilson, as she threw down a plank, to make a path 
 for him across a dub — " Tut," she laughed, " the 
 clartier the cosier! " And it was as true as she said it. 
 The thing went forward splendidly in spite of its con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Though trade was brisker in Barbie than it had ever 
 been before, Wilson had already done injury to Gour- 
 lay's business as general conveyer. But, hitherto, he 
 had not infringed on the gurly one's other monopolies. 
 His chance came at last. 
 
 He appeared on a market day in front of the Red 
 Lion, a piece of pinkey-brown paper in his hand. Tliat 
 was the first telegram ever seen in Barbie, and it had 
 been brought by special messenger from Skeighan. It 
 was short and to the point. It ran: "Will buy 300 
 stone cheese 8 shillings stone* delivery at once," and 
 was signed by a merchant in Poltandie. 
 
 Gourlay was talking to old Tarmillan of Irrendavie, 
 when Wilson pushed in and addressed Tarmillan, with- 
 out a glance at the grain-merchant. 
 
 "Have you a kane o' cheese to sell, Irrendavie?" 
 was his blithe salutation. 
 
 * That is for the stone of fourteen pounds. At that time 
 Scotch cheese was selling, roiirjhly, at from fifty to sixty shillings 
 the hundredweight. 
 
 [101]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " I have," said Irrendavie, and he eyed him suspi- 
 ciously. For what was Wilson spiering for? He wasna 
 a cheese-merchant. 
 
 " How much the stane are ye seeking for't? " said 
 Wilson, 
 
 " I have just been asking Mr. Gourlay here for seven 
 and six," said Irrendavie, " but he winna rise a penny 
 on the seven! " 
 
 " r\\ gi'e ye seven and six," said Wilson, and slapped 
 his long thin flexible bank-book far too ostentatiously 
 against the knuckles of his left hand. 
 
 " But — but," stammered Irrendavie, suspicious still, 
 but melting at the offer, " you have no means of storing 
 cheese." 
 
 " Oh," said Wilson, getting in a fine one at Gourlay, 
 "there's no drawback in that! The ways o' business 
 have changed greatly since steam came close to our 
 doors. It's nothing but vanity nowadays when a coun- 
 try merchant wastes money on a ramshackle of build- 
 ings for storing — there's no need for that if he only 
 had brains to develop quick deliveries. Some folk, 
 no doubt, like to build monuments to their own pride, 
 but I'm not one of that kind; there's not enough sense 
 in that to satisfy a man like me. My offer doesna hold, 
 you understand, unless you deliver the cheese at Skei- 
 ghan Station. Do you accept the condition? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Irrendavie, " I'm willing to agree 
 to that." 
 
 " C'way into the TJed Lion then," said Wilson, " and 
 we'll wet the bargain with a drink to make it hold the 
 tighter! " 
 
 Then a strange thing happened. Gourlay had a cu- 
 
 [ i02 ]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 rious stick of foreign wood (one of the trifles he fed his 
 pride on) the crook of which curved back to the stem 
 and inhered, leaving space only for the fingers. The 
 wood was of wonderful toughness, and Gourlay had been 
 known to bet that no man could break the handle of his 
 stick by a single grip over the crook and under it. Yet 
 now, as he saw his bargain whisked away from him and 
 listened to Wilson's jibe, the thing snapped in his grip 
 like a rotten twig. He stared down at the broken pieces 
 for a while, as if wondering how they came there, then 
 dashed them on the ground while Wilson stood smiling 
 by. And then he strode — with a look on his face that 
 made the folk fall away. 
 
 " He's hellish angry," they grinned to each other 
 when their foe was gone, and laughed when they heard 
 the cause of it. " Ha, ha, Wilson's the boy to diddle 
 him! " And yet they looked queer M'hen told that the 
 famous stick had snapped in his grasp like a worm- 
 eaten larch-twig. "Lord! " cried the baker in admir- 
 ing awe, " did he break it with the ae chirt! It's been 
 tried by scores of fellows ior the last twenty years, and 
 never a man of them was up till't! Lads, there's some- 
 thing splendid about Gourlay's wrath. What a man he 
 is when the paw-sion grups him! " 
 
 " Tliplendid, d'ye ca't? " said the Deacon. " He may 
 thwing in a towe for his tliplendid wrath yet." 
 
 From that day Wilson and Gourlay were a pair of 
 gladiators for wliom the people of Barbie made a ring. 
 They pitted tlie protagonists against each other and 
 hounded them on to rivalry by their comments and 
 remarks, taking the side of the newcomer, less from 
 partiality to him than from hatred of their ancient 
 
 [103]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 enemy. It was strange that a thing so impalpable as 
 gossip should influence so strong a man as John Gourlay 
 to his ruin. But it did. The bodies of Barbie became 
 not only the chorus to Gourlay's tragedy, buzzing it 
 abroad and discussing his downfall; they became also, 
 merely by their maddening tattle, a villain of the piece 
 and an active cause of the catastrophe. Their gossip 
 seemed to materialize into a single entity, a something 
 propelling, that spurred Gourlay on to the schemes that 
 ruined him. He was not to be done, he said; he would 
 show the dogs what he thought of them. And so he 
 plunged headlong, while the wary Wilson watched him, 
 smiling at the sight. 
 
 There was a pretty hell-broth brewing in the little 
 town. 
 
 [104]
 
 XII 
 
 "Aye man, Templandmuir, it's you! " said Gourlay, 
 coining forward with great heartiness, "Aye man, and 
 how are ye? C'way into the parlour! " 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Gourlay," said the Templar. 
 His manner was curiously subdued. 
 
 Since his marriage there was a great change in the 
 rubicund squireen. Hitherto he had lived in sluttish 
 comfort on his own land, content with the little it 
 brought in, and proud to be the friend of Gourlay whom 
 everybody feared. If it ever dawned on his befuddled 
 mind that Gourlay turned the friendship to his own ac- 
 count, his vanity was flattered by the prestige he ac- 
 quired because of it. Like many another robustious 
 big toper, the Templar was a chicken at heart, and " to 
 be in with Gourlay " lent him a consequence that cov- 
 ered his deficiency. " Yes, I'm sleepy," he would yawn 
 in Skeighan Mart, " I had a sederunt yestreen wi' John 
 Gourlay," and he would slap his boot with his riding- 
 switch, and feel like a hero. " I know how it is, I know 
 how it is! " Provost Connal of Barbie used to cry; 
 " Gourlay both courts and cowes him — first he courts 
 and then he cowes — and the Templar hasn't the cour- 
 age to break it off! " The Provost hit the mark. 
 
 But when the Templar married the miller's daughter 
 of the Mill o' Blink (a sad come-down, said foolish 
 neighbours, for a Halliday of Templandmuir) there was 
 
 [105]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEES 
 
 a sudden change about the laird. In our good Scots 
 proverb, "A miller's daughter has a shrill voice " and 
 the new leddy of Templandmuir (" a leddy she is! " 
 said the frightened housekeeper) justified the proverb. 
 Her voice went with the skirl of an East wind through 
 the rat-riddled mansion of the Hallidays. She was nine- 
 and-twenty, and a birkie woman of nine-and-twenty can 
 make a good husband out of very unpromising material. 
 The Templar wore a scared look in those days and went 
 home betimes. His cronies knew the fun was over when 
 they heard what happened to the great punch-bowl — 
 she made it a swine-trough. It was the heirloom of a 
 hundred years, and as much as a man could carry with 
 his arms out, a massive curio in stone; but to her hus- 
 band's plaint about its degradation, " Oh," she cried, 
 " it'll never know the difference! It's been used to 
 swine! " 
 
 But she was not content with the cessation of the 
 old, she was determined on bringing in the new. For 
 a twelvemonth now she had urged her husband to be 
 rid of Gourlay. The country was opening up, she said, 
 and the quarry ought to be their own. A dozen times 
 he had promised her to warn Gourlay that he must yield 
 the quarry when his tack ran out at the end of the year, 
 and a dozen times he had shrunk from the encounter. 
 
 " I'll write," he said feebly. 
 
 " Write! " said she, lowered in her pride to think her 
 husband was a coward. "Write, indeed! Man, have 
 ye no spunk? Think what he has made out o' ye! 
 Think o' the money that has gone to him that should 
 have come to you! You should be glad o' the chance 
 to tell him o't. My certy, if I was you I wouldn't miss
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 it for the world — just to let him know of his cheatry! 
 Oh, it's very right that / " — she sounded the I big and 
 brave — " it's very right that / should live in this tum- 
 bledown hole while he builds a palace from your plun- 
 der! It's right that / should put up with this " — she 
 flung hands of contempt at her dwelling — " it's right 
 that / should put up with this, while yon trollop has a 
 splendid mansion on the top o' the brae! And every 
 bawbee of his fortune has come out of you — the fool 
 makes nothing from his other business — he would have 
 been a pauper if he hadn't met a softie like you that he 
 could do what he liked with. Write, indeed! I have 
 no patience with a wheen sumphs of men! Them do the 
 work o' the world! They may wear the breeks, but the 
 women wear the brains, I trow. I'll have it out with 
 the black brute myself," screamed the hardy dame, " if 
 you're feared of his glower. If you havena the pluck 
 for it, I have. Write, indeed! In you go to the meet- 
 ing that oald ass of a Provost has convened, and don't 
 show your face in Templandmuir till you have had it 
 out with Gourlay! " 
 No wonder the Templar looked subdued. 
 When Gourlay cam^e forward with his usual calculated 
 heartiness, the laird remembered his wife and felt 
 very uncomfortable. It was ill to round on a man 
 who always imposed on him a hearty and hardy good- 
 fellowship. Gourlay, greeting him so warmly, gave 
 him no excuse for an outburst. In his dilemma he 
 turned to the children, to postpone the evil hour. 
 
 "Aye, man, John! " he said, heavily, " you're there! " 
 Heavy Scotsmen are fond of telling folk that they are 
 where they are. " You're there! " said Templandmuir, 
 
 [107]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 "Aye," said John, the simpleton, " I'm here." 
 
 In the grime of the boy's face there were large white 
 circles round the eyes, showing where his fists had 
 rubbed off the tears through the day. 
 
 " How are you doing at the school? " said the Tem- 
 plar, 
 
 " Oh, he's an ass! " said Gourlay. " He takes after 
 his mother in that! The lassie's more smart — she fa- 
 vours our side o' the house! Eh, Jenny? " he enquired, 
 and tugged her pigtail, smiling down at her in grim 
 fondness. 
 
 "Yes," nodded Janet, encouraged by the petting, 
 " John's always at the bottom of the class. Jimmy 
 Wilson's always at the top, and the dominie set him to 
 teach John his 'counts the day — after he had thrashed 
 him! " 
 
 She cried out, at a sudden tug on her pigtail, and 
 looked up, with tears in her eyes, to meet her father's 
 scowl. 
 
 " You eediot! " said Gourlay, gazing at his son with a 
 savage contempt, " have you no pride to let Wilson's 
 son be your master? " 
 
 John slunk from the room. 
 
 " Bide where you are, Templandmuir," said Gourlay, 
 after a little, " I'll be back directly." 
 
 He went through to the kitchen and took a crystal 
 jug from the dresser. He " made a point " of bring- 
 ing the water for his whiskey. " I like to pump it up 
 cold," he used to say, " cold and cold, ye know, till 
 there's a mist on the outside of the glass like the bloom 
 on a plum, and then, by CJoad, ye have the fine drinking! 
 Oh, no — ye needn't tell me, I wouldn't lip drink if the 
 
 [ 108 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 water wasna ice-cold." He never varied from the tipple 
 he approved. In his long sederunts with Templand- 
 muir he would slip out to the pump, before every brew, 
 to get water of sufficient coldness. 
 
 To-night he would birl the bottle with Templandmuir 
 as usual, till the fuddled laird should think himself a 
 fine big fellow as being the intimate of John Gourlay — 
 and then, sober as a judge himself, he would drive him 
 home in the small hours. And when next they met, the 
 pot-valiant squireen would chuckle proudly, " Faith, 
 yon was a night." By a crude cunning of the kind 
 Gourlay had maintained his ascendancy for years, and 
 to-night he would maintain it still. He went out to the 
 pump, to fetch water with his own hands, for their first 
 libation. 
 
 But when he came back and set out the big decanter 
 Templandmuir started to his feet. 
 
 " N"oat to-night, Mr. Gourlay," he stammered — and 
 his unusual flutter of refusal might have warned Gour- 
 lay — " noat to-night, if you please, noat to-night, if you 
 please. As a matter of fact — eh — what I really came 
 into the town for, doan't you see, was — eh — to attend 
 the meeting the Provost has convened about the rail- 
 way. You'll come down to the meeting, will ye noat? " 
 
 He wanted to get Gourlay away from the House witli 
 the Green Shutters. It would be easier to quarrel with 
 him out of doors. 
 
 But Gourlay gaped at him across the table, his eyes 
 big with surprise and disapproval. 
 
 "Huh! " he growled, "I wonder at a man like you 
 giving your head to that! It's a wheen damned non- 
 
 sense." 
 
 [109]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " Oh, I'm no so sure of that/' drawled the Templar. 
 " I think the railway means to come." 
 
 The whole country was agog about the new railway. 
 The question agitating solemn minds was whether it 
 should join the main line at Fechars, thirty miles ahead, 
 or pass to the right, through Fleckie and Barbie, to a 
 junction up at Skeighan Drone. Many were the rea- 
 sons spluttered in vehement debate for one route or the 
 other. " On the one side, ye see, Skeighan was a big 
 place a'readys, and look what a centre it would be, if it 
 had three lines of rail running out and in! Eh, my, 
 what a centre! Then there was Fleckie and Barbie — 
 they would be the big towns! Up the valley, too, was 
 the shortest road; it would be a daft-like thing to build 
 thirty mile of rail, when fifteen was enough to establish 
 the connection! And was it likely — I put it to ainy 
 man of sense — was it likely the Coal Company wouldn't 
 do everything in their power to get the railway up the 
 valley, seeing that if it didn't come that airt, they would 
 need to build a line of their own? " — " Ah, but then, ye 
 see, Fechars was a big place, too, and there was lots of 
 mineral up there as well! And though it was a longer 
 road to Fechars and part of it lay across the moors, there 
 were several wee towns that airt just waiting for a 
 chance of growth! I can tell ye, sirs, this was going 
 to be a close question! " 
 
 Such was the talk in pot-house and parlour, at kirk 
 and mart and tryst and fair, and wherever potentates 
 did gather and abound. The partisans on either side 
 began to canvass the country in support of their con- 
 tentions. They might have kept their breath to cool 
 their porridge, for these matters, we know, are settled 
 
 [ 110 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 in the great Witenagemot. But petitions were prepared 
 and meetings Avere convened. In those days Provost 
 Connal of Barbie was in constant conununion with the 
 " Pow-ers." " Yass," he nodded gravely — only " nod " 
 is a word too swift for the grave inclining of that mighty 
 pow — " Yass, ye know, the great thing in matters 
 like this is to get at the Pow-ers, doan't you see? 
 Oh, yass, yass; we must get at the Pow-ers! " — and he 
 looked as if none but he were equal to the job. He even 
 went to London (to interrogate the " Pow-ers "), and 
 simple bodies, gathered at the Cross for their Saturday at 
 e'en, told each other with bated breath that the Provost 
 was away to the " seat of Goaver'ment to see about the 
 railway." When he came back and shook his head, 
 hope drained from his fellows and left them hollow in 
 an empty world. But when he smacked his lips on 
 receiving an important letter, the heavens were bright- 
 ened and the landscapes smiled. 
 
 The Provost walked about the town nowadays with 
 the air of a man on whose shoulders the weight of em- 
 pires did depend. But for all his airs it was not the 
 Head o' the Town who was the ablest advocate of the 
 route up the Water of Barbie. It was that public-spir- 
 ited citizen, Mr. James Wilson of the Cross! AYilson 
 championed the cause of Barbie with an ardour that did 
 infinite credit to his civic heart. For one thing, it was 
 a grand way of recommending himself to his new 
 townsfolk, as he told his wife, " and so increasing the 
 circle of our present trade, don't ye understand ? " — ^f or 
 another, he was as keen as the keenest that the railway 
 should come and enhance the value of his property. 
 " We must agitate," he cried, when Sandy Toddle mur- 
 
 [111]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTEES 
 
 mured a doubt whether anything they could do would 
 be of much avail. " It's not settled yet what road the 
 line's to follow, and who knows but a trifle may turn 
 the scale in our behalf? Local opinion ought to be ex- 
 pressed! They're sending a monster petition from the 
 Fechars side; we'll send the Company a bigger one from 
 ours! Look at Skeighan and Fleckie and Barbie — three 
 towns at our back, and the new Coal Company, forbye! 
 A public opinion of that size ought to have a great 
 weight — if put forward properly! We must agitate, 
 sirs, we must agitate — we maun scour the country for 
 names in our support. Look what a number of things 
 there are, to recommend our route. It's the shortest, 
 and there's no need for heavy cuttings such as are 
 needed on the other side; the road's there a'ready — Bar- 
 bie Water has cut it through the hills. It's the mani- 
 fest design of Providence that there should be a line up 
 Barbie Valley! What a position for't! — And, oh," 
 thought Wilson, " what a site for building houses in my 
 holm! — Let a meeting be convened at wunst! " 
 
 The meeting was convened with Provost Connal in the 
 chair, and Wilson as general factotum. 
 
 " You'll come down to the meeting? " said Templand- 
 muir to Gourlay. 
 
 Go to a meeting for which Wilson had sent out the 
 bills! At another, Gourlay would have hurled his usual 
 objurgation that he would see him condemned to eter- 
 nal agonies ere he granted his request! But Tem- 
 plandmuir was different. Gourlay had always flattered 
 this man (whom he inwardly despised) by a companion- 
 ship which made proud the other. He had always 
 yielded to Templandmuir in small things, for the sake 
 
 [112]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 of the quarry, which was a great thing. He yielded to 
 him now. 
 
 " Verra well," he said shortly, and rose to get his hat. 
 
 When Gourlay put on his hat, the shallow meanness 
 of his brow was hid, and nothing was seen to impair his 
 dark strong gravity of face. He was a man you would 
 have turned to look at, as he marched in silence by the 
 side of Templandmuir. Though taller than the laird, 
 he looked shorter because of his enormous breadth. 
 He had a chest like the heave of a hill. Templand- 
 muir was afraid of him. And fretting at the necessity 
 he felt to quarrel with a man of whom he was afraid, 
 he had an unreasonable hatred of Gourlay whose con- 
 duct made this quarrel necessary at the same time that 
 his character made it to be feared; and he brooded on 
 his growing rage that, with it for a stimulus, he might 
 work his cowardly nature to the point of quarrelling. 
 Conscious of the coming row, then, he felt awkward in 
 the i^resent, and was ignorant what to say. Gourlay 
 was silent, too. He felt it an insult to the House with 
 the Green Shutters that the laird should refuse its prof- 
 fered hospitality. He hated to be dragged to a meeting 
 he despised. Never before was such irritation between 
 them. 
 
 When they came to the hall, where the meeting was 
 convened, there were knots of bodies grouped about the 
 floor. Wilson fluttered from group to group, an impor- 
 tant man, with a roll of papers in his hand. Gourlay, 
 quick for once in his dislike, took in every feature of 
 the man he loathed. 
 
 Wilson was what the sentimental women of the neigh- 
 bourhood called a " bonny man." His features were 
 
 [113]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 remarkably regular, and his complexion was remarkably 
 fair. His brow was so delicate of hue that the blue 
 veins running down his temples could be traced dis- 
 tinctly beneath the whiteness of the skin. Unluckily 
 for him he was so fair, that in a strong light (as now 
 beneath the gas) the suspicion of his unwashedness be- 
 came a certainty — "as if he got a bit idle slaik now 
 and than, and never a good rub," thought Gourlay in 
 a clean disgust. Full lips showed themselves bright 
 red in the middle between the two wings of a very 
 blonde and very symmetrical moustache. The ugly 
 feature of the face was the blue calculating eyes. They 
 were tender round the lids, so that the white lashes 
 stuck out in little peaks. And in conversation he had a 
 habit of peering out of these eyes as if he were con- 
 stantly spying for something to emerge that he might 
 twist to his advantage. As he talked to a man close 
 by, and glimmered (not at the man beside him, but far 
 away in the distance of his mind at some chance of gain 
 suggested by the other's words) Gourlay heard him say 
 musingly, " Imphm; imphm; imphm; there might be 
 something in that! " nodding his head and stroking his 
 moustache, as he uttered each meditative '^ imphm." 
 
 It was Wilson's unconscious revelation that his mind 
 was busy with a commercial hint which he had stolen 
 from his neighbour's talk. " The damned sneck- 
 drawer! " thought Gourlay, enlightened by his hate, 
 " he's sucking Tam Finlay's brains, to steal some idea 
 for himsell! " And still as Wilson listened he mur- 
 mured swiftly, "Imphm! I see, Mr. Finlay; imphm! 
 imphm! imphm! " nodding his head and pulling his 
 moustache and glimmering at his new " opportunity." 
 
 [ 114 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 Our insight is' often deepest into those we hate, be- 
 cause annoyance fixes our thought on them to probe. 
 We cannot keep our minds off them — " Why do they do 
 it? " we snarl, and wondering why, we find out their 
 character. Gourlay was not an observant man, but 
 every man is in any man somewhere, and hate to-night 
 driving his mind into Wilson, helped him to read him 
 like an open book. He recognized with a vague un- 
 easiness — not with fear, for Gourlay did not know what 
 it meant, but with uneasy anger — the superior cunning 
 of his rival. Gourlay, a strong block of a man cut off 
 from the world by impotence of speech, could never 
 have got out of Finlay what Wilson drew from him in 
 two minutes' easy conversation. 
 
 Wilson ignored Gourlay, but he was very blithe with 
 Templandmuir and inveigled him off to a corner. 
 They talked together very briskly, and Wilson laughed 
 once with uplifted head, glancing across at Gourlay as 
 he laughed. Curse them, were they speaking of him? 
 
 The hall was crammed at last, and the important 
 bodies took their seats upon the front benches. Gour- 
 lay refused to be seated with the rest, but stood near the 
 platform, with his back to the wall, by the side of Tem- 
 plandmuir. 
 
 After what the Provost described " as a few prelimi- 
 nary remerks " — they lasted half an hour — he called on 
 Mr. Wilson to address the meeting. Wilson descanted 
 on the benefits that would accrue to Barbie if it got the 
 railway, and on the needcessity for a " long pull and a 
 strong pull and a pull altogether " — a phrase which he 
 repeated many times in the course of his address. He 
 sat down at last amid thunders of applause. 
 
 [ 115 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " There's no needcessity for me to make a loang 
 speech," said the Provost. 
 
 " Hear, hear! " said Gourlay, and the meeting was 
 unkind enough to laugh. 
 
 " Order, order! " cried Wilson perkily. 
 
 "As I was saying when I was grossly interrupted," 
 fumed the Provost, " there's no needcessity for me to 
 make a loang speech. I had thoat we were a-all agreed 
 on the desirabeelity of the rileway coming in our direc- 
 tion. I had thoat, after the able- — I must say the very 
 able — speech of Mr. Wilson, that there wasn't a man in 
 this room so shtupid as to utter a word of dishapproval. 
 I had thoat we might proshced at woance to elect a depu- 
 tation. I had thoat we would get the name of every- 
 body here for the great petition we mean to send the 
 Pow-ers. I had thoat it was all, so to shpeak, a fore- 
 gone conclusion. But it seems I was mistaken, ladies 
 and gentlemen — or rather, I oat to say gentlemen, for 
 I believe there are no ladies present. Yass, it seems I 
 was mistaken. It may be there are some who would 
 like to keep Barbie going on in the oald way which they 
 found so much to their advantage. It may be there are 
 some who regret a change that will put an end to their 
 chances of tyraneezin'. It may be there are some who 
 know themselves so shtupid that they fear the new con- 
 dcetions of trade the railway's bound to bring." — Here 
 Wilson rose and whispered in his ear, and the people 
 watched them, wondering what hint J. W. was passing 
 to the Provost. The Provost leaned with pompous 
 gravity toward his monitor, hand at ear to catch the 
 treasured words. He nodded and resumed. — " Now, 
 gentlemen, as Mr. Wilson said, this is a case that needs 
 
 [ IIG J
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 a loang pull, and a stroang pull, and a pull altogether. 
 We must be unanimous. It will noat do to show our* 
 selves divided among ourselves. Therefore, I think, 
 we oat to have expressions of opinion from some of our 
 leading townsmen. That will show how far we are 
 unanimous. I had thoat there could be only one opin- 
 ion, and that we might prosheed at once with the peti- 
 tion. But it seems I was wroang. It is best to enquire 
 first exactly where we stand. So I call upon Mr, John 
 Gourlay who has been the foremost man in the town for 
 mainy years — at least he used to be that — I call upon 
 Mr. Gourlay as the first to express an opinion on the 
 subjeck." 
 
 Wilson's hint to the Provost placed Gourlay in a fine 
 dilemma. Stupid as he was he was not so stupid as not 
 to perceive the general advantage of the railway. If he 
 approved it, however, he would seem to support Wilson 
 and the Provost whom he loathed. If he disapproved, 
 his opposition would be set down to a selfish considera- 
 tion for his own trade, and he would incur the anger 
 of the meeting, which was all for the coming of the rail- 
 way. Wilson had seized the cliance to put him in a false 
 position. He knew Gourlay could not put forty words 
 together in public, and that in his dilemma he would 
 blunder and give himself away. 
 
 Gourlay evaded the question. 
 
 " It would be better to convene a meeting," he bawled 
 to the Provost, " to consider the state of some folk's 
 back-doors." — That was a nipper to Wilson! — " There's 
 a stink at the Cross that's enough to kill a cuddy! " 
 
 " Evidently not," yelled Wilson, " since you're still 
 alive! " 
 
 [117]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 A roar went up against Gourlay. All he could do 
 was to scowl before him, with hard-set mouth and 
 gleaming eyes, while they bellowed him to scorn. 
 
 " I would like to hear what Templandmuir has to say 
 on the subject," said Wilson getting up. " But no 
 doubt he'll follow his friend, Mr. Gourlay." 
 
 " No, I don't follow Mr. Gourlay," bawled Templand- 
 muir with unnecessary loudness. The reason of liis ve- 
 liemenee was twofold. He was nettled (as Wilson 
 meant lie should) by the suggestion that he was noth- 
 ing but Gourlay's henchman. And, being eager to op- 
 pose Gourlay, yet a coward, he yelled to supply in noise 
 what he lacked in resolution. 
 
 "I don't follow Mr. Gourlay at all," he roared. 
 " I follow nobody but myself! Every man in the dis- 
 trict's in support of this petition. It would be ab- 
 surd to suppose anything else. I'll be glad to 
 sign't among the first, and do everything I can in 
 its support." 
 
 " Verra well," said the Provost, " it seems we're 
 agreed after all. We'll get some of our foremost men 
 to sign the petition at this end of the hall, and then 
 it'll be placed in the anteroom for the rest to sign as 
 they go out." 
 
 "Take it across to Gourlay," whispered Wilson to 
 the two men who were carrying the enormous tome. 
 They took it over to the grain-merchant, and one of 
 them handed him an inkhorn. He dashed it to the 
 ground. 
 
 The meeting hissed like a cellarful of snakes. But 
 Gourlay turned and glowered at them, and somehow 
 the hisses died away. His was the high courage that 
 
 [118]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 feeds on hate, and welcomes rather than shrinks from 
 its expression. He was smiling as he faced them. 
 
 " Let me pass/' he said, and shouldered his way to the 
 door, the bystanders falling back to make room. Tem- 
 plandmuir followed him out. 
 
 " I'll walk to the head o' the brae," said the Templar. 
 
 He must have it out with Gourlay at once, or else go 
 home to meet the anger of his wife. Having opposed 
 Gourlay already, he felt that now was the time to break 
 with him for good. Only a little was needed to com- 
 plete the rupture. And he was the more impelled to 
 declare himself to-night because he had Just seen Gour- 
 lay discomfited, and was beginning to despise the man 
 he had formerly admired. Why the whole meeting had 
 laughed at his expense! In quarrelling with Gourlay, 
 moreover, he would have the whole locality behind him. 
 He would range himself on the popular side. Every 
 impulse of mind and body pushed him forward to the 
 brink of speech; he would never get a better occasion 
 to bring out his grievance. 
 
 They trudged together in a burning silence. Though 
 nothing was said between them, each was in wrathful 
 contact with the other's mind. Gourlay blamed every- 
 thing that had happened on Templandmuir, who had 
 dragged him to the meeting and deserted him. And 
 Templandmuir was longing to begin about the quarry, 
 but afraid to start. 
 
 That was why he began at last with false unnecessary 
 loudness. It was partly to encourage himself (as a bull 
 bellows to increase his rage) and partly because his spite 
 had been so long controlled. It burst the louder for its 
 pent fury. 
 
 [119]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 " Mr. Gourlay! " he bawled suddenly, when they came 
 opposite the House with the Green Shutters, " I've had 
 a crow to pick with you for more than a year! " 
 
 It came on Gourlay with a flash that Templandmuir 
 was slipping away from him. But he must answer him 
 civilly for the sake of the quarry. 
 
 " Aye man," he said quietly, " and what may 
 that be? " 
 
 " I'll damned soon tell you what it is," said the Tem- 
 plar. " Yon was a monstrous overcharge for bringing 
 my ironwork from Fleckie. I'll be damned if I put 
 up with that! " 
 
 And yet it was only a trifle. He had put up with fifty 
 worse impositions and never said a word. But when a 
 man is bent on a quarrel any spark will do for an ex- 
 plosion. 
 
 " How do ye make that out? " said Gourlay, still very 
 quietly, lest he should alienate the quarry laird. 
 
 " Damned fine do I make that out," yelled Templand- 
 muir, and louder than ever was the yell. He was the 
 brave man now, with his bellow to hearten him. 
 " Damned fine do I make that out. Yo\i charged mo for 
 a whole day, though half o't was spent upon your own 
 concerns. I'm tired o' you and your cheatry. You've 
 made a braw penny out o' mo in your time. But curse 
 me if I endure it loanger. I give you notice this verra 
 night that your tack o' the quarry must end at Mar- 
 tinmas." 
 
 He was ofi', glad to have it out and glad to escape the 
 consequence, leaving Gourlay a cauldron of wrath in the 
 darkness. It was not mci-ely the material loss that 
 iriaildened him. But for the first time in his life he had 
 
 I r»o I
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 taken a rebuff without a word or a blow in return. In 
 his desire to conciliate he had let Templandmuir get 
 away unscathed. His blood rocked him where he stood. 
 
 He walked blindly to the kitchen door — never know- 
 ing how he reached it. It was locked — at this early 
 hour! — and the simple inconvenience let loose the fury 
 of his wrath. He struck the door with his clenched fist 
 till the blood streamed on his knuckles. 
 
 It was Mrs. Gourlay who opened the door to him. 
 She started back before his awful eyes. 
 
 " John! " she cried, " what's wrong wi' ye? " 
 
 The sight of the she-tatterdemalion there before him, 
 whom he had endured so long and must endure for- 
 ever, was the crowning burden of his night. Damn her, 
 why didn't she get out of the way, why did she stand 
 there in her dirt and ask silly questions? He struck 
 her on the bosom with his great fist, and sent her spin- 
 ning on the dirty table. 
 
 She rose from among the broken dishes, and came 
 towards him, with slack lips and great startled eyes. 
 "John," she panted, lilce a pitiful frightened child, 
 " what have I been doing? .... Man, what did 
 you hit me for? " 
 
 He gaped at her with hanging jaw. He knew he was 
 a brute — knew she had done nothing to-night more than 
 she had ever done, knew he had vented on her a wrath 
 that should have burst on others. But his mind was at 
 a stick; how could he explain — to Tier'? He gaped and 
 glowered for a speechless moment, then turned on his 
 heel and went into the parlour, slamming the door till 
 the windows rattled in their frames. 
 
 She stared after him a while in large-eyed stupor, 
 
 [ 121 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 then flung herself in her old nursing chair by the fire, 
 and spat blood in the ribs, hawking it up coarsely — we 
 forget to be delicate in moments of supremer agony. 
 And then she flung her apron over her head and rocked 
 herself to and fro in the chair where she had nursed his 
 children, wailing: " It's a pity o' me, it's a pity o' me! 
 My God, aye, it's a geyan pity o' me! " 
 
 The boy was in bed, but Janet had watched the scene 
 with a white scared face and tearful cries. She crept 
 to her mother's side. 
 
 The sympathy of children with those who weep is 
 innocently selfish. The sight of tears makes them un- 
 comfortable, and they want them to cease, in the inter- 
 ests of their own happiness. If the outward signs of 
 grief would only vanish, all would be well. They are 
 not old enough to appreciate the inward agony. 
 
 So Janet tugged at the obscuring apron, and whim- 
 pered, " Don't greet, mother, don't greet. Woman, I 
 dinna like to see ye greetin'." 
 
 But Mrs. Gourlay still rocked herself and wailed, " It's 
 a pity o' me, it's a pity o' me; my God, aye, it's a geyan 
 pity o' me." 
 
 [122]
 
 XIII 
 
 " Is he in himsell? " asked Gibson the builder, com- 
 ing into the Emporium. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson was alone in the shop. Since trade grew 
 so brisk she had an assistant to help her, but he was out 
 for his breakfast at present, and as it happened she was 
 all alone. 
 
 " No," she said, " he's no in! We're terribly driven 
 this twelvemonth back, since trade grew so thrang, and 
 he's aye hunting business in some corner. He's out the 
 now after a carrying affair. Was it ainything par- 
 ticular? " 
 
 She looked at Gibson with a speculation in her eyes 
 that almost verged on hostility. Wives of the lower 
 classes who are active helpers in a husband's affairs, 
 often direct that look upon strangers who approach him 
 in the way of business. For they are enemies whatever 
 way you take them; come to be done by the husband or 
 to do him — in either case, therefore, the object of a 
 sharp curiosity. You may call on an educated man. 
 either to fleece him or be fleeced, and his wife, though 
 she knows all about it, will talk to you charmingly of 
 trifles, while you wait for him in her parlour. But a 
 wife of the lower orders, active in her husband's affairs, 
 has not been trained to dissemble so prettily — though 
 her face be a mask, what she is wondering comes out in 
 her eye. There was suspicion in the big round stare 
 
 [123]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 that Mrs, Wilson directed at the builder. AVhat was he 
 spiering for " himsell " for? What could he be up to? 
 Some end of his own, no doubt. Anxious curiosity 
 forced her to enquire. 
 
 " Would I do instead? " she asked. 
 
 " Well, hardly/' said Gibson, clawing his chin, and 
 gazing at a corded round of " Barbie's Best " jvist above 
 his head. '*' Dod, it's a fine ham that," he said, to turn 
 the subject. " How are ye selling it the now? " 
 
 " Tenpence a pound retail, but ninepence only if ye 
 take a whole one. Ye had better let me send you one, 
 Mr. Gibson, now that winter's drawing on! It's a 
 heartsome thing, the smell of frying ham on a frosty 
 morning — " and her laugh went skelloching up the 
 street. 
 
 " Well, ye see," said Gibson with a grin, " I expect 
 Mr. Wilson to present me with one, when he hears the 
 news that I have brought him." 
 
 " Aha! " said she, " it's something good, then," and 
 she stuck her arms akimbo. " James! " she shrilled, 
 " James! " — and the red-haired boy shot from the back 
 premises. 
 
 " Run up to the Red Lion, and see if your father has 
 finished his crack wi' Templandmuir. Tell him Mr. 
 Gibson wants to see him on important business." 
 
 The boy squinted once at the visitor, and scooted, the 
 red head of him foremost. 
 
 While Gibson waited and clawed his chin she exam- 
 ined him narrowly. Suspicion as to the object of his 
 visit fixed her attention on his face. 
 
 He was a man with mean brown eyes. Brown eyes 
 may be clear and limpid as a mountain pool, or they may 
 
 [ 124 ]
 
 CHAPTER THIETEEN 
 
 fiave the line black flash of anger and the jovial gleam, 
 or they may be mean things — little and sly and oily. 
 Gibson's had the depth of cunning, not the depth of 
 character, and they glistened like the eyes of a lustful 
 animal. He was a reddish man, with a fringe of sandy 
 beard, and a perpetvial grin which showed his yellow 
 teeth, with green deposit round their roots. It was 
 more than a grin, it was a rictus, semicircular from 
 cheek to cheek, and the bead}^ eyes, ever on the watch 
 up above it, belied its false benevolence. He was not 
 florid, yet that grin of his seemed to intensify his red- 
 dishness (perhaps because it brought out and made 
 prominent his sandy valance and the ruddy round of his 
 cheeks) so that the baker christened him long ago " the 
 man with the sandy smile." " Cunning Johnny " was 
 his other nickname. Wilson had recognized a match 
 in him the moment he came to Barbie, and had resolved 
 to act with him if he could, but never to act against him. 
 They had made advances to each other. Birds of a 
 feather, in short. 
 
 The grocer came in hurriedly, white-waistcoated to- 
 day, and a perceptibly bigger bulge in his belly than 
 when we first saw him in Barbie, four years ago now. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Gibson," he panted. " Is it 
 private that ye wanted to see me on? " 
 
 " Verra private," said the sandy smiler. 
 
 " We'll go through to the house then," said Wilson, 
 and ushered his guest through the back premises. But 
 the voice of his wife recalled him. " James! " she cried. 
 " Here for a minute jiist! " and he turned to her, leaving 
 Gibson in the yard. 
 
 " Be careful what you're doing," she whispered in his 
 
 [125]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 ear. " It wasna for nothing they christened Gibson 
 * Cunning Johnny.' Keep the dirt out your e'en." 
 
 " There's no fear of that," he assured her pompously. 
 It was a grand thing to have a wife like that, but her 
 advice nettled him now just a little, because it seemed 
 to imply a doubt of his efhciency — and that was quite 
 onnecessar. He knew what he was doing. They would 
 need to rise very early that got the better o' a man like 
 him! 
 
 "You'll take a dram?" said Wilson when they 
 reached a pokey little room where the most conspicuous 
 and dreary object was a large bare flowerpot of red 
 earthenware, on a green woollen mat, in the middle of a 
 round table. Out of the flowerpot rose gauntly a three- 
 sticked frame, up which two lonely stalks of a climbing 
 plant tried to scramble, but failed miserably to reach the 
 top. The round little ricketty table with the family 
 album on one corner (placed at what Mrs. Wilson con- 
 sidered a beautiful artistic angle to the window), the 
 tawdry cloth, the green mat, the shiny horsehair sofa, 
 and the stufi^y atmosphere, were all in a perfect harmony 
 of ugliness. A sampler on the wall informed the world 
 that there was no place like home. 
 
 Wilson pushed the flowerpot to one side, and " You'll 
 take a dram? " he said blithely. 
 
 " Oh, aye," said Gibson with a grin, " I never refuse 
 drink when I'm offered it for nothing." 
 
 " Hi! hi! " laughed Wilson at the little joke, and pro- 
 duced a cut decanter and a pair of glasses. He filled 
 the glasses so brimming full that the drink ran over on 
 the table. 
 
 "Canny, man, for God's sake canny!" cried Gibson 
 
 [126]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 starting forward in alarm. " Don't ye see you're spill- 
 ing the mercies? " He stooped his lips to the rim of 
 his glass, and sipped, lest a drop of Scotia's nectar 
 should escape him. 
 
 They faced each other, sitting. " Here's pith! " said 
 Gibson — " Pith! " said the other in chorus, and they 
 nodded to each other in amity, primed glasses up and 
 ready. And then it was eyes heavenward and the little 
 finger uppermost. 
 
 Gibson smacked his lips once and again when the fiery 
 spirit tickled his uvula. 
 
 " Ha! " said he, " that's the stuff to put heart in 
 a man." 
 
 " It's no bad whiskey," said Wilson complacently. 
 
 Gibson wiped the sandy stubble round his mouth with 
 the back of his hand, and considered for a moment. 
 Then, leaning forward, he tapped Wilson's knee in whis- 
 pering importance. 
 
 "Have you heard the news? " he murmured, with a 
 watchful glimmer in his eyes. 
 
 " No ! " cried Wilson glowering, eager and alert. " Is't 
 ocht in the business line? Is there a possibeelity for 
 me in't? " 
 
 " Oh, there might," nodded Gibson, playing his man 
 for a while. 
 
 "Aye man ! " cried Wilson briskly, and brought his 
 chair an inch or two forward. Gibson grinned and 
 watched him with his beady eyes. — " What green teeth 
 he has! " thought Wilson who was not fastidious. 
 
 " The Coal Company are meaning to erect a village 
 for five hundred miners a mile out the Fleckie Eoad, 
 and they're running a branch line up the Lintie's 
 
 [137]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Uuni, tlialll ueed the building oi' a dozen brigs. I'm 
 happy to say I have nabbed the contract for the 
 building." 
 
 " ^lan, Mr. Gibson, d'ye tell me that! I'm proud to 
 hear it, sir; I am that! " Wilson was botching in his 
 chair with eagerness. For what could Gibson be want- 
 ing with him if it wasna to arrange about the carting? 
 " Fill up your glass, Mr. Gibson, man; fill up your glass! 
 You're drinking nothing at all. Let nie help you! " 
 
 "Aye, but I havena the contract for the carting," said 
 Gibson. " That's not mine to dispose of. They mean 
 to keep it in their own hand." 
 
 Wilson's mouth forgot to shut, and his eyes were big 
 and round as his mouth in staring disappointment. 
 Was it this he was wasting his drink for? 
 
 " Where do I come in ? " he asked blankly. 
 
 Gibson tossed off another glassful of the burning 
 heartener of men, and leaned forward with his elbows 
 on the table. 
 
 " D'ye ken Goudie, the Company's Manager? He's 
 worth making up to, I can tell ye. He has complete 
 control of the business, and can airt you the road of a 
 good thing. I made a point of helping him in every- 
 thing, ever since he came to Barbie, and I'm glad to say 
 that he hasna forgotten't. Man, it was through him I 
 got the building contract — they never threw't open to 
 the public. But they mean to contract separate for 
 carting the material. That means that they'll need the 
 length of a dozen horses on the road for a twelvemonth 
 to come; for it's no only the building — they're launch- 
 ing out on a big scale, and there's lots of other things 
 forbye. Now Goudie's as close as a whin and likes to 
 
 [128]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 keep everything dark till the proper time comes for 
 sploriug o't. Not a whisper has been heard so far about 
 this village for the miners — there's a rumour, to be 
 sure, about a wheen houses going up, but nothing near 
 the reality. .Vud there's not a soul, either, that kens 
 there's a big contract for carting to be had 'ceptna Gou- 
 die and mysell. But or a month's bye, they'll be adver- 
 tising for estimates for a twelvemonth's carrying. I 
 thocht a hint aforehand would be worth something to 
 you, and that's the reason of my visit." 
 
 " I see," said Wilson briskly. " You're verra good, 
 Mr. Gibson. You mean you'll give me an inkling in 
 private of the other estimates sent in, and help to ar- 
 range mine according? " 
 
 " Na," said Gibson. " Goudie's owre close to let me 
 ken! I'll speak a word in his ear on your behalf, to be 
 sure, if you agree to the proposal I mean to put before 
 you. But Gourlay's the man you need to keep your eye 
 on. It's you or him for the contract — there's nobody 
 else to compete wi' the two o' ye." 
 
 " Imphm, I see," said Wilson, and tugged his mous- 
 tache in meditation. All expression died out of his face 
 while his brain churned within. What Brodie had chris- 
 tened " the considering keek " was in his eyes; they were 
 far away, and saw the distant village in process of erec- 
 tion; busy with its chances and occasions. Then an un- 
 easy thought seemed to strike him and recall him to the 
 man by his side. He stole a shifty glance at the sandy 
 smile r. 
 
 " But I thought you were a friend of Gourlay's," he 
 said slowly. 
 
 " Friendship!" said Gibson. "We're speaking of busi- 
 
 [129]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 ness! And there's sma-all frieudship atween me and 
 Gourlay. He was nebby owre a bill I sent in the other 
 day; and I'm getting tired of his bluster. Besides, 
 there's little more to be made of him. Gourlay's bye 
 wi't. But you're a rising man, Mr. Wilson, and I think 
 that you and me might work thegither to our own ad- 
 vantage, don't ye see? Yes; just so; to the advantage 
 of us both. Oom? " 
 
 " I hardly see what you're driving at," said Wilson, 
 
 " I'm driving at this," said Gibson. " If Gourlay kens 
 you're against him for the contract, he'll cut his esti- 
 mate down to a ruinous price, out o' sheer spite — yes, 
 out o' sheer spite — rather than be licked by you in public 
 competition. And if he does that, Goudie and I may 
 do what we like, but we canna help you. For it's the 
 partners that decide the estimates sent in, d'ye see? 
 Imphm, it's the partners. Goudie has noathing to do wi' 
 that. And if Gourlay once gets round the partners, 
 you'll be left out in the cold for a very loang time. 
 Shivering, sir, shivering! You will that! " 
 
 " Dod, you're right. There's a danger of that. But 
 I fail to see how we can prevent it! " 
 
 " We can put Gourlay on a wrong scent," said Gibson. 
 
 "But how though?" 
 
 Gibson met one question by another. 
 
 " What was the charge for a man and a horse and a 
 day's carrying when ye first came hereaway? " he asked. 
 
 " Only four shillings a day," said Wilson promptly. 
 " It has risen to six now," he added. 
 
 "Exactly!" said Gibson; "and with the new works 
 coming in about tlie town it'll rise to eight yet! I have 
 it for a fact that the Company's willing to gie that! 
 
 [ 130 ]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 Now if you and me could procure a job for Gourlay at 
 the lower rate, before the news o' this new industry 
 gets scattered — a job that would require the whole of 
 his plant, you understand, and prevent his competing 
 for the Company's business — we would clear " — he 
 clawed his chin to help his arithmetic — " we would clear 
 three hundred and seventy-four pounds o' difference on 
 the twelvemonth. At least you would make that," he 
 added, " but you would allow me a handsome commis- 
 sion of course — the odd hundred and seventy, say — for 
 bringing the scheme before ye! I don't think there's 
 ocht unreasonable in tha-at! For it's not the mere 
 twelvemonth's work that's at stake, you understand, it's 
 the valuable connection for the fee-yuture! Now, I 
 have influence wi' Goudie; I can help you there. But if 
 Gourlay gets in there's just a chance that you'll never 
 be able to oust him." 
 
 " I see," said Wilson. " Before he knows what's com- 
 ing, we're to provide work xcr Gourlay at the lower rate, 
 both to put money in our own pocket and prevent him 
 competing for the better business." 
 
 " You've summed it to the nines," said Gibson. 
 
 " Yes," said Wilson blankly, " but how on earth are 
 we to provide work for him? " 
 
 Gibson leaned forward a second time and tapped 
 Wilson on the knee. 
 
 " Have you never considered what a chance for build- 
 ing there's in that holm of yours? " he asked. " You've 
 a fortune there, lying undeveloped! " 
 
 That was the point to which Cunning Johnny had 
 been leading all the time. He cared as little for Wilson 
 as for Gourlay; all he wanted was a contract for cover- 
 
 [ 131 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 ing Wilson's lioliii with jerry-built houses, and a good 
 commission on the year's carrying. It was for this he 
 evolved the conspiracy to cri})plc Gourlay. 
 
 Wilson's thoughts went to and fro like the shuttle of a 
 weaver. He blinked in rapidity of thinking, and stole 
 shifty glances at his comrade. He tugged his mous- 
 tache and said " Imphm " many times. Then his eyes 
 went off in their long preoccupied stare, and the sound 
 of the breath, coming heavy through his nostrils, was 
 audible in the quiet room. Wilson was one of the men 
 whom you hear thinking. 
 
 " I see," he said slowly. " You mean to bind Gour- 
 lay to cart building material to my holm, at the present 
 price of work. You'll bind him in general terms so 
 that he canna suspect, till the time comes, who in par- 
 ticular he's to work for. In the meantime I'll be free 
 to offer for the Company's business at the higher price." 
 
 " That's the size o't," said Gibson. 
 
 Wilson was staggered by the rapid combinations of 
 the scheme. But Cunning Johnny had him in the toils. 
 The plan he proposed stole about the grocer's every weak- 
 ness, and tugged his inclinations to consent. It was very 
 important, he considered, that he, and no other, should 
 obtain this contract, which was both valuable in itself 
 and an earnest of other business in the future. And 
 Gibson's scheme got Gourlay, the only possible rival, 
 out the way. For it was not possible for Gourlay to 
 put more than twelve horses on the road, and if he 
 thought he had secured a good contract already, he 
 would never dream of applying for another. Then, 
 Wilson's malice was gratified by the thought that Gour- 
 lay, who hated him, should have to serve, as helper and 
 
 [132]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 uuderling-, in a scheme for his aggrandizement. That 
 would take down his pride for him! And the commer- 
 cial imagination, so strong in AVilson, was inflamed by 
 the vision of himself as a wealthy house-owner wliich 
 Gibson put before him. Cunning Johnny knew all this 
 when he broached the scheme — he foresaw the pull of it 
 on Wilson's nature. Yet Wilson hesitated. He did not 
 like to give himself to Gibson quite so rapidly. 
 
 " You go fast, Mr. Gibson," said he. " Faith, you go 
 fast! This is a big aifair, and needs to be looked at for 
 a while." 
 
 " Fast ! " cried Gibson. " Damn it, we have no time 
 to waste. We maun act on the spur of the moment." 
 
 " I'll have to borrow money," said Wilson slowly, 
 " and it's verra dear at the present time." 
 
 " It was never worth more in Barbie than it is at the 
 present time. ]\Ian, don't ye see the chance you're neg- 
 lecting? Don't ye see what it means? There's thou- 
 sands lying at your back door if ye'll only reach to pick 
 them up! Yes, thousands! Thousands, I'm telling ye! 
 Thousands! " 
 
 Wilson saw himself provost and plutocrat. Yet was 
 he cautious. 
 
 " You^W do well by the scheme," he said tartly, " if 
 you get the sole contract for building these premises of 
 mine, and a fat commission on the carrying forbye! " 
 
 " Can you carry the scheme without me? " said 
 Gibson. " A word from me to Goudie means a heap." 
 There was a veiled threat in the remark. 
 
 " Oh, we'll come to terms," said the other. " But 
 how will you manage Gourlay? " 
 
 "Aha!" said Gibson, "I'll come in handy for that, 
 
 [133]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 you'll discover! There's been a backset in Barbie for 
 the last year — things went owre quick at the start and 
 were followed by a wee lull; but it's only for a time, sir, 
 it's only for a time. Hows'ever, it and you thegither 
 have damaged Gourlay — he's both short o' work and 
 scarce o' cash, as I found to my cost when I asked him 
 for my siller! So when I offer him a big contract for 
 carting stones atween the quarry and the town foot, he'll 
 swallow it without question. I'll insert a clause that he 
 must deliver the stuff at such places as I direct within 
 four hundred yards of the Cross, in ainy direction — for 
 I've several jobs near the Cross, doan't ye see, and how's 
 he to know that yours is one o' them? Man, it's easy to 
 bamboozle an ass like Gourlay! Besides, he'll think 
 my principals have trusted me to let the carrying to 
 ainyone I like, and, as I let it to him, he'll fancy I'm on 
 his side, doan't ye see? — he'll never jalouse that I mean 
 to diddle him. In the meantime we'll spread the news 
 that you're meaning to build on a big scale upon your 
 own land — we'll have the ground levelled, the foun- 
 dations dug, and the drains and everything seen 
 to. Now, it'll never occur to Gourlay, in the pres- 
 ent slackness o' trade, that you would contract Avi' 
 another man to cart your material, and go hunting for 
 other work yoursell. That'll throw him off the scent 
 till the time comes to put his nose on't. When the Com- 
 pany advertise for estimates he canna compete wi' you, 
 because he's preengaged to me, and he'll think you're 
 out o't, too, because you're busy wi' your own woark. 
 You'll be free to nip the eight shillings. Then we'll 
 force him to fulfill his bargain and cart for us at six! " 
 " If he refuses? " said Wilson. 
 
 [134]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 " I'll have the contract stamped and signed in the 
 presence of witnesses," said Gibson. " Not that that's 
 necessary, I believe, but a double knot's aye the safest." 
 
 Wilson looked at him with admiration. 
 
 " Gosh, Mr. Gibson," he cried, " you're a warmer! 
 Ye deserve your name. Ye ken what the folk ca' you? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Gibson complacently. " I'm quite 
 proud o' the description." 
 
 " I've my ain craw to pick wi' Gourlay," he went on. 
 " He was damned ill-bred yestreen when I asked him to 
 settle my account, and talked about extortion. But 
 bide a wee, bide a wee! I'll enjoy the look on his face 
 when he sees himself forced to carry for you, at a rate 
 lower than the market price." 
 
 When Gibson approached Gourlay on the following 
 day he was full of laments about the poor state of trade. 
 
 "Aye," said he, " the grand railway they boasted o' 
 hasna done muckle for the town! " 
 
 "Atweel aye," quoth Gourlay with pompous wisdom; 
 " they'll maybe find, or a's bye, that the auld way wasna 
 the warst way. There was to be a great boom, as they 
 ca't, but I see few signs o't." 
 
 " I see few signs o't, either," said Gibson, " it's the 
 slackest time for the last twa years." 
 
 Gourlay grunted his assent. 
 
 " But I've a grand job for ye, for a' that," said Gib- 
 son, slapping his hands. " What do ye say to the feck 
 of a year's carting tweesht the quarry and the town 
 foot?" 
 
 " I might consider that," said Gourlay, " if the terms 
 were good." 
 
 " Six shillins," said Gibson, and went on in solemn 
 
 [135]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 protest: " In the present state o' trade, doan't ye see, I 
 eouldna give a penny more." Gourlay, who had de- 
 nounced the present state of trade even now, was pre- 
 vented by his own words from asking for a penny more. 
 
 "At the town foot, you say? " he asked. 
 
 " I've several jobs thereaway," Gibson explained hur- 
 riedly; " and you must agree to deliver stuff ainy place 
 I want it within four hundred yards o' the Cross! — It's 
 all one to you, of course," he went on, " seeing you're 
 paid by the day." 
 
 " Oh, it's all one to me," said Gourlay. 
 
 Peter Riney and the new " orra " man were called in 
 to witness the agreement. Cunning Johnny had made 
 it as cunning as he could. 
 
 " We may as well put a stamp on't," said he. "A 
 stamp costs little, and means a heap." 
 
 " You're damned particular the day," cried Gourlay 
 in a sudden heat. 
 
 " Oh, nothing more than my usual, nothing more 
 than my usual," said Gibson blandly. — " Good morn- 
 ing, Mr. Gourlay," and he made for the door, buttoning 
 the charter of his dear revenge in the inside pocket 
 of his coat. Gourlay ignored him. 
 
 When Gibson got out he turned to the House with the 
 Green Shutters, and " Curse you ! " said he, " you may 
 refuse to answer me the day, but wait till this day eight 
 weeks. You'll be roaring than." 
 
 On that day eight weeks Gourlay received a letter 
 from Gibson requiring him to hold himself in readiness 
 to deliver stone, lime, baulks of timber, and iron girders 
 in Mr. Wilson's holm, in terms of his agreement, and in 
 accordance with the orders to be given him from day to 
 
 [136]
 
 CHAPTER THIETEEN 
 
 day. He was apprised that a couple of carts of lime and 
 seven loads of stone were needed on the morrow. 
 
 He went down the street with grinding jaws, the let- 
 ter crushed to a white pellet in his hand. It would have 
 gone ill with Gibson had he met him. Gourlay could 
 not tell why, or to what purpose, he marched on and on 
 with forward staring eyes. He only knew vaguely that 
 the anger drove him. 
 
 When he came to the Cross a long string of carts was 
 filing from the Skeighan Road, and passing across to 
 the street leading Fleckie-ward. He knew them to be 
 Wilson's. The Deacon was there of course, hobbling 
 on his thin shanks, and cocking his eye to see every- 
 thing that happened. 
 
 " What does this mean? " Gourlay asked him, though 
 he loathed the Deacon. 
 
 " Oh, haven't ye heard? " quoth the Deacon blithely. 
 " That's the stuff for the new mining village out the 
 Fleckie Eoad. Wilson has nabbed the contract for the 
 carting. They're saying it was Gibson's influence wi' 
 Goudie that helped him to the getting o't! " 
 
 Amid his storm of anger at the trick, Gourlay was 
 conscious of a sudden pity for himself, as for a man most 
 unfairly worsted. He realized for a moment his own 
 inefficiency as a business man, in conflict with cleverer 
 rivals, and felt sorry to be thus handicapped by nature. 
 Though wrath was uppermost, the other feeling was re- 
 vealed, shewing itself by a gulping in the throat and a 
 rapid blinking of the eyes. The Deacon marked the 
 signs of his chagrin. 
 
 " Man! " he reported to the bodies, " but Gourlay was 
 cut to the quick. His face shewed how gunkit he was. 
 
 [ 137 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Oh, but he was chawed. I saw his breist give the great 
 heave." 
 
 " Were ye no sorry? " cried the baker. 
 
 "Thorry, hi!" laughed the Deacon. "Oh, I was 
 thorry, to be sure," he lisped, " bvit I didna thyow't. 
 I'm glad to thay I've a grand control of my emotionth. 
 ISTot like thum folk we know of," he added slily, giving 
 the baker a " good one." 
 
 All next day Gibson's masons waited for their build- 
 ing material in Wilson's holm. But none came. And 
 all day seven of Gourlay's horses chaniiDed idly in their 
 stalls. 
 
 Barbie had a weekly market now, and, as it happened, 
 that was the day it fell on. At two in the afternoon 
 Gourlay was standing on the gravel outside the Eed 
 Lion, trying to look wise over a sample of grain which 
 a farmer had poured upon his great palm. Gibson ap- 
 proached with false voice and smile. 
 
 " Gosh, Mr. Gourlay! " he cried protestingly; " have 
 ye forgotten whatna day it is? Ye havena gi'en my 
 men a ton o' stuff to gang on wi'! " 
 
 To the farmer's dismay his fine sample of grain was 
 scattered on the gravel by a convulsive movement of 
 Gourlay's arm. As Gourlay turned on his enemy, his 
 face was frightfully distorted; all his brow seemed gath- 
 ered in a knot above his nose, and he gaped on his words, 
 yet ground them out like a labouring mill, each word 
 solid as plug shot. 
 
 "I'll see Wil-son .... and Gib-son .... and 
 every otlier man's son ... . frying in hell," he said 
 slowly, " ere a horse o' mine draws a stane o' Wilson's 
 property. Be damned to ye, but there's your answer! " 
 
 [138]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEK 
 
 Gibson's cunning deserted him for once. He put his 
 hand on Gourlay's shoulder in pretended friendly re- 
 monstrance. 
 
 " Take your hand off my shouther! " said Gourlay 
 in a voice the tense quietness of which should have 
 warned Gibson to forbear. 
 
 But he actually shook Gourlay with a feigned play- 
 fulness. 
 
 Next instant he was high in air; for a moment the 
 hobnails in the soles of his boots gleamed vivid to tlie 
 sun; then Gourlay sent him flying through the big win- 
 dow of the Red Lion, right on to the middle of the 
 great table where the market-folk were drinking. 
 
 For a minute he lay stunned and bleeding among the 
 broken crockery, in a circle of white faces and startled 
 cries. 
 
 Gourlay's face appeared at the jagged rent, his eyes 
 narrowed to fiercely gleaming points, a hard, triumphant 
 devilry playing round his black lips. " You damned 
 treacherous rat! " he cried, " that's the game John 
 Gourla can play wi' a thing like you." 
 
 Gibson rose from the ruin on the table and came 
 bleeding to the window, his grin a rictus of wrath, his 
 green teeth wolfish with anger. 
 
 " By God, Gourlay," he screamed, " I'll make you pay 
 for this; I'll fight you through a' the law courts in Bree- 
 tain, but you'll implement your bond." 
 
 " Damn you for a measled swine, would you grunt at 
 me," cried Gourlay, and made to go at him through the 
 window. Though he could not reach him Gibson 
 quailed at his look. He shook his fist in impotent wrath, 
 and spat threats of justice through his green teeth. 
 
 [139]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " To hell wi' your law-wers! " cried Gourlay, " I'd 
 throttle ye like the dog you are on the floor o' the House 
 o' Lords." 
 
 But that day was to cost him dear. Ere six months 
 passed he was cast in damages and costs for a breach of 
 contract aggravated by assault. He appealed, of course. 
 He was not to be done; he would shew the dogs what he 
 thought of them. 
 
 [140]
 
 XIV 
 
 In those days it came to pass that Wilson sent his son 
 to the High School of Skeighan, even James, the red- 
 haired one, with the squint in his eye. Whereupon 
 Gourlay sent his son to the High School of Skeighan, 
 too, of course, to be upsides with Wilson. If Wilson 
 could afford to send his boy to a distant and expensive 
 school, then, by the Lord, so could he ! And it also came 
 to pass that James, the son of James, the grocer, took 
 many prizes. But John, the son of John, took no prizes. 
 Whereat there were ructions in the House of Gourlay. 
 
 Gourlay's resolve to be equal to Wilson in everything 
 he did was his main reason for sending his son to the 
 High School of Skeighan. That he saw his business 
 decreasing daily was a reason, too. Young Gourlay was 
 a lad of fifteen now, undersized for his age at that time, 
 though he soon shot up to be a swaggering youngster. 
 He had been looking forward with delight to helping his 
 father in the business — how grand it would be to drive 
 about the country and see things! — and he had irked at 
 being kept for so long under the tawse of old Bleach- 
 the-boys. But if the business went on at this rate there 
 would be little in it for the boy. Gourlay was not with- 
 out a thought of his son's welfare when he packed him 
 off to Skeighan. He would give him some book-lear, 
 he said; let him make a kirk or a mill o't. 
 
 But John shrank, chicken-hearted, from the prospect. 
 
 [141]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 ■\Vas he still to drudge at books? Was he to go out 
 among strangers whom he feared? His imagination 
 set to work on what he heard of the High School of 
 Skeighan and made it a bugbear. They had to do 
 mathematics — what could he do wi' thae whigmaleeries? 
 They had to recite Shakespeare in public — how could 
 he stand up and spout, before a whole jing-bang o' them? 
 
 " I don't want to gang," he whined. 
 
 " Want? " flamed his father. " What does it matter 
 what you want? Go you shall." 
 
 " I thocht I was to help in the business," whimpered 
 John. 
 
 " Business! " sneered his father. " A fine help you 
 would be in business." 
 
 " Aye man, Johnnie," said his mother, maternal fond- 
 ness coming out in support of her husband, " you 
 should be glad your father can allow ye the oppor- 
 tunity. Eh, but it's a grand thing, a gude education! 
 Yoii may rise to be a minister." 
 
 Her ambition could no further go. But Gourlay 
 seemed to have formed a different opinion of the sacred 
 calling. " It's a' he's fit for," he growled. 
 
 So John was put to the High School of Skeighan, 
 travelling backwards and forwards night and morning 
 by the train, after the railway had been opened. And 
 he discovered, on trying it, that the life was not so bad 
 as he had feared. He hated his lessons, true, and avoid- 
 ed them whenever he was able. But his father's pride 
 and his mother's fondness saw that he was well-dressed 
 and with money in his pocket; and he began to grow im- 
 portant. Though Gourlay was no longer the only " big 
 man " of Barbie, he was still one of the " big men," and 
 
 [142]
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 a consciousness of the fact grew upon his son. When 
 he passed his old classmates (apprentice-grocers now 
 and carters and ploughboys) his febrile insolence led 
 him to swagger and assume. And it was fine to mount 
 the train at Barbie on the fresh cool mornings, and be 
 off past the gleaming rivers and the woods. Better still 
 was the home-coming — to board the empty train at Skei- 
 ghan when the afternoon sun came pleasant through the 
 windows, to loll on the fat cushions, and read the novel- 
 ettes. He learned to smoke too, and that was a source 
 of pride. When the train was full on market days he 
 liked to get in among the jovial farmers who encouraged 
 his assumptions. Meanwhile Jimmy Wilson would be 
 elsewhere in the train, busy with his lessons for the mor- 
 row — for Jimmy had to help in the Emporium of nights 
 — his father kept him to the grindstone. Jimmy had no 
 more real ability than young Gourlay, but infinitely 
 more caution. He was one of the gimlet characters 
 who, by diligence and memory, gain prizes in their 
 schooldays — and are fools for the remainder of their 
 lives. 
 
 The bodies of Barbie, seeing young Gourlay at his 
 pranks, speculated over his future, as Scotch bodies do 
 about the future of every youngster in their ken. 
 
 " I wonder what that son o' Gourlay's 'ull come till," 
 said Sandy Toddle, musing on him with the character- 
 reading eye of the Scots peasant. 
 
 " To no good — ^you may be sure of that," said ex- 
 Provost Connal. "He's a regular splurge! When 
 Drunk Dan Kennedy passed him his flask in the train 
 the other day he swigged it, just for the sake of showing 
 off! And he's a coward, too, for all his swagger. He 
 
 [143]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 grew ill-bred when he swallowed the drink, and Dan, 
 to frighten him, threatened to hang him from the win- 
 dow by the heels! He didn't mean it, to be sure; but 
 young Gourlay grew white at the very idea o't — he shook 
 like a dog in a wet sack. ' Oh! ' he cried, shivering, 
 ' liow the ground would go flying past your eyes; how 
 quick the wheel opposite ye would buzz — it would blind 
 ye by its quickness — how the grey slag would flash be- 
 low ye! ' Those were his very words. He seemed to 
 see the thing as if it Avere happening before his eyes, and 
 stared like a fellow in hysteerics, till Dan was obliged 
 to give him another drink! ' You would spue with 
 the dizziness,' said he, and he actually hocked him- 
 sell." 
 
 Young Gourlay seemed bent on making good the 
 prophecy of Barbie. Though his father was spending 
 money he could ill afford on his education, he fooled 
 away his time. His mind developed a little, no doubt, 
 since it was no longer dazed by brutal and repeated 
 floggings. In some of his classes he did fairly well. 
 But others he loathed. It was the rule at Skeighan 
 High School to change rooms every hour, the classes 
 tramping from one to another through a big lobby. 
 Gourlay got a habit of stealing ofl' at such times — it was 
 easy to slip out — and playing truant in the bye-ways of 
 Skeighan. He often made his way to the station, and 
 loafed in the waiting room. He had gone there on a 
 summer afternoon, to avoid his mathematics and read 
 a novel, when a terrible thing befell him. 
 
 For a while he swaggered round the empty platform 
 and smoked a cigarette. Milk-cans clanked in a shed, 
 mournfully. Gourlay had a congenital horror of eerie 
 
 [144]
 
 CHAPTER FOUKTEEN 
 
 sounds — he Avas his mother's son for that — and he fled 
 to the waiting room, to avoid the hollow clang. It was 
 a June afternoon, of brooding heat, and a band of yellow 
 sunshine was lying on the glazed table, showing every 
 scratch in its surface. The place oppressed hun — he 
 was sorry he had come. But he plunged into his novel 
 and forgot the world. 
 
 He started in fear when a voice addressed him. He 
 looked up — and here it was only the baker! — the baker 
 smiling at him with his fine grey eyes, the baker with 
 his reddish fringe of beard and his honest grin, which 
 wrinkled up his face to his eyes in merry and kindly 
 wrinkles. He had a wonderful hearty manner with 
 a boy. 
 
 " Aye man, John; it's you, said the baker. " Dod, 
 I'm just in time. The storm's at the burstin! " 
 
 " Storm! " said Gourlay. He had a horror of light- 
 ning since the day of his birth. 
 
 " Aye, we're in for a pelter. What have you been 
 doing that you didna see't? " 
 
 They went to the window. The fronting heavens 
 were a black purple. The thunder, which had been 
 growling in the distance, swept forward and roared 
 above the town. The crash no longer rolled afar, but 
 cracked close to the ear, hard, crepitant. Quick light- 
 ning stabbed the world in vicious and repeated hate. 
 A blue-black moistness lay heavy on the cowering earth. 
 The rain came — a few drops at first, sullen, as if loth 
 to come, that splashed on the pavement wide as a 
 crown-piece — then a white rush of slanting spears. A 
 great blob shot in through the window, open at the top, 
 and spat wide on Gourlay's cheek. It was lukewarm. 
 
 [145]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 He started violently — that warmth on his cheek brought 
 the terror so near. 
 
 The heavens were rent with a crash and the earth 
 seemed on fire. Gourlay screamed in terror. 
 
 The baker put his arm round him in kindly protec- 
 tion. 
 
 " Tuts, man, dinna be feared," he said. " You're 
 John Gourlay's son, ye know. You ought to be a 
 hardy man." 
 
 " Aye, but I'm no," chattered John, the truth coming 
 out in his fear. " I just let on to be." 
 
 But the worst was soon over. Lightning, both sheet- 
 ed and forked, was vivid as ever, but the thunder slunk 
 growling away. 
 
 " The heavens are opening and shutting like a man's 
 eye," said Gourlay; " oh, it's a terrible thing the 
 world — " and he covered his face with his hands. 
 
 A flash shot into a mounded wood far away. " It 
 stabbed it like a dagger! " stared Gourlay. 
 
 "Look, look, did ye see yon? It came down in a 
 broad flash — then jerked to the side — then ran down to 
 a sharp point again. It was like the coulter of a 
 plough." 
 
 Suddenly a blaze of lightning flamed wide, and a fork 
 shot down its centre. 
 
 " That," said Gourlay, " was like a red crack in a 
 white-hot furnace door." 
 
 " Man, you're a noticing boy," said the baker. 
 
 "Aye," said John, smiling in curious self-interest, " I 
 notice things too much. They give me pictures in my 
 mind. I'm feared of them, but I like to think them 
 over when they're bye." 
 
 [146]
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 Boys are slow of confidence to their elders, but Gour- 
 lay's terror and the baker's kindness moved him to speak. 
 In a vague way he wanted to explain. 
 
 " I'm no feared of folk," he went on, wdth a faint 
 return to his swagger. " But things get in on me. A 
 body seems so wee compared with that — " he nodded to 
 the warring heavens. 
 
 The baker did not understand. " Have you seen your 
 faither? " he asked. 
 
 " My faither! " John gasped in terror. If his father 
 should find him playing truant! 
 
 " Yes; did ye no ken he was in Skeighan? We come 
 up thegither by the ten train, and are meaning to gang 
 hame by this. I expect him every moment." 
 
 John turned to escape. In the doorway stood his 
 father. 
 
 When Gourlay was in wrath he had a widening glower 
 that enveloped the offender — yet his eye seemed to stab 
 — a flash shot from its centre to transfix and pierce. 
 Gaze at a tiger through the bars of his cage, and you will 
 see the look. It widens and concentrates at once. 
 
 " What are you doing here? " he asked, with the wild- 
 beast glower on his son. 
 
 " I — I — I," John stammered and choked. 
 
 " What are you doing here? " said his father. 
 
 John's fingers worked before him; his eyes were large 
 and aghast on his father; though his mouth hung open 
 no words would come. 
 
 " How lang has he been here, baker? " 
 
 There was a curious regard between Gourlay and the 
 baker. Gourlay spoke with a firm civility. 
 
 " Oh, just a wee whilie," said the baker. 
 
 [147]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 "I see! You want to shield him. — You have been 
 playing the truant, have 'ee? Am I to throw away 
 gude money on you for this to be the end o't? " 
 
 " Dinna be hard on him, John," pleaded the baker. 
 " A boy's but a boy. Dinna thrash him." 
 
 " Me thrash him! " cried Gourlay. " I pay the High 
 School of Skeighan to thrash him, and I'll take damned 
 good care I get my money's worth. I don't mean to 
 hire dowgs and bark for my sell! " 
 
 He grabbed his son by the coat-collar and swung him 
 out the room. Down High Street he marched, carrying 
 his cub by the scruff of the neck as you might carry a 
 dirty puppy to an outhouse. John was black in the 
 face; time and again in his wrath Gourlay swung him off 
 the ground. Grocers coming to their doors, to scatter 
 fresh yellow sawdust on the old, now trampled black 
 and wet on the sills, stared sideways, chins up and 
 mouths open, after the strange spectacle. But Gourlay 
 splashed on amid the staring crowd, never looking to 
 the right or left. 
 
 Opposite The Fiddler's Inn whom should they meet 
 but Wilson! A snigger shot to his features at the sight. 
 Gourlay swung the boy up — for a moment a wild im- 
 pulse surged within him to club his rival with his 
 own son. 
 
 He marched into the vestibule of the High School, 
 the boy dangling from his great hand. 
 
 " Where's your gaffer? " lie roared at the janitor. 
 
 " Gaffer? " blinked the janitor. 
 
 " Gaffer, dominie, whatever the damn you ca' him, 
 the fellow that runs the business." 
 
 "The Headmaster!" said the janitor. 
 
 [148]
 
 CHAPTEE FOURTEEN 
 
 " Heid-maister, aye!" said Gourlay in scorn, and 
 went trampling after the janitor down a long wooden 
 corridor. A door was flung open showing a class-room 
 where the Headmaster was seated teaching Greek. 
 
 The sudden appearance of the great-chested figure in 
 the door, with his fierce gleaming eyes, and the rain- 
 beads shining on his frieze coat, brought into the close 
 academic air the sharp strong gust of an outer world. 
 
 " I believe I pay you to look after that boy," thun- 
 dered Gourlay; " is this the way you do your work? " 
 And with the word he sent his son spinning along the 
 floor like a curling-stone, till he rattled, a wet huddled 
 lump, against a row of chairs. John slunk bleeding 
 behind the master. 
 
 "Eeally!" said MacCandlish, rising in protest. 
 
 " Don't ' really ' me, sir! I pay ijou to teach that boy, 
 and you allow him to run idle in the streets! What have 
 you to sell ? " 
 
 " But what can I do ? " bleated MacCandlish, with a 
 white spread of deprecating hands. The stronger man 
 took the grit from his limbs. 
 
 " Do ? Do ? Damn it, sir, am I to be your dominie ? 
 Am I to teach you your duty? Do! Flog him, flog 
 him, flog him — if you don't send him hame wi' the welts 
 on him as thick as that forefinger, I'll have a word to 
 say to you-ou, Misterr MacCandlish! " 
 
 He was gone — they heard him go clumping along the 
 corridor. 
 
 Thereafter young Gourlay had to stick to his books. 
 And, as we know, the forced union of opposites breeds 
 the greater disgust between them. However, his school- 
 days would soon be over, and meanwhile it was fine to 
 
 [149]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEK SHUTTERS 
 
 pose on his journeys to and fro as Young Hopeful of 
 the Green Shutters. 
 
 He was smoking at Skeighan Station on an afternoon, 
 as the Barbie train was on the point of starting. He was 
 staying on the platform till the last moment, in order 
 to shew the people how nicely he could bring the smoke 
 down his nostrils — his " Prince of Wales's feathers " he 
 called the great curling puffs. As he dallied, a little 
 aback from an open window, he heard a voice which he 
 knew mentioning the Gourlays. It was Templandmuir 
 who was speaking. 
 
 " I see that Gourlay has lost his final appeal in that 
 law-suit of his," said the Templar. 
 
 " D'ye tell me that? " said a strange voice. Then — 
 " Gosh, he must have lost infernal! " 
 
 "Atweel has he that," said Templandmuir. " The 
 costs must have been enormous, and then there's the 
 damages. He would have been better to settle't and be 
 done wi't, but his pride made him fight it to the hind- 
 most! It has made touch the boddom of his purse, I'll 
 wager ye. Weel, weel, it'll help to subdue his pride a 
 bit, and muckle was the need o' that." 
 
 Young Gourlay was seized with a sudden fear. The 
 prosperity of the House with the Green Shutters had 
 been a fact of his existence; it had never entered his 
 boyish mind to question its continuance. But a weaken- 
 ing doubt stole through his limbs. What would become 
 of him, if the Gourlays were threatened with disaster? 
 He had a terrifying vision of himself as a lonely atomy, 
 adrift on a tossing world, cut off from his anchorage. 
 
 " Mother, are we ever likely to be ill off? " he asked 
 his mother that evening. 
 
 [150]
 
 CHAPTER FOUETEEN 
 
 She ran her fingers through his hair, pushing it back 
 from his brow fondly. He was as tall as herself now. 
 
 "No, no, dear; what makes ye think that? Your 
 father has always had a grand business, and I brought 
 a hantle money to the house.'' 
 
 " Hokey! " said the youth, " when Ah'm in the busi- 
 ness, Ah'll have the times! " 
 
 [151]
 
 XV 
 
 GouRLAY was hard up for money. Every day of his 
 life taught him that he was nowhere in the stress of 
 modern competition. The grand days — only a few years 
 back, hut seeming half a century away, so much had 
 happened in between — the grand days when he was the 
 only big man in the locality, and carried everything 
 with a high hand, had disappeared for ever. Now all 
 was bustle, hurry, and confusion, the getting and send- 
 ing of telegrams, quick despatches by railway, the 
 watching of markets at a distance, rapid combinations 
 that bewildered Gourlay's duller mind. At first he was 
 too obstinate to try the newer methods; when he did, he 
 was too stupid to use them cleverly. When he plunged 
 it was always at the wrong time, for he plunged at ran- 
 dom, not knowing what to do. He had lost heavily of 
 late both in grain and cheese, and the law-suit with Gib- 
 son had crippled him. It was well for him that prop- 
 erty in Barbie had increased in value; the House with 
 the Green Shutters was to prove the buttress of his for- 
 tune. Already he had borrowed considerably upon that 
 security. He was now dressing to go to Skeighan and 
 get more. 
 
 " Brodie, Gurney, and Yarrowby," of Glasgow were 
 the lawyers who financed him, and he had to sign some 
 papers at Goudie's office ere he touched the cash. 
 
 He was meaning to drive of course; Gourlay was 
 
 [152]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 proud of his gig, and always kept a spanking roadster. 
 " What a fine figure of a man! " you thought, as you saw 
 him coming swiftly towards you, seated high on his 
 driving cushion. That driving cushion was Gourlay's 
 pedestal from which he looked down on Barbie for many 
 a day. 
 
 A quick step, yet shambling, came along the lobby. 
 There was a pause, as of one gathering heart for a ven- 
 ture; then a clumsy knock on the door. 
 
 " Come in," snapped Gourlay. 
 
 Peter Einey's queer little old face edged timorously 
 into the room. He only opened the door the width of 
 his face, and looked ready to bolt at a word. 
 
 " Tarn's deid! " he blurted. 
 
 Gourlay gashed himself frightfully with his razor, and 
 a big red blob stood out or his cheek. 
 
 '^ Deid! "he stared. 
 
 " Yes," stammered Peter. " He was right enough 
 when Elshie gae him his feed this morning, but when I 
 went in enow, to put the harness on, he was lying deid 
 in the loose-box. The batts — it's like." 
 
 For a moment Gourlay stared with the open mouth of 
 an angry surprise, forgetting to take down his razor. 
 
 "Aweel, Peter," he said at last, and Peter went away. 
 
 The loss of his pony touched Gourlay to the quick. 
 He had been stolid and dour in his other misfortunes, 
 had taken them as they came, calmly; he was not the 
 man to whine and cry out against the angry heavens. 
 He had neither the weakness, nor the width of nature, 
 to indulge in the luxury of self-pity. But the sudden 
 death of his gallant roadster, his proud pacer through 
 the streets of Barbie, touched him with a sense of quite 
 
 [153]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTEES 
 
 personal loss and bereavement. Coming on the heels of 
 his other calamities it seemed to make them more poig- 
 nant, more sinister, prompting the question if misfor- 
 tune would never have an end. 
 
 " Damn it, I have enough to thole," Gourlay mut- 
 tered; " surely there was no need for this to happen." 
 And when he looked in the mirror to fasten his stock, 
 and saw the dark strong clean-shaven face, he stared at 
 it for a moment, with a curious compassion for the man 
 before him, as for one who was being hardly used. The 
 hard lips could never have framed the words, but the 
 vague feeling in his heart, as he looked at the dark vi- 
 sion, was: " It's a pity of you, sir." 
 
 He put on his coat rapidly, and went out to the stable. 
 An instinct prompted him to lock the door. 
 
 He entered the loose-box. A shaft of golden light, 
 aswarm with motes, slanted in the quietness. Tam 
 lay on the straw, his head far out, his neck unnat- 
 urally long, his limbs sprawling, rigid. What a 
 spanker Tam had been! What gallant drives they had 
 had together! When he first put Tam between the 
 shafts five years ago, he l^ad been driving his world 
 before him, plenty of cash and a big way of doing.— 
 Now Tam was dead, and his master netted in a mesh 
 of care. 
 
 " I was always gudo to the beasts at any rate," Gour- 
 lay muttered, as if pleading in his own defence. 
 
 For a long time he stared down at the sprawling car- 
 cass, musing. " Tam the powney," he said twice, nod- 
 ding his head each time he said it; " Tam the powney "; 
 and he turned away. 
 
 How was he to get to Skeighan? He plunged at his 
 
 [154]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 watch. The ten o'clock train had already gone, the ex- 
 press did not stop at Barbie; if he waited till one o'clock 
 he would be late for his appointment. There was a 
 brake, true, which ran to Skeighan every Tuesday. It 
 was a downcome, though, for a man who had been proud 
 of driving behind his own horseflesh to pack in among 
 a crowd of the Barbie sprats. And if he went by the 
 brake, he would be sure to rub shoulders with his stingr 
 ing and detested foes. It was a fine day; like enougli 
 the whole jing-bang of them would be going with the 
 brake to Skeighan. Gourlay, who shrank from nothing, 
 shrank from the winks that would be sure to pass when 
 they saw him, the haughty, the aloof, forced to creep 
 among them cheek for jowl. Then his angry pride 
 rushed towering to his aid. Was John Gourlay to turn 
 tail for a wheen o' the Barbie dirt? Damn the fear o't! 
 It was a public conveyance; he had the same right to use 
 it as the re.st o' folk! 
 
 The place of departure for the brake was the " Black 
 Bull," at the Cross, nearly opposite to Wilson's. There 
 were winks and stares and elbow-nudgings when the folk 
 hanging round saw Gourlay coming forward; but he 
 paid no heed. Gourlay, in spite of his mad violence 
 when roused, was a man at all other times of a grave and 
 orderly demeanour. He never splurged. Even his 
 bluster was not bluster, for he never threatened the 
 thing which he had not it in him to do. He walked 
 quietly into the empty brake, and took his seat in the 
 right-hand corner, at the top, close below the driver. 
 
 As he had expected, the Barbie bodies had mustered 
 in strength for Skeighan. In a country brake it is the 
 privilege of the important men to mount beside the 
 
 [155]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 driver, in order to take the air and show themselves off 
 to an admiring world. On the dickey were ex-Provost 
 Connal and Sandy Toddle, and between them the Dea- 
 con, tightly wedged. The Deacon was so thin (the 
 bodie) that though he was wedged closely, he could 
 turn and address him-self to Tarn Brodie, who was 
 seated next the door. 
 
 The fun began when the horses were crawling up the 
 first brae. 
 
 The Deacon turned with a wink to Brodie, and drop- 
 ping a glance on the crown of Gourlay's hat, " Tum- 
 muth " he lisped, " what a dirty place that ith! " point- 
 ing to a hovel by the wayside. 
 
 Brodie took the cue at once. His big face flushed 
 with a malicious grin. "Aye,'' he bellowed, " the owner 
 o' that maun be married to a dirty wife, I'm thinking! " 
 
 " It must be terrible," said the Deacon, " to be mar- 
 ried to a dirty trollop." 
 
 " Terrible," laughed Brodie; " it's enough to give ainy 
 man a gurly temper." 
 
 They had Gourlay on the hip at last. More than ar- 
 rogance had kept him off from the bodies of the town; 
 a consciousness also, that he was not their match in ma- 
 licious innuendo. The direct attack he could meet 
 superbly, downing his opponent with a coarse birr of the 
 tongue; to the veiled gibe he was a quivering hulk, to 
 be prodded at your ease. And now the malignants were 
 around him (while he could not get away); talking to 
 each other, indeed, but at him, while he must keep 
 quiet in their midst. 
 
 At every brae they came to (and there were many 
 braes) the bodies played their malicious o:ame, shout- 
 
 [ 156 ]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN - 
 
 ing remarks along the brake, to each other's ears, to his 
 comprehension. 
 
 The new house of Templandmuir was seen above 
 the trees. 
 
 " What a splendid house Templandmuir has built! " 
 cried the ex-Provost. 
 
 " Splendid! " echoed Brodie. " But a laird like the 
 Templar has a right to a fine mansion such as that! 
 He's no' like some merchants we ken o' who throw 
 away money on a house for no other end but vanity. 
 Many a man builds a grand house for a show-off, when 
 he has verra little to support it. But the Templar's 
 different. He has made a mint of money since he took 
 the quarry in his own hand." 
 
 " He's verra thick wi' Wilson, I notice," piped the 
 Deacon, turning with a grin, and a gleaming droop of the 
 eye on the head of his tormented enemy. The Deacon's 
 face was alive and quick with the excitement of the 
 game, his face flushed with an eager grin, his eyes glit- 
 tering. Decent folk in the brake behind, felt com- 
 punctious visitings when they saw him turn with the 
 flushed grin, and the gleaming squint on the head of his 
 enduring victim. "Now for another stab!" they 
 thought. 
 
 " You may well say that," shouted Brodie. " Wilson 
 has procured the whole of the Templar's carterage. Oh, 
 Wilson has become a power! Yon new houses of his 
 must be bringing in a braw penny. — I'm thinking, Mr. 
 Connal, that Wilson ought to be the Provost! " 
 
 " Strange! " cried the former Head of the Town, 
 " that you should have been thinking that! I've just 
 been in the same mind o't. Wilson's by far and away 
 
 [157]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTEES 
 
 the most progressive man we have. What a business 
 he has built in two or three years! " 
 
 "He has that! " shouted Brodie. "He goes up the 
 brae as fast as some other folk are going down't. And 
 yet they tell me he got a verra poor welcome from some 
 of us the first morning he appeared in Barbie! " 
 
 Gourlay gave no sign. Others would have shown by 
 the moist glisten of self-pity in the eye, or the scowl of 
 wrath, how much they were moved; but Gourlay stared 
 calmly before him, his chin resting on the head of his 
 staff, resolute, immobile, like a stone head at gaze in the 
 desert. Only the larger fulness of his fine nostril be- 
 trayed the hell of wrath seething within him. And 
 when they alighted in Skeighan an observant boy said 
 to his mother, " I saw the marks of his chirted teeth 
 through his jaw." 
 
 But they were still far from Skeighan, and Gourlay 
 had much to thole. 
 
 " Did ye hear? " shouted Brodie, " that Wilson is 
 sending his son to the College at Embro' in October? " 
 
 "D'ye tell me that?" said the Provost. "What a 
 successful lad that has been! He's a credit to moar 
 than Wilson, he's a credit to the whole town." 
 
 "Aye," yelled Brodie, " the money wasna wasted on 
 him! It must be a terrible thing when a man has a 
 splurging ass for his son, that never got a prize!" 
 
 The Provost began to get nervous. Brodie was going 
 too far. It was all very well for Brodie who was at the 
 far end of the waggonette, and out of danger; but if he 
 provoked an outbreak, Gourlay would think nothing of 
 tearing Provost and Deacon from their perch, and toss- 
 ing them across the hedge. 
 
 [ 158 ]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 "What does Wilson mean to make of his son?" he 
 enquired — a civil enough question surely. 
 
 " Oh, a minister. That'll mean six or seven years at 
 the University." 
 
 " Indeed! " said the Provost. " That'll cost an enor- 
 mous siller! " 
 
 " Oh," yelled Brodie, " but Wilson can afford it! It's 
 not everybody can! It's all verra well to send your son 
 to Skeighan High School, but when it comes to sending 
 him to College, it's time to think twice of what you're 
 doing — especially if you've little money left to come 
 and go on." 
 
 " Yeth," lisped the Deacon, " if a man canna afford 
 to College his son he had better put him in hith busi- 
 ness — if he hath ainy business left to thpeak o', that 
 ith! " 
 
 The brake swung on through merry cornfields where 
 reapers were at work, past happy brooks flashing to the 
 sun, through the solemn hush of ancient and mysterious 
 woods, beneath the great white-moving clouds and blue 
 spaces of the sky. And amid the suave enveloping 
 greatness of the world, the human pismires stung each 
 other and were cruel, and full of hate and malice and a 
 petty rage. 
 
 " Oh, damn it, enough of this! " said the baker at last. 
 
 " Enough of what? " blustered Brodie. 
 
 " Of you and your gibes," said the baker with a wry 
 mouth of disgust. " Damn it, man, leave folk alane! " 
 
 Gourlay turned to him quietly. " Thank you, baker," 
 he said slowly. "But don't interfere on my behalf! 
 John Gourla " — he dwelt on his name in ringing pride 
 — " John Gourla can fight for his own hand — if so, there 
 
 [ 159 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 need, to be. And pay no heed to the thing before ye. 
 The mair ye tramp on a dirt it spreads the wider! " 
 
 " Who was referring to you f " bellowed Brodie. 
 
 Gourlay looked over at him in the far corner of the 
 brake, with the wide open glower that made people 
 blink. Brodie blinked rapidly, trying to stare fiercely 
 the while. 
 
 " Maybe ye werna referring to me," said Gourlay 
 slowly. " But if / had been in your end o' the brake 
 ye would have been in hell or this! " 
 
 He had said enough. There was silence in the brake 
 till it reached Skeighan. But the evil was done. 
 Enough had been said to influence Gourlay to the most 
 disastrous resolution of his life. 
 
 " Get yourself ready for the College in October," he 
 ordered his son that evening. 
 
 " The College! " cried John, aghast. 
 
 "Yes! Is there ainy thing in that to gape at?" 
 snapped his father, in sudden irritation at the boy's 
 amaze. 
 
 " But I don't want to gang! " John whimpered 
 as before. 
 
 " Want! What does it matter what you want? You 
 should be damned glad of the chance! I mean to make 
 ye a minister — they have plenty of money and little to 
 do — a grand easy life o't. MacCandlish tells me you're 
 a stupid ass, but have some little gift of words. You 
 have every qualification! " 
 
 " It's against my will," John bawled angrily. 
 
 " Your will! " sneered his father. 
 
 To John the command was not only tyrannical, but 
 treacherous. There had been nothing to warn him of 
 
 [ 160 ]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 a coming change, for Gourlay was too contemptuous of 
 his wife and children to inform them how his business 
 stood. John had been brought up to go into the busi- 
 ness, and now, at the last moment he was undeceived, 
 and ordered off to a new life, from which every instinct 
 of his being shrank afraid. He was cursed with an im- 
 agination in excess of his brains, and in the haze of the 
 future he saw two pictures with uncanny vividness — 
 himself in bleak lodgings raising his head from Virgil, 
 to wonder what they were doing at home to-night, and, 
 contrasted with that loneliness, the others, his cronies, 
 laughing along the country roads beneath the glimmer 
 of the stars. They would be having the fine ploys while 
 he was mewed up in Edinburgh. Must he leave loved 
 Barbie and the House with the Green Shutters, must he 
 still drudge at books which he loathed, must he venture 
 on a new life where everything terrified his mind? 
 
 " It's a shame! " he cried. "And I refuse to go. I 
 don't want to leave Barbie ! I'm feared of Edinburgh " 
 — and there he stopped in conscious impotence of 
 speech. How could he explain his forebodings to a 
 rock of a man like his father? 
 
 " No more o't! " roared Gourlay, flinging out his 
 hand. " Not another word! You go to College in 
 October! " 
 
 "Aye man, Johnny," said his mother, " think o' the 
 future that's before ye! " 
 
 "Aye ! " howled the youth in silly anger, " it's like to 
 be a braw future! " 
 
 " It's the best future you can have! " growled his 
 father. 
 
 For while rivalry, born of hate, was the propelling 
 
 [161]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 influence in Gourlay's mind, other reasons whispered 
 that the course suggested by hate was a good one on its 
 merits. His judgment, such as it was, supported the im- 
 pulse of his blood. It told him that the old business 
 would be a poor heritage for his son and that it would 
 be well to look for another opening. The boy gave no 
 sign of aggressive smartness to warrant a belief that he 
 would ever pull the thing together. Better make him 
 a minister. Surely there was enough money left about 
 the House for tha-at! It was the best that could be- 
 fall him. 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay, for her part, though sorry to lose her 
 son, was so pleased at the thought of sending him to 
 College, and making him a minister, that she ran on in 
 foolish maternal gabble to the wife of Drucken Wabster. 
 Mrs. Webster informed the gossips and they discussed 
 the matter at the Cross. 
 
 "Dod," said Sandy Toddle, "Gourlay's better off 
 than I supposed! " 
 
 " Huts! " said Brodie, " it's just a wheen bluff to 
 blind folk!" 
 
 " It would fit him better," said the Doctor, " if he 
 spent some money on his daughter. She ought to pass 
 the winter in a warmer locality than Barbie. The las- 
 sie has a poor chest! I told Gourlay, but he only gave 
 a grunt. And ' oh,' said Mrs. Gourlay, * it would be a 
 daft-like thing to send lier away, when John maun be 
 weel-provided for the College.' D'ye know, I'm begin- 
 ning to think there's something seriously wrong with 
 yon woman's health! She seemed anxious to consult me 
 on her own account, but when I offered to sound her, 
 she wouldn't hear of it — ' Na,' she cried, ' I'll keep it 
 
 [162]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 to mysell! ' — and put her arm across her breast as 
 if to keep me off. I do think she's hiding some com- 
 plaint! Only a woman whose mind was weak with 
 disease could have been so callous as yon about her 
 lassie." 
 
 " Oh, her mind's weak enough/' said Sandy Toddle. 
 " It was always that! But it's only because Gourlay has 
 tyraneezed her verra soul. I'm surprised, however, that 
 lie should be careless of the girl. He was aye said to be 
 browdened upon her." 
 
 " Men-folk are often like that about lassie-weans," 
 said Johnny Coe. " They like well enough to pet them 
 when they're wee, but when once they're big they never 
 look the road they're on! They're a' very fine when 
 they're pets, but they're no sae fine when they're pretty 
 misses. — And, to tell the truth, Janet Gourlay's ainy- 
 thing but pretty! " 
 
 Old Bleach-the-boys, the bitter dominie (who rarely 
 left the studies in political economy which he found a 
 solace for his thwarted powers) happened to be at the 
 Cross that evening, A brooding and taciturn man, he 
 said nothing till others had their say. Then he shook 
 his head. 
 
 " They're making a great mistake." he said gravely, 
 "they're making a great mistake! Yon boy's the last 
 youngster on earth who should go to College." 
 
 "Aye man, dominie, he's an infernal ass, is he noat? " 
 they cried, and pressed for his judgment. 
 
 At last, partly in real pedantry, partly, with hu- 
 mourous intent to puzzle them, he delivered his astound- 
 ing mind. 
 
 " The fault of young Gourlay," quoth he, " is a sen- 
 
 [163]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 sory perceptiveness in gross excess of his intellectual- 
 
 ity." 
 
 They blinked and tried to understand. 
 
 "Aye man, dominie!" said Sandy Toddle. "That 
 means he's an infernal cuddy, dominie! Does it na, 
 dominie ? " 
 
 But Bleach-the-boys had said enough. "Aye," he 
 said drily, " there's a wheen gey cuddies in Barbie! " — 
 and he went back to his stuffy little room to study The 
 Wealth of Nations. 
 
 [164]
 
 XVI 
 
 The scion of the house of Gourlay was a most un- 
 travelled sprig when his father packed him off to the 
 University. Of the work! beyond Skeighan he had no 
 idea. Repression of his children's wishes to see some- 
 thing of the world was a feature of Gourlay's tyranny, 
 less for the sake of the money which a trip might cost 
 (though that counted for something in his refusal) than 
 for the sake of asserting his authority. " Wants to 
 gang to Fechars, indeed! Let him bide at home," he 
 would growl, and at home the youngster had to bide. 
 This had been the more irksome to John since most of 
 his companions in the town were beginning to peer out, 
 with their mammies and daddies to encourage them. 
 To give their cubs a " cast o' the world " was a rule 
 with the potentates of Barbie; once or twice a year 
 young Hopeful was allowed to accompany his sire to 
 Fechars or Pol tan die, or — oh, rare joy! — to the city on 
 the Clyde. To go farther, and get the length of Edin- 
 burgh, was dangerous, because you came back with a 
 halo of glory round your head which banded your fel- 
 lows together in a common attack on your pretensions. 
 It was his lack of pretension to travel, however, that 
 banded them against young Gourlay. " Gunk " and 
 " chaw " are the Scots for a bitter and envious disap- 
 pointment which shows itself in face and eyes. Young 
 Gourlay could never conceal that envious look when 
 
 [ 165 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 he heard of a glory which he did not share; and the 
 youngsters noted his weakness with the unerring preci- 
 sion of the urchin to mark simple difference of charac- 
 ter. Now the boy presses fiendishly on an intimate 
 discovery in the nature of his friends, both because it 
 gives him a new and delightful feeling of power over 
 them, and also because he has not learned charity from 
 a sense of his deficiencies, the brave ruffian having none. 
 He is always coming back to probe the raw place, and 
 Barbie boys were always coming back to " do a gunk " 
 and " play a chaw " on young Gourlay by boasting their 
 knowledge of the world, winking at each other the 
 while to observe his grinning anger. They were large 
 on the wonders they had seen and the places they had 
 been to, while he grew small (and they saw it) in envy 
 of their superiority. Even Swipey Broon had a crow 
 at him. For Swipey had journeyed in the company of 
 his father to far-off Fechars, yea even to the groset-fair; 
 and came back with an epic tale of his adventures. He 
 had been in fifteen taverns, and one hotel (a Temper- 
 ance Hotel where old Brown bashed the proprietor for 
 refusing to supply him gin); one Pepper's Ghost; one 
 Wild Beasts' Show; one Exhibition of the Fattest 
 Woman on the Earth; also in the precincts of one gaol, 
 where Mr. Patrick Brown was cruelly incarcerate for 
 wiping the floor with the cold refuser of the gin. 
 " Criffens! Fechars!" said Swipey for a twelvemonth 
 after, stunned by the mere recollection of that home of 
 the glories of the earth. And then he would begin to 
 expatiate for the benefit of young Gourlay — for Swipey, 
 though his name was the base Teutonic Brown, had a 
 Celtic contempt for brute facts that cripple the imperial 
 
 [166]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 mind. So well did he expatiate that young Gourlay 
 would slink home to his mother and say, " Yah, even 
 Swipey Broon has been to Fechars, though my faither 
 'ull no allow me ! " " Never mind, dear," she would 
 soothe him, " when once you're in the business, you'll 
 gang a'where. And nut wan o' them has sic a business 
 to gang intill! " 
 
 But though he longed to go here and there for a day, 
 that he might be able to boast of it at home, young 
 Gourlay felt that leaving Barbie for good would be a 
 cutting of his heart-strings. Each feature of it, town 
 and landward, was a crony of old years. In a land like 
 Barbie of quick hill and dale, of tumbled wood and fell, 
 each facet of nature has an individuality so separate and 
 so strong, that if you live with it a little it becomes 
 your friend, and a memory so dear that you kiss the 
 thought of it in absence. The fields are not similar 
 as pancakes; they have their difference; each leaps to 
 the eye with a remembered and peculiar charm. That 
 is why the heart of the Scot dies in flat Southern lands; 
 he lives in a vacancy; at dawn there is no Ben Agray to 
 nod recognition through the mists. And that is why 
 when he gets north of Carlisle he shouts with glee as 
 each remembered object sweeps on the sight; yonder's 
 the Nith with a fisherman hip-deep jigging at his rod, 
 and yonder's Corsoncon with the mist on his brow. It 
 is less the totality of the place than the individual fea- 
 ture that pulls at the heart, and it was the individual 
 feature that pulled at young Gourlay. With intellect 
 little or none, he had a vast sensational experience, and 
 each aspect of Barbie was working in his blood and 
 brain. Was there ever a Cross like Barbie Cross; was 
 
 [ 167]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 there ever a burn like the Lintie? It was blithe and 
 heartsome to go birling to Skeighan in the train; it was 
 grand to jouk round Barbie on the nichts at e'en! Even 
 people whom he did not know he could locate with warm 
 sure feelings of superiority. If a poor workman 
 slouched past him on the road he set him down in his 
 heart as one of that rotten crowd from the Weaver's 
 Vennel or the Tinker's Wynd. Barbie was in subjec- 
 tion to the mind of the son of the important man. To 
 dash about Barbie in a gig with a big dog walloping 
 behind, his coat-collar high about his ears, and the reek 
 of a meerschaum pipe floating white and blue many yards 
 behind him, jovial and sordid nonsense about home — 
 that had been his ideal. His father, he thought angrily, 
 had encouraged the ideal, and now he forbade it, like 
 the brute he was. From- the earth in which he was 
 rooted so deeply his father tore him, to fling him on a 
 world he had forbidden him to know. His heart pre- 
 saged disaster. 
 
 Old Gourlay would have scorned the sentimentality 
 of seeing him off from the station, and Mrs. Gourlay 
 was too feckless to propose it for herself. Janet had 
 offered to convoy him, but when the afternoon came she 
 was down with a racking cold. He was alone as he 
 strolled on the platform; a youth well-groomed and well- 
 supplied, but for once in his life not a swaggerer — 
 though the chance to swagger was unique. He was 
 pointed out as "Young Gourlay off to the College." 
 But he had no pleasure in the role, for his heart was in 
 his boots. 
 
 He took the slow train to Skeighan, where he boarded 
 the express. Few sensational experiences were un-
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 known to his too-impressionable mind, and he knew the 
 animation of railway travelling. Coming back from 
 Skeighan in an empty compartment on nights of the 
 past, he had sometimes shouted and stamped and banged 
 the cushions till the dust flew, in mere joy of his rush 
 through the air; the constant rattle, the quick-repeated 
 noise, getting at his nerves, as they get at the nerves of 
 savages and Englishmen on Bank Holidays. But any 
 animation of the kind which he felt to-day was soon 
 expelled by the slow uneasiness welling through his 
 blood. He had no eager delight in the unknown coun- 
 try rushing past; it inspired him with fear. He thought 
 with a feeble smile of what Mysie Monk said when they 
 took her at the age of sixty (for the first time in her 
 life) to the top of Milmannoch Hill. " Eh," said Mysie, 
 looking round her in amaze, " Eh, sirs, it's a lairge place 
 the world when you see it all ! " Gourlay smiled be- 
 cause he had the same thought, but feebly, because he 
 was cowering at the bigness of the world. Folded nooks 
 in the hills swept past, enclosing their lonely farms; 
 then the open straths where autumnal waters gave a pale 
 gleam to the sky. Sodden moors stretched away in vast 
 patient loneliness. Then a grey smear of rain blotted 
 the world, penning him in with his dejection. He 
 seemed to be rushing through unseen space, with no 
 companion but his own foreboding. " Where are you 
 going to? " asked his mind, and the wheels of the train 
 repeated the question all the way to Edinburgh, jerking 
 it out in two short lines and a long one: " Where are 
 you going to? Where are you going to? Ha, ha, Mr. 
 Gourlay, where are you going to ? " 
 
 It was the same sensitiveness to physical impression 
 
 [1G9]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 which won him to Barbie that repelled him from the 
 outer world. The scenes round Barbie, so vividly im- 
 pressed, were his friends because he had known them 
 from his birth; he was a somebody in their midst and 
 had mastered their familiarity; they were the ministers 
 of his mind. Those other scenes were his foes because, 
 realising them morbidly in relation to himself, he was 
 cowed by their big indifference to him, and felt puny, 
 a nobody before them. And he could not pass them like 
 more manly and more callous minds; they came bur- 
 dening in on him whether he would or no. Neither 
 could he get above them. Except when lording it at 
 Barbie he had never a quick reaction of the mind on 
 what he saw; it possessed him, not he it. 
 
 About twilight, when the rain had ceased, his train 
 was brought up with a jerk between the stations. While 
 the rattle and bang continued it seemed not unnatural 
 to young Gourlay (though depressing) to be whirling 
 through the darkening land; it went past like a pano- 
 rama in a dream. But in the dead pause following the 
 noise he thought it " queer " to be sitting here in the 
 intense quietude and looking at a strange and unfamiliar 
 scene — planted in its midst by a miracle of speed and 
 gazing at it closely through a window! Two plough- 
 men from the farmhouse near the line were unyoking at 
 the end of the croft; he could hear the muddy noise 
 (" splorroch " is the Scotch of it) made by the big hoofs 
 on the squashy head-rig. " Bauldy " was the name of 
 the shorter ploughman, so yelled to by his mate, and two 
 of the horses were " Prince and Rab " just like a pair in 
 Loranogie's stable. In the curtainless window of the 
 farmhouse shone a lea])ing flame, not the steady glow of 
 
 fno]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 a lamp, but the tossing brightness of a fire, and thought 
 he to himself, " They're getting the porridge for the 
 men! " He had a vision of the woman stirring in the 
 meal, and of the homely interior in the dancing fire- 
 light. He wondered who the folk were, and would have 
 liked to know them. Yes, it was " queer," he thought, 
 that he who left Barbie only a few hours ago should be 
 in intimate momentary touch with a place and people 
 he had never seen before. The train seemed arrested 
 by a spell that he might get his vivid impression. 
 
 When ensconced in his room that evening, he had a 
 brighter outlook on the world. With the curtains 
 drawn, and the lights burning, its shabbiness was unre- 
 vealed. After the whirling strangeness of the day he 
 was glad to be in a place tliat was his own; here at least 
 was a corner of earth of which he ivas master; it reas- 
 sured him. The firelight dancing on the tea things was 
 pleasant and homely, and the enclosing cosiness shut 
 out the black roaring world that tlireatened to engulf 
 his personality. His spirits rose, ever ready to jump at 
 a trifle. 
 
 The morrow, however, was the first of his lugubrious 
 time. 
 
 If he had been an able man he might have found a 
 place in his classes to console him. Many youngsters 
 are conscious of a vast depression when entering the por- 
 tals of a University; they feel themselves inadequate to 
 cope with the wisdom of the ages garnered in the solid 
 walls. They envy alike the smiling sureness of the 
 genial charlatan (to whom Professors are a set of fools), 
 and the easy mastery of the man of brains. They have 
 a cowering sense of their own inefficiency. But th-e 
 
 [171]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 feeling of uneasiness presently disappears. The first 
 shivering dip is soon forgotten by the hearty breaster 
 of the waves. But ere you breast the waves you must 
 swim; and to swim through the sea of learning was more 
 than heavy-headed Gourlay could accomplish. His 
 mind, finding no solace in work, was left to prey upon 
 itself. 
 
 If he had been the ass total and complete he might 
 have loafed in the comfortable haze which surrounds 
 th€ average intelligence, and cushions it against the 
 world. But in Gourlay was a rawness of nerve, a sensi- 
 tiveness to physical impression, which kept him fretting 
 and stewing, and never allowed him to lapse on a slug- 
 gish indifference. 
 
 Though he could not understand things, he could 
 not escape them; they thrust themselves forv/ard on 
 his notice. We hear of poor genius cursed with 
 perceptions which it can't express; poor Gourlay was 
 cursed with impressions which he couldn't intellectvial- 
 ize. With little power of thought, he had a vast power 
 of observation; and as everything he observed in Edin- 
 burgh was offensive and depressing, he was constantly 
 depressed — the more because he could not understand. 
 At Barbie his life, though equally void of mental inter- 
 est, was solaced by surroundings which he loved. In 
 Edinburgh his surroundings were appalling to his timid 
 mind. There was a greengrocer's shop at the corner of 
 the street in which he lodged, and he never passed it 
 without being conscious of its trodden and decaying 
 leaves. They were enough to make his morning foul. 
 The middle-aged woman, who had to handle carrots with 
 her frozen fingers, was less wretched than he who saw 
 
 [ 172 ]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 her, and thought of her after he went by. A thousand 
 such impressions came boring in upon his mind, and 
 made him squirm. He could not toss them aside like 
 the callous and manly; he could not see them in their 
 due relation, and think them unimportant, like the able; 
 they were always recurring and suggesting woe. If he 
 fled to his room, he was followed by his morbid sense of 
 an unpleasant world. He conceived a rankling hatred 
 of the four walls wherein he had to live. Heavy Bibli- 
 cal pictures, in frames of gleaming black like the splin- 
 ters of a hearse, were hung against a dark ground. 
 Every time Gourlay raised his head he scowled at them 
 with eyes of gloom. It was curious that, hating his 
 room, he was loth to go to bed. He got a habit of sit- 
 ting till three in the morning, staring at the dead fire 
 in sullen apathy. 
 
 He was sitting at nine o'clock one evening, wondering 
 if there was no means of escape from the wretched life 
 he had to lead, when he received a letter from Jock 
 Allan, asking him to come and dine. 
 
 [173]
 
 XVII 
 
 That dinner was a turning-point in young Gourlay's 
 career. It is lucky that a letter describing it has fallen 
 into the hands of the patient chronicler. It was sent 
 by young Jimmy Wilson to his mother. As it gives an 
 idea — which is slightly mistaken — of Jock Allan, and an 
 idea — which is very unmistakable — of young Wilson, it 
 is here presented in the place of pride. It were a pity 
 not to give a human document of this kind all the hon- 
 our in one's power. 
 
 " Dear mother/' said the wee sma' Scoatchman — so 
 the hearty Allan dubbed him — " Dear mother, I just 
 write to inform you that I've been out to a grand dinner 
 at Jock Allan's. He met me on Prince's Street, and 
 made a great how-d'ye-do. ' Come out on Thursday 
 night, and dine with me/ says he, in his big way. So 
 liere I went out to see him. I can tell you he's a 
 warmer! I never saw a man eat so much in all my born 
 days — but I suppose he would be having more on his 
 table than usual, to shew off a bit, knowing us Barbie 
 boys would be writing home about it all. And drink! 
 D'ye know? — he began with a whole half tumbler of 
 whiskey, and how many more he had I really should 
 not like to say! And he must be used to it, too, for it 
 seemed to have no effect on him whatever. And then 
 he smoked and smoked — two great big cigars after we 
 had finished eating, and then ' damn it ' says he — he's 
 
 [174]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 an awful man to swear — ' damn it ' he says, ' there's no 
 satisfaction in cigars; I must have a pipe,' and he actu- 
 ally smoked four pipes before I came away! I noticed 
 the cigars were called ' Estorellas — Best Quality,' and 
 when I was in last Saturday night getting an ounce of 
 shag at the wee shoppie round the corner, I asked the 
 price of 'these Estorellas.' ' Ninepence a piece!' 
 said the bodie. Just imagine Jock Allan smoking 
 eighteenpence — and not being satisfied! He's up in 
 the world since he used to shaw turnips at Loranogie for 
 sixpence a day! But he'll come down as quick if he 
 keeps on at yon rate. He made a great phrase with me, 
 but though it keeps down one's weekly bill to get a 
 meal like yon — I declare I wasn't hungry for two days — 
 for all that I'll go very little about him. He'll be the 
 kind that borrows money very fast — one of those harum- 
 scarum ones! " 
 
 Criticism like that is a boomerang that comes back to 
 hit the emitting skull with a hint of its kindred wooden- 
 ness. It reveals the writer more than the written of. 
 Allan was a bigger man than you would gather from 
 Wilson's account of his Gargantuan revelry. He had a 
 genius for mathematics — a gift which crops up, like 
 music, in the most unexpected corners — and from 
 ploughboy and herd he had become an actuary in Auld 
 Eeekie. Wilson had no need to be afraid, the meagre 
 fool, for his host could have bought him and sold him. 
 
 Allan had been in love with young Gourlay's mother 
 when she herself was a gay young fliskie at Tenshilling- 
 land, but his little romance was soon ended when Gour- 
 lay came and whisked her away. But she remained the 
 one romance of his life. Now in his gross and jovial 
 
 [175]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEK SHUTTERS 
 
 middle-age he idealized her in memory (a sentimentalist, 
 of course — he was Scotch); he never saw her in har 
 scraggy misery to be disillusioned; to him she was still 
 the wee bit lairdie's dochter, a vision that had dawned 
 on his wretched boyhood, a pleasant and pathetic mem- 
 ory. And for that reason he had a curious kindness to 
 her boy. That was why he introduced him to his boon 
 companions. He thought he was doing him a good 
 turn. 
 
 It was true that Allan made a phrase with a withered 
 wisp of humanity like young WilsOn. Not that he failed 
 to see through him, for he christened him " a dried 
 washing-clout." But Allan, like most great-hearted 
 Scots far from their native place, saw it through a veil 
 of sentiment; harsher features that would have been 
 ever-present to his mind if he had never left it, disap- 
 peared from view, and left only the finer qualities bright 
 within his memory. And idealizing the place he ideal- 
 ized its sons. To him they had a value not their own, 
 just because they knew the brig and the burn and the 
 brae, and had sat upon the school benches. He would 
 have welcomed a dog from Barbie. It was from a like 
 generous emotion that he greeted the bodies so warmly 
 on his visits home — he, thought they were as pleased to 
 see him, as he was to see them. But they imputed false 
 motives to his hearty greetings. Even as they shook 
 his hand the mean ones would think to themselves: 
 " What does he mean by this, now? What's he up till? 
 No doubt he'll be wanting something off me! " They 
 could not understand the gusto with which the returned 
 exile cried " Aye man, Jock Tamson, and how are ye? " 
 They thought such warmth must have a sinister inten- 
 
 [176]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 tion. — A Scot revisiting his native place ought to walk 
 very quietly. For the parish is sizing him up. 
 
 There were two things to be said against i\.llan, and 
 two only — unless, of course, you consider drink an ob- 
 jection. Wit with him was less the moment's glitter- 
 ing flash than the anecdotal bang; it was a fine old 
 crusted blend which he stored in the cellars of his mind 
 to bring forth on suitable occasions, as cob-webby as his 
 wine. And it tickled his vanity to have a crowd of 
 admiring youngsters round him to whom he might 
 retail his anecdotes, and play the brilliant raconteur. 
 He had cronies of his own years and he was lordly and 
 jovial amongst them — yet he wanted another entourage. 
 He was one of those middle-aged bachelors who like a 
 train of youngsters behind them, whom they favour in 
 return for homage. The wealthy man who had been a 
 peasant lad delighted to act the jovial host to sons of 
 petty magnates from his home. Batch after batch as 
 they came up to College were drawn around him — partly 
 because their homage pleased him and partly because 
 he loved anything whatever that came out of Barbie. 
 There was no harm in Allan — though when his face was 
 in repose you saw the look in his eye at times of a man 
 defrauding his soul. A robustious young fellow of sense 
 and brains would have found in this lover of books and 
 a bottle not a bad comrade. But he was the worst of 
 cronies for a weak swaggerer like Gourlay. For Gour- 
 lay, admiring the older man's jovial power, was led on 
 to imitate his faults, to think them virtues and a credit 
 — and he lacked the clear cool head that kept Allan's 
 faults from flying away with him. 
 
 At dinner that night there were several braw braw lads 
 
 [177]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 of Barbie Water. There was Tarmillan the doctor (a 
 son of Irrendavie), Logan the cashier, Tozer the Eng- 
 lishman, old Partan — a guileless and enquiring mind — 
 and half-a-dozen students raw from the West. The stu- 
 dents were of the kind that goes up to College with the 
 hay-seed sticking in its hair. Two are in a Colonial 
 Cabinet now, two are in the poor-house. So they go. 
 
 Tarmillan was the last to arrive. He came in suck- 
 ing his thumb into which he had driven a splinter while 
 conducting an experiment. 
 
 " I've a morbid horror of lockjaw," he explained. 
 " I never get a jag from a pin but I see myself in the 
 shape of a hoop, semicircular, with my head on one end 
 of a table my heels on the other, and a doctor standing 
 on my navel trying to reduce the curvature." 
 
 " Gosh! " said Partan, who was a literal fool, " is that 
 the treatment they purshoo? " 
 
 " That's the treatment! " said Tarmillan, sizing up his 
 man. " Oh, it's a queer thing, lockjaw! I remember 
 when I was gold-mining in Tibet, one of our carriers 
 who died of lockjaw had such a circumbendibus in his 
 body, that we froze him and made him the hoop of a 
 bucket to carry our water in. You see he was a thin 
 bit man, and iron was scarce." 
 
 "Aye man! " cried Partan, " you've been in Tibet? " 
 
 "Often," waved Tarmillan, "often! I used to go 
 there every summer." 
 
 Partan, who liked to extend his geographical knowl- 
 edge, would have talked of Tibet for the rest of the even- 
 ing — and Tarmie would have told him news — but Allan 
 broke in. 
 
 " How's the book, Tarmillan? " he enquired. 
 
 [178]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 Tarmillan was engaged on a treatise which those who 
 are competent to judge consider the best thing of its 
 kind ever written. 
 
 " Oh, don't ask me," he writhed. " Man, it's an irk- 
 some thing to write, and to be asked about it makes you 
 squirm. It's almost as offensive to ask a man when his 
 book will be out, as to ask a woman when she'll be de- 
 livered. I'm glad you invited me — to get away from 
 the confounded thing. It's become a blasted tyrant. 
 A big M^ork's a mistake; it's a monster that devours the 
 brain. I neglect my other work for that fellow of mine; 
 he bags everything I think. I never light on a new 
 thing, but ' Hullo! ' I cry, * here's an idea for the book! ' 
 If you are engaged on a big subject all your thinking 
 works into it or out of it." 
 
 " M' yes," said Logan, " but that's a swashing way of 
 putting it." 
 
 " It's the danger of the aphorism," said Allan, " that 
 it states too much in trying to be small. Tozer, what do 
 you think? " 
 
 " I never was engaged on a big subject," sniffed Tozer. 
 
 " We're aware o' that! " said Tarmillan. 
 
 Tozer went under, and Tarmillan had the table. 
 Allan was proud of him. 
 
 " Courage is the great thing," said he. " It often 
 succeeds by the mere show of it. It's the timid man 
 that a dog bites. Run at him and he runs." 
 
 He was speaking to himself rather than the table, 
 admiring the courage that had snubbed Tozer with a 
 word. But his musing remark rang a bell in young 
 Gourlay. By Jove he had thought that himself, so he 
 had! He was a hollow thing, he knew, but a buckram 
 
 [179]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 pretence prevented the world from piercing to his 
 hollowness. The son of his courageous sire (whom 
 he equally admired and feared) had learned to play the 
 game of bluff. A bold front was half the battle. He 
 had worked out his little theory, and it was with a shock 
 of pleasure the timid youngster heard great Allan give 
 it forth. He burned to let him know that he had 
 thought that, too. 
 
 To the youngsters, fat of face and fluffy of its circling 
 down, the talk was a banquet of the gods. For the first 
 time in their lives they heard ideas (such as they were) 
 flung round them royally. They yearned to show that 
 they were thinkers, too. And Gourlay was fired with 
 the rest. 
 
 " I heard a very good one the other day from old 
 Bauldy Johnston," said Allan, opening his usual wallet 
 of stories when the dinner was in full swing. — At a 
 certain stage of the evening " I heard a good one " was 
 the invariable keynote of his talk. K you displayed 
 no wish to hear the " good one " he was huffed. — 
 " Bauldy was up in Edinburgh," he went on, " and I 
 met him near the Scott Monument and took him to 
 Lockhart's for a dram. You remember what a friend 
 he used to be of old Will Overton. I wasn't aware, by 
 the bye, that Will was dead till Bauldy told me. ' lie 
 ivas a great felloiv my friend Will,' he rang out in yon 
 deep voice of his. ' The tliunib marh of Jiis Maker was 
 wet in the clay of him' Man, it made a quiver go down 
 my spine." 
 
 " Oh, Bauldy has been a kenned phrase-maker for the 
 last forty year," said Tarmillan. " But every other 
 Scots peasant has the gift. To hear Englishmen talk, 
 
 [180]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 you would think Carlyle was unique for the word that 
 sends the picture home — they give the man the credit 
 of his race. But I've heard fifty things better than ' wil- 
 lowy man/ in the stable a-hame on a wat day in hairst — 
 fifty things better! — from men just sitting on the corn- 
 kists and ehowing beans." 
 
 " I know a better one than that," said Allan. Tar- 
 millan had told no story, you observe, but Allan was so 
 accustomed to saying " I know a better one than that," 
 that it escaped him before he was aware. " I remem- 
 ber when Bauldy went ofi' to Paris on the spree. He 
 kept his mouth shut when he came back, for he was 
 rather ashamed o' the outburst. But the bodies were 
 keen to hear. ' What's the incense like in Notre Dame ? ' 
 said Johnny Coe with his e'en big. 'Burning stinh!' 
 said Bauldy." 
 
 " I can cap that with a better one, still," said Tarmil- 
 lan, who wasn't to be done by any man. " I was with 
 Bauldy when he quarrelled Tam Gibb of Hooehan-doe. 
 Hoochan-doe's a yelling ass, and he threatened Bauldy 
 — oh, he would do this, and he would do that, and he 
 would do the other thing. ' Damn ye, would ye threaten 
 me? ' cried Bauldy. ' I'll gar your hrahis jaup red to the 
 heavens!' And, I 'clare to God, sirs, a nervous man 
 looked up to see if the clouds werena spattered with 
 the gore! " 
 
 Tozer cleared a sarcastic windpipe. 
 
 " Why do you clear your throat like that? " said Tar- 
 millan — " like a craw with the croup, on a bare branch, 
 against a grey sky in November! If I had a throat like 
 yours, I'd cut it and be done wi't." 
 
 " I wonder what's the cause of that extraordinary 
 
 [181]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 vividness in the speech of the Scotch peasantry? " aaid 
 Allan — more to keep the blades from bickering than 
 from any wish to know. 
 
 " It comes from a power of seeing things vividly in- 
 side your mind," said a voice, timorous and Avheezy, 
 away down the table. 
 
 What cockerel was this crowing? 
 • They turned and beheld the blushing Gourlay. 
 
 But Tarmillan and Tozer were at it again, and he 
 was snubbed. Jimmy Wilson sniggered, and the other 
 youngsters enjoyed his discomfiture. Huh! What 
 right has lie to set up his pipe? 
 
 His shirt stuck to his back. He would have liked the 
 ground to open and swallow him. 
 
 He gulped a huge swill of whiskey to cover his vexa- 
 tion — and, oh, the mighty difference! A sudden cour- 
 age flooded his veins. He turned with a scowl on Wil- 
 son, and, "What the devil are you sniggering at? " he 
 growled. Logan, the only senior who marked the by- 
 play, thought him a hardy young spunkie. 
 
 The moment the whiskey had warmed the cockles of 
 his heart, Gourlay ceased to care a rap for the sniggerers. 
 Drink deadened his nervous perception of the critics 
 on his right and left, and set him free to follow his idea 
 undisturbed. It was an idea he had long cherished — 
 being one of the few that ever occurred to him. He 
 rarely made phrases himself — though, curiously enough, 
 his father often did without knowing it — the harsh 
 grind of his character producing a flash. But Gourlay 
 was aware of his uncanny gift of visualization — or of 
 " seeing things in the inside of his head," as he called it 
 — and vanity prompted the inference, that this was the 
 
 [182]
 
 CHAPTEK SEVENTEEN 
 
 faculty that sprang the metaphor. His theory was now 
 clear and eloquent before him. He was realizing for the 
 first time in his life (with a sudden joy in the discovery) 
 the effect of whiskey to unloose the brain; sentences 
 went hurling through his brain with a fluency that 
 thrilled. If he had the ear of the company, now he had 
 the drink to hearten him, he would show Wilson and the 
 rest that he wasn't such a blasted fool! In a room by 
 himself he would have spouted to the empty air. 
 
 Some such point he had reached in the hurrying jum- 
 ble of his thoughts, when Allan addressed him. 
 
 Allan did not mean his guest to be snubbed. He was 
 a gentleman at heart, not a cad like Tozer; and this boy 
 was the son of a girl whose laugh he remembered in the 
 gloamings at Tenshillingland. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, John," he said in heavy benevo- 
 lence — he had reached that stage — " I beg your pardon. 
 I'm afraid you was interrupted." 
 
 Gourlay felt his heart a lump in his throat, but he 
 rushed into speech. 
 
 " Metaphor comes from the power of seeing things 
 in the inside of your head," said the unconscious disci- 
 ple of Aristotle — " seeing them so vivid that you see the 
 likeness between them. When Bauldy Johnston said 
 * the thumb-mark of his Maker was wet in the clay of 
 him,' he saw the print of a thumb in wet clay, and he 
 saw the Almighty making a man out of mud, the way He 
 used to do in the Garden of Eden langsyne — so Bauldy 
 flashed the two ideas together and the metaphor sprang! 
 A man'll never make phrases unless he can see things 
 in the middle of his brain. I can see things in the mid- 
 dle of my brain," he went on cockily — '' anything I want 
 
 [ 183 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTERS 
 
 to! I don't need to shut my eyes, either. They just 
 come up before me." 
 
 " Man, you're young to have noticed these things, 
 John," said Jock Allan. " I never reasoned it out be- 
 fore, but I'm sure you're in the right o't." 
 
 He spoke more warmly than he felt, because Gourlay 
 had flushed and panted and stammered (in spite of in- 
 spiring bold John Barleycorn) while airing his little 
 theory, and Allan wanted to cover him. But Gourlay 
 took it as a tribute to his towering mind. Oh, but he 
 was the proud mannikin. " Pass the watter! " he said 
 to Jimmy Wilson, and Jimmy passed it meekly. 
 
 Logan took a fancy to Gourlay on the spot. He was 
 a slow sly cosy man, with a sideward laugh in his eye, a 
 humid gleam. And because his blood was so genial and so 
 slow, he liked to make up to brisk young fellows, whose 
 wilder outbursts might amuse him. They quickened 
 his sluggish blood. No bad fellow, and good-natured 
 in his heavy way, he was what the Scotch call a " slug 
 for the drink." A " slug for the drink " is a man who 
 soaks and never succumbs. Logan was the more dan- 
 gerous a crony on that account. Remaining sober while 
 others grew drunk, he was always ready for another 
 dram, always ready with an oily chuckle for the sploring 
 nonsense of his satellites. He would see them home in 
 the small hours, taking no mean advantage over them, 
 never scorning them because they " couldn't carry it," 
 only laughing at their daft vagaries. And next day he 
 would gurgle: " So-and-so was screwed last night, and, 
 man, if you had heard his talk! " Logan had enjoyed it. 
 He hated to drink by himself, and liked a splurging 
 youngster with whom to go the rounds. 
 
 [ 184 ]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 He was attracted to Gourlay by the manly way he 
 tossed his drink, and by the false fire it put into him. 
 But he made no immediate advance. He sat smiling in 
 creeshy benevolence, beaming on Gourlay but saying 
 nothing. When the party was ended, however, he made 
 up to him going through the door. 
 
 " I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Gourlay," said he. 
 " Won't you come round to the Howff for a while? " 
 
 " The Howff? " said Gourlay. 
 
 "Yes," said Logan, "haven't ye heard o't! It's a 
 snug bit house, wliere some of the West Country billies 
 foregather for a nicht at e'en. Oh, nothing to speak of, 
 ye know — just a dram and a joke to pass the time now 
 and then! " 
 
 "Aha! " laughed Gourlay, " there's worse than a 
 drink, by Jove. It puts smeddum in your blood! " 
 
 Logan nipped the guard of his arm in heavy playful- 
 ness, and led him to the Howff. 
 
 [ 185]
 
 XVIII 
 
 Young Govirlay had found a means of escaping from 
 his foolish mind. By the beginning of his second ses- 
 sion he was as able a toper as a publican could wish. 
 The somewhat sordid joviality of Allan's ring, their wit- 
 combats that were somewhat crude, appeared to him the 
 very acme of social intercourse. To emulate Logan and 
 Allan was his aim. But drink appealed to him in many 
 ways, besides. Now when his too-apprehensive nerves 
 were frightened by bugbears in his lonely room he could 
 be off to the Howff and escape them. And drink in- 
 spired him with false courage to sustain his pose as a 
 hardy rollicker. He had acquired a kind of prestige 
 since the night of Allan's party, and two of the fellows 
 whom he met there, Armstrong and Gillespie, became his 
 friends at College and the Howff. He swaggered before 
 them as he had swaggered at school both in Barbie and 
 Skeighan — and now there was no Swipey Broon to cut 
 him over the coxcomb. Armstrong and Gillespie — 
 though they saw through him — let him run on, for he 
 was not bad fun when he was splurging. He found, too, 
 when with his cronies that drink unlocked his mind, and 
 gave a free flow to his ideas. Nervous men are often 
 impotent of speech from very excess of perception — they 
 realize not merely what they mean to say, but with the 
 nervous antenna of their minds they feel the attitude 
 of every auditor. Distracted by lateral perceptions from 
 
 [ 186 i
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 the point ahead, they blunder, where blunter minds 
 would go forward undismayed. That was the experi- 
 ence of young Gourlay. If he tried to talk freely when 
 sober, he always grew confused. But drink deadened 
 the outer rim of his perception and left it the clearer in 
 the middle for its concentration. In plainer language, 
 when he was drunk, he was less afraid of being laughed 
 at, and free of that fear he was a better speaker. He 
 was driven to drink, then, by every weakness of his char- 
 acter. As nervous hypochondriac, as would-be swag- 
 gerer, as a dullard requiring stimulus, he found that 
 drink, to use his own language, gave him " smeddum! " 
 
 With his second year he began the study of philoso- 
 phy, and that added to his woes. He had nerves 
 to feel the Big Conundrum, but not the brains to solve 
 it — small blame to him for that since philosophers have 
 cursed each other black in the face over it for the last 
 five thousand years. But it worried him. The strange 
 and sinister detail of the world, that had always been a 
 horror to his mind, became more horrible, beneath the 
 stimulus of futile thought. But whiskey was the mighty 
 cure. He was the gentleman who gained notoriety on a 
 memorable occasion, by exclaiming — " Metaphysics be 
 damned: let us drink! " Omar and other bards have 
 expressed the same conclusion in more dulcet wise. 
 But Gourlay's was equally sincere. How sincere is 
 another question. 
 
 Curiously, an utterance of "Auld Tam," one of his 
 professors, half confirmed him in his evil ways. 
 
 " I am speaking now," said Tam, " of the comfort of 
 a true philosopliy, less of its higher aspect than its com- 
 fort to the mind of man. Physically, each man is high- 
 
 [ 187 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 est on the globe; intellectually, the philosopher alone 
 dominates the world. To him are only two entities that 
 matter, himself and the Eternal; or, if another, it is his 
 fellow-man, whom serving he serves the ultimate of 
 being. But he is master of the outer world. The mind, 
 indeed, in its first blank outlook on life is terrified by 
 the demoniac force of nature and the swarming misery 
 of man; by the vast totality of things, the cold remote- 
 ness of the starry heavens and the threat of the devour- 
 ing seas. It is puny in their midst." 
 
 Gourlay woke up, and the sweat broke on him. Great 
 Heaven, had Tam been through it, too! 
 
 "At that stage," quoth the wise man, " the mind is 
 dispersed in a thousand perceptions and a thousand 
 fears; there is no central greatness in the soul. It is 
 assailed by terrors which men sunk in the material never 
 seem to feel. Phenomena, uninformed by thought, be- 
 wilder and depress." 
 
 " Just like me! " thought Gourlay, and listened with 
 a thrilling interest because it was " just like him." 
 
 "But the labyrinth," said Tam, with a ring in his 
 voice as of one who knew — " the labyrinth cannot appal 
 the man who has found a clue to its windings. A mind 
 that has attained to thought lives in itself, and the world 
 becomes its slave. Its formerly distracted powers rally 
 home; it is central, possessing not possessed. The world 
 no longer frightens, being understood. Its sinister fea- 
 tures are accidents that will pass away, and they gradu- 
 ally cease to be observed. For real thinkers know the 
 value of a wise indifference. ~ And that is why they are 
 often the most genial men; unworried by the transient, 
 they can smile and wait, sure of their eternal aim. The 
 
 [188]
 
 CHAPTER EIGPITEEN 
 
 man to whom the infinite beckons is not to be driven 
 from his mystic quest by the ambush of a temporal fear 
 — there is no fear; it has ceased to exist. .That is the 
 comfort of a true philosophy — if a men accepts it not 
 merely mechanically, from another, but feels it in 
 breath and blood and every atom of his being. With 
 a warm surety in his heart, he is undaunted by the 
 outer world. That, gentlemen, is what thought can 
 do for a man." 
 
 " By Jove," thought Gourlay, *' that's what whiskey 
 does for me! " 
 
 And that, on a lower level, was what whiskey did. 
 He had no conception of what Tam really meant — there 
 were people indeed who used to think that Tam never 
 knew what he meant himself. They were as little able as 
 Gourlay to appreciate the mystic, through the radiant 
 haze of whose mind thoughts loomed on you sudden and 
 big, like mountain tops in a sunny mist, the grander for 
 their dimness. But Gourlay, though he could not under- 
 stand, felt the fortitude of whiskey was somehow akin 
 to the fortitude described. In the increased vitality it 
 gave, he was able to tread down the world. If he walked 
 on a wretched day in a wretched street, when he hap- 
 pened to be sober, his mind was hither and yon in a 
 thousand perceptions and a thousand fears, fastening to 
 (and fastened to) each squalid thing around. But with 
 whiskey humming in his blood, he paced onward in a 
 happy dream. The wretched puddles by the way, the 
 frowning rookeries where misery squalled, the melan- 
 choly noises of the street, were passed unheeded by. 
 His distracted powers rallied home; he was concentrate, 
 his own man again, the hero of his musing mind. For, 
 
 [189]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTEES 
 
 like all weak men of a vivid fancy, he was constantly 
 framing dramas of which he was the towering lord. The 
 weakling who never " downed " men in reality, was 
 always " downing " them in thought. His imaginary 
 triumphs consoled him for his actual rebuffs. As he 
 walked in a tipsy dream, he was " standing up " to some- 
 body, hurling his father's phrases at him, making short 
 work of him! If imagination paled, the nearest tavern 
 supplied a remedy, and flushed it to a radiant glow. 
 Whereupon he had become the master of his world, and 
 not its slave. 
 
 " Just imaigine," he thought, " whiskey doing for me 
 what philosophy seems to do for Tarn. It's a wonderful 
 thing, the drink! " 
 
 His second session wore on, and when near its close, 
 Tam gave out the subject for the Raeburn. 
 
 The Raeburn was a poor enough prize, a few books for 
 an " essay in the picturesque," but it had a peculiar 
 interest for the folk of Barbie. Twenty years ago it was 
 won four years in succession by men from the valley; and 
 the unusual run of luck fixed it in their minds. There- 
 after when an unsuccessful candidate returned to his 
 home, he was sure to be asked very pointedly, " Who won 
 the Raeburn the year? " to rub into him their perception 
 that he at least had been a failure. A bodie would 
 dander slowly up, saying, " Aye, man, ye've won hame! " 
 then, having mused awhile, would casually ask, " By- 
 the-bye, who won the Raeburn the year? — Oh, it was a 
 Perthshire man! It used to come our airt, but we seem 
 to have lost the knack o't! Oh, yes, sir. Barbie bred 
 writers in those days, but the breed seems to have 
 decayed." Then he would murmur dreamily, as if talk- 
 
 [190]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 ing to himself, " Jock Goudie was the last that got it 
 hereaway. But lie was a clever chap." 
 
 The caustic bodie would dander away with a grin, 
 leaving a poor writhing soul. When he reached the 
 Cross, he would tell the Deacon blithely of the " fine one 
 he had given him," and the Deacon would lie in wait to 
 give him a fine one, too. In Barbie, at least, your re- 
 turning student is never met at the station with a brass 
 band, whatever may happen in more emotional districts 
 of the North, where it pleases them to shed the tear. 
 
 " An Arctic Night " was the inspiring theme which 
 Tam set for the Raeburn. 
 
 "A very appropriate subject! " laughed the fellows; 
 " quite in the style of his own lectures." For Tam, 
 though wise and a humourist, had his prosy hours. He 
 used to lecture on the fifteen characteristics of Lady 
 Macbeth (so he parcelled the unhappy Queen), and he 
 would announce quite gravely, " We will now approach 
 the discussion of the eleventh feature of the lady." 
 
 Gourlay had a shot at the Eaeburn. He could not 
 bring a radiant fulness of mind to bear upon his task 
 (it was not in him to bring), but his morbid fancy set to 
 work of its own accord. He saw a lonely little town far 
 off upon the verge of Lapland night, leagues and leagues 
 across a darkling plain, dark itself and little and lonely 
 in the gloomy splendour of a Northern sky. A ship put 
 to sea, and Gourlay heard in his ears the skirl of the man 
 who went overboard — struck dead by the icy water on 
 his brow, which smote the brain like a tomahawk. 
 
 He put his hand to his own brow when he wrote that, 
 and, " Yes," he cried eagerly, " it would be the cold 
 would kill the brain! Ooh-ooh', how it would go in! " 
 
 [191]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 A world of ice groaned round him in the night; bergs 
 ground on each other and were rent in pain; he heard 
 the splash of great fragments tumbled in the deep, and 
 felt the waves of their distant falling lift the vessel be- 
 neath him in the darkness. To the long desolate night 
 came a desolate dawn, and eyes were dazed by the encir- 
 cling whiteness; yet there flashed green slanting chasms 
 in the ice, and towering pinnacles of sudden rose, lonely 
 and far away. An unknown sea beat upon an unknown 
 shore, and the ship drifted on the pathless waters, a 
 white dead man at the helm. 
 
 " Yes, by Heaven," cried Gourlay, " I can see it all, 
 I can see it all — that fellow standing at the helm, frozen 
 white and as stiff's an icicle! " 
 
 Yet, do what he might, he was unable to fill more 
 than half a dozen small pages. He hesitated whether 
 he should send them in, and held them in his inky fin- 
 gers, thinking he would burn them. He was full of pity 
 for his own inability. " I wish I was a clever chap," he 
 said mournfully. 
 
 "Ach, well, I'll try my luck," he muttered at last, 
 " though Tam may guy me before the whole class, for 
 doing so little o't." 
 
 The Professor, however (unlike the majority of 
 Scotch Professors), rated quality higher than quantity. 
 
 " I have learned a great deal myself," he announced 
 on the last day of the session, " I have learned a great 
 deal myself from the papers sent in on the subject of 
 an ' Arctic Night.' " 
 
 " Hear, hear! " said an insolent student at the back. 
 
 "Where, where?" said the Professor, "stand up, 
 sir!" 
 
 [192]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 A gigantic Borderer rose blushing into view, and 
 was greeted with howls of derision by his fellows. Tarn 
 eyed him, and he winced. 
 
 " You will apologize in my private room at the end of 
 the hour," said Aquinas, as the students used to call 
 him. " Learn that this is not a place to bray in." 
 
 The giant slunk down, trying to hide himself. 
 
 " Yes," said Tam, " I have learned what a poor sense 
 of proportion some of you students seem to have. It 
 was not to see who could write the most, but who could 
 write the best, that I set the theme. One gentleman — 
 he has been careful to give me his full name and ad- 
 dress — " twinkled Tam, 3Jid picking up a huge manu- 
 script he read it from the outer page — " Mr. Alexander 
 MacTavish, of Benmacstronachan, near Auchnapeter- 
 hoolish, in che island of South Uist, has sent me in no 
 less than a hundred and fifty-three closely written pages! 
 I daresay it's the size of the adjectives he uses that makes 
 the thing so heavy," quoth Tam, and dropped it thud- 
 ding on his desk. " Life is short, the art of the Mac- 
 Tavish long, and to tell the truth, gentlemen " — he 
 gloomed at them humorously — " to tell the truth, I 
 stuck in the middle o't! " (Roars of laughter, and a 
 reproving voice, " Oh, ta pold j\IacTa-avish! " whereat 
 tliere was pandemonium). MacTavish was heard to 
 groan, " Oh, why tid I leave my home ! " to which a 
 voice responded in mocking antiphone, " Why tid you 
 cross ta teep?" The noise they made was heard at 
 Holyrood. 
 
 When the tumult and the shouting died, Tam resumed 
 with a quiver in his voice, for " ta pold MacTavish " had 
 tickled him too. " Now, gentlemen," he said, " I don't 
 
 [193]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEES 
 
 judge essays by their weight, though I'm told they 
 sometimes pursue that method in Glasgow! " 
 
 (Groans for the rival University, cries of " Oh-oh- 
 oh! " and a weary voice, " Please sir, don't mention that 
 place — it makes me feel quite ill.") 
 
 The Professor allayed the tumult with dissuasive 
 palm. 
 
 " I believe," he said drily, " you call that noise of 
 yours ' the College Tramp,' in the Senatus we speak o't 
 as ' the Cuddies' Trudge.' — Now, gentlemen, I'm not 
 unwilling to allow a little noise on the last day of the 
 session, but really you must behave more quietly. — So 
 little does that method of judging essays commend itself 
 to me, I may tell you, that the sketch which I consider 
 the best barely runs to half a dozen short pages." 
 
 Young Gourlay's heart gave a leap within him; he 
 felt it thudding on his ribs. The skin crept on him, 
 and he breathed with quivering nostrils. Gillespie won- 
 dered why his breast heaved. 
 
 " It's a curious sketch," said the Professor. '' It con- 
 tains a serious blunder in grammar, and several mis- 
 takes in spelling, but it shows, in some ways, a wonder- 
 
 „iivii iiiii 
 
 f ul imagination 
 
 " Ho, ho! " thought Gourlay. 
 
 a 
 
 Of course there are various kinds of imagination," 
 said Tam. " In its lowest form it merely recalls some- 
 thing which the eyes have already seen, and brings it 
 vividly before the mind. A higher form pictures some- 
 thing whicli you never saw, but only conceived as a pos- 
 sible existence. Then there's the imagination which 
 not only sees but hears — actually hears what a man 
 would say on a given occasion, and entering into his 
 
 [194]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 blood, tells you exactly M^hy he does it. The highest 
 form is both creative and consecrative, if I may use the 
 word, merging in diviner thought. It irradiates the 
 world. Of that high power there is no evidence in the 
 essay before me. To be sure there was little occasion 
 for its use." 
 
 Young Gourlay's thermometer went down. 
 
 " Indeed," said Aquinas, " there's a curious want of 
 bigness in the sketch — no large nobility of phrase. It 
 is written in gaspy little sentences, and each sentence 
 begins ' and ' — ' and ' — ' and,' like a schoolboy's narra- 
 tive. It's as if a number of impressions had seized the 
 writer's mind, which he jotted down hurriedly, lest they 
 should escape him. But, just because it's so little wordy, 
 it gets the effect of the thing — faith, sirs, it's right on to 
 the end of it every time! The writing of some folk is 
 nothing but a froth of words — lucky if it glistens with- 
 out, like a blobber of iridescent foam. But in this 
 sketch there's a perception at the back of every sen- 
 tence. It displays, indeed, too nervous a sense of the 
 external world." 
 
 " Name, name! " cried the students, who were being 
 deliberately worked by Tam to a high pitch of cu- 
 riosity. 
 
 " I would strongly impress on the writer," said the 
 shepherd, heedless of his bleating sheep, " I would 
 strongly impress on the writer, to set himself down for a 
 spell of real, hard solid, and deliberate thought. That 
 almost morbid perception, with philosophy to back it, 
 might create an opulent and vivid mind. Without phi- 
 losophy, it would simply be a curse. With philosophy, it 
 would bring thought the material to work on. Without 
 
 [ 195 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTEES 
 
 philosophy, it would simply distract and irritate the 
 mind." 
 
 "Name, name! " cried the fellows. 
 The winner of the Eaeburn," said Thomas Aquinas, 
 
 is Mr. John Gourlay." 
 
 « 
 
 Gourlay and his friends made for the nearest public 
 house. The occasion, they thought, justified a drink. 
 The others chafl^ed Gourlay about Tam's advice. 
 
 " You know. Jack," said Gillespie, mimicking the 
 sage, " what you have got to do next summer is to set 
 yourself down for a spell of real, hard, solid and deliber- 
 ate thought. That was Tam's advice, you know." 
 
 " Him and his advice ! " said Gourlay. 
 
 [196]
 
 XIX 
 
 There were only four other passengers dropped by 
 the eleven o'clock express at Skeighan station, and, as 
 it happened, young Gourlay knew them all. They were 
 petty merchants of the neighbourhood whom he had 
 often seen about Barbie. The sight of their remem- 
 bered faces, as he stepped on to the platform, gave him 
 a delightful sense that he was nearing home. He had 
 passed from the careless world where he was nobody at 
 all, to the familiar circle where he was a somebody, a 
 mentioned man, and the son of a mentioned man — young 
 Mr. Gourlay! 
 
 He had a feeling of superiority to the others, too, be- 
 cause they were mere local journeyers while he had 
 travelled all the way from mighty Edinburgh by the late 
 express. He was returning from the outer world while 
 they were bits of bodies who had only been to Fechars. 
 As Edinburgh was to Fechars so was he to them. Eound 
 him was the halo of distance and the mystery of night- 
 travelling. He felt big. 
 
 "Have you a match, Eobert? " he asked very gra- 
 ciously of Robin Gregg, one of the porters whom he 
 knew. Getting his match, he lit a cigarette; and when 
 it was lit, after one quick puff, turned it swiftly round 
 to examine its burning end. " Rotten! " he said, and 
 threw it away to light another. The porters were watch- 
 ing him, and he knew it. When the station-master ap- 
 
 [197]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 peared yawning from his office, as lie was passing 
 through the gate, and asked who it was, it flattered his 
 vanity to hear Robin's answer, that it was " young Mr. 
 Gourlay of Barbie, Just back from the Univ-ai-rsity! " 
 
 He had been so hot for home that he had left Edin- 
 burgh at twilight, too eager to wait for the morrow. 
 There was no train for Barbie at this hour of the night; 
 and, of course, there was no gig to meet him. Even if 
 he had sent word of his coming: " There's no need for 
 travelling so late," old Gourlay would have growled — 
 "let him shank it! We're in no hurry to have him 
 home." 
 
 He set off briskly, eager to see his mother and tell her 
 he had won the Eaeburn. The consciousness of his 
 achievement danced in his blood, and made the road 
 light to his feet. His thoughts were not with the coun- 
 try round him, but entirely in the moment of his en- 
 trance, when he should proclaim his triumph, with 
 proud enjoyment of his mother's pride. His fancy 
 swept to his journey's end, and took his body after, so 
 that the long way was as nothing, annihilate by the leap 
 forward of his mind. 
 
 He was too vain, too full of himself and his petty 
 triumph, to have room for the beauty of the night. The 
 sky was one sea of lit cloud, foamy ridge upon ridge 
 over all the heavens, and each wave was brimming with 
 its own whiteness, seeming unborrowed of the moon. 
 Through one peep-hole, and only one, shone a distant 
 star, a faint white speck far away, dimmed by the nearer 
 splendours of the sky. Sometimes the thinning edge of 
 a cloud brightened in spume, and round the brightness 
 came a circle of umber, making a window of fantastic 
 
 [198]
 
 CHAPTER NINETEEIT 
 
 glory for Dian the queen; there her white vision peeped 
 for a moment on the world — and the next she was hid 
 behind a fleecy veil, witching the heavens. Gourlay 
 was alone with the wonder of the night. The light from 
 above him was softened in a myriad boughs, no longer 
 mere light and cold, but a spirit indwelling as their soul, 
 and they were boughs no longer but a woven dream. He 
 walked beneath a shadowed glory. But he was dead to 
 it all. One only fact possessed him. He had won the 
 Eaeburn, he had won the Eaeburn! The road flew 
 beneath him. 
 
 Almost before he was aware, the mean grey streets of 
 Barbie had clipped him round. He stopped, panting 
 from the hurry of his walk, and looked at the quiet 
 houses, all still among the gloom. He realized with a 
 sudden pride that he alone was in conscious possession 
 of the town. Barbie existed to no other mind. All 
 the others were asleep; while he had a thrilling con- 
 sciousness of them, and of their future attitude to him, 
 they did not know that he, the returning great one, was 
 present in their midst. They all knew of the Eaeburn, 
 however, and ere long they would know that it was his. 
 He was glad to hug his proud secret in presence of the 
 sleeping town, of which he would be the talk to-mor- 
 row. How he would surprise them! He stood for 
 a little, gloating in his own sensations. Then a de- 
 sire to get home tugged him, and he scurried up the 
 long brae. 
 
 He stole round the corner of the House with the 
 Green Shutters. Eoger, the collie, came at him with a 
 bow-wow-wow. " Eoger! " he whispered, and cuddled 
 him, and the old loyalist fawned on him and licked his 
 
 [199]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTERS 
 
 hand. The very smell of the dog was couthie in his 
 nose. 
 
 The window of a bedroom went up with a crash. 
 
 " Now, then, who the devil are you? "came the voice 
 of old Gourlay. 
 
 " It's me, faither," said John. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, is it? This is a fine time o' night to 
 come home." 
 
 " Faither, I have — I have won the Raeburn! " 
 
 " It'll keep, my mannie, it'll keep " — and the window 
 slammed. 
 
 Next moment it was up. 
 
 " Did young Wilson get ony thing? " came the eager 
 cry. 
 
 " Nut him! " said John. 
 
 " Fine, man! Dam'd, sir, I'm proud o' ye! " 
 
 John went round the corner treading on air. For the 
 first time in his life his father had praised him. 
 
 He peeped through a kink at the side of the kitchen- 
 blind, where its descent was arrested by a flowerpot, in 
 the corner of the window-sill. As he had expected, 
 though it was long past midnight, his mother was not 
 yet in bed. She was folding a white cloth over her 
 bosom, and about her, on the backs of chairs, there were 
 other such cloths, drying by the fire. He watched her 
 curiously — once he seemed to hear a whimpering moan. 
 \\Tien she buttoned her dress above the cloth, she gazed 
 sadly at the dying embers, the look of one who has 
 gained short respite from a task of painful tendance on 
 the body, yet is conscious that the task and the pain are 
 endless, and will have to be endured, to-morrow and to- 
 morrow, till she dies. It was the fixed gaze of utter 
 
 [200]
 
 CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 
 weariness and apathy. A sudden alarm for his mother 
 made John cry her name. 
 
 She flew to the door, and in a moment had him in her 
 arms. He told his news, and basked in her adoration. 
 
 She came close to him, and " John," she said in a 
 smiling whisper, big-eyed, "John," she breathed, 
 " would ye like a dram ? " It was as if she was pro- 
 pounding a roguish plan in some dear conspiracy. 
 
 He laughed. " Well," he said, " seeing we have won 
 the Eaeburn, you and I, I think we might! " 
 
 He heard her fumbling in the distant pantry. He 
 smiled to himself as he listened to the clinking glass, 
 and, " By Jove," said he, " a mother's a fine thing! " 
 
 " Where's Janet? " he asked when she returned. He 
 wanted another worshipper. 
 
 " Oh, she gangs to bed the moment it's dark," his 
 mother complained, like one aggrieved. " She's always 
 saying that she's ill! I thocht when she grew up that 
 she might be a wee help, but she's no use at all. And 
 I'm sure, if a' was kenned, I have more to complain o' 
 than she has. Atweel aye," she said, and stared at the 
 embers. 
 
 It rarely occurs to young folk who have never left 
 their homes that their parents may be dying soon; 
 from infancy they have known them as established facts 
 of nature like the streams and hills; they expect them 
 to remain. But the young who have been away for 
 six months are often struck by a tragic difference in 
 their elders on returning home. To young Gourlay 
 there was a curious difference in his mother. She was 
 almost beautiful to-night. Her blue eyes were large 
 and glittering; her ears waxen and delicate; and her 
 
 [201]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 brown hair swept low on her blue-veined temples. 
 Above and below her lips there was a narrow margin of 
 the purest white. 
 
 " Mother," he said anxiously, " you're not ill, are ye? 
 What do ye need so many wee clouts for? " 
 
 She gasped and started. " They're just a wheen 
 clouts I was sorting out," she faltered. — " No, no, dear, 
 there's noathing wrong wi' me." 
 
 " There's one sticking in your blouse," said he, and 
 pointed to her slack breast. 
 
 She glanced nervously down and pushed it further in. 
 " I daresay I put it there when I wasna thinking," she 
 explained. 
 
 But she eyed him furtively to see if he were still 
 looking. 
 
 [202]
 
 XX 
 
 There is nothing worse for a weakling than a small 
 success. The strong man tosses it beneath his feet, as a 
 step to rise higher on. He squeezes it into its proper 
 place as a layer in the life he is building. If his mem- 
 ory dwells on it for a moment it is only because of its 
 valuable results, not because in itself it is a theme for 
 vanity. And if he be higher than strong he values not 
 it, but the exercise of getting it, viewing his actual 
 achievement, he is apt to reflect: " Is this pitiful thing, 
 then, all that I toiled for? " Finer natures often experi- 
 ence a keen depression and sense of littleness in the 
 pause that follows a success. But the fool is so swollen 
 by thought of his victory that he is unfit for all healthy 
 work till somebody jags him and lets the gas out. He 
 never forgets the great thing he fancies he did thirty 
 years ago, and expects the world never to forget it either. 
 The more of a weakling he is, and the more incapable of 
 repeating his former triumph, the more he thinks of it; 
 and the more he thinks of it the more it satisfies his 
 meagre soul and prevents him essaying another brave 
 venture in the world. His petty achievement ruins him. 
 The memory of it never leaves him, but swells to a huge 
 balloon that lifts him off his feet and carries him heav- 
 ens-high — till it lands him on a dunghill. Even from 
 that proud eminence he oft cock-a-doodles his former 
 triumph to the world. " Man, you wouldn't think to see 
 
 [203]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 me here that I once held a great position! Thirty year 
 back, I did a big thing. It was like this, ye see/' And 
 then follows a recital of his faded glories — generally 
 ending with a hint that a drink would be very accept- 
 able. 
 
 Even such a weakling was young Gourlay. His suc- 
 cess in Edinburgh, petty as it was, turned his head, and 
 became one of the many causes working to destroy him. 
 All that summer at Barbie he swaggered and drank on 
 the strength of it. 
 
 On the morning after his return he clothed himself 
 in fine raiment (he was always well-dressed till the end 
 came), and sallied forth to dominate the town. As he 
 swaggered past the Cross, smoking a cigarette, he seemed 
 to be conscious that the very walls of the houses watched 
 liim with unusual eyes, as if even they felt that yon was 
 John Gourlay whom they had known as a boy, proud 
 wearer now of the academic wreath, the conquering 
 hero returned to his home. So Gourlay figured them. 
 He, the disconsidered, had shed a lustre on the ancient 
 walls. They were tributaries to his new importance — 
 somehow their attitude was different from what it had 
 ever been before. It was only his self-conscious bigness, 
 of course, that made even inanimate things seem the 
 feeders of his greatness. As Gourlay, always alive to 
 obscure emotions which he could never express in words, 
 mused for a moment over the strange new feeling that 
 had come to him, a gowsterous voice hailed him from 
 the Black Bull door. He turned, and Peter Wylie, 
 hearty and keen like his father, stood him a drink in 
 honour of his victory — which was already buzzed about 
 the town. 
 
 [204]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 Drucken Wabster's wife had seen to that. " Ou," 
 she cried, " his mother's daft about it, the silly auld 
 thing; she can speak o' noathing else. Though Gourlay 
 gies her very little to come and go on, she slipped him 
 a whole sovereign this morning, to keep his pouch! 
 Think o' that, kimmers; heard ye ever sic extravagance! 
 I saw her doin'd wi' my own eyes. It's aince wud and 
 aye waur * wi' her, I'm thinking. But the wastef u' wife's 
 the waefu' widow, she should keep in mind. She's far 
 owre browdened upon yon boy. I'm sure I howp good 
 may come o't, but — " and with an ominous shake of the 
 head she ended the Websterian harangue. 
 
 Wlien Peter Wylie left him Gourlay lit a cigarette and 
 stood at the Cross, waiting for the praises yet to be. 
 The Deacon toddled forward on his thin shanks. 
 
 "Man Dyohn, you're won hame, I thee! Aye man! 
 And how are ye ? " 
 
 Gourlay surveyed him with insolent, indolent eyes. 
 " Oh, I'm all rai-ight. Deacon," he swaggered, " how are 
 ye-ow?" and he sent a puff of tobacco-smoke down 
 through his nostrils. 
 
 " I declare! " said the Deacon. "I never thaw ony- 
 body thmoke like that before! That'll be one of the 
 thingth ye learn at College, no doubt." 
 
 " Ya-as," yawned Gourlay; " it gives you the full 
 flavour of the we-eed." 
 
 The Deacon glimmered over him with his eyes. " The 
 weed," said he. "Juthttho! Imphm. The weed." 
 
 Then worthy Mister Allardyce tried another opening. 
 " But, dear me! " he cried, " I'm forgetting entirely. I 
 
 *" Aince. wud and aye waur" : silly for once and silly for 
 always. 
 
 [ 305]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 must congratulate ye! Ye've been doing wonderth, 
 they tell me, up in Embro." 
 
 " Just a little bit," swaggered Gourlay, right hand on 
 outshot hip, left hand flaunting a cigarette in air most 
 delicate, tobacco-smoke curling from his lofty nose. He 
 looked down his face at the Deacon. " Just a little bit, 
 Mr. Allardyce, Just a little bit. I tossed the thing off 
 in a twinkling." 
 
 " Aye man, Dyohn," said the Deacon with great solici- 
 tude, " but you maunna work that brain o' yours too 
 hard, though. A heid like yours doesna come through 
 the hatter's hand ilka day o' the week; you mutht be 
 careful not to put too great a thtrain on't. Aye, aye; 
 often the best machine's the easiest broken and the 
 warst to mend. You should take a rest and enjoy your- 
 self. But there! what need I be telling you that? A. 
 College-bred man like you kenth far better about it than 
 a thilly auld country bodie ! You'll be meaning to have 
 a grand holiday and lots o' fun — a dram now and then, 
 eh? and mony a rattle in the auld man's gig? " 
 
 At this assault on his weak place Gourlay threw away 
 his important manner with the end of his cigarette. He 
 could never maintain the lofty pose for more than five 
 minutes at a time. 
 
 '' You're riglii, Deacon," he said, nodding his head 
 with splurging sincerity. " I mean to have a dem'd 
 good holiday. One's glad to get back to the old place 
 after six months in Edinburgh." 
 
 ''Atweel," said the Deacon. " But, man, have you 
 tried the new whiskey at the Black Bull — I thaw ye 
 in wi' Pate Wylie? It'th extr'ornar gude — thaft as the 
 thang o' a mavis on a nicht at e'en, and fiery as a High- 
 
 [ 206 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 land charge." — It was not in character for the Dea- 
 con to say such a thing, but whiskey makes the meanest 
 of Scots poetical. He elevates the manner to the mat- 
 ter, and attains the perfect style. — " But no doubt," the 
 cunning old pryer went on, with a smiling suavity in 
 his voice, " but no doubt a man who knowth Edinburgh 
 tho well as you, will have a favourite blend of hith own. 
 I notice that University men have a fine taste in 
 thpirits." 
 
 " I generally prefer * Kinblythmont's Cure,' " said 
 Gourlay with the air of a connoisseur. " But ' Ander- 
 son's Sting o' Delight ' 's very good, and so's ' Balsillie's 
 Brig o' the Mains.' " 
 
 "Aye," said the Deacon.. "Aye, aye! * Brig o' the 
 Mains ' ith what Jock Allan drinks. He'll pree noath- 
 ing else. I dare thay you thee a great deal of him in 
 Embro." 
 
 " Oh, every week," swaggered Gourlay. " We're 
 always together, he and I." 
 
 " Alwayth thegither! " said the Deacon. 
 
 It was not true that Allan and Gourlay were together 
 at all times. Allan was kind to Jean Bichmond's son 
 (in his own ruinous way) but not to the extent of being 
 burdened with the cub half a dozen times a week. 
 Gourlay was merely boasting — as young blades are apt 
 to do of acquaintance with older roisterers. They think 
 it makes them seem men of the world. And in his de- 
 sire to vaunt his comradeship with Allan, John failed 
 to see that Allardyce was scooping him out like an 
 oyster. 
 
 " Aye man," resumed the Deacon; " he's a heartv fel- 
 low, Jock. No doubt you have the great thprees? " 
 
 [207]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " Sprees! " gurgled Gourlay, and flung back his head 
 with a laugh. " I should think we have. There was a 
 great foy at Allan's the night before I left Edinburgh. 
 Tarmillan was there — d'ye know, yon's the finest fellow 
 I ever met in my life! — and Bauldy Logan — he's another 
 great chap. Then there was Armstrong and Gillespie — 
 great friends of mine — and damned clever fellows they 
 are, too, I can tell you. Besides us three there were half 
 a dozen more from the College. You should have heard 
 the talk! And every man-jack was as drunk as a lord. 
 The last thing I remember is some of us students dan- 
 cing round a lamp-post while Logan whistled a jig." 
 
 Though Gourlay the elder hated the Deacon, he had 
 never warned his son to avoid him. To have said 
 " Allardyce is dangerous " would have been to pay the 
 old malignant too great a compliment; it would have 
 been beneath John Gourlay to admit that a thing like 
 Allardyce could harm him and his. Young Gourlay, 
 therefore, when once set a-going by the Deacon's deft 
 management, blurted everything without a hanker. 
 Even so, however, he felt that he had gone too far. He 
 glanced anxiously at his companion. " Mum's the word 
 about this, of course," he said with a wink. " It would 
 never do for this to be known about the ' Green 
 Shutters.' " 
 
 '^Oh, I'm ath thound ath a bell, Dyohn, I'm ath 
 thound ath a bell," said the Deacon. " Aye man! You 
 jutht bear out what I have alwa3^h underthood about the 
 men o' brainth. They're the heartiest devilth after a'. 
 Burns, that the baker raves so muckle o', was jutht 
 another o' the thame. Jutht another o' the thame! 
 We'll be hearing o' you boys — Pate Wylie and you and a 
 
 [ 308 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 wheel! luair — having rare ploys in Barbie through the 
 thummer." 
 
 " Oh, we'll kick up a bit of a dust," Gourlay sniggered, 
 well-pleased. Had not the Deacon ranked him in the 
 robustious great company of Burns! " I say. Deacon, 
 come in and have a nip." 
 
 " There's your faither," grinned the Deacon. 
 
 " Eh? What? " cried Gourlay in alarm, and started 
 round, to see his father and the Rev. Mr. Struthers ad- 
 vancing up the Fechars Road. " Eh — eh — Deacon — I 
 — I'll see you again about the nip." 
 
 "Jutht tho!" grinned the Deacon. "We'll post- 
 pone the drink to a more convenient opportunity." 
 
 He toddled away, having no desire that old Gourlay 
 should find him talking to his son. If Gourlay sus- 
 pected him of pulling the young fellow's leg, likely as 
 not he would give an exhibition of his dem'd unpleasant 
 manners ! 
 
 Gourlay and the minister came straight towards the 
 student. Of the Rev. Mr. Struthers it may be said with 
 truth that he would have cut a remarkable figure in any 
 society. lie had big splay feet, short stout legs, and a 
 body of such bulging bulbosity, that all the droppings of 
 his spoon — which were many — were caught on the round 
 of his black waistcoat, which always looked as if it had 
 just been spattered by a grey shower. His eye-brows 
 were bushy and white, and the hairs slanting up and out 
 rendered the meagre brow even narrower than it was. 
 His complexion, more especially in cold weather, was a 
 dark crimson. The purply colour of his face was in- 
 tensified by the pure whiteness of the side whiskers pro- 
 jecting stiffly by his ears, and in mid-week, when he was 
 
 [ 309 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 unshaven, his redness revealed more plainly, in turn, 
 the short gleaming stubble that lay like rime on his 
 chin. His eyes goggled, and his manner at all times 
 was that of a staring and earnest self-importance. 
 " Puify Importance " was one of his nicknames. 
 
 Struthers was a man of lowly stock who, after a ten 
 years' desperate battle with his heavy brains, succeeded 
 at the long last of it in passing the examinations required 
 for the ministry. The influence of a wealthy patron 
 then presented him to Barbie. Because he had taken so 
 long to get through the University himself, he constantly 
 magnified the place in his conversation, partly to excuse 
 his own slowness in getting through it, partly that the 
 greater glory might redound on him who had con- 
 quered it at last, and issued from its portals a fat and 
 prosperous alumnus. Stupid men who have mastered 
 a system, not by intuition but by a plodding effort of 
 slow years, always exaggerate its importance — did it not 
 take them ten years to understand it? — whoso has 
 passed the system, then, is to their minds one of a close 
 corporation, of a select and intellectual few, and entitled 
 to pose before the uninitiate. Because their stupidity 
 made the thing difficult, their vanity leads them to exalt 
 it. Woe to him that shall scoff at any detail! To 
 Struthers the Senatus Academicus was an august assem- 
 blage worthy of the Eoman Curia, and each petty aca- 
 demic rule was a law sacrosanct and holy. He was for- 
 ever talking of the " Univairsity." "Mind ye," he 
 would say, " it takes a loang time to understand even the 
 workings of the Univairsity — the Senatus and such- 
 like; it's not for everyone to criticise." He implied, of 
 course, that he had a right to criticise, having passed tri- 
 
 [210]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 umphant through the mighty test. This vanity of his 
 was fed by a peculiar vanity of some Scots peasants, who 
 like to discuss Divinity Halls, and so on, because to talk 
 of these things shews that they, too, are intelligent men, 
 and know the awful intellectual ordeal required of a 
 " Meenister." When a peasant says " He went through 
 his Arts course in three years, and got a kirk the mo- 
 ment he was licensed," he wants you to see that he's a 
 smart man himself, and knows what he's talking of. 
 There were several men in Barbie who liked to talk in 
 that way, and among them Puffy Importance, when gra- 
 ciously inclined, found ready listeners to his pompous 
 blether about the " Univairsity." But what he liked 
 best of all was to stop a newly-returned student in full 
 view of the people, and talk learnedly of his courses — 
 dear me, aye — of his courses, and his matriculations, 
 and his lectures, and his graduations, and his thingum- 
 bobs. That was why he bore down upon our great essay- 
 ist. 
 
 '' Allow me to congratulate you, John," he said, with 
 heavy solemnity — for Struthers always made a congre- 
 gation of his listener, and droned as if mounted for a 
 sermon. "Ye have done excellently well this Session; 
 ye have indeed. Ex-cellently well! Ex-cellently well! " 
 
 Gourlay blushed and thanked him. 
 
 " Tell me now," said the cleric, " do you mean to take 
 your Arts course in three years or four? A loang Arts 
 course is a grand thing for a clairgyman. Even if he 
 spends half a dozen years on't he won't be wasting his 
 time! " 
 
 Gourlay glanced at his father. " I mean to try't in 
 three," he said. His father had threatened him that he 
 
 [211]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 must get througli his Arts in three years — without 
 deigning, of course, to give any reason for the threat. 
 
 " We-ell," said Mr. Struthers, gazing down the Fech- 
 ars Road, as if visioning great things, " it will require a 
 strenuous and devoted application — a strenuous and de- 
 voted application — even from the man of abeelity you 
 have shown yourself to be. Tell me now," he went on, 
 " have ye heard ainything of the new Professor of Exe- 
 gesis? D'ye know how he's doing? " 
 
 Young Gourlay knew nothing of the new Professor of 
 Exegesis, but he answered, " Very well, I believe," at a 
 venture. 
 
 " Oh, he's sure to do well, he's sure to do well! He's 
 one of the best men we have in the Church. I have 
 just finished his book on the Epheesians. It's most pro- 
 found! It has taken me a whole year to master it." 
 (" Garvie on the Ephesians " is a book of a hundred and 
 eighty pages.) "And, by the way," said the parson, 
 stooping to Scotch in his ministerial jocoseness, 
 " how's auld Tarn, in whose class you were a prize-win- 
 ner? He was appointed to the Professoriate the same 
 year that I obtained my license. I remember to have 
 heard him deliver a lecture on German philosophy, and 
 I thought it excellently good. But perhaps," he added, 
 with solemn and pondering brows, " perhaps he was a 
 little too fond of Hegel. — Yess, I am inclined to think 
 that he was a little too fond of Hegel." Mrs. Eccles, 
 listening from the Black Bull door, wondered if Hegel 
 was a drink. 
 
 " He's very popular," said young Gourlay. 
 
 " Oh, he's sure to be popular, he merits the very 
 greatest popple-arity. And he would express himself as 
 
 [213]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 being excellently well pleased with your theme? What 
 did he say of it, may I venture to enquire ? " 
 
 Beneath the pressure of his father's presence young 
 Gourlay did not dare to splurge. " He seemed to think 
 there was something in it," he answered, modestly 
 enough. 
 
 " Oh, he would be sure to think there was something 
 in it," said the minister, staring, and wagging his pow. 
 " Not a doubt of tha-at, not a doubt of tha-at! Tliere 
 must have been something in it, to obtain the palm of 
 victory in the face of such prodigious competeetion. 
 It's the see-lect intellect of Scotland that goes to the 
 Univairsity, and only the ee-lect of the see-elect win the 
 palm. And it's an augury of great good for the future. 
 Abeelity to write is a splendid thing for the Church. 
 Good-bye, John, and allow me to express once moar my 
 great satisfaction that a pareeshioner of mine is a la-ad 
 of such brilliant promise! " 
 
 Though the elder Gourlay disconsidered the Church, 
 and thought little of Mr. Struthers, he swelled with 
 pride to think that the minister should stop his offspring 
 in the Main Street of Barbie, to congratulate him on his 
 prospects. They were close to the Emporium; and with 
 the tail of his eye he could see Wilson peeping from the 
 door, and listening to every word. This would be a 
 hair in Wilson's neck! There were no clerical compli- 
 ments for Ms son! The tables were turned at last. 
 
 His father had a generous impulse to John for the 
 bright triumph he had won the Gourlays. He fumbled 
 in his trouser-pocket, and passed him a sovereign. 
 
 " I'm kind o' hard-up," he said with grim jocosity, 
 " but there's a pound to keep your pouch. — No nonsense 
 
 [213 ] 
 
 V
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 now! " he shot at the youth with a loaded eye. " That's 
 just for use if you happen to be in company. A Gour- 
 lay maun spend as much as the rest o' folk." 
 
 " Yes, faither," said the youngster, and Gourlay went 
 away. 
 
 That grimly- jocose reference to his poverty was a fea- 
 ture of Gourlay's talk now, when he spoke of money to 
 his family. It excused the smallness of his doles, yet 
 led them to believe that he was only joking, that he had 
 plenty of money if he would only consent to shell it out. 
 And that was what he wished them to believe. His 
 pride would not allow him to confess, even to his near- 
 est, that he was a failure in business, and hampered with 
 financial trouble. Thus his manner of warning them to 
 be careful had the very opposite effect. " He has heaps 
 o' cash," thought the son, as he watched the father up 
 the street; " there's no need for a fellow to be mean." 
 
 Flattered (as he fondly imagined) by the Deacon, flat- 
 tered by the minister, tipped by his mother, tipped by 
 his father, hale-fellow-well-met with Pate Wylie — Lord, 
 but young Gourlay was the fine fellow! Symptoms of 
 swell-head set in with alarming rapidity. He had a 
 wild tendency to splurge. And, that he might show 
 in a single afternoon all the crass stupidity of which 
 he was capable, he immediately allowed himself a 
 veiled insult towards the daughters of the ex-Provost. 
 They were really nice girls, in spite of their parent- 
 age, and, as they came down the street, they glanced 
 with shy kindness at the student, from under their 
 broad-brinuned hats. Gourlay raised his in answer 
 to their nod. But the moment after, and in their hear- 
 ing, he yelled blatantly to Swipey Broon, to come on 
 
 [214]
 
 CHAPTEK TWENTY 
 
 and have a drink of beer. Swipey was a sweep now, 
 for Brown the ragman had added chimney-cleaning to 
 his other occupations — plurality of professions, you ob- 
 serve, being one of the features of the life of Barbie. 
 When Swipey turned out of the Fleckie Road, he was as 
 black as the ace of spades, a most disreputable phiz. 
 And when Gourlay yelled his loud welcome to that 
 grimy object, what he wanted to convey to the two girls 
 was: "Ho, ho, my pretty misses; I'm on bowing terms 
 with you, and yet when I might go up and speak to ye, 
 I prefer to go off and drink with a sweep, d'ye see? 
 That shows what I think o' ye! " All that summer 
 John took an oblique revenge on those who had dis- 
 considered the Gourlays — but would have liked to make 
 up to him now when they thought he was going to do 
 well — he took a paltry revenge by patently rejecting 
 their advances and consorting instead, and in their pres- 
 ence, with the lowest of low company. Thus he vented 
 a spite which he had long cherished against them for 
 their former neglect of Janet and him. For, though the 
 Gourlay children had been welcome at well-to-do houses 
 in the country, their father's unpopularity had cut them 
 off from the social life of the town. When the Provost 
 gave his grand spree on Hogmanay there was never an 
 invitation for the Gourlay youngsters. The slight had 
 rankled in the boy's mind. Now, however, some of the 
 local bigwigs had an opinion (with very little to sup- 
 port it) that he was going to be a successful man, and 
 they shewed a disposition to be friendly. John, with a 
 rankling memory of their former coldness, flouted every 
 overture, by letting them see plainly that he preferred to 
 their company — that of Swipey Broon, Jock McCraw, 
 
 [ 215 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTERS 
 
 and every ragamuffin of the town. It was a kind of back- 
 handed stroke at them. That was the paltry form 
 which his father's pride took in him. He did not see 
 tliat he was harming himself rather than his father's 
 enemies. Harm himself he did, for you could not asso- 
 ciate with Jock McCraw and the like, without drinking 
 in every howff you came across. 
 
 When the bodies assembled next day for their " morn- 
 ing/' the Deacon was able to inform them that young 
 Gourlay was back from the College, daf ter than ever, and 
 that he had pulled his leg as far as he wanted it. " Oh," 
 lie said, " I played him like a kitten wi' a cork and found 
 out ainything and everything I wished. I dithcovered 
 that he's in wi' Jock Allan and that crowd — I edged the 
 conversation round on purpoth! Unless he wath blow- 
 ing his trump — which I greatly doubt — they're as thick 
 as thieveth. Ye ken what that meanth. He'll turn 
 hith wee finger to the ceiling oftener than he puts iiith 
 forefinger to the pen, I'm thinking. It theemth he 
 drinkth enormuth! He took a gey nip last thummer, 
 and this thummer I wager he takes mair o't. He 
 avowed his plain intention! * I mean to kick up a bit of 
 a dust,' thays he. Oh, but he's the splurge! " 
 
 "Aye, aye," said Sandy Toddle; " thae students are 
 a gey squad. Especially the young ministers." 
 
 " Ou," said Tam Wylie, " dinna be hard on the min- 
 isters. Ministers are just like the rest o' folk. They 
 mind me o' last year's early tatties. They're grand 
 when they're gude, but the feck o' them's frostit." 
 
 "Aye," said the Deacon, " and young Gourlay's frostit 
 in the shaw already. I doubt it'll be a poor ingather- 
 ing." 
 
 [ 216 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 " Weel, weel," said Tam Wylie, " the mair's the pity o' 
 that, Deacon." 
 
 " Oh, it'th a grai-ait pity," said the Deacon, and he 
 bowed his body solemnly with outspread hands. " No 
 doubt it'th a grai-ait pity! " and he wagged his head 
 from side to side, the picture of a poignant woe. 
 
 " I saw him in the Black Bull yestreen," said Bro- 
 die, who had been silent hitherto in utter scorn of the 
 lad they were speaking of — too disgusted to open his 
 mouth. " He was standing drinks to a crowd that were 
 puffing him up about that prize o' his." 
 
 " It's alwayth the numskull hath the most conceit," 
 said the Deacon. 
 
 "And yet there must be something in him too, to get 
 that prize," mused the ex-Provost. 
 
 "A little ability's a dangerous thing," said Johnny 
 Coe, who could think at times. " To be safe you should 
 be a genius winged and flying, or a crawling thing that 
 never leaves the earth. It's the half-and-half that hell 
 gapes for. And owre they flap." 
 
 But nobody understood him. " Drink and vanity'll 
 soon make end of liim" said Brodie curtly, and snubbed 
 the philosopher. 
 
 Before the summer holiday was over (it lasts six 
 months in Scotland) young Gourlay was a habit-and- 
 repute tippler. His shrinking abhorrence from the 
 scholastic life of Edinburgh flung him with all the 
 greater abandon into the conviviality he had learned to 
 know at home. His mother (who always seemed to sit 
 up now, after Janet and Gourlay were in bed) often let 
 him in during the small hours, and, as he hurried past 
 her in the lobby, he would hold his breath lest she 
 
 [217]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 should smell it. " You're unco late, dear/' she would 
 say wearily, but no other reproach did she utter. " I 
 was taking a walk," he M'ould answer thickly; " there's 
 a fine moon! " It was true that when his terrible de- 
 pression seized him, he was sometimes tempted to seek 
 the rapture and peace of a moonlight walk upon the 
 rieckie Eoad. In his crude clay there was a vein of 
 poetry; he could be alone in the country, and not lonely; 
 had he lived in a green quiet place, he might have 
 learned the solace of nature for the wounded when eve 
 sheds her spiritual dews. But the mean pleasures to be 
 found at the Cross satisfied his nature, and stopped him 
 midway to that soothing beauty of the woods and 
 streams, which might have brought healing and a wise 
 quiescence. His success — such as it was — had gained 
 him a circle — such as it was — and the assertive nature 
 proper to his father's son gave him a kind of lead 
 amongst them. Yet even his henchmen saw through 
 his swaggering. Swipey Broon turned on him one night, 
 and threatened to split his mouth, and he went as white 
 as the wall behind him. 
 
 Among his other follies, he assumed the pose of a man 
 who could an he would, who had it in him to do great 
 things, if he would only set about them. In this, he was 
 partly playing up to a foolish opinion of his more igno- 
 rant associates; it was they who suggested the pose to 
 him. " Devilish clever! " he heard them whisper one 
 night as he stood in the door of a tavern; " he could do 
 it if he liked, only he's too fond o' the fun." Young 
 Gourlay flushed where he stood in the darkness, flushed 
 with pleasure at the criticism of his character which was, 
 nevertheless^, a compliment to his wits. He felt that he 
 
 [218]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 must play up at once to the character assigned him. 
 "Ho, ho, my lads! " he cried, entering with a splurge, 
 " let's make a night o't. I should be working for my 
 degree to-night, but I suppose I can get it easy enough 
 when the time comes." " What did I tell ye ? " said 
 McCraw, nudging an elbow — and Gourlay saw the 
 nudge. Here at last he had found the sweet seduction 
 of a proper pose — that of a grand liomme manque, of a 
 man who would be a genius were it not for the excess of 
 his qualities. Would he continue to appear a genius, 
 then he must continue to display that excess which — 
 so he wished them to believe — alone prevented his bril- 
 liant achievements. It was all a curious vicious inver- 
 sion. " You could do great things if you didn't drink," 
 crooned the fools. " See how I drink," Gourlay seemed 
 to answer — " that is why I don't do great things. But, 
 mind you, I could do them, were it not for this." Thus 
 every glass he tossed off seemed to hint in a roundabout 
 way at the glorious heights he might attain if he didn't 
 drink it. His very roystering became a pose, and his 
 vanity made him royster the more, to make the pose 
 more convincing. 
 
 [219]
 
 XXI 
 
 On a beautiful evening in September, when a new 
 crescent moon was pointing through the saffron sky like 
 the lit tip of a finger, the City Fathers had assembled 
 at the corner of the Fleckie Road. Though the moon 
 was peeping, the dying glory of the day was still upon 
 the town. The white smoke rose straight and far in 
 the golden mystery of the heavens, and a line of dark 
 roofs, transfigured against the west, wooed the eye to 
 musing. But though the bodies felt the fine evening 
 bathe them in a sensuous content, as they smoked and 
 dawdled, they gave never a thought to its beauty. For 
 there had been a blitheness in the town that day, and 
 every other man seemed to have been preeing the demi- 
 john. 
 
 Drucken Wabster and Brown the ragman came round 
 the corner, staggering. 
 
 "Young Gourlay's drunk!" blurted Wabster — and 
 reeled himself as he spoke. 
 
 " Is he a wee fou? " said the Deacon eagerly. 
 
 " Wee be damned," said Wabster; " he's as fou as the 
 Baltic Sea! If you wait here, you'll be sure to see him! 
 He'll be round the corner directly." 
 
 " De-ar me, is he so bad as that? " said the ex-Prov- 
 ost, raising his hands in solemn reprobation. He raised 
 his eyes to heaven at the same time, as if it pained them 
 to look on a world that endured the burden of a young 
 
 [230]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE 
 
 Gourlay. " lu broad daylight, too! " he sighed. 
 " De-ar me, has he come to this? " 
 
 "■ Yis, Pravast," hiccupped Brown, " he has! He's as 
 phull of drink as a whelk-shell's phuU of whelk. He's 
 nearly as phull as meself . — And begorra, that's mighty 
 phull," he stared suddenly, scratching his head solemnly 
 as if the fact had just occurred to him. Then he winked. 
 
 "You could set fire to his braith! " cried Wabster. 
 "A match to his mouth would send him in a lowe." 
 
 "A living gas jet! " said Brown. 
 
 They staggered away, sometimes rubbing shoulders 
 as they lurched together, sometimes with the road be- 
 tween them. 
 
 " I kenned young Gourlay was on the fuddle when I 
 saw him swinging ofi" this morning in his greatcoat," 
 cried Sandy Toddle. " There was debauch in the flap 
 o' the tails o't." 
 
 "Man, have you noticed that, too!" cried another 
 eagerly. " He's aye warst wi' the coat on! " 
 
 " Clothes undoubtedly affect the character," said 
 Johnny Coe. " It takes a gentleman to wear a lordly 
 coat without swaggering." 
 
 " There's not a doubt o' tha-at! " approved the baker, 
 who was merry with his day's carousal; " there's not ,^ 
 doubt o' tha-at! Claes affect the disposeetion. I minSi 
 when I was a young chap I had a grand pair o' breeks — ^,' 
 Wull I ca'ed them — unco decent breeks they were, I 
 mind, lang and swankie like a ploughman — and I aye 
 thocht I was a tremendous honest and hamely fallow 
 when I had them on! And I had a verra disreputable 
 hat," he added — " Eab I christened him for he was a 
 perfect devil — and I never cocked him owre my lug on 
 
 [221]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 uichts at e'en but ' Baker! ' he seemed to whisper, 
 ' Baker! Let us go out and do a bash! ' — And we gen- 
 erally went." 
 
 " You're a wonderful man! " piped the Deacon. 
 
 " We may as well wait and see young Gourlay going 
 bye/' said the ex-Provost. " He'll likely be a sad spec- 
 tacle." 
 
 " Ith auld Gourlay on the thtreet the nicht? " cried 
 the Deacon eagerly. " I wonder will he thee the young- 
 ster afore he gets hame ! Eh, man — " he bent his kuces 
 with staring delight — " eh, man, if they would only 
 meet forenenst uth! Hoo! " 
 
 " He's a regular waster,'" said Brodie. " When a silly 
 young blood takes a fancy to a girl in a public house 
 he's always done for — I've observed it times without 
 number. At first he lets on that he merely gangs in 
 for a drink; what he really wants, however, is to see the 
 girl. Even if he's no great toper to begin with, he must 
 show himself fond o' the dram, as a means of getting to 
 his jo. Then, before he kens where he is, the habit 
 has gripped him. That's a gate mony a anc gangs." 
 
 " That's verra true — now that ye mention't," gravely 
 assented the ex-Provost. His opinion of Brodie's sa- 
 gacity, high already, was enhanced by the remark. " In- 
 deed, that's verra true. But how does't apply to young 
 (lourlay in particular, Thomas? Is lie after some dam- 
 sel o' the gill-stoup? " 
 
 " Ou aye — he's ta'en a fancy to yon bit shilp in the 
 barroom o' the Red Lion. He's always hinging owre 
 the counter talking till her, a cigarette dropping from 
 his face, and a half-fu' tumbler at his elbow. AVhen a 
 young chap takes to hinging round bars, ae elbow on 
 
 [322]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE 
 
 the counter and a hand on his other hip, I have verra 
 bad brows o' him always; verra bad brows, indeed. Oh 
 — oh, young Gourlay's just a goner! a goner, sirs; a 
 goner! " 
 
 " Have ye heard about him at the Skeighan Fair? " 
 said Sandy Toddle. 
 
 " No, man! " said Brodie, bowing down and keeking 
 at Toddle in his interest; " I hadna heard about tha-at! 
 Is this a new thing? " 
 
 " Oh, just at the fair; the other day, ye know! " 
 
 " Aye, man, Sandy! " said big Brodie, stooping down 
 to Toddle to get near the news; " and what was it, 
 Sandy?" 
 
 " Ou, just drinking, ye know; wi' — wi' Swipey Broon 
 — and, eh, and that McCraw, ye know — and Sandy Hull 
 — and a wlieen niair o' that kind — ye ken the kind; a 
 verra bad lot! " said Sandy, and wagged a disapproving 
 pow. " Here they all got as drunk as drunk could be, and 
 started fighting wi' the colliers! Young Gourlay got a 
 bloodied nose! Then nothing would serve him but he 
 must drive back Avi' young Pin-oe, who was even drunker 
 than himsell. They drave at sic a rate that when they 
 dashed from this side o' Skeighan Drone, the stour o' 
 their career was rising at the far-end. They roared and 
 sang till it was a perfect affront to God's day, and frae 
 sidie to sidie they swung till the splash-brods were 
 skreighing on the wheels. At a quick turn o' the road 
 they wintled owre; and there they were, sitting on their 
 dowps in the atoms o' the gig, and glowering frae them! 
 When young Gourlay slid hame at dark, he was in such 
 a state that his mother had to hide him frae the auld 
 man. She had that, puir body! The twa women were 
 
 [223 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 obliged to carry the druuk lump to his bedroom — and 
 yon lassie far ga'eu in consumption, too, they tell me! 
 Ou, he was in a perfectly awful condition; perfectly 
 awful! " 
 
 "Aye, man," nodded Brodie. " I hadna heard o't.^ 
 Curious that I didna hear o' that! " 
 
 " It was Drucken Wabster's wife that telled it. 
 There's not a haet that happens at the Gourlays but she 
 clypes. I spiered her mysell, and she says young Gour- 
 lay has a black eye." 
 
 "Aye, aye; there'th thmall hope for the Gourlayth in 
 him! " said the Deacon. 
 
 " How do you ken? " cried the baker. " He's no the 
 first youngster Fve seen the wiseacres o' the world wag- 
 ging their sagacious pows owre; and, eh, but he was this 
 waster! — according to their way of it — and, oh, but he 
 was the other waster! and, ochonee, but he was the wild 
 fellow! — and a' the while they werena fit to be his door 
 mat; for it was only the fire in the ruffian made him 
 seem sae daft." 
 
 "True!" said the ex-Provost; "true! Still there's 
 a decency in daftness. And there's no decency in young 
 Gourlay. He's just a mouth! ' Start canny and you'll 
 steer weel,' my mother used to say; but he has started 
 unco ill, and he'll steer to ruin." 
 
 " Dinna spae ill-fortune ! " said the baker, " dinna 
 spae ill-fortune! And never despise a youngster for a 
 random start. It's the blood makes a breenge." 
 
 "Well, I like young men to be quiet," said Sandy 
 Toddle. " I would rather have them a wee soft than 
 rollickers." 
 
   " Not I! " said the baker. " If I had a son, I would 
 
 [224]
 
 CHAPTEPt TWENTY- ONE 
 
 rather au ill deil sat forueust me at the table, than par- 
 ratch in a poke. Burns (God rest his banes!) struck 
 the he'rt o't. Ye mind what he said o' Prince Geordie: 
 
 " ' Yet mony a ragged cowte's been known 
 To mak a noble aiver ; 
 And ye may doucely fill a Throne, 
 
 For a' their clishmaclaver; 
 There Him at Agincourt wha shone, 
 
 Few better were or braver ; 
 And yet wi' funny queer Sir John 
 He was an unco shaver 
 For monie a day.' 
 
 " Dam't, but Burns is gude." 
 
 " Huts man, dinna sweer sae muckle! " frowned the 
 old Provost. 
 
 " Ou, there's waur than an oath now and than," said 
 the baker. " Like spice in a bun it lends a briskness. 
 But it needs the hearty manner wi't. The Deacon there 
 couldna let blatter wi' a hearty oath to save his withered 
 sowl. I kenned a trifle o' a fellow that got in among 
 a jovial gang lang-syne that used to sweer tremendous, 
 and he bude to do the same the bit bodie! — so he used 
 to say 'Dim it!" in a wee sma voice that was clean 
 rideec'lous. — He was a lauchable dirt, that." 
 
 " What was his name? " said Sandy Toddle. 
 
 " Your ain," said the baker. (To tell the truth, he 
 was gey fou.) " Alexander Toddle was his name: ' Dim 
 it ! ' he used to squeak, for he had been a Scotch cuddy 
 in the Midlands, and whiles he used the English. ' Dim 
 it! ' said he. I like a man that says ' Dahm't.' " 
 
 "Aye, but then, you thee, you're an artitht in wordth," 
 said the Deacon. 
 
 [ 225 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " Ye're an artist in spite," said the baker. 
 
 "Ah, well," said the ex-Provost, " Burns proved to be 
 wrang in the end o't, and you'll maybe be the same. 
 George the Fort' didna fill the throne verra doucely for 
 a' their cleishmaclaver, and I don't think young Gour- 
 lay'U fill the pulpit verra doucely for a' ours. For he's 
 saftie and daftie baith — and that's the deidly combina- 
 tion. At least, that's my opinion," quoth he, and 
 smacked his lips, the important man. 
 
 " Tyuts," said the baker, " folk should be kind to 
 folk. There may be a possibeelity for the Gourlays in 
 the youngster yet! " 
 
 He would have said more, but at that moment his 
 sonsy big Avife came out, with oh! such a roguish and 
 kindly smile, and, " Tom, Tom," said she, " what are 
 ye havering here for? C'way in, man, and have a dish 
 o' tea wi' me! " 
 
 He glanced up at her with comic shrewdness from 
 where he sat on his hunkers — for fine he saw through 
 her — and " Ou aye," said he, " ye great muckle fat 
 hotch o' a dacent bodie, ye — I'll gang in and have a dish 
 o' tea wi' ye." And away went the fine fuddled fellow. 
 
 " She's a wise woman, that," said the ex-Provost look- 
 ing after them. " She kenned no to flyte, and he went 
 like a lamb." 
 
 " I believe he'th feared o' her," snapped the Deacon, 
 " or he wudny-un went thae lamb-like! " 
 
 " Leave him alone! " said Johnny Coe, who had been 
 drinking too. " He's the only kind heart in Barbie. 
 And Gourlay's the only gentleman." 
 
 " Gentleman! " cried Sandy Toddle. " Lord save us! 
 Auld Gourlay a gentleman! " 
 
 [ 226 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE 
 
 <i 
 
 Yes, gentleman! " said Johnny, to whom the drink 
 gave a courage. " Brute, if ye like, but aristocrat frae 
 scalp to heel. If he had brains, and a dacent wife, and 
 a bigger field — oh, man," said Johnny, visioning the 
 possibility, " Auld Gourla could conquer the world, if 
 he swalled his neck till't." 
 
 " It would be a big conquest that! " said the Deacon. 
 — " Here comes his son taking his ain share o' the earth 
 at ony rate." 
 
 Young Gourlay came staggering round the corner, 
 " a little sprung " (as they phrase it in Barbie), but not 
 so bad as they had hoped to see him. Webster and the 
 ragman had exaggerated the condition of their fellow- 
 toper. Probably their own oscillation lent itself to 
 everything they saw. John zig-zagged, it is true, but 
 otherwise he was fairly steady on his pins. Unluckily, 
 however, failing to see a stone before on the road, he 
 tripped and v.ent sprawling on his hands and knees. 
 A titter went. 
 
 "What the hell are you laughing at?" he snarled, 
 leaping up; quick to feel the slight, blatant to resent it. 
 
 " Tyuts man! " Tarn Wylie rebuked him in a careless 
 scorn. 
 
 With a parting scowl he went swaggering up the 
 street. 
 
 "Aye! " said Toddle drily, " that's the Gourlay pos- 
 sibeelity." 
 
 [ 227]
 
 XXII 
 
 "Ah, ha. Deacon, my old cock, here you are! " The 
 speaker smote the Deacon between his thin shoulder- 
 blades, till the hat leapt on his startled cranium. " No, 
 not a lengthy stay — Just down for a flying visit to see 
 my little girl. Dem'd glad to get back to town again — 
 Barbie's too quiet for my tastes. No life in the place, 
 no life at all! " 
 
 The speaker was Davie Aird, draper and buck. " No 
 life at all," he cried, as he shot down his cuffs with a 
 jerk, and swung up and down the barroom of the Eed 
 Lion. He was dressed in a long fawn overcoat reach- 
 ing to his heels, with two big yellow buttons at the waist 
 behind, in the most approved fashion of the horsey. 
 He paused in his swaggering to survey the backs of his 
 long white delicate hands, holding them side by side 
 before him, as if to make sure they were the same size. 
 He was letting the Deacon see his ring. Then pursing 
 his chin down, with a fastidious and critical regard, he 
 picked a long fair hair off his left coat-sleeve. He held 
 it high as he had seen them do on the stage of the Thea- 
 tre Eoyal. " Sweet souvenir! " he cried, and kissed it, 
 " most dear remembrance! " 
 
 The Deacon fed on the sight. The richness of his 
 satiric perception was too great to permit of speech. 
 He could only gloat and be dumb. 
 
 " Waiting for Jack Gourlay," Aird rattled again. 
 
 [ 228]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 "He's oil to College again, and we're driving in his 
 father's trap to meet the express at Skeighan Station. 
 Wonder what's keeping the fellow. I like a man to bo 
 punctnal. Business training, you see — yes, by Gad, two 
 thousand parcels a week go out of our place, and all of 
 'em up to time! Ah, there he is," he added, as the 
 harsh grind of wheels was heard on the gravel at the 
 door. " Thank God, we'll soon be in civilisation." 
 
 Young Gourlay entered great-coated and lordly, 
 through the two halves of that easy-swinging door. 
 
 " Good! " he cried. " Just a minute, Aird, till I get 
 my flask filled." 
 
 " My weapon's primed and ready," Aird ha-ha'd, and 
 slapped the breast pocket of his coat. 
 
 John birled a bright sovereign on the counter, one of 
 twenty old Gourlay had battered his brains to get to- 
 gether for the boy's expenses. The young fellow rattled 
 the change into his trouser-pocket like a master of mil- 
 lions. 
 
 The Deacon, and another idler or two, gathered about 
 the steps in the darkness, to see that royal going off. 
 Peter Kiney's bunched-up little old figure could be seen 
 on the front seat of the gig; Aird was already mounted 
 behind. The mare (a worthy successor to Spanking 
 Tam) pawed the gravel and fretted in impatience; her 
 sharp ears, seen pricked against the gloom, worked to 
 and fro. A widening cone of light shone out from the 
 leftward lamp of the gig, full on a glistering laurel, 
 which Simpson had growing by his porch. Each 
 smooth leaf of the green bush gave back a separate 
 gleam, vivid to the eye in that pouring yellowness. 
 Gourlay stared at the bright evergreen, and forgot for 
 
 [229]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 a moment where he was. His lips parted, and — as they 
 saw in the light from the door — his look grew dreamy 
 and far-away. 
 
 The truth was that all the impressions of a last day at 
 home were bitten in on his brain as by acid, in the very 
 middle of his swaggering gusto. That gusto was 
 largely real, true, for it seemed a fine thing to go 
 splurging off to College in a gig; but it was still more 
 largely assumed, to combat the sorrow of departure. 
 His lieart was in his boots at the thought of going back 
 to accursed Edinburgh — to those lodgings, those dreary, 
 damnable lodgings. Thus his nature was reduced to 
 its real elements in the hour of leaving home; it was 
 only for a swift moment he forgot to splurge, but for 
 that moment the cloak of his swaggering dropped away 
 and he was his naked self, morbidly alive to the impres- 
 sions of the world, afraid of life, clinging to the familiar 
 and the known. That was why he gazed with wistful 
 eyes at that laurel clump, so vivid in the pouring rays. 
 So vivid there, it stood for all the dear country round 
 which was now hidden by the darkness; it centred his 
 world among its leaves. It was a last picture of loved 
 Barbie that was fastening on his mind. There would be 
 fine gardens in Edinburgh, no doubt, but, oh, that 
 couthie laurel by the Red Lion door! It was his 
 friend; he had known it always. 
 
 The spell lasted but a moment, one of those moments 
 searching a man's nature to its depths, yet flitting like 
 a lonely sliadow on the autumn wheat. But Aird was 
 already fidgetting. " Hurry up, Jack," he cried, " we'll 
 need to pelt if we mean to get the train." 
 
 Gourlay started. In a moment he had slipped from 
 
 [ ,'^30 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 one self to another, and was the blusterer once more. 
 " Right! " he splurged, " hover a blink till I light my 
 cigar." 
 
 He was not in the habit of smoking cigars, but he had 
 bought a packet on purpose, that he might light one 
 before his admiring onlookers ere he went away. Noth- 
 ing like cutting a dash. 
 
 He was seen puffing for a moment with indrawn 
 cheeks, his head to one side, the flame of the flickering 
 vesta lighting up his face, his hat pushed back till it 
 rested on his collar, his fair hair hanging down his 
 brow. Then he sprang to the driving seat and gath- 
 ered up the reins. " Ta-ta, Deacon; see and behave 
 yourself! " he flung across his shoulder, and they were 
 off with a bound. 
 
 "Im-pidenth! " said the outraged Deacon. 
 
 Peter Riney was quite proud to have the honour of 
 driving two such bucks to the station. It lent him a 
 consequence; he would be able to say when he came 
 back that he had been " awa wi' the young mester " — 
 for Peter said " mester," and was laughed at by the 
 Barbie wits who knew that " maister " was the proper 
 English. The splurging twain rallied him and drew 
 him out in talk, passed him their flasks at the Brownie's 
 Brae, had him tee-heeing at their nonsense. It was a 
 full-blooded night to the withered little man. 
 
 That was how young Gourlay left Barbie for what was 
 to prove his last session at the University. 
 
 All Gourlay's swankie chaps had gone with the going 
 of his trade; only Peter Riney, the queer little oddity, 
 remained. There was a loyal simplicity in Peter which 
 
 [231]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTERS 
 
 never allowed him to question the Gourlays. He had 
 been too long in their service to be of use to any other; 
 while there was a hand's turn to be done about the 
 House with the Green Shutters, he was glad to have 
 the chance of doing it. His respect for his surly tyrant 
 was as great as ever; he took his pittance of a wage and 
 was thankful. Above all he worshipped young Gour- 
 lay; to be in touch with a College-bred man was a re- 
 flected glory; even the escapades noised about the little 
 town, to his gleeful ignorance, were the signs of a man 
 of the world. Peter chuckled when he heard them 
 talked of. " Terr'ble clever fallow, the young mester! " 
 the bowed little man would say, sucking his pipe of an 
 evening, " terr'ble clever fallow, the young mester — 
 and hardy, too; infernal hardy! " Loyal Peter be- 
 lieved it. 
 
 But ere four months had gone, Peter was discharged. 
 It was on the day after Gourlay sold Black Sally, the 
 mare, to get a little money to go on with. 
 
 It was a bright spring day, of enervating softness, a 
 fosie day, a day when the pores of everything seemed 
 opened. People's brains felt pulpy, and they sniffed 
 as with winter's colds. Peter Riney was opening a pit 
 of potatoes in the big garden, shovelling aside the foot- 
 deep mould, and tearing off the inner covering of yellow 
 straw — which seemed strange and unnatural, somehow, 
 when suddenly revealed in its glistening dryness, be- 
 neath the moist dark earth. Little crumbles of mould 
 trickled down, in among the flattened shining straws. 
 In a tree near Peter, two pigeons were gurgling and 
 rookety-cooing, mating for the coming year. He fell to 
 sorting out the potatoes, throwing the bad ones on a 
 
 [232]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 heap aside — " tattie-walin," as they call it in the north. 
 The enervating softness was at work on Peter's head, 
 too, and from time to time, as he waled, he wiped his 
 nose on his sleeve. 
 
 Gourlay watched him for a long time without speak- 
 ing. Once or twice he moistened his lips, and cleared 
 his throat, and frowned — as one who would broach un- 
 pleasant news. It was not like him to hesitate. But the 
 old man, encased in senility, was ill to disturb; he was 
 intent on nothing but the work before him; it was me- 
 chanical and soothing and occupied his whole mind. 
 Gourlay, so often the trampling brute without knowing 
 it, felt it brutal to wound the faithful old creature 
 dreaming at his toil. He would have found it mucli 
 easier to discharge a younger and a keener man. 
 
 " Stop, Peter," he said at last; " I don't need you ainy 
 more." 
 
 Peter rose stiffly from his knees and shook the mould 
 with a pitiful gesture from his hands. His mouth was 
 fallen slack, and showed a few yellow tusks. 
 
 " Eh? " he asked vaguely. The thought that he must 
 leave the Gourlays could not penetrate his mind. 
 
 " I don't need you ainy more," said Gourlay again, and 
 met his eye steadily. 
 
 " I'm gey auld," said Peter, still shaking his hands 
 with that pitiful gesture, " but I only need a bite and a 
 sup. Man, I'm willin' to tak onything." 
 
 "It's no that," said Gourlay sourly, "it's no that. 
 But I'm giving up the business." 
 
 Peter said nothing, but gazed away down the garden, 
 his sunken mouth forgetting to munch its straw, which 
 dangled by his chin. " I'm an auld servant," he said 
 
 [333 1
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 at last, " and mind ye," he flashed in pride, " I'm a 
 true ane." 
 
 " Oh, you're a' that," Gourlay grunted; " you have 
 been a good servant." 
 
 " It'll be the poorhouse, it's like," mused Peter. 
 " Man, have ye noathing for us to do? " he asked plead- 
 ingly. 
 
 Gourlay's jaw clamped. " Noathing, Peter," he said 
 sullenly, " noathing "; and slipped some money into 
 Peter's heedless palm. 
 
 Peter stared stupidly down at the coins. He seemed 
 dazed. "Aye, weel," he said; " I'll feenish the tatties at 
 ony rate." 
 
 " No, no, Peter," and Gourlay gripped him by the 
 shoulder as he turned back to his work, " no, no; I have 
 no right to keep you. Never mind about the money — 
 you deserve something, going so suddenly after sic a long 
 service. It's just a bit present to mind you o' — to mind 
 you o' — " he broke off suddenly and scowled across the 
 garden. 
 
 Some men, when a feeling touches them, express 
 their emotion in tears; others by an angry scowl — hating 
 themselves inwardly, perhaps, for their weakness in be- 
 ing moved, hating, too, the occasion that has probed 
 their weakness. It was because he felt parting with 
 Peter so keenly that Gourlay behaved more sullenly 
 than usual. Peter had been with Gourlay's father in 
 his present master's boyhood, had always been faithful 
 and submissive; in his 'humble way was nearer the grain 
 merchant than any other man in Barbie. He was the 
 only human being Gourlay had ever deigned to joke 
 with; and that, in itself, won him an affection. More, 
 
 [334]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 the going of Peter meant the going of everything. It 
 cut Gourlay to the quick. Therefore he scowled. 
 
 Without a word of thanks for the money, Peter 
 knocked the mould off his heavy boots, striking one 
 against the other clumsily, and shuffled away across the 
 bare soil. But when he had gone twenty yards, he 
 stopped, and came back slowly. " Good-bye, sir," he 
 said with a rueful smile, and held out his hand. 
 
 Gourlay gripped it. " Good-bye, Peter! good-bye; 
 damn ye, man, good-bye! " 
 
 Peter wondered vaguely why he was sworn at. But 
 he felt that it was not in anger. He still clung to his 
 master's hand. " I've been fifty year wi' the Gourlays," 
 said he. "Aye, aye; and this, it seems, is the end o't." 
 
 " Oh, gang away! " cried Gourlay, " gang away, 
 man!" And Peter went away. 
 
 Gourlay went out to the big green gate where he had 
 often stood in his pride, and watched his old servant 
 going down the street. Peter was so bowed that the 
 back of his velveteen coat was half-way up his spine, and 
 the bulging pockets at the corners were mid-way down 
 his thighs. Gourlay had seen the fact a thousand times, 
 but it never gripped him before. He stared till Peter 
 disappeared round the Bend o' the Brae. 
 
 "Aye, aye," said he " aye, aye. There goes the last 
 o' them." 
 
 It was a final run of ill-luck that brought Gourlay to 
 this desperate pass. When everything seemed to go 
 against him, he tried several speculations, with a gam- 
 bler's hope that they might do well, and retrieve the 
 situation. He abandoned the sensible direction of 
 affairs, that is, and trusted entirely to chance, as men are 
 
 [ 235]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 apt to do when despairing. And chance betrayed him. 
 He found himself of a sudden at the end of his resources. 
 Through all his troubles his one consolation was the 
 fact that he had sent John to the University. That was 
 something saved from the wreck at any rate. More and 
 more, as his other supports fell away, Gourlay attached 
 himself to the future of his son. It became the sheet- 
 anchor of his hojies. If he had remained a prosperous 
 man John's success would have been merely incidental, 
 something to disconsider in speech, at least, however 
 pleased he might have been at heart. But now it was 
 the whole of life to him. For one thing, the son's suc- 
 cess would justify the father's past and prevent it being 
 quite useless; it would have produced a minister, a suc- 
 cessful man, one of an esteemed profession. Again, 
 that success would be a salve to Gourlay's wounded 
 pride; the Gourlays would show Barbie they could flour- 
 ish yet, in spite of their present downcome. Thus, in 
 the collapse of his fortunes, the son grew all-important 
 in the father's eyes. Nor did his own poverty seem to 
 him a just bar to his son's prosperity. " I have put him 
 through his Arts," thought Gourlay; " surely he can do 
 the rest himsell. Lots of young chaps, when they 
 warstle through their Arts, teach the sons of swells to 
 get a little money to gang through Diveenity. My boy 
 can surely do the like! " Again and again, as Gourlay 
 felt himself slipping under in the world of Barbie, his 
 hopes turned to John in Edinburgh. If that boy would 
 only hurry up and get through, to make a hame for the 
 lassie and the auld wife! 
 
 [236]
 
 XXIII 
 
 Young Gourlay spent that winter in Edinburgh 
 pretty much as he had spent the last. Last winter, how- 
 ever, it was simply a weak need for companionship that 
 drew him to the Howff. This winter it was more, it 
 was the need of a formed habit that must have its 
 wonted satisfaction. He had a further impulse to con- 
 viviality now. It had become a habit that compelled 
 him. 
 
 The diversions of some men are merely subsidiary to 
 their lives, externals easy to be dropped; with others 
 they usurp the man. They usurp a life when it is never 
 happy away from them, when in the midst of other oc- 
 cupations absent pleasures rise vivid to the mind, with 
 an irresistible call. Young Gourlay's too-seeing imag- 
 ination, always visioning absent delights, combined with 
 his weakness of will, never gripping to the work before 
 him, to make him hate his lonely studies and long for 
 the jolly company of his friends. He never opened his 
 books of an evening but he thought to himself: " I won- 
 der what they're doing at the Howff to-night? " At 
 once he visualized the scene, imagined every detail, saw 
 them in their jovial hours. And, seeing them so happy, 
 he longed to be with them. On that night, long ago, 
 when his father ordered him to College, his cowardly 
 and too vivid mind thought of the ploys the fellows 
 would be having along the Barbie roads, while he was 
 
 [337]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 mewed up in Edinburgh. He saw the Barbie rollickers 
 in his mind's eye, and the student in his lonely rooms, 
 and contrasted them mournfully. So now, every night, 
 he saw the cosy companions in their Howlf, and shiv- 
 ered at his own isolation. He felt a tugging at his 
 heart to be off and join them. And his will was so weak 
 that, nine times out of ten, he made no resistance to the 
 impulse. 
 
 He had always a feeling of depression when he must 
 sit down to his books. It was the start that gravelled 
 him. He would look round his room and hate it, mut- 
 ter " Damn it, I must work " — and then, with a heavy 
 sigh, would seat himself before an outspread volume on 
 the table, tugging the hair on a puckered forehead. 
 Sometimes the depression left him, when he buckled to 
 his work; as his mind became occupied with other things 
 the vision of the Ho\vff was expelled. Usually, how- 
 ever, the stiffness of his brains made the reading drag 
 heavily, and he rarely attained the sufficing happiness 
 of a student eager and engrossed. At the end of ten 
 minutes he would be gaping across the table, and won- 
 dering what they were doing at the Howff . " Will Lo- 
 gan be singing * Tarn Glen?' Or is Gillespie fiddling 
 Highland tunes, by Jing, with his elbow going it mer- 
 rily? Lord! I would like to hear ' Miss Drummond o' 
 Perth ' or ' Gray Daylicht ' — they might buck me up a 
 bit. I'll just slip out for ten minutes, to to see what 
 they're doing, and be back directly." He came back at 
 two in the morning, staggering. 
 
 On a bleak spring evening, near the end of February, 
 young Gourlay had gone to the Howff, to escape the 
 shuddering misery of the streets. It was that treacher- 
 
 [238]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 ous spring weather which blights. Only two days ago, 
 the air had been sluggish and balmy; now an easterly 
 wind nipped the grey city, naked and bare. There was 
 light enough, with the lengthening days, to see, plainly, 
 the rawness of the world. There were cold yellow 
 gleams in windows fronting a lonely west. Uncertain 
 little puffs of wind came swirling round corners, and 
 made dust, and pieces of dirty white paper, gyrate on 
 the roads. Prosperous old gentlemen pacing home, ro- 
 tund in their buttoned-up coats, had clear drops at 
 the end of their noses. Sometimes they stopped — their 
 trouser-legs flapping behind them — and trumpetted 
 loudly into red silk handkerchiefs. Young Gourlay 
 had fled the streets. It was the kind of night that 
 made him cower. 
 
 By eight o'clock, however, he was merry with the bar- 
 ley-bree, and making a butt of himself to amuse the 
 company. He was not quick-witted enough to banter 
 a comrade readily, nor hardy enough to essay it unpro- 
 voked; on the other hand his swaggering love of notice 
 impelled him to some form of talk that would attract 
 attention. So he made a point of always coming with 
 daft stories of things comic that befell him — at least, he 
 said they did. But if his efforts were greeted with too 
 loud a roar, implying not only appreciation of the 
 stories, but also a contempt for the man who could tell 
 them of himself, his sensitive vanity was immediately 
 wounded, and he swelled with sulky anger. And the 
 moment after he would splurge and bluster to reassert 
 his dignity. 
 
 " I remember when I was a boy," he hiccuped, " I had 
 a pet goose at home." 
 
 [239]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 There was a titter at the queer beginning. 
 
 " I was to get the price of it for myself, and so when 
 Christmas drew near, I went to old MacFarlane, the 
 poulterer in Skeighan. ' Will you buy a goose? ' said I. 
 * Are ye for sale, my man? ' was his answer." 
 
 Armstrong flung back his head and roared, prolonging 
 the loud ho-ho! through his big nose and open mouth 
 long after the impulse to honest laughter was exhausted. 
 He always laughed with false loudness, to indicate his 
 own superiority, when he thought a man had been 
 guilty of a public silliness. The laugh was meant to 
 show the company how far above such folly was Mr. 
 Armstrong. 
 
 Gourlay scowled. " Damn Armstrong! " he thought, 
 " what did he yell like that for? Does he think I didn't 
 see the point of the joke against myself? Would I have 
 told it if I hadn't? This is what comes of being sensi- 
 tive. I'm always too sensitive! I felt there was an 
 awkward silence, and I told a story against myself to 
 dispel it in fun, and this is what I get for't. Curse the 
 big brute, he thinks I have given myself away. But 
 I'll show him! " 
 
 He was already mellow, but he took another swig to 
 hearten him, as was his habit. 
 
 " There's a damned sight too much yell about your 
 laugh, Armstrong," he said, truly enough, getting a 
 courage from his anger and the drink. " No gentle- 
 man laughs like that." 
 
 " * Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est,' " said Tarmillan, 
 who was on one of his rare visits to the HowflF. He was 
 too busy and too wise a man to frequent it greatly. 
 
 Armstrong blushed; and Gourlay grew big and brave, 
 
 [ 240 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 in the backing of the great Tarmillan. He took another 
 swig on the strength of it. But his resentment was 
 still surging. When Tarmillan went, and the three 
 students were left by themselves, Gourlay continued to 
 nag and bluster, for that blatant laugh of Armstrong's 
 rankled in his mind. 
 
 " I saw Hepburn in the street to-day," said Gillespie, 
 by way of a diversion. 
 
 " Who's Hepburn? " snapped Gourlay. 
 
 " Oh, don't you remember? He's the big Border 
 chap who got into a row with auld Tam on the day you 
 won your prize essay." (That should surely appease 
 the fool, thought Gillespie.) " It was only for the fun 
 of the thing Hepburn was at College, for he has lots of 
 money; and, here, he never apologized to Tam! He said 
 he would go down first." 
 
 " He was damned right," spluttered Gourlay. " Some 
 of these Profs, think too much of themselves. They 
 wouldn't bully me! There's good stuff in the Gour- 
 lays," he went on with a meaning look at Armstrong; 
 " they're not to be scoffed at. I would stand insolence 
 from no man." 
 
 "Aye, man," said Armstrong, " would you face up to 
 a professor? " 
 
 "Wouldn't I?" said the tipsy youth, "and to you, 
 too, if you went too far." 
 
 He became so quarrelsome as the night went on that 
 his comrades filled him up with drink, in the hope of 
 deadening his ruffled sensibilities. It was: "Yes, yes, 
 Jack; but never mind about that! Have another drink, 
 just to show there's no ill-feeling among friends." 
 
 ^Vhen they left the Howff they went to Gillespie's and 
 
 [ 241 ]■
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 drank more, and, after that, they roamed about the 
 town. At two in the morning the other two brought 
 Gourlay to his door. He was assuring Armstrong he 
 was not a gentleman. 
 
 When he went to bed the fancied insult he had suf- 
 fered swelled to monstrous proportions in his fevered 
 brain. Did Armstrong despise him? The thought was 
 poison! He lay in brooding anger, and his mind was 
 fluent in wrathful harangues in some imaginary encoun- 
 ter of the future, in which he was a glorious victor. 
 He flowed in eloquent scorn of Armstrong and his ways. 
 If I could talk like this always, he thought, what a fel- 
 low I would be! He seemed gifted with uncanny in- 
 sight into Armstrong's character. He noted every 
 weakness in the rushing whirl of his thoughts, set them 
 in order one by one, saw himself laying bare the man 
 with savage glee when next they should encounter. He 
 would whiten the big brute's face by shewing he had 
 probed him to the quick. Just let him laugh at me 
 again, thought Gourlay, and I'll analyse each mean 
 quirk of his dirty soul to him! 
 
 The drink was dying in him now, for the trio had 
 walked for more than an hour through the open air 
 when they left Gillespie's rooms. The stupefaction of 
 alcohol was gone, leaving his brain morbidly alive. He 
 was anxious to sleep, but drowsy dullness kept away. 
 His mind began to visualise of its own accord, independ- 
 ent of his will; and, one after another, a crowd of pic- 
 tures rose vivid in the darkness of his brain. He saw 
 them as plainly as you see this page — but with a differ- 
 ent clearness — for they seemed nnnatural, belonging to 
 a morbid world. Nor did one suggest the other; there 
 
 [ 242]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 was no connection between them; each came vivid of 
 its own accord. 
 
 First it was an old pit-frame on a barren moor, gaunt 
 against the yellow west. Gourlay saw bars of iron, left 
 when the pit was abandoned, reddened by the rain; and 
 the mounds of rubbish, and the scattered bricks, and the 
 rusty clinkers from the furnace, and the melancholy 
 shining pools. A four-wheeled old trolley had lost two 
 of its wheels, and was tilted at a slant, one square end 
 of it resting on the ground. 
 
 " Why do I think of an old pit? " he thought angrily; 
 " curse it, why can't I sleep? " 
 
 Next moment he was gazing at a ruined castle, its 
 mouldering walls mounded atop with decaying rubble; 
 from a loose crumb of mortar, a long, thin film of the 
 spider's weaving stretched bellying away, to a tall weed 
 waving on the crazy brink — Gourlay saw its glisten in 
 the wind. He saw each crack in the wall, each stain of 
 lichen; a myriad details stamped themselves together on 
 his raw mind. Then a constant procession of figures 
 passed across the inner curtain of his closed eyes. Each 
 figure was cowled; but when it came directly opposite, 
 it turned and looked at him with a white face. " Stop, 
 stop ! " cried his mind, " I don't want to think of you. 
 I don't want to think of you, I don't want to think of 
 you! Go away! " But as they came of themselves, so 
 they went of themselves. He could not banish them. 
 
 He turned on his side, but a hundred other pictures 
 pursued him. From an inland hollow he saw the great 
 dawn flooding up from the sea, over a sharp line of 
 cliff, wave after wave of brilliance surging up the heav- 
 ens. The landward slope of the cliff was gray with 
 
 [ 243 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 dew. The inland hollow was full of little fields, di- 
 vided by stone walls, and he could not have recalled 
 the fields round Barbie with half their distinctness. 
 For a moment they possessed his brain. Then an au- 
 tumn wood rose on his vision. He was gazing down a 
 vista of yellow leaves; a long, deep slanting cleft, framed 
 in lit foliage. Leaves, leaves; everywhere yellow leaves, 
 luminous, burning. He saw them falling through the 
 lucid air. The scene was as vivid as fire to his brain, 
 though of magic stillness. Then the foliage changed 
 suddenly to great serpents twined about the boughs. 
 Their colours were of monstrous beauty. They glis- 
 tened as they moved. 
 
 He leapt in his bed with a throb of horror. Could 
 this be the delirium of drink? But no; he had often 
 had an experience like this when he was sleepless; he 
 had the learned description of it pat and ready; it was 
 only automatic visualisation. 
 
 Damn! Why couldn't he sleep? He flung out of 
 bed, uncorked a bottle with his teeth, tilted it up, and 
 gulped the gurgling fire in the darkness. Ha! that was 
 better. 
 
 His room was already gray with the coming dawn. 
 He went to the window and opened it. The town was 
 stirring uneasily in its morning sleep. Somewhere in 
 the distance a train was shunting; clanJc, dank, clank 
 went the waggons. What an accursed sound! A dray 
 went past the end of his street rumbling hollowly, and 
 the rumble died drearily away. Tlien the footsteps of 
 an early workman going to his toil were heard in the 
 deserted thoroughfare. Gourlay looked down and saw 
 him pass far beneath him on the glimmering pavement. 
 
 [244]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 He was whistling. Why did the fool whistle? What 
 had he got to whistle about? It was unnatural that 
 one man should go whistling to his work, when another 
 had not been able to sleep the whole night long. 
 
 He took another vast glut of whiskey, and the mo- 
 ment after was dead to the world. 
 
 He was awakened at eight o'clock by a monstrous 
 hammering on his door. By the excessive loudness of 
 the first knock he heard on returning to consciousness, 
 he knew that his landlady had lost her temper in trying 
 to get him up. Ere he could sliout she had thumped 
 again. He stared at the ceiling in sullen misery. The 
 middle of his tongue was as dry as bark. 
 
 For his breakfast there were thick slabs of rancid 
 bacon, from the top of which two yellow eggs had 
 spewed themselves away among the cold gravy. His 
 gorge rose at them. He nibbled a piece of dry bread 
 and drained the teapot; then shouldering into his great- 
 coat he tramped off to the University. 
 
 It was a wretched morning. The wind had veered 
 once more, and a cold drizzle of rain was falling through 
 a yellow fog. The reflections of the street lamps in the 
 sloppy pavement, went down through spiral gleams, to 
 an infinite depth of misery. Young Gourlay's brain was 
 aching from his last night's debauch, and his body was 
 weakened with the want both of sleep and food. The 
 cold yellow mist chilled him to the bone. Wliat a fool 
 I was to get drunk last night, he thought. Wliy am I 
 here? Why am I trudging through mud and misery 
 to the University? What has it all got to do with me? 
 Oh, what a fool I am, what a fool! 
 
 " Drown dull care," said the Devil in his ear. 
 
 [245 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTEKS 
 
 He took a sixpence from his trouser pocket, aud looked 
 down at the white bit of money in his hand, till it was 
 wet with the falling rain. Then he went into a flashy 
 tavern, and, standing by a sloppy bar, drank sixpenny- 
 worth of cheap whiskey. It went to his head at once, 
 owing to his want of food, and with a dull warm feeling 
 in his body, he lurched off to his first lecture for the 
 day. His outlook on the world had changed. The 
 fog was now a comfortable yellowness. " Freedom and 
 whiskey gang thegither, Tak aff your dram," he quoted 
 to his own mind. " That stuff did me good. Whis- 
 key's the boy to fettle you." 
 
 He was in his element the moment he entered the 
 classroom. It was a bear garden. The most moral in- 
 dividual has his days of perversity when a malign fate 
 compels him to show the worst he has in him. A 
 Scotch University class — which is many most moral in- 
 dividuals — has a similar eruptive tendency when it gets 
 into the hands of a weak professor. It will behave well 
 enough for a fortnight, then a morning comes when 
 nothing can control it. This M^as a morning of the 
 kind. The lecturer, who was an able man but a weak- 
 ling, had begun by apologising for the condition of his 
 voice, on the ground that he had a bad cold. Instantly 
 every man in the class was blowing his nose. One fel- 
 low, of a most portentous snout, who could trumpet 
 like an elephant, with a last triumphant snort sent his 
 handkerchief across the room. When called to account 
 for his conduct, " Really, sir," he said, " er-er-oom — 
 bad cold! " Uprose a universal sneeze. Then the 
 " roughing " began, to the tune of " John Brown's body 
 lies a-mouldering in the .q-rave " — which no man seemed 
 
 [ 246 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 to sing, but every man could hear. They were playing 
 the tune with their feet. 
 
 The lecturer glared with white repugnance at his tor- 
 mentors. 
 
 Young Gourlay flung himself heart and soul into the 
 cruel baiting. It was partly from his usual love of 
 showing off, partly from the drink still seething within 
 him; but largely, also, as a reaction from his morning's 
 misery. This was another way of drowning reflection. 
 The morbidly gloomy one moment, often shout madly 
 on the next. 
 
 At last the lecturer plunged wildly at the door and 
 flung it open. " Go! " he shrieked, and pointed in su- 
 perb dismissal. 
 
 A hundred and fifty barbarians sat where they 
 were, and laughed at him; and he must needs come 
 back to the platform, with a baffled and vindictive 
 glower. 
 
 He was just turning, as it chanced, when young Gour- 
 lay put his hands to his mouth, and bellowed " CocJc-a- 
 doodle-do ! " 
 
 Ere the roar could swell, the lecturer had leapt to the 
 front of the rostrum with flaming eyes. " Mr. Gourlay," 
 he screamed furiously, " you there, sir; you will apolo- 
 gise humbly to me for this outrage at the end of the 
 hour." 
 
 There was a womanish shrillness in the scream, a 
 kind of hysteria on the stretch, that (contrasted with his 
 big threat) might have provoked them at other times to 
 a roar of laughter. But there was a sincerity in his rage 
 to-day that rose above its faults of manner, and an 
 immediate silence took the room — the more impressive 
 
 [247 1
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 for the former noise. Every eye turned to Gourlay, 
 He sat gaping at the lecturer. 
 
 If he had been swept to the anteroom there and 
 then, he would have been cowed by the suddenness of 
 his own change, from a loud tormentor in the company 
 of others, to a silent culprit in a room alone. And 
 apologies would have been ready to tumble out, while 
 he was thus loosened by surprise and fear. 
 
 Unluckily he had time to think, and the longer ho 
 thought the more sullen he became. It was only an 
 accident that led to his discovery, while the rest es- 
 caped, and that the others should escape, when they 
 were just as much to blame as he was, was an injustice 
 that made him furious. His anger was equally divided 
 between the cursed mischance itself, the teacher who 
 had " jumped " on him so suddenly, and the other row- 
 dies who had escaped to laugh at his discomfiture; he 
 had the same burning resentment to them all. When 
 he thought of his chuckling fellow-students they seemed 
 to engross his rage; when he thought of the mishap ho 
 damned it and nothing else; when he thought of the 
 lecturer he felt he had no rage to fling away upon others 
 — the Snuffler took it all. As his mind shot backwards 
 and forwards in an angry gloom, it suddenly encoun- 
 tered the image of his father. Not a professor of the lot, 
 he reflected, could stand the look of black Gourlay. And 
 he wouldn't knuckle under, either, so he wouldn't. He 
 came of a hardy stock. He would show them! He 
 wasn't going to lick dirt for any man. Let him punish 
 all or none, for they had all been kicking up a row — 
 why big Cunningham had been braying like an ass only 
 a minute before. 
 
 [248]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 He spied Armstrong and Gillespie glinting across at 
 him with a curious look — they were wondering whether 
 he had courage enough to stand to his guns with a pro- 
 fessor. He knew the meaning of the look, and resented 
 it. He was on his mettle before them, it seemed. The 
 fellow who had swaggered at the Howft' last night about 
 " what he would do if a professor jumped on /itw," 
 mustn't prove wanting in the present trial, beneath the 
 eyes of those on whom he had imposed his blatancy. 
 
 When we think of what Gourlay did that day, we must 
 remember that he was soaked in alcohol; not merely 
 with his morning's potation, but with the dregs of pre- 
 vious carousals. And the dregs of drink, a thorough 
 toper will tell you, never leave him. He is drunk on 
 Monday with his Saturday's debauch. As " Drucken 
 Wabster " of Barbie put it once, " When a body's 
 hard-up, his braith's a consolation." If that be so — and 
 Wabster, remember, was an expert whose opinion on 
 this matter is entitled to the highest credence — if that 
 be so, it proves the strength and persistence of a thor- 
 ough alcoholic impregnation, or as Wabster called it, of 
 " a good soak." In young Gourlay's case, at any rate, 
 the impregnation was enduring and complete. He was 
 like a rag steeped in fusel oil. 
 
 As the end of the hour drew near, ho sank deeper in 
 his dogged suUenness. When the class streamed from 
 the large door on the right, he turned aside to the little 
 anteroom on the left, with an insolent swing of the 
 shoulders. He knew the fellows were watching him 
 curiously — he felt their eyes upon his back. And, 
 therefore, as he went through the little door, he stood 
 for a moment on his right foot, and waggled his left, 
 
 [ 349 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 on a level with his hip behind, in a vulgar derision of 
 them, the professor, and the whole situation. That 
 was a fine taunt flung back at them! 
 
 There is nothing on earth more vindictive than a 
 weakling. When he gets a chance he takes revenge 
 for everything his past cowardice forced him to endure. 
 The timid lecturer, angry at the poor figure he had cut 
 on the platform, was glad to take it out of young Clour- 
 lay for the wrong-doing of the class. Gourlay was their 
 scapegoat. The lecturer had no longer over a hun- 
 dred men to deal with, but one lout only, sullen yet 
 shrinking in the room before him. Instead of coming 
 to the point at once, he played with his victim. It was 
 less from intentional cruelty than from an instinctive 
 desire to recover his lost feeling of superiority. The 
 class was his master, but here was one of them he could 
 cowe at any rate. 
 
 " Well ? " he asked, bringing his thin finger-tips to- 
 gether, and flinging one thigh across the other. 
 
 Gourlay shuffled his feet uneasily. 
 " Yes? " enquired the other, enjoying his discom- 
 fiture. 
 
 Gourlay lowered. " Whatna gate was this to gang 
 on? Why couldn't he let a blatter out of his thin 
 mouth, and ha' done wi't? " 
 
 " I'm waiting! " said the lecturer. 
 
 The words " I apologize " rose in Gourlay, but refused 
 to pass his throat. No, he wouldn't, so he wouldn't! 
 He would see the lecturer far enough, ere he gave an 
 apology before it was expressly required. 
 
 " Oh, that's the line you go on, is it? " said the lec- 
 turer, nodding his head as if he had sized up a curious 
 
 [ 250 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 animal. " I see, I see! You add contumacy to inso- 
 lence, do you? .... Imphm." 
 
 Gourlay was not quite sure what contumacy meant, 
 and the uncertainty added to his anger. 
 
 " There were others making a noise besides me," he 
 blurted. "I don't see why / should be blamed for 
 it all." 
 
 " Oh, you don't see why you should be had up, indeed? 
 I think we'll bring you to a different conclusion. Yes, 
 I think so." 
 
 Gourlay, being forced to stand always on the one 
 spot, felt himself swaying in a drunken stupor. He 
 blinked at the lecturer like an angry owl — the blinking 
 regard of a sodden mind, yet fiery with a spiteful rage. 
 His wrath was rising and falling like a quick tide. He 
 would have liked one moment to give a rein to the 
 Gourlay temper, and let the lecturer have it hot and 
 strong — the next, he was quivering in a cowardly horror, 
 of the desperate attempt he had so nearly made. Curse 
 his tormentor! Why did he keep him here, when his 
 head was aching so badly? Another taunt was enough 
 to spring his drunken rage. 
 
 " I wonder what you think you came to College for? " 
 said the lecturer. " I have been looking at your records 
 in the class. They're the worst I ever saw. And you're 
 not content with that, it seems. You add misbehaviour 
 to gross stupidity." 
 
 " To Hell wi' ye! " said Gourlay. 
 
 There was a feeling in the room as if the air was 
 stunned. The silence throbbed. 
 
 The lecturer, who had risen, sat down suddenly as if 
 going at the knees, and went white about the gills. 
 
 [251]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Some men would have swept the ruffian with a burst of 
 generous wrath, a few might have pitied in their anger 
 — ^but this young Solomon was thin and acid, a vindic- 
 tive rat. Unable to cowe the insolent in present and 
 full-blooded rage, he fell to thinking of the great ma- 
 chine he might set in motion to destroy him. As he 
 sat there in silence, his eyes grew ferrety, and a sleek 
 revenge peeped from the corners of his mouth. '' I'll 
 show him what I'll do to him for this! " is a transla- 
 tion of his thought. He was thinking, with great satis- 
 faction to himself, of how the Senatus would deal with 
 young Gourlay. 
 
 Gourlay grew weak with fear the moment the words 
 escaped him. They had been a thunderclap to his own 
 ears. He had been thinking them, but — as he pleaded 
 far witliin him now — had never meant to utter them; 
 they had been mere spume off the surge of cowardly 
 wrath seething up witliin him, longing to burst but 
 afraid. It was the taunt of stupidity that fired his 
 drunken vanity to blurt them forth. 
 
 The lecturer eyed liim sideways where he shrank in 
 fear. " You may go," he said at last. " I will report 
 your conduct to the University." 
 
 Gourlay was sitting alone in his room when he heard 
 that he had been expelled. For many days lie had 
 drunk to deaden fear, but he was sober now, being newly 
 out of bed. A dreary ray of sunshine came through the 
 window, and fell on a wisp of flame, blinking in the 
 grate. As Gourlay sat, his eyes fixed dully on the faded 
 ray, a flash of intuition laid his character bare to him. 
 He read himself ruthlessly. It was not by conscious 
 
 [ 252 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 effort; insight was uncanny and apart from will. He saw 
 that blatancy had joined with weakness, morbidity with 
 want of brains; and that the results of these, converging 
 to a point, had produced the present issue, his expulsion. 
 His mind recognised how logical the issue was, assenting 
 wearily as to a problem proved. Given those qualities, 
 in those circumstances, what else could have happened? 
 And such a weakling as he knew himself to be, could 
 never — he thought — make effort sufficient to alter his 
 qualities. A sense of fatalism came over him, as of one 
 doomed. He bowed his head, and let his arms fall by 
 the sides of his chair, dropping them like a spent swim- 
 mer ready to sink. The sudden revelation of himself 
 to himself had taken the heart out of him. " I'm a 
 waster! " he said aghast. And then, at the sound of his 
 own voice, a fear came over him, a fear of his own na- 
 ture, and he started to his feet and strode feverishly, as 
 if by mere locomotion, to escape from his clinging and 
 inherent ill. It M'as as if he were trying to run away 
 from himself. 
 
 He faced round at the mirror on his mantel, and 
 looked at his own image with staring and startled eyes, 
 his mouth open, the breath coming hard through his 
 nostrils. "You're a gey ill ane," he said: "You're a 
 gey ill ane! My God, where have you landed your- 
 self! " 
 
 He went out to escape from his thoughts. Instinc- 
 tively he turned to the Howff for consolation. 
 
 With the panic despair of the weak, he abandoned 
 hope of his character at its first collapse, and plunged 
 into a wild debauch, to avoid reflecting where it would 
 lead him in the end. But he had a more definite reason 
 
 [ 253 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 for prolonging his bout in Edinburgh. He was afraid 
 to go home and meet his father. He shrank, in vision- 
 ing fear, before the dour face, loaded with scorn, that 
 would swing round to meet him as he entered through 
 the door. Though he swore every night in his cups 
 that he would '' square up to the Governor the morn, 
 so he would! " always, when the cold light came, fear 
 of the interview drove him to his cups again. His 
 courage zigzagged, as it always did; one moment 
 he towered in imagination, the next he grovelled in 
 fear. 
 
 Sometimes, when he was fired with whiskey, another 
 element entered into his mood, no less big with de- 
 struction. It was all his father's fault for sending him 
 to Edinburgh, and no matter what happened, it would 
 serve the old fellow right! He had a kind of fierce sat- 
 isfaction in his own ruin, because his ruin would show 
 them at home what a mistake they had made in sending 
 him to College. It was the old man's tyranny, in forcing 
 him to College, that had brought all this on his miser- 
 able head. Well, he was damned glad, so he was, that 
 they should be punished at home by their own foolish 
 scheme — it had punished liim enough, for one. And 
 then he would set his mouth insolent and hard, and 
 drink the more fiercely, finding a consolation in the 
 thought that his tyrannical father would suffer through 
 his degradation, too. 
 
 At last he must go home. He drifted to the station 
 aimlessly; he had ceased to be self-determined. His 
 compartment happened to be empty; so, free to behave 
 as he liked, he yelled music-hall snatches in a tuneless 
 voice, hammering with his feet on the wooden floor. 
 
 [ 254]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 The noise pleased his sodden mind which had narrowed 
 to a comfortable stupor — outside of which his troubles 
 seemed to lie, as if they belonged not to him but to 
 somebody else. With the same sodden interest he was 
 staring through the window, at one of the little sta- 
 tions on the line, when a boy, pointing, said, " Flat white 
 nose ! " and Gourlay laughed uproariously, adding at the 
 end: "He's a clever chield, that; my nose would look 
 flat and white against the pane." But this outbreak of 
 mirth seemed to break in on his comfortable vagueness; 
 it roused him by a kind of reaction to think of home, 
 and of what his father would say. A minute after he 
 had been laughing so madly, he was staring sullenly in 
 front of him. Well, it didn't matter; it was all the 
 old fellow's fault, and he wasn't going to stand any 
 of his jaw. "None of your jaw, John Gourlay!" 
 he said, nodding his head viciously, and thrusting 
 out his clenched fist, " none of your jaw, d'ye 
 hear? " 
 
 He crept into Barbie through the dusk. It had been 
 market day and knots of people were still about the 
 streets. Gourlay stole softly through the shadows, and 
 turned his coat-collar high about his ears. He nearly 
 ran into two men who were talking apart, and his heart 
 stopped dead at their words. 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Gourlay," said one of them, " it's quite 
 impossible. I'm not unwilling to oblige ye, but I can- 
 not take the risk." 
 
 John heard the mumble of his father's voice. 
 
 " Well," said the other reluctantly, " if ye get the 
 baker and Tam Wylie for security? I'll be on the 
 street for another half hour." 
 
 [ 255 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " Another half hour! " thought John with relief. 
 He would not have to face his father the moment he 
 went in. He would be able to get home before him. 
 He crept on through the gloaming to the House with 
 the Green Shutters. 
 
 [256]
 
 XXIV 
 
 There had been fine cackling in Barbie, as Gourlay's 
 men dropped away from him one by one; and now it was 
 worse tlian ever. When Jimmy Bain and Sandy Cross 
 were dismissed last winter, " He canna last long now," 
 mused the bodies, and then when even Einey got the 
 sack, " Lord! " they cried, " this maim be the end o't! " 
 The downfall of Gourlay had an unholy fascination for 
 his neighbours. And that not merely because of their 
 dislike to the man. That was a whet to their curiosity, 
 of course, but, over and above it, they seemed to be 
 watching, with bated breath, for the final collapse of an 
 edifice that was bound to fall. Simple expectation held 
 them. It was a dramatic interest — of suspense, yet 
 certainty — that had them in its grip. " He's hound to 
 come down," said Certainty — " Yes, but iclien, though? " 
 cried Curiosity, all the more eager because of its instinct 
 for the coming crash. And so they waited for the great 
 catastrophe which they felt to be so near. It was as if 
 they were watching a tragedy near at hand, and noting 
 with keen interest every step in it that must lead to 
 inevitable ruin. That invariably happens when a family 
 tragedy is played out in the midst of a small community. 
 Each step in it is discussed with a prying interest, that 
 is neither malevolent nor sympathetic, but simply curi- 
 ous. In this case it was chiefly malevolent, only be- 
 cause Govirlay had been such a brute to Barbie. 
 
 [ 257 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Though there were thus two reasons for public inter- 
 est, the result was one and the same, a constant tittle- 
 tattling. Particular spite and a more general curiosity 
 brought the grain merchant's name on to every tongue. 
 Not even in the gawcey days of its prosperity had the 
 House with the Green Shutters been so much talked of. 
 
 " Pride iinll have a downcome," said some, with a gleg 
 look and a smack of the lip, trying to veil their 
 personal malevolence in a connnon proverb. " He's 
 simply in debt in every corner," goldered the keener 
 spirits; " he never had a brain for business. He's had 
 money for stuff he's unable to deliver! Not a day gangs 
 by but the big blue envelopes are coming. How do I 
 ken? say ye! How do I ken, indeed? Oh-ooh, I ken 
 perfectly. Perfectly! It was Postie himsell that telled 
 me! " 
 
 Yet all this was merely guesswork. For Gourlay had 
 hitherto gone away from Barbie for his monies and ac- 
 commodations, so that the bodies could only surmise; 
 they had nothing definite to go on. And through it all, 
 the gurly old fellow kept a brave front to the world. 
 He was thinking of retiring, he said, and gradually 
 drawing in his business. This offhand and lordly, to 
 hide the patent diminution of his trade. 
 
 "Hi-hi!" said the old Provost, with a cruel laugh, 
 when he heard of Gourlay's remark, " drawing in his 
 business, aye! It's like Lang Jean Lingleton's waist, 
 I'm thinking. It's thin-eneugh drawn a'readys! " 
 
 On the morning of the last market day he was ever 
 to see in Barbie, old Gourlay was standing at the green 
 gate, when the postman came up with a smirk, and put 
 a letter in his hand. He betrayed a wish to hover in 
 
 [258]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 gossip, while Gourlay opened his letter, but " Less lip! " 
 said surly John, and the fellow went away. 
 
 Ere he had reached the corner, a gowl of anger and 
 grief struck his ear, and he wheeled eagerly. 
 
 Gourlay was standing with open mouth and out- 
 stretched arm, staring at the letter in his clenched fist 
 with a look of horror, as if it had stung him. 
 
 "My God!" he cried, "had / not enough to 
 thole?" 
 
 "Aha! " thought Postie, " yon letter Wilson got this 
 morning was correct, then! His son had sent the true 
 story. That letter o' Gourlay's had the Edinburgh post- 
 mark — somebody has sent him word about his son. — 
 Lord! What a tit-bit for my rounds." 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay, who was washing dishes, looked up to 
 see her husband standing in the kitchen door. His face 
 frightened her. She had often seen the blaze in his 
 eye, and often the dark scowl, but never this bloodless 
 pallor in his cheek. Yet his eyes were flaming. 
 
 " Aye, aye," he birred, " a fine job you have made of 
 him! " 
 
 "Oh, what is it?" she quavered, and the dish she 
 was wiping clashed on the floor. 
 
 " That's it! " said he, " that's it! Breck the dishes 
 next; breck the dishes! Everything seems gaun to 
 smash. If ye keep on lang eneugh, ye'll put a bonny 
 end tiirt or ye're bye wi't — the lot o' ye." 
 
 The taunt passed in the anxiety that stormed her. 
 
 " Tell me, see! " she cried, imperious in stress of ap- 
 peal. " Oil, what is it, John? " She stretched out her 
 thin, red hands, and clasped them tightly before her. 
 "Is it from Embro? Is there ainything the matter 
 
 [ 259 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 with my boy? Is there ainything the matter with 
 my boy? " 
 
 The hard eye surveyed her a while in grim contempt 
 of her weakness. She was a fluttering thing in his grip. 
 " Every thing's the matter with your boy," he 
 sneered slowly, " every thing's the matter with your boy. 
 — And it's your fault, too, damn you, for you always 
 spoiled him! " 
 
 With sudden wrath he strode over to the famous 
 range and threw the letter within the great fender. 
 
 " What is it? " he cried, wheeling round on his wife. 
 " The son you were so wild about sending to College 
 has been flung in disgrace from its door! That's what 
 it is! " He swept from the house like a madman. 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay sank into her old nursing chair and 
 wailed, " Oh, my wean, my wean; my dear; my poor 
 dear! " She drew the letter from the ashes, but could 
 not read it for her tears. The words " drunkenness " 
 and " expulsion " swam before her eyes. The manner 
 of his disgrace she did not care to hear; she only knew 
 her first-born was in sorrow. 
 
 " Oh, my son, my son," she cried; " my laddie; my 
 wee laddie! " She was thinking of the time when he 
 trotted at her petticoat. 
 
 It was market day, and Gourlay must face the town. 
 There was interest due on a mortgage which he could 
 not pay; he must swallow his pride and try to borrow it 
 in Barbie. He thought of trying Johnny Coe, for 
 Johnny was of yielding nature, and had never been 
 unfriendly. 
 
 He turned, twenty yards from his gate, and looked 
 at the House with the Green Shutters. He had often 
 
 [ 260]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 turned to look back with pride at the gawcey building 
 on its terrace; but never as he looked to-day. All that 
 his life meant, was bound up in that house, it had been 
 the pride of the Gourlays; now it was no longer his, and 
 the Gourlays' pride was in the dust — their name a by- 
 word. As Gourlay looked, a robin was perched on the 
 quiet rooftree, its breast vivid in the sun. One of his 
 metaphors flashed at the sight. " Shame is sitting 
 there, too," he muttered — and added with a proud angry 
 snarl, " on the riggin' o' my hoose! " 
 
 He had a triple wratli to his son. He had not only 
 ruined his own life, he had destroyed his father's hope 
 that by entering the ministry he might restore the Gour- 
 lay reputation. Above all he had disgraced the House 
 witli the Green Shutters. That was the crown of his 
 offending. Gourlay felt for the house of his pride 
 even more than for himself — rather tlie liouse was liim- 
 self ; there was no division between them. He had built 
 it bluff to represent him to the world. It was his char- 
 acter in stone and lime. He clung to it, as the dull, 
 fierce mind, unable to live in thought, clings to a ma- 
 terial source of pride. And John had disgraced it. 
 Even if fortune took a turn for the better. Green Sh\it- 
 ters would be laughed at the country over, as the liome 
 of a prodigal. 
 
 As he went by the Cross, Wilson (Provost this long 
 wJiile) broke off a conversation with Templandmuir, 
 to yell "It's gra-and weather, Mr. Gourlay!" The 
 men had not spoken for years,. So to shout at poor 
 Gourlay in his black hour", from the pinnacle of civic 
 greatness, was a fine stroke; it was gloating, it was rub- 
 bing in the contrast. The words were innocent, l)ut 
 
 [ 361 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 that was nothing; whatever the remark, for a declared 
 enemy to address Gourlay in his shame, was an insult: 
 that was why Wilson addressed him. There was some- 
 thing in the very loudness of his tones that cried plainly: 
 "Aha, Gourlay! Your son has disgraced you, my man! " 
 Gourlay glowered at the animal and plodded dourly. 
 Ere he had gone ten yards a coarse laugh came bellow- 
 ing behind him. They saw the colour surge up the 
 back of his neck, to the roots of his hair. 
 
 He stopped. Was his son's disgrace known in Barbie 
 already? He had hoped to get through the market day 
 without anybody knowing. But Wilson had a" son in 
 Edinburgh; he had written, it was like. The salutation, 
 therefore, and the laugh, had both been uttered in de- 
 rision. He wheeled, his face black with the passionate 
 blood. His mouth yawed with anger. His voice had 
 a moan of intensity. 
 
 " What are 'ee laughing at? " he said, with a master- 
 ing quietness .... "Eh? ... . Just tell me, please, 
 what you're laughing at." 
 
 He was crouching for the grip, his hands out like a 
 gorilla's. The quiet voice, from the yawing mouth, 
 beneath the steady flaming eyes, was deadly. There is 
 something inhuman in a rage so still. 
 
 " Eh? " he said slowly, and the moan seemed to come 
 from the midst of a vast intensity rather than a human 
 being. It was the question that must grind an answer. 
 
 Wilson was wishing to all his gods that he had not in- 
 sulted this awful man. He remembered what had hap- 
 pened to Gibson. This, he had heard, was the very 
 voice with which Gourlay moaned : " Take your hand 
 off my shouther! " ere he hurled Gibson through tlie 
 
 [3G3]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 window of the Red Lion. Barbie might soon want a 
 new Provost, if he ran in now. 
 
 But there is always one way of evading punishment 
 for a veiled insult, and of adding to its sting by your 
 evasion. Repudiate the remotest thought of the pro- 
 tester. Thus you enjoy your previous gibe, with the 
 additional pleasure of making your victim seem a fool, 
 for thinking you referred to him. You not only insult 
 him on the first count, but send him off with an addi- 
 tional hint, that he isn't worth your notice. Wilson was 
 an adept in the art. 
 
 " Man! " he lied blandly — but his voice was quivering 
 — " Ma-a-an, I wasn't so much as giving ye a tlioat! 
 It's verra strange if I cannot pass a joke with my o-old 
 friend, Templandmuir, without you calling me to book. 
 It's a free country, I shuppose! Ye weren't in my mind 
 at a-all. I have more important matters to think of," 
 he ventured to add, seeing he had baffled Gourlay. 
 
 For Gourlay was baffled. For a directer insult, an 
 offensive gesture, one fierce word, he would have ham- 
 mered the road with the Provost. But he was helpless 
 before the bland quivering lie. Maybe they werena re- 
 ferring to him, maybe they knew nothing of John in 
 Edinburgh, maybe he had been foolishly suspeecious. 
 A subtle yet baffling check was put upon his anger. 
 Madman as he was in wrath, he never struck without 
 direct provocation; there was none in this pulpy gentle- 
 ness. And he was too dull of wit, to get round the com- 
 mon ruse and find a means of getting at them. 
 
 He let loose a great breath through his nostrils, as 
 if releasing a deadly force which he had pent within 
 him, ready should he need to spring. His mouth opened 
 
 [263]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 again, and he gaped at them with a great, round, unsee- 
 ing stare. Then he swung on his heel. 
 
 But wrath clung round him like a garment. His an- 
 ger fed on its uncertainties. For that is the beauty of the 
 Wilson method of insult; you leave the poison in your 
 victim's blood, and he torments himself. " Was Wilson 
 referring to me, after all? " he pondered slowly; and his 
 body surged at the thought. " If he was, I have let 
 him get away unkilled " — and he clutched tlie hands 
 whence Wilson had escaped. Suddenly a flashing 
 thought stopped him dead in the middle of his walk, 
 staring hornily before him. He had seen the point at 
 last, that a quicker man would have seized on at the first. 
 Why had Wilson thrust his damned voice on him on this 
 particular morning of all days in the year, if he was not 
 gloating over some news which he had just heard about 
 the Gourlays? It was as plain as daylight; his son had 
 sent word from Edinburgh. That was why he brayed 
 and ho-ho-ho'ed when Gourlay went by. Gourlay felt 
 a great flutter of pulses against his collar; there was a 
 pain in his throat, an ache of madness in his breast. 
 He turned once more. But Wilson and the Templar 
 had witlulrawn discreetly to the Black Bull; the street 
 wasna canny. Gourlay resumed his way, his being a 
 dumb gowl of rage. His angry thought swept to John. 
 Each insult, and fancied insult, he endured that day, was 
 another item in the long account of vengeance with his 
 son. It was John who had brought all this flaming 
 round his ears — John whose colleging he had lippened 
 to so muckle. The staff on which lie leaned had 
 pierced him. By tlie eternal heavens he would tramp 
 it into atoms. His legs felt John beneatli them. 
 
 [ 264 J
 
 CHAPTEE TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 As the market grew busy, Gourlay was the aim of 
 innumerable eyes. He would turn his head to find him- 
 self the object of a queer considering look — then the 
 eyes of the starer would flutter abashed, as though de- 
 tected spying the forbidden. The most innocent look 
 at him was poison. "Do they know?" was his con- 
 stant thought: "Have they heard the news? What's 
 Loranogie looking at me like that for? " 
 
 Not a man ventured to address him about John — he 
 had cowed them too long. One man, however, shewed 
 a wish to try. A pretended sympathy, from behind the 
 veil of which you probe a man's anguish at your ease, 
 is a favourite weapon of human beasts anxious to wound. 
 The Deacon longed to try it on Gourlay. But his cour- 
 age failed him. It was the only time he was ever 
 worsted in malignity. Never a man went forth, bowed 
 down with a recent shame, wounded and wincing from 
 the public gaze, but that old rogue hirpled up to him, 
 and lisped with false smoothness: " Thirce me, neebour, 
 I'm thorry for ye! Thith ith a terrible affair! It'th on 
 everybody'tli tongue. But ye have my thympathy, nee- 
 bour — ye have tha-at. My warmetht thympathy " — 
 and, all the while, the shifty eyes above the lying mouth 
 would peer and probe, to see if the soul within the other 
 was writhing at his words. 
 
 Now, though everybody was spying at Gourla}^ in the 
 market, all were giving him a wide berth ; for they knew 
 that he was dangerous. He was no longer the man 
 whom they had baited on the way to Skeighan; then he 
 had some control, now three years' calamities had 
 fretted his temper to a raw wound. To flick it was 
 perilous. Great was the surprise of the starers, there- 
 
 [ 265 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 fore, when the idle old Deacon was seen to detach him- 
 self, and hail the grain merchant. Gourlay wheeled, and 
 waited with a levelled eye. All were agog at the sight — 
 something would be sure to come o' this — here would be 
 an encounter worth the speaking o'. But the Deacon, 
 having toddled forward a bittock on his thin shanks, 
 stopped half-roads, took snuff, trumpeted into his big 
 red handkerchief, and then, feebly waving, " I'll thee 
 ye again, Dyohn! " clean turned tail and toddled back 
 to his cronies. 
 
 A roar went up at his expense. 
 
 " God! " said Tam Wylie, " did ye see yon? Gourlay 
 stopped him wi' a glower." 
 
 But the laugh was maddening to Gourlay. Its readi- 
 ness, its volume, shewed him that scores of folk had 
 him in their minds, were watching him, considering his 
 position, cognisant of where he stood. " They ken," 
 he thought. " They were a' waiting to see what would 
 happen. They wanted to watch how Gourlay tholed the 
 mention o' his son's disgrace. I'm a kind o' show to 
 them." 
 
 Johnny Coe, idle and well-to-pass, though he had 
 no business of his own to attend to, was always pres- 
 ent where business men assembled. It was a gra-and 
 way of getting news. To-day, however, Gourlay could 
 not find him. He went into the cattle mart to see 
 if he was there. For two years now, Barbie had 
 a market for cattle, on the first Tuesday of the 
 month. 
 
 The auctioneer, a jovial dog, was in the middle of his 
 roaring game. A big, red bullock, the coat of which 
 made a rich colour in the ring, came bounding in, scared 
 
 [266 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 at its surroundings — staring one moment and the next 
 careering. 
 
 " There's meat for you," said he of the hammer; " see 
 how it runs! How much am I offered for this fine 
 bullock? " He eing-songed, always saying " this fine 
 bullock " in exactly the same tone of voice. " Thirteen 
 pounds for this fine bullock, thirteen-five; thirteen-ten; 
 thirteen-ten for this fine bullock; thirteen-ten; any 
 further bids on thirteen-ten? — why, it's worth that for 
 the colour o't; thank ye, sir — thirteen-fifteen; fourteen 
 pounds; fourteen pounds for this fine bullock; see how 
 the stot stots* about the ring; that joke should raise him 
 another half sovereign; ah, I knew it would — fourteen- 
 five; fourteen-five for this fine bullock; fourteen-ten; no 
 more than fourteen-ten for this fine bullock; going at 
 fourteen-ten; gone — Irrendavie." 
 
 Now that he was in the circle, however, the mad, big, 
 handsome beast refused to go out again. When the 
 cattlemen would drive him to the yard, he snorted and 
 galloped round, till he had to be driven from the ring 
 with blows. When at last he bounded through the 
 door, he flung up his heels with a bellow, and sent the 
 sand of his arena showering on the people round. 
 
 " I seh! " roared Brodie in his coarsest voice, from the 
 side of the ring opposite to Gourlay. " I seh, owc- 
 tioner! That maun be a College-bred stot, from the 
 way he behaves. He flung dirt at his masters and had 
 to be expelled." 
 
 " Put Brodie in the ring and rowp him! " cried Irren- 
 davie. " He roars like a bill at ony rate." 
 
 There was a laugh at Brodie, true; but it was at Gour- 
 * Stot, a bullock ; to stot, to bound. 
 [267]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 lay that a hundred big red faces turned to look. He 
 did not look at them, though. He sent his eyes across 
 the ring at Brodie. 
 
 " Lord! " said Irrendavie, " it's weel for Brodie that 
 the ring's acqueesh them! Gourlay'll murder some- 
 body yet. Red hell lap out o' his e'en when he looked 
 at Brodie." 
 
 Gourlay's suspicion that his son's disgrace was a mat- 
 ter of common knowledge, had now become a certainty. 
 Brodie's taunt shewed that everybody knew it. He 
 walked out of the building very quietly, pale but reso- 
 lute; no meanness in his carriage, no cowering. He 
 was an arresting figure of a man as he stood for a mo- 
 ment in the door, and looked round for the man whom 
 he was seeking. " Weel, weel," he was thinking, " I 
 maun thole, I suppose. They were under my feet for 
 many a day, and they're taking their advantage now," 
 
 But though he could thole, his anger against John 
 was none the less. It was because they had been under 
 his feet for many a day that John's conduct was the 
 more heinous. It was his son's conduct that gave Gour- 
 lay's enemies their first opportunity against him, that 
 enabled them to turn the tables. They might sneer at 
 his trollop of a wife, they might sneer at his want of 
 mere cleverness; still he held his head high amongst 
 them. They might suspect his poverty; but so far, for 
 anything they knew, he might have thousands behind 
 him. He owed not a man in Barbie. The appoint- 
 ments of Green Shutters were as brave as ever. The 
 selling of his horses, the dismissal of his men, might 
 mean the completion of a fortune, not its loss. Hither- 
 to, then, he was invulnerable — so he reasoned. It was 
 
 [368]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 his son's disgrace that gave the men he had trodden 
 under foot the first weapon they could use against him. 
 That was why it was more damnable in Gourlay's eyes 
 than the conduct of all the prodigals that ever lived. 
 It had enabled his foes to get their knife into him at 
 last — and they were turning the dagger in the wound. 
 All owing to the boy on whom he had staked such hopes 
 of keeping up the Gourlay name! His account with 
 John was lengthening steadily. 
 
 Coe was nowhere to be seen. At last Gourlay made up 
 his mind to go out and make enquiries at his house, out 
 the Fleckie Road. It was a quiet big house, standing 
 by itself, and Gourlay was glad there was nobody to 
 see him. 
 
 It was Miss Coe herself who answered his knock at the 
 door. 
 
 She was a gathered old shrew, with fifty times the 
 spunk of Johnny. On her thin wrists and long hands 
 there was always a pair of bright red mittens, only her 
 finger-tips showing. Her far-sunken and toothless 
 mouth was always working, with a sucking motion of 
 the lips; and her round little knob of a sticking out 
 chin munched up and down when she spoke, a long stiff 
 whitish hair slanting out its middle. However much 
 you wished to avoid doing so, you could not keep your 
 eyes from staring at that solitary hair while she was 
 addressing you. It worked up and down so, keeping 
 time to every word she spoke. 
 
 " Is your brother in? " said Gourlay. He was too near 
 reality in this sad pass of his to think of " mistering." 
 " Is your brother in? " said he. 
 
 " iSTo-a! " she shrilled — for ]\Iiss Coe answered ques- 
 
 [ 269 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 tions with an old-maidish scream, as if the news she was 
 giving must be a great surprise, both to you and her. 
 " No-a! " she skirled; " he's no-a in-a! Was it ainy- 
 thing particular? " 
 
 " No," said Gourlay heavily; " I — I just wanted to see 
 him," and he trudged away. 
 
 Miss Coe looked after him for a moment ere she closed 
 the door. " He's wanting to barrow money," she cried; 
 " I'm nearly sure o't! I maun caution Johnny when he 
 comes back frae Fleckie, afore he gangs east the toon. 
 Gourlay could get him to do ocht! He always admired 
 the brute — I'm sure I kenna why. Because he's siccan 
 a silly body himsell, I suppose! " 
 
 It was after dark when Gourlay met Coe on the street. 
 He drew him aside in the shadows, and asked for a loan 
 of eighty pounds. 
 
 Johnny stammered a refusal. " Hauf the bawbees is 
 mine," his sister had skirled, " and I daur ye to do ony 
 siccan thing, John Coe! " 
 
 " It's only for a time," pleaded Gourlay — " and, by 
 God," he flashed, " it's hell in my throat to ask from any 
 man." 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Gourlay," said Johnny, " it's quite im- 
 possible. I've always looked up to ye, and I'm not 
 unwilling to oblige ye, but I cannot take the risk." 
 
 " Risk! " said Gourlav, and stared at the darkness. 
 By hook or by crook he must raise the money to save the 
 House with the Green Shutters. It was no use trying 
 the bank; he had a letter from the banker in his desk, 
 to tell him that his account was overdrawn. And yet 
 if the interest were not paid at once, the lawyers in 
 Glasgow would foreclose, and the Gourlays would be 
 
 [270]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 flung upon the street. His proud soul must eat dirt, 
 if need be, for the sake of eighty pounds. 
 
 " If I get the baker, or Tarn Wylie, to stand security," 
 he asked, " would ye not oblige me ? I think they would 
 do it. I have always felt they respected me." 
 
 " Well," said Johnny slowly, fearing his sister's anger, 
 " if ye get the baker and Tam Wylie for security? I'll 
 be on the street for another half hour. 
 
 A figure, muffled in a great coat, was seen stealing off 
 through the shadows. 
 
 " God's curse on whoever that is! " snarled Gourlay, 
 " creeping up to listen to our talk." 
 
 " I don't think so," said Johnny; " it seemed a young 
 chap trying to hide himself." 
 
 Gourlay failed to get his securities. The baker, 
 though a poor man, would have stood for him, if Tam 
 Wylie would have joined; but Tam would not budge. 
 He was as clean as gray granite, and as hard. 
 
 So Gourlay trudged home through the darkness, 
 beaten at last, mad with shame and anger and fore- 
 boding. 
 
 The first thing he saw on entering the kitchen was 
 his son — sitting muffled in his coat by the great fender. 
 
 [271]
 
 XXV 
 
 Janet and her mother saw a quiver run through 
 Gourlay, as he stood and glowered from the threshold. 
 He seemed of monstrous bulk and significance, filling 
 the doorway in his silence. 
 
 The quiver that went through him was a sign of his 
 contending angers, his will struggling with the tumult 
 of wrath that threatened to spoil his revenge. To fell 
 that huddled oaf with a blow would be a poor return for 
 all he had endured because of him. He meant to sweat 
 punishment out of him drop by drop, with slow and 
 vicious enjoyment. But the sudden sight of that living 
 disgrace to the Gourlays woke a wild desire to leap on 
 him at once, and glut his rage, a madness which only a 
 will like his could control. He quivered with the effort 
 to keep it in. 
 
 To bring a beaten and degraded look into a man's 
 face, rend manhood out of him in fear, is a sight that 
 makes decent men wince in pain; for it is an outrage 
 on the decency of life, an offence to natural religion, a 
 violation of the human sanctities. Yet Gourlay had 
 done it once and again. I saw him " down " a man at 
 the Cross once, a big man with a viking beard, dark 
 brown, from which you would have looked for manli- 
 ness. Gourlay, with stabbing eyes, threatened, and 
 birred, and " downed " him, till he crept away with a 
 face like chalk, and a hunted, furtive eye. Curiously 
 
 [272]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 it was his manly beard that made the look such a pain, 
 for its contrasting colour shewed the white face of the 
 coward — and a coward had no right to such a beard. A 
 grim and cruel smile went after him as he slunk away. 
 " Ha ! " barked Gourlay, in lordly and pursuing scorn, 
 and the fellow leapt where he walked, as the cry went 
 through him. To break a man's spirit so, take that 
 from him which he will never recover while he lives, 
 send him slinking away animo castrato — for that is what 
 it comes to — is a sinister outrage of the world. It is as 
 bad as the rape of a woman, and ranks Avith the sin 
 against the Holy Ghost — derives from it, indeed. Yet 
 it was this outrage that Gourlay meant to work upon his 
 son. He would work him down and down, this son of 
 his, till he was less than a man, a frightened, furtive 
 animal. Then, perhaps, he would give a loose to his 
 other rage, unbuckle his belt, and thrash the grown man 
 like a wriggling urchin on the floor. 
 
 As he stood glowering from the door Mrs. Gourlay 
 rose, with an appealing cry of " John ! " — but Gourlay 
 put his eye on her, and she sank into her chair, staring 
 up at him in terror. The strings of the tawdry cap she 
 wore seemed to choke her, and she unfastened them with 
 nervous fingers, fumbling long beneath her lifted chin 
 to get them loose. She did not remove the cap, but let 
 the strings dangle by her Jaw. The silly bits of cloth 
 waggling and quivering, as she turned her head repeat- 
 edly from son to husband and from husband to son, 
 added to her air of helplessness and inefficiency. Once 
 she whispered with ghastly intensity, " God have 
 mercy ! " 
 
 For a length of time there was a loaded silence. 
 
 [273]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 Gouiiay went up to the hearth, and looked down on 
 his son from near at hand. John shrank down in his 
 great-coat. A reek of alcohol rose from around him. 
 Janet whimpered. 
 
 But when Gourlay spoke, it was with deadly quietude. 
 The moan was in his voice. So great was his controlled 
 wrath that he drew in great shivering breastfuls of air 
 between the words, as if for strength to utter them; and 
 they quavered forth on it again. He seemed weakened 
 by his own rage. 
 
 "Aye man!" he breathed .... " Ye've won hame, 
 I observe! .... Dee-ee-ar me! .... Im-phm! " 
 
 The contrast between the lowness of his voice and his 
 steady breathing anger that possessed the air (they felt 
 it coming as on waves) was demoniac, appalling. 
 
 John could not speak; he was paralysed by fear. To 
 have this vast hostile force touch him, yet be still, 
 struck him dumb. Why did his father not break out 
 on him at once? What did he mean? What was he 
 going to do? The jamb of the fireplace cut his right 
 shoulder as he cowered into it, to get away as far as 
 he could. 
 
 " I'm saying .... ye've won hame! " quivered 
 Gourlay in a deadly slowness, and his eyes never left 
 his son. 
 
 And still the son made no reply. In the silence, the 
 ticking of the big clock seemed to fill their world. They 
 were conscious of nothing else. It smote the ear, 
 
 "Aye," John gulped at last from a throat that felt 
 closing. The answer seemed dragged out of him by the 
 insistent silence. 
 
 " Just so-a! " breathed his father, and his eyes opened 
 
 [374]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 in wide flame. He heaved with the great breath he 
 drew . . . . " Im-phm! " he drawled. 
 
 He went through to the scullery at the back of the 
 kitchen to wash his hands. Through the open door 
 Janet and her mother — looking at each other with 
 affrighted eyes — could hear him sneering at inter- 
 vals, "Aye man!" .... "Just that, now!" . . . . 
 " Im-phm! " And again, "Aye, aye! .... Dee-ee-ar 
 me! " in grim, falsetto irony. 
 
 When he came back to the kitchen, he turned to 
 Janet, and left his son in a suspended agony. 
 
 "Aye woman, Jenny; ye're there! " he said, and 
 nipped her ear as he passed over to his chair. " Were 
 ye in Skeighan the day? " 
 
 "Aye, faither," she answered. 
 
 "And what did the Skeighan doctor say? " 
 
 She raised her large pale eyes to his with a strange 
 look. Then her head sank low on her breast. 
 
 " Nothing! " she said at last. 
 
 " Nothing! " said he. " Nothing for nothing, then. 
 I hope you didna pay him? " 
 
 " No, faither," she answered. " I hadna the baw- 
 bees." 
 
 " When did ye get back? " he asked. 
 
 " Just after — just after — " her eyes flickered over to 
 John, as if she were afraid of mentioning his name. 
 
 " Oh, just after this gentleman ! But there's noath- 
 ing strange in tha-at; you were always after him! You 
 were born after him; and considered after him; he aye 
 had the best o't! — I howp you are in good health? " 
 he sneered, turning to his son. " It would never do for 
 a man to break down at the outset o' a great career! 
 
 [275 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTERS 
 
 .... For ye are at the outset o' a great career; are 
 ye na? " 
 
 His speech was as soft as the foot of a tiger, and 
 sheathed as rending a cruelty. There was no escaping 
 the crouching stealth of it. If he had leapt with a 
 roar, John's drunken fury might have lashed itself to 
 rage. But the younger and weaker man was fascinated 
 and helpless before the creeping approach of so mon- 
 strous a wrath. 
 
 "Eh?" asked Gourlay softly, when John made no 
 reply, " I'm saying you're at the outset o' a great career, 
 are ye not? Eh?" 
 
 Soft as his " Eh " was in utterance, it was insinua- 
 ting, pursuing; it had to be answered. 
 
 " No," whimpered John. 
 
 " Well, well; you're maybe at the end o't! Have ye 
 been studying hard? " 
 
 " Yes," lied John. 
 
 " That's right! " cried his father with great hearti- 
 ness. " There's my brave fellow! ISToathing like study- 
 ing! . . . And no doubt " — he leaned over suavely — 
 " and no doubt ye've brought a wheen prizes home wi' 
 ye as usual? Eh? " 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " No," gulped the cowerer. 
 
 " Nae prizes! " cried Gourlay, and his eyebrows went 
 up in a pretended surprise. " Nae-ae prizes! Aye, man! 
 Fow's that, na? " 
 
 Young Gourlay was being reduced to the condition 
 of a beaten child, who, when his mother asks if he has 
 been a bad boy, is made to sob "Yes," at her knee. 
 
 [276]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 "Have you been a good boy?" she asks — "No," he 
 pants; and " Are you sorry for being a bad boy? " — 
 " Yes," he sobs; and " Will you be a good boy now, 
 then ? " — " Yes," he almost shrieks, in his desire to be 
 at one with his mother. Young Gourlay was being 
 equally beaten from his own nature, equally battered 
 under by another personality. Only he was not asked 
 to be a good boy. He might gang to hell for any- 
 thing auld Gourlay cared — when once he had bye with 
 him. 
 
 Even as he degraded his son to this state of un- 
 natural cowardice, Gourlay felt a vast disgust swell 
 within him that a son of his should be such a coward. 
 " Damn him! " he thought, glowering with big-eyed 
 contempt at the huddled creature, " he hasna the pluck 
 o' a pig! How can he stand talk like this without show- 
 ing he's a man? When I was a child on the brisket, 
 if a man had used me, as I'm using him, I would have 
 flung my sell at him. He's a pretty-looking object to 
 carry the name o' John Gourla! My God, what a ke-o 
 of my life I've made — that auld trollop for my wife, 
 that sumph for my son, and that dving lassie for my 
 dochter! Was it "l that bred him? That!'' 
 
 He leapt to his feet in devilish merriment. 
 
 " Set out the spirits, Jenny! " he cried; " set out the 
 spirits! My son and I must have a drink together — to 
 celebrate the occeesion; ou aye," he sneered, drawling 
 out the word with sharp, unfamiliar sound, " just to 
 celebrate the occeesion! " 
 
 The wild humour that seized him was inevitable, born 
 of a vicious effort to control a rage that was constantly 
 increasing, fed by the sight of the offender. Every 
 
 [377]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEK SHUTTERS 
 
 time he glanced across at the thing sitting there, he was 
 swept with fresh surges of fury and disgust. But his 
 vicious constraint curbed them under, and refused them 
 a natural expression. They sought an unnatural. Some 
 vent they must have, and they found it in a score of 
 wild devilries he began to practise on his son. Wrath 
 fed and checked, in one, brings the hell on which man 
 is built to the surface. Gourlay was transformed. He 
 had a fluency of speech, a power of banter, a readiness 
 of tongue, which he had never shewn before. He was 
 beyond himself. Have you heard the snarl with which 
 a wild beast arrests the escaping prey which it has just 
 let go in enjoying cruelty? Gourlay was that animal. 
 For a moment he would cease to torture his son, feed 
 his disgust with a glower; then the sight of him huddled 
 there would wake a desire to stamp on him; but his will 
 would not allow that, for it would spoil the sport he had 
 set his mind on; and so he played with the victim which 
 he would not kill. 
 
 " Set out the speerits, Jenny," he birred, when she 
 wavered in fear. " What are ye shaking for? Set out 
 the speerits — just to shelebrate the joyful occeesion, ye 
 know — aye, aye, just to shelebrate the joyful occee- 
 sion! " 
 
 Janet brought a tray, with glasses, from the pantry. 
 As she walked, the rims of the glasses shivered and 
 tinkled against each other, from her trembling. Then 
 she set a bottle on the table. 
 
 Gourlay sent it crashing to the floor. " A bottle! " 
 he roared. " A bottle for huz twa! To Hell wi' bottles! 
 The jar, Jenny, the jar; set out the jar, lass, set out the 
 jar. For we mean to make a night of it, this gentleman 
 
 [378]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIYE 
 
 and me. Aye," he yawed with a vicious smile, " we'll 
 make a night o't — we two. A night that Barbie'll re- 
 member loang! " 
 
 " Have ye skill o' drink? " he asked, turning to his 
 son. 
 
 " No," wheezed John. 
 
 " No ! " cried his father. " I thought ye learned 
 everything at College! Your education's been neg- 
 lected. But I'll teach ye a lesson, or this nicht's bye. 
 Aye, by God," he growled, " I'll teach ye a lesson." 
 
 Curb his temper as he might, his own behaviour was 
 lashing it to frenzy. Through the moaning intensity 
 peculiar to his vicious rage, there leapt at times a wild- 
 beast snarl. Every time they heard it, it cut the veins 
 of his listeners with a start of fear — it leapt so suddenly. 
 
 " Ha'e, Sir! " he cried. 
 
 John raised his dull, white face and looked across at 
 the bumper which his father poured him. But he felt 
 the limbs too weak beneath him to go and take it. 
 
 " Bide where ye are ! " sneered his father, " bide where 
 ye are! I'll wait on ye; I'll wait on ye. Man, I waited 
 on ye the day that ye were bo-orn! The heavens were 
 hammering the world as John Gourla rode through the 
 storm for a doctor to bring hame his heir. The world 
 was feared, but he wasna feared," he roared in Titanic 
 pride, " he wasna feared; no, by God, for he never met 
 what scaured him! . . . Aye, aye," he birred softly 
 again, " aye, aye, ye were ushered loudly to the world, 
 serr! Verra appropriate for a man who was destined to 
 make such a name! . . . Eh? . . . Verra appropriate, 
 serr; verra appropriate! And you'll be ushered just as 
 loudly out o't. Oh, young Gourlay's death maun make 
 
 [279]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 a splurge, ye know — a splurge to attract folk's atten- 
 tion! " 
 
 John's shaking hand was wet with the spilled whiskey. 
 
 " Take it off," sneered his father, boring into him 
 with a vicious eye; " take it off, serr; take oif your 
 dram! — Stop! Somebody wrote something about that — 
 some poetry or other. Who was it? " 
 
 " I dinna ken," whimpered John. 
 
 " Don't tell lies now. You do ken. I heard you 
 inention it to Loranogie. Come on now — who was it? " 
 
 " It was Burns," said John. 
 
 " Oh, it was Burns, was it? And what had Mr. Burns 
 to say on the subject? Eh? " 
 
 " ' Freedom and whiskey gang thegither, Tak aff 
 your dram,' " stammered John. 
 
 " A verra wise remark," said Gourlay gravely. 
 " ' Freedom and whiskey gang thegither,' " he turned 
 the quotation on his tongue, as if he were savouring a 
 tit-bit. " That's verra good," he approved. " You're 
 a great admirer of Burns, I hear. Eh? " 
 
 " Yes," said John. 
 
 " Do what he bids ye, then. Take off your dram! 
 It'll show what a fine free fellow you are! " 
 
 It was a big, old-fashioned Scotch drinking glass, con- 
 taining more than half-a-gill of whiskey, and John 
 drained it to the bottom. To him it had been a deadly 
 thing at first, coming thus from his father's hand. He 
 had taken it into his own, with a feeling of aversion, 
 that was strangely blended of disgust and fear. But the 
 moment it touched his lips, desire leapt in his throat 
 to get at it. 
 
 "Good!'^ roared his father in mock admiration. 
 
 [ 280 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWEKTY-FIVE 
 
 " God, ye have the thrapple! When I was your age that 
 would have choked me. I must have a look at that 
 throat o' yours. Stand up! . . . Stand up when I 
 tairee!" 
 
 John rose swaying to his feet. Months of constant 
 tippling, culminating in a wild debauch, had shattered 
 him. He stood in a reeling world. And the fear weak- 
 ening his limbs changed his drunken stupor to a heart- 
 heaving sickness. He swayed to and fro, with a cold 
 sweat oozing from his chalky face. 
 
 " WTiat's ado wi' the fellow? " cried Gourlay. " Oom? 
 He's swinging like a saugh-wand. I must wa-alk round 
 this, and have a look! " 
 
 John's drunken submissiveness encouraged his father 
 to new devilries. The ease with which he tortured him 
 provoked him to more torture; he went on more and 
 more viciously, as if he were conducting an experiment, 
 to see how much the creature would bear before he 
 turned. Gourlay was enjoying the glutting of his own 
 wrath. 
 
 He turned his son round with a finger and thumb 
 on his shoulder, in insolent inspection, as you turn an 
 urchin round to see him in his new suit of clothes. 
 Then he crouched before him, his face thrust close to 
 the other, and peered into his eyes, his mouth distent 
 with an infernal smile. " My boy, Johnny," he said 
 sweetly, " my boy, Johnny," and patted him gently on 
 the cheek. John raised dull eyes and looked into his 
 father's. Far within him a great wrath was gathering 
 through his fear. Another voice, another self, seemed 
 to whimper, with dull iteration, " I'll hill him; I'll Jcill 
 him; by God, I'll kill him — if he doesna stop this — if he 
 
 [ 281 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 keeps on like this at me! " But his present and material 
 self was paralysed with fear. 
 
 " Open your mouth! " came the snarl — " wider, damn 
 ye! wider! " 
 
 " Im-phm! " said Gourlay, with a critical drawl, 
 pulling John's chin about to see into him the deeper. 
 " Im-phm! God, it's like a furnace! What's the Latin 
 for throat? " 
 
 " Guttur," said John. 
 
 " Gutter! " said his father. " A verra appropriate 
 name! Yours stinks like a cess-pool! What have you been 
 doing tiirt? I'm afraid ye aren't in very good health, 
 after a-all. . . . Eh? . . . Mrs. Gourla, Mrs. Gourla! 
 He's in verra bad case, this son of yours, Mrs. Gourla! 
 Fine I ken what he needs, though. Set out the brandy, 
 Jenny, set out the brandy," he roared; " whiskey's not 
 worth a damn for him! Stop; it was you gaed the last 
 time; it's your turn now, auld wife, it's your turn now! 
 Gang for the brandy to your twa John Gourlas. We're 
 a pair for a woman to be proud of! " 
 
 He gazed after his wife as she tottered to the pantry. 
 
 " Your skirt's on the gape, auld wife," he sang; *' your 
 skirt's on the gape; as use-u-al," he drawled; " as use- 
 u-al. It was always like that; and it always scunnered 
 me, for I aye liked things tidy — though I never got 
 them. However, I maunna compleen when ye bore sic 
 a braw son to my name. He's a great consolation! 
 Imphm, he is that — a great consolation! " 
 
 The brandy-bottle slipped from the quivering fingers 
 and was smashed to pieces on the floor. 
 
 " Hurrah! " yelled Gourlay. 
 
 He seemed rapt and carried by his own devilry. The 
 
 [282 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 wreck and ruin strewn about the floor consorted with 
 the ruin of his fortunes; let all go smash — what was the 
 use of caring? Now in his frenzy, he, ordinarily so 
 careful, seemed to delight in the smashings and the 
 breakings; they suited his despair. 
 
 He saw that his spirit of destruction frightened them, 
 too, and that was another reason to indulge it. 
 
 " To Hell with everything," he yelled, like a mock- 
 bacchanal. " We're the hearty fellows! We'll make a 
 red night now we're at it! " And with that he took the 
 heel of a bottle on his toe and sent it flying, among the 
 dishes on the dresser. A great plate fell, split in two. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" he whined, turning to his son; 
 "poo-oor fellow! I fear he has lost his pheesic. For 
 that was the last bottle o' brandy in my aucht; the last 
 John Gourlay had, the last he'll ever buy. What am 
 I to do wi' ye, now? ... Eh? ... I must do some- 
 thing; it's coming to the bit, now. Sir." 
 
 As he stood in a heaving silence the sobbing of the 
 two women was heard through the room. John was still 
 swaying on the floor. 
 
 Sometimes Gourlay would run the full length of the 
 kitchen, and stand there glowering on a stoop; then he 
 would come crouching up to his son on a vicious little 
 trot, pattering in rage, the broken glass crunching and 
 grinding beneath his feet. At any moment he might 
 spring. 
 
 " What do ye think I mean to do wi' ye now? " he 
 moaned. . . . " Eh? . . . What do ye think I mean to 
 do wi' ye now? " 
 
 As he came grinning in rage his lips ran out to their 
 full width, and the tense slit shewed his teeth to their 
 
 [283]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 roots. The gums were white. The stricture of the lips 
 had squeezed them bloodless. 
 
 He went back to the dresser once more and bent low 
 beside it, glancing at his son across his left shoulder, 
 with his head flung back sideways, his right fist clenched 
 low and ready from a curve of the elbow. It swung 
 heavy as a mallet by his thigh. Janet got to her knees 
 and came shuffling across the floor on them, though her 
 dress was tripping her, clasping her outstretched hands, 
 and sobbing in appeal, " Faither, faither; oh, faither; 
 for God's sake, faither! " She clung to him. He un- 
 clenched his fist and lifted her away. Then he came 
 crouching and quivering across the floor, slowly, a 
 gleaming devilry in the eyes that devoured his son. 
 His hands were like outstretched claws, and shivered 
 with each shiver of the voice that moaned, through set 
 teeth, " "What do ye think I mean to do wi' ye now? . . . 
 What do ye think I mean to do wi' ye now? . . . Ye 
 damned sorrow and disgrace that ye are — what do ye 
 think I mean to do wi' ye now? " 
 
 " Run, John ! " screamed Mrs. Gourlay, leaping to her 
 feet. With a hunted cry young Gourlay sprang to the 
 door. So great had been the fixity of Gourlay's wrath, so 
 tense had he been in one direction, as he moved slowly 
 on his prey, that he could not leap to prevent him. As 
 John plunged into the cool, soft darkness, his mother's 
 " Thank God! " rang past him on the night. 
 
 His immediate feeling was of coolness and width and 
 spaciousness, in contrast with the hot grinding hostility, 
 that had bored so closely in on him, for the last hour. 
 He felt the benignness of the darkened heavens. A 
 tag of some forgotten poem he had read came back to his 
 
 [ 284 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 mind, and, " Come kindly night and cover me," he 
 muttered, with shaking lips; and felt how true it was. 
 My God, what a relief to be free of his father's eyes! 
 They had held him till his mother's voice broke the 
 spell. They seemed to burn him now. 
 
 What a fool he had been to face his father when 
 empty both of food and drink. Every man was down- 
 hearted when he was empty. If his mother had had 
 time to get the tea, it would have been different, — but 
 the fire had been out when he went in. " He wouldn't 
 have downed me so easy, if I had had anything in me," 
 he muttered, and his anger grew, as he thought of all he 
 had been made to suffer. For he was still the swag- 
 gerer. Now that the incubus of his father's tyranny 
 no longer pressed on him directly, a great hate rose 
 within him for the tyrant. He would go back and have 
 it out when he was primed. " It's the only hame I 
 have," he sobbed angrily to the darkness; " I have no 
 other place to gang till! Yes, I'll go back and have it 
 out with him when once I get something in me, so I 
 will." It was no disgrace to suck courage from the 
 bottle, for that encounter with his father, for nobody 
 could stand up to black Gourlay; nobody. Young Gour- 
 lay was yielding to a peculiar fatalism of minds diseased: 
 all that affects them seems different from all that affects 
 everybody else; they are even proud of their separate 
 and peculiar doom. Young Gourlay not thought, but 
 felt it — he was different from everybody else. The 
 heavens had cursed nobody else with such a terrible sire. 
 It was no cowardice to fill yourself with drink before 
 you faced him. 
 
 A drunkard will howl you an obscene chorus the mo- 
 
 i 285 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 ment after he has wept about his dead child. For a 
 mind in the delirium of drink is no longer a coherent 
 whole, but a heap of shattered bits, which it shows one 
 after the other to the world. Hence the many transfor- 
 mations of that semi-madness, and their quick variety. 
 Young Gourlay was shewing them now. His had always 
 been a wandering mind, deficient in application and con- 
 trol, and as he neared his final collapse, it became more 
 and more variable, the prey of each momentary thought. 
 In a short five minutes of time, he had been alive to the 
 beauty of the darkness, cowering before the memory of 
 his father's eyes, sobbing in self-pity and angry resolve, 
 shaking in terror — indeed he was shaking now. But his 
 vanity came uppermost. As he neared the Red Lion, 
 he stopped suddenly, and the darkness seemed on fire 
 against his cheeks. He would have to face curious eyes, 
 he reflected. It was from the Red Lion he and Aird 
 had started so grandly in the autumn. It would never 
 do to come slinking back like a whipped cur; he must 
 carry it off bravely in case the usual busybodies should 
 be gathered round the bar. So with his coat flapping 
 lordly on either side of him, his hands deep in his 
 trouser-pockets, and his hat on the back of his head, 
 he drove at the swing-doors with an outshot chest, and 
 entered with a " breenge." But for all his swagger he 
 must have had a face like death, for there was a cry 
 among the idlers. A man breathed, " My God! What's 
 the matter? " With shaking knees Gourlay advanced 
 to the bar, and, " For God's sake, Aggie," he whispered, 
 "give me a Kinblythmont! " 
 
 It went at a gulp. 
 
 " Another! " he gasped, like a man dying of thirst, 
 
 [286]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 whom his first sip maddens for more. " Another! An- 
 other! " 
 
 He had tossed the other down his burning throat, 
 when Deacon Allardyce came in. 
 
 He knew his man the moment he set eyes on him, but, 
 stancKng at the door, he arched his hand above his 
 brow, as you do in gazing at a dear unexpected friend, 
 whom you pretend not to be quite sure of, so surprised 
 and pleased are you to see him there. 
 
 " Ith it Dyohn? " he cried. " It ith Dyohn! " And 
 he toddled forward with outstretched hand. " Man 
 Dyohn! " he said again, as if he could scarce believe the 
 good news, and he waggled the other's hand up and 
 down, with both his own clasped over it. " I'm proud 
 to thee you, thir; I am that. And tho you're won hame, 
 aye! Im-phm! And how are ye tummin on?" 
 
 " Oh, /'m all right. Deacon," said Gourlay with a silly 
 laugh. " Have a wet? " The whiskey had begun to 
 warm him. 
 
 " A wha-at? " said the Deacon, blinking in a puzzled 
 fashion with his bleary old eyes. 
 
 " A dram — a drink — a drop o' the Auld Kirk," said 
 Gourlay, with a stertorous laugh down through his nos- 
 trils. 
 
 " Hi! Hi! " laughed the Deacon in his best falsetto. 
 " Ith that what ye call it up in Embro? A wet, aye! 
 Ah, well, maybe I will take a little drope — theeing 
 you're tho ready wi' your offer." 
 
 They drank together. 
 
 " Aggie, fill me a mutchkin when you're at it," said 
 Gourlay to the pretty barmaid with the curly hair. He 
 had spent many an hour with her last summer in the 
 
 [287]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 bar. The four big whiskies he had swallowed in the 
 last half hour, were singing in him now, and he blinked 
 at her drunkenly. 
 
 There was a scarlet ribbon on her dark curls, coquet- 
 tish, vivid, and Gourlay stared at it dreamily, partly in 
 a drunken daze, and partly because a striking colour 
 always brought a musing and self -forgetting look within 
 his eyes. All his life he used to stare at things dreamily, 
 and come to himself with a start when spoken to. He 
 forgot himself now. 
 
 " Aggie," he said, and put his hand out to hers clum- 
 sily where it rested on the counter; " Aggie, that rib- 
 bon's infernal bonny on your dark hair! " 
 
 She tossed her head, and perked away from him on 
 her little high heels. Him, indeed! — the drunkard! 
 She wanted none of his compliments! 
 
 There were half a dozen in the place by this time, and 
 they all stared with greedy eyes. " That's young Gour- 
 lay — him that was expelled" was heard, the last an em- 
 phatic whisper, with round eyes of awe at the offence 
 that must have merited such punishment. " Expelled, 
 mind ye! " — with a round shake of the head. " Watch 
 Allardyce. We'll see fun." 
 
 " What's this ' expelled ' is, now? " said John Toodle, 
 with a very considering look and tone in his uplifted 
 face — " properly speaking, that is," he added — implying 
 that of course he knew the word in its ordinary sense, 
 but was not sure of it " properly speaking." 
 
 " Flung oot," said Drucken Wabster, speaking from 
 the fulness of his own experience. 
 
 "Whisht!" said a third. "Here's Tam Brodie. 
 Watch what he does." 
 
 [ 288 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 The entrance of Brodie spoiled sport for the Deacon. 
 He had nothing of that malicious finesse that made Al- 
 lardyce a genius at flicking men on the raw. He went 
 straight to his work, stabbing like an awl. 
 
 " Hal-lo ! " he cried, pausing with contempt in the 
 middle of the word, when he saw young Gourlay. " Hal- 
 lo! You here! — Brig o' the Mains, Miss, if you please. 
 — Aye man! God, you've been making a name up in Em- 
 bro. I hear you stood up till him gey weel " — and he 
 winked openly to those around. 
 
 Young Gourlay's maddened nature broke at the in- 
 sult. " Damn you," he screamed, " leave me alone, will 
 you? I have done nothing to you, have I? " 
 
 Brodie stared at him across his suspended whiskey- 
 glass, an easy and assured contempt curling his lip. 
 " Don't greet owre't, my bairn," said he — and even as 
 he spoke John's glass shivered on his grinning teeth. 
 Brodie leapt on him, lifted him, and sent him flying. 
 
 " That's a game of your father's, you damned dog," he 
 roared, " But there's mair than him can play the 
 game! " 
 
 " Canny, my freendth, canny! " piped Allardyce, who 
 was vexed at a fine chance for his peculiar craft, being 
 spoiled by mere brutality of handling. All this was 
 most inartistic. Brodie never had the fine stroke. 
 
 Gourlay picked himself bleeding from the floor, and 
 holding a handkerchief to his mouth, plunged headlong 
 from the room. He heard the derisive roar that came 
 after him, stop — strangled by the sharp swing-to of the 
 door. But it seemed to echo in his burning ears as he 
 strode niadly on through the darkness. He uncorked 
 his mutchkin and drank it like water. His swollen lip 
 
 [ 289 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 smarted at first, but he drank till it was a mere dead 
 lump to his tongue, and he could not feel the whiskey 
 on the wound. 
 
 His mind at first was a burning whirl through drink 
 and rage; with nothing determined and nothing def- 
 inite. But thought began to shape itself. In a vast 
 vague circle of consciousness his mind seemed to sit 
 in the centre and think with preternatural clearness. 
 Though all around was whirling and confused, drink 
 had endowed some inner eye of the brain with unnatural 
 swift vividness. Far within the humming circle of his 
 mind he saw an instant and terrible revenge on Brodie, 
 acted it and lived it now. His desires were murderers, 
 and he let them slip, gloating in the cruelties that hot 
 fancy wreaked upon his enemy. Then he suddenly re- 
 membered his father. A rush of fiery blood seemed to 
 drench all his body, as he thought of what had passed 
 between them. " But, by Heaven," he swore, as he 
 threw away his empty bottle, " he won't use me like that 
 another time; I have blood in me now." His maddened 
 fancy began building a new scene, with the same actors, 
 the same conditions, as the other, but an issue gloriously 
 diverse. "With vicious delight he heard his father use the 
 same sneers, the same gibes, the same brutalities — then 
 he turned suddenly and had him under foot, kicking, 
 bludgeoning, stamping the life out. He would do it, by 
 Heaven, he would do it! The memory of what had hap- 
 pened came fierily back, and made the pressing dark- 
 ness burn. His wrath was brimming on the edge, ready 
 to burst, and he felt proudly that it would no longer ebb 
 in fear. Whiskey had killed fear, and left a hysterical 
 madman, all the more dangerous because he was so 
 
 [ 290 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 weak. Let his father try it on now! He was ready for 
 him! 
 
 And his father was ready for him; for he knew what 
 had happened at the inn. Mrs. Webster, on her nightly 
 hunt for the man she had sworn to honour and obey, 
 having drawn several public houses blank, ran him to 
 earth at last, in the barroom of the Red Lion. " Yes, 
 yes, Kirsty," he cried, eager to prevent her tongue, 
 " I know I'm a blagyird — but, oh the terrible thing that 
 has happened! " He so possessed her with his graphic 
 tale that he was allowed to go chuckling back to his 
 potations, while she ran hot-foot to the Green Shut- 
 ters. 
 
 " Eh, poo-oor Mrs. Gourlay; and oh, your poo-oor boy, 
 too; and eh, that brute, Tam Brodie! — " even as she 
 came through the door the voluble clatter was shrilling 
 out the big tidings, before she was aware of Gourlay's 
 presence. She faltered beneath his black glower. 
 
 " Go on! " he said, and ground it out of her. 
 
 "The damned sumph! " he growled, "to let Brodie 
 hammer him! " For a moment, it is true, his anger was 
 divided, stood in equipoise, even dipped ' Brodie-ward.' 
 " I've an account to sattle wi' him! " he thought grimly. 
 " When I get my claw on his neck, I'll teach him better 
 than to hit a Gourlay! I wonder," he mused, with a 
 pride in which was neither doubt nor wonder, " I wonder 
 will he fling the father as he flang the son! " But that 
 was the instinct of his blood, not enough to make him 
 pardon John. On the contrary here was a new offence 
 of his offspring. On the morrow Barbie would be burn- 
 ing with another affront which he had put upon the 
 name of Gourlay. He would waste no time when he 
 
 [291]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 came back, be he drunk or be he sober; he would strip 
 the flesh off him. 
 
 '^ Jenny," he said, " bring me the step-ladder." 
 
 He would pass the time till the prodigal came back — 
 and he was almost certain to come back, for where could 
 he go in Barbie? — he would pass the time, by trying to 
 improve the appearance of the House. He had spent 
 money on his house till the last, and even now, had the 
 instinct to embellish it. Not that it mattered to him 
 now, still he could carry out a small improvement he had 
 planned before. The kitchen was ceiled in dark timber, 
 and on the rich brown rafters there were wooden pegs 
 and bars, for the hanging of Gourlay's sticks and fishing 
 rods. His gun was up there, too, just above the hearth. 
 It had occurred to him about a month ago, however, that 
 a pair of curving steel rests, that would catch the glint 
 from the fire, would look better beneath his gun than 
 the dull pegs, where it now lay against a joist. He might 
 as well pass the time by putting them up. 
 
 The bringing of the steps, light though they were, was 
 too much for Janet's weak frame, and she stopped in a fit 
 of coughing, clutching the ladder for support, while it 
 shook to her spasms. 
 
 " Tuts, Jenny, this'll never do," said Gourlay, not un- 
 kindly. He took the ladder away from her and laid his 
 hand on her shoulder. "Away to your bed, lass! You 
 maunna sit so late." 
 
 But Janet was anxious for her brother, and wanted to 
 sit up till he came home. She answered, " Yes," to her 
 father, but idled discreetly, to consume the time. 
 
 " Where's my hammer? " snarled Gourlay. 
 
 " Is it no by the clock? " said his wife wearily. " Oh, 
 
 [ 292 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIYE 
 
 I remember, I remember! I gied it to Mrs. "Webster to 
 break some brie-stone, to rub the front door-step wi'. 
 It'll be lying in the porch! " 
 
 " Oh, aye, as usual," said Gourlay; " as usual! " 
 
 " John! " she cried in alarm, " you don't mean to take 
 down the gun, do ye? " 
 
 " Huts, you auld fule, what are you skirling for? 
 D'ye think I mean to shoot the dog? Set back on your 
 creepie, and make less noise, will ye ? " 
 
 Ere he had driven a nail in the rafter John came in, 
 and sat down by the fire, taking up the great poker, 
 as if to cover his nervousness. If Gourlay had been on 
 the floor he would have grappled with him there and 
 then. But the temptation to gloat over his victim 
 from his present height was irresistible. He went up 
 another step, and sat down on the very summit of the 
 ladder, his feet resting on one of the lower rounds. The 
 hammer he had been using was lying on his thigh, his 
 hand clutched about its haft. 
 
 " Aye man, you've been taking a bit walk, I hear! " 
 
 John made no reply, but played with the poker. It 
 was so huge, owing to Gourlay 's whim, that when it 
 slid through his fingers, it came down on the muifled 
 hearthstone with a thud like a paviour's hammer. 
 
 " I'm told you saw the Deacon on your rounds? Did 
 he compliment you on your return? " 
 
 At the quiet sneer a lightning-flash shewed John 
 that Allardyce had quizzed him, too. For a moment 
 he was conscious of a vast self-pity. " Damn them, 
 they're all down on me," he thought. Then a vindic- 
 tive rage against them all took hold of him, tense, quiv- 
 ering. 
 
 [393]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " Did you see Thomas Brodie when you were out? " 
 came the suave enquiry. 
 
 " I saw him/' said John, raising fierce eyes to his 
 father's. He was proud of the sudden firmness in his 
 voice. There was no fear in it, no quivering. He was 
 beyond caring what happened to the world or him. 
 
 " Oh, you saw him," roared Gourlay, as his anger leapt 
 to meet the anger of his son. " And what did he say 
 to you, may I spier? . . . Or may be I should spier what 
 he did . . . Eh?" he grinned. 
 
 " By God, I'll kill ye," screamed John, springing to 
 his feet, with the poker in his hand. The hammer went 
 whizzing past his ear. Mrs. Gourlay screamed and tried 
 to rise from her chair, her eyes goggling in terror. As 
 Gourlay leapt, John brought the huge poker with a ci-ash 
 on the descending brow. The fiercest joy of his life was 
 the dirl that went up his arm, as the steel thrilled to its 
 own hard impact on the bone. Gourlay thudded on the 
 fender, his brow crashing on the rim. 
 
 At the blow there had been a cry as of animals, from 
 the two women. There followed an eternity of silence, 
 it seemed, and a haze about the place, yet not a haze, 
 for everything was intensely clear, only it belonged to 
 another world. One terrible fact had changed the Uni- 
 verse. The air was different now; it was full of murder. 
 Everything in the room had a new significance, a sinister 
 meaning. The effect was that of an. unholy spell. 
 
 As through a dream Mrs. Gourlay's voice was heard 
 crying on her God. 
 
 John stood there, suddenly weak in his limbs, and 
 stared, as if petrified, at the red poker in his hand. A 
 little wisp of grizzled hair stuck to the square of it, 
 
 [ 294]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIYE 
 
 severed, as by scissors, between the sharp edge and the 
 bone. It was the sight of that bit of hair that roused 
 him from his stupor — it seemed so monstrous and hor- 
 rible, sticking all by itself to the poker. " I didna 
 strike him so hard," he pleaded, staring vaguely, " I 
 didna strike him so hard." Now that the frenzy had 
 left him, he failed to realise the force of his own blow. 
 Then with a horrid fear on him, " Get up, faither," he 
 entreated, " get up, faither; oh man, you micht get up! " 
 
 Janet, who had bent above the fallen man, raised an 
 ashen face to her brother, and whispered hoarsely, " His 
 heart has stopped, John; you have killed him! " 
 
 Steps were heard coming through the scullery. In the 
 fear of discovery Mrs. Gourlay shook off the apathy that 
 held her paralysed. She sprang up, snatched the poker 
 from her son, and thrust it in the embers. 
 
 " Eun, John; run for the doctor," she screamed. — 
 " Oh, Mrs. Webster, Mrs. Webster, I'm glad to see ye. 
 Mr. Gourlay fell from the top o' the ladder, and smashed 
 his brow on the muckle fender." 
 
 [ 295 J
 
 XXVI 
 
 "Mother!" came the startled whisper, "Mother! 
 Oh, woman, waken and speak to me! " 
 
 jSTo comforting answer came from the darkness to tell 
 of a human being close at hand: the girl, intently listen- 
 ing, was alone with her fear. All was silent in the room 
 and the terror deepened. Then the far-off sound in the 
 house was heard once more. 
 
 " Mother— mother, what's that? " 
 
 "What is it, Janet?" came a feebly complaining 
 voice, " what's wrong wi' ye, lassie? " 
 
 Janet and her mother were sleeping in the big bed- 
 room, Janet in the place that had been her father's. He 
 had been buried through the day, the second day after his 
 murder. Mrs. Gourlay had shown a feverish anxiety to 
 get the corpse out the house as soon as possible. And 
 there had been nothing to prevent it. " Oh," said Doc- 
 tor Dandy to the gossips, " it would have killed any man 
 to fall from such a height on to the sharp edge of yon 
 fender. — No; he was not quite dead when I got to him. 
 He opened his eyes on me, once — a terrible look — and 
 then life went out of him with a great quiver," 
 
 Ere Janet could answer her mother, she was seized 
 with a racking cough, and her hoarse bark sounded hol- 
 low in the silence. At last she sat up and gasped fear- 
 fully, " I thocht — I thocht I heard something moving! " 
 
 " It would be the wind," plained her mother; " it 
 
 [ ^^96 ]
 
 CHAPTEH TWENTY-SIX 
 
 would just be the wind. John's asleep this strucken 
 hour and mair. I sat by his bed for a lang while, and he 
 prigged and prayed for a dose o' the whiskey ere he won 
 away. He wouldna let go my hand till he slept, puir 
 fallow. There's an unco fear on him — an unco fear. 
 But try and fa' owre," she soothed her daughter. " That 
 would just be the wind ye heard." 
 
 " There's nae wind! " said Janet. 
 
 The stair creaked. The two women clung to each 
 other, gripping tight fingers, and their hearts throbbed 
 like big separate beings in their breasts. There was a 
 rustle, as of something coming, then the door opened, 
 and John flitted to the bedside with a candle in his 
 hand. Above his night shirt his bloodless face looked 
 gray. 
 
 " Mother! " he panted, " there's something in my 
 room! " 
 
 " What is it, John? " said his mother in surprise and 
 fear. 
 
 " I — I thocht it was himsell ! Oh, mother, I'm feared, 
 I'm feared! Oh, mother, I'm feared!" He sang the 
 words in a hysterical chant, his voice rising at the end. 
 
 The door of the bedroom clicked. It was not a 
 slamming sound, only the door went to gently, as if 
 someone closed it. John dropped the candle from his 
 shaking hand, and was left standing in the living dark- 
 ness. 
 
 "Save me!" he screamed, and leaped into the bed, 
 burrowing down between the women till his head was 
 covered by the bed clothes. He trembled so violently 
 that the bed shook beneath them. 
 
 "Let me bide wi' ye!" he pleaded with chattering 
 
 [297]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 jaws. "Oh, let me bide wi' ye! I daurna gang back to 
 that room by mysell again." 
 
 His mother put her thin arm round him. "Yes, 
 dear," she said; " you may bide wi' us. Janet and me 
 wouldna let anything harm you." She placed her hand 
 on his brow caressingly. His hair was damp with a cold 
 sweat. He reeked of alcohol. 
 
 Someone went through the Square playing a con- 
 certina. That sound of the careless world came 
 strangely in upon their lonely tragedy. By contrast the 
 cheerful silly noise, out there, seemed to intensify their 
 darkness and isolation here. Occasional far-off shouts 
 were heard from roysterers going home. 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay lay staring at the darkness with intent 
 CA^es. What horror might assail her she did not know, 
 but she was ready to meet it for the sake of John. " Ye 
 brought it on yoursell," she breathed once, as if defying 
 an unseen accuser. 
 
 It was hours ere he slept, but at last a heavy sough 
 told her he had found oblivion. " He's won owre," she 
 murmured thankfully. At times he muttered in his 
 sleep. And, at times, Janet coughed hoarsely at his ear. 
 
 " Janet, dinna hoast sae loud, woman! You'll waken 
 your brother." 
 
 Janet was silent. Then she choked— trying to stifle 
 another cough. 
 
 " Woman! " said her mother complainingly, " that's 
 surely an unco hoast ye hae! " 
 
 " Aye," said Janet, " it's a gey hoast." 
 
 Next morning Postie came clattering through the 
 paved yard in his tacketty boots, and handed in a blue 
 envelope at the back door with a business-like air, his 
 
 [ 298]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 ferretty eyes searching Mrs. Gourlay's face, as she took 
 tlie letter from his hand. But she betrayed nothing to 
 his curiosity since she knew nothing of her husband's 
 affairs, and had no fear, therefore, of what the letter 
 might portend. She received the missive with a vacant 
 unconcern. It was addressed to " John Gourlay, Es- 
 quire." She turned it over in a silly puzzlement, and, 
 " Janet! " she cried, " what am I to do wi' this? " 
 
 She shrank from opening a letter addressed to her 
 dead tyrant, unless she had Janet by her side. It was so 
 many years since he had allowed her to take an active 
 interest in their common life (indeed he never had) that 
 she was as helpless as a child. 
 
 " It's to faither," said Janet, " shall I waken John? " 
 
 " No, puir fellow, let him sleep," said his mother. " I 
 stole in to look at him enow, and his face was unco wan 
 lying down on the pillow. I'll open the letter mysell, 
 though, as your faither used to tell me, I never had a 
 held for business." 
 
 She broke the seal and Janet, looking over her shoul- 
 der, read aloud to her slower mind: 
 
 " Glasgow, 
 
 « March 12th 18— 
 " Sir, 
 
 "We desire once more to call your attention to the 
 fact that the arrears of interest on the mortgage of your 
 house have not been paid. Our client is unwilling to pro- 
 ceed to extremities, but unless you make some arrange- 
 ment within a week, he will be forced to take the neces- 
 stary steps to safeguard his interests. 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 " Brodie, Gurney & Yarrowby." 
 [ 299 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay sank into a chair, and the letter slipped 
 from her upturned palm, lying slack upon her knee. 
 
 "Janet," she said appealingiy; "what's this that has 
 come on us? Does the house we live in, the House with 
 the Green Shutters, not belong to us ainy more? Tell 
 me, lassie. What does it mean? " 
 
 " I don't ken," whispered Janet with big eyes. " Did 
 faith er never tell ye of the bond? " 
 
 " He never telled me about anything," cried Mrs. 
 Gourlay with a sudden passion. " I was aye the one to 
 be keepit in the dark — to be keepit in the dark and sore 
 hadden doon. Oh! are we left destitute, Janet — and 
 us was aye sae muckle thocht o'! And me, too, that's 
 come of decent folk, and brought him a gey pickle baw- 
 bees! Am I to be on the parish in my auld age? — Oh, 
 my faither, my faith er! " 
 
 Her mind flashed back to the jocose and well-to-do 
 father who had been but a blurred thought to her for 
 twenty years. That his daughter should come to a pass 
 like this was enough to make him turn in his grave. 
 Janet was astonished by her sudden passion in feeble- 
 ness. Even the murder of her husband had been met 
 by her weak mind with a dazed resignation. For her 
 natural horror at the deed was swallowed by her anxiety 
 to shield the murderer; and she experienced a vague re- 
 lief — felt, but not considered — at being freed from the 
 incubus of Gourlay's tyranny. It seemed, too, as if she 
 was incapable of feeling anything poignantly, deadened 
 now by these quick calamities. But that she, that Ten- 
 shillingland's daughter, should come to be an object of 
 common charity, touched some hidden nerve of pride, 
 and made her writhe in agony. 
 
 [300 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 " It mayna be sae bad," Janet tried to comfort her. 
 
 " Waken John/' said her mother feverishly, " waken 
 John and we'll gang through his faither's dask. There 
 may be something gude amang his papers. There may 
 be something gude! " she gabbled nervously; " yes, there 
 may be something gude! In the dask; in the dask; there 
 may be something gude in the dask! " 
 
 John staggered into the kitchen five minutes later. 
 Half way to the table where his mother sat, he reeled and 
 fell over on a chair, where he lay with an ashen face, his 
 eyes mere slits in his head, the upturned whites shew- 
 ing through. They brought him whiskey, and he drank 
 and was recovered. And then they went through to the 
 parlour, and opened the great desk that stood in the 
 corner. It was the first time they had ever dared to 
 raise its lid. John took up a letter lying loosely on the 
 top of the other papers, and, after a hasty glance, " This 
 settles it! " said he. It was the note from Gourlay's 
 banker, warning him that his account was overdrawn. 
 
 " God help us! " cried ]\Irs. Gourlay, and Janet began 
 to whimper. John slipped out of the room. He was 
 still in his stocking-feet, and the women, dazed by this 
 sudden and appalling news, were scarcely aware of his 
 departure. 
 
 He passed through the kitchen, and stood on the step 
 of the back door, looking out on the quiet little paved 
 yard. Everything there was remarkably still and bright. 
 It was an early spring that year, and the hot March sun 
 beat down on him, paining his bleared and puffy eyes. 
 The contrast between his own lump of a body, drink- 
 dazed, dull-throbbing, and the warm bright day, came 
 in on him with a sudden sinking of the heart, a sense 
 
 [301]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 of degradation and personal abasement. He realised, 
 however obscurely, that he was an eyesore in nature, a 
 blotch on the surface of the world, an offence to the 
 sweet-breathing heavens. And that bright silence was 
 so strange and still. He could have screamed to es- 
 cape it. 
 
 The slow ticking of the kitchen clock seemed to beat 
 upon his raw brain. Damn the thing, why didn't it stop 
 — with its monotonous tick-tack; tick-tack; tick-tack? 
 — he could feel it inside his head where it seemed to 
 strike innumerable little blows, on a strained chord it 
 was bent on snapping. 
 
 He tiptoed back to the kitchen on noiseless feet, and 
 cocking his ear to listen, he heard the murmur of 
 women's voices in the parlour. There was a look of 
 slyness and cunning in his face; and his eyes glittered 
 with desire. The whiskey was still on the table. He 
 seized the bottle greedily, and, tilting it up, let the raw 
 liquid gurgle into him like cooling water. It seemed to 
 flood his parched being with a new vitality. 
 
 "Oh, I doubt we'll be gey ill-off ! " he heard his 
 mother's whine, and, at that reminder of her nearness, 
 he checked the great satisfied breath he had begun to 
 blow. He set the bottle on the table, bringing the glass 
 noiselessly down upon the wood, with a tense, unnatural 
 precision possible only to drink-steadied nerves — a 
 steadiness like the humming top's whirled to its fastest. 
 Then he sped silently through the courtyard and locked 
 himself into the stable, chuckling in drunken triumph 
 as he turned the key. He pitched forward on a litter 
 of dirty straw, and in a moment, sleep came over his 
 mind in a huge wave of darkness. 
 
 [ 302 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 An hour later he woke from a terrible dream, flinging 
 his arms up, to ward off a face that had been pressing on 
 his own. Were the eyes that had burned his brain still 
 glaring above him? He looked about him in drunken 
 wonder. From a sky-window a shaft of golden light 
 came slanting into the loose-box, living with yellow 
 motes in the dimness. The world seemed dead; he was 
 alone in the silent building, and from without there 
 was no sound. Then a panic terror flashed on his mind, 
 that tliose eyes had actually been here — and were here 
 with him still — where he was locked up with them 
 alone. He strained his eyeballs in a horrified stare at 
 vacancy. Then he shut them in terror, for why did he 
 look? If he looked, the eyes might burn on him out of 
 nothingness. The innocent air had become his enemy 
 — pregnant with unseen terrors to glare at him. To 
 breathe it stifled him; each draught of it was full of 
 menace. With a shrill cry he dashed at the door, and 
 felt in the clutch of his ghostly enemy when he failed 
 to open it at once, breaking his nails on the baffling 
 lock. He mowed and chattered and stamped, and tore 
 at the lock, frustrate in fear. At last he was free! He 
 broke into the kitchen where his mother sat weeping — 
 she raised her eyes to see a dishevelled thing, with bits 
 of straw scattered on his clothes and hair. 
 
 " Mother! " he screamed, " Mother! " and stopped 
 suddenly, his starting eyes seeming to follow something 
 in the room. 
 
 " What are ye glowering at, John? " she wailed. 
 
 " Thae damned e'en," he said slowly, " they're burn- 
 ing my soul! Look, look! " he cried, clutching her thin 
 wrist, " see, there, there! — coming round by the dresser! 
 
 [ 303 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 A-ah ! '' he screamed in hoarse execration. " Would ye, 
 then? " — and he hurled a great jug from the table at the 
 pursuing unseen. 
 
 The jug struck the yellow face of the clock, and the 
 glass jangled on the floor. 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay raised her arms, like a gaunt sibyl, and 
 spoke to her Maker, quietly, as if He were a man be- 
 fore her in the room. " Ruin and murder," she said 
 slowly; " and madness; and death at my nipple like a 
 child! When will Ye be satisfied? " 
 
 Drucken Wabster's wife spread the news, of course, 
 and that night it went humming through the town that 
 young Gourlay had the horrors, and was throwing tum- 
 blers at his mother! 
 
 " Puir body! " said the baker, in the long-drawn tones 
 of an infinite compassion; " puir body! " 
 
 " Aye," said Toddle drily, " he'll be wanting to put an 
 end to lier next, after killing his faither." 
 
 " Killing his faither? " said the baker with a quick 
 look, "what do you mean?" 
 
 "Mean? Ou, I just mean what the doctor says! 
 Gourlay was that mad at the drucken young swine that 
 he got the 'plexies, fell aff the ladder, and felled himsoll 
 deid! That's v/hat I mean, no less! " said Toddle, net- 
 tled at the sharp question. 
 
 " Aye man! That accounts for't," said Tam Wylie. 
 " It did seem queer Gourlay 's dying the verra nicht the 
 prodigal cam hame. He was a heavy man, too; he would 
 come down with an infernal thud. It seems uncanny, 
 though, it seems uncanny." 
 
 " Strange! " murmured another, and they looked at 
 each other in silent wonder. 
 
 [304]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 "But will this be true, think ye?" said Brodie. 
 " About tlie horrors, I mean. Did he throw the tumbler 
 at his mother? " 
 
 " Lord, it's true ! " said Sandy Toddle. " I gaed into 
 the kitchen, on purpose, to make sure o' the matter with 
 my own eyes. I let on I wanted to borrow auld Gour- 
 lay's key-hole saw — I can tell ye he had a' his orders — 
 his tool-chest's the finest I ever saw in my life! I mean 
 to bid for some o' yon when the rowp comes. Weel, as 
 I was saying, I let on I wanted the wee saw, and went 
 into the kitchen one end's errand. The tumbler 
 (Johnny Coe says it was a bottle, however; but I'm no 
 avised o' that — I spiered Webster's wife, and I think 
 my details are correct) — the tumbler went flying past 
 his mother, and smashed the face o' the eight-day. It 
 happened about the mid-hour o' the day. The clock had 
 stoppit, I observed, at three and a half minutes to the 
 twelve." 
 
 " Hi! " cried the Deacon, " it'th a pity auld Gourlay 
 wathna alive thith day! " 
 
 " Faith, aye," cried Wylie. " He would have sorted 
 him! He would have trimmed the young ruffian! " 
 
 " No doubt," said the Deacon gravely; " no doubt. 
 But it wath scarcely that I wath thin-king of. Yah! 
 he grinned, " thith would have been a thlap in the face 
 till him! " 
 
 Wylie looked at him for awhile with a white scunner 
 in his face. He wore the musing and disgusted look of 
 a man whose wounded mind retires within itself, to 
 brood over a sight of unnatural cruelty. The Deacon 
 grew uncomfortable beneath his sideward, estimating 
 eye. 
 
 [ 305] 
 
 5>
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " Deacon Allardyce, your heart's black-rotten," he 
 said at last. 
 
 The Deacon blinked and was silent. Tarn had 
 summed him up. There was no appeal. 
 
 " John, dear," said his mother that evejiing, " we'll 
 take the big sofa into our bedroom, and make up a grand 
 bed for ye, and then we'll be company to one another. 
 Eh, dear? " she pleaded. " Winna that be a fine way? 
 When you have Janet and me beside you, you winna 
 be feared o' ainy thing coming near you. You should 
 gang to bed early, dear. A sleep would restore your 
 mind." 
 
 "I don't mean to go to bed," he said slowly. He 
 spoke staringly, with the same fixity in his voice and 
 gaze. There was neither rise nor fall in his voice, only 
 a dull level of intensity. 
 
 " You don't mean to go to bed, John! What for, dear? 
 Man, a sleep would calm your mind for ye." 
 
 " Na-a-a! " he smiled, and shook his head like a cun- 
 ning madman, who had detected her trying to get round 
 him. " Na-a-a! No sleep for me — no sleep for me! I'm 
 feared I would see the red e'en," he whispered, " the red 
 e'en; coming at me out o' the darkness — the darkness! " 
 he nodded, staring at her and breathing the word, " the 
 darkness! the darkness! The darkness is the warst, 
 mother," he added in his natural voice, leaning forward 
 as if he explained some simple curious thing of every 
 day. " The darkness is the warst, you know. I've seen 
 them in the broad licht, but in the lobby," he whis- 
 pered hoarsely; " in the lobby when it was dark; in the 
 lobby they were terrible. Just twa e'en, and they aye 
 
 [ 306 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 keep thegither, though they're aye moving. That's why 
 I canna pin them. And it's because I ken they're aye 
 watching me, watching me, watching me, that I get 
 so feared. They're red," he nodded and whispered, 
 " they're red . . . they're red." His mouth gaped in 
 horror, and he stared as if he saw them now. 
 
 He had boasted long ago of being able to see things 
 inside his head; in his drunken hysteria he was to see 
 them always. The vision he beheld against the darkness 
 of his mind, projected itself, and glared at him. He was 
 pursued by a spectre in his own brain, and for that 
 reason there was no escape. Wherever he went it fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 " Oh man, John," wailed his mother, " what are ye 
 feared for your faither's e'en for? He wouldna perse- 
 cute his boy." 
 
 " Would he no ? " he said slowly. " You ken yoursell 
 that he never liked me! And naebody could stand his 
 glower. Oh, he was a terrible man, my faither! You 
 could feel the passion in him when he stood still. He 
 could throw himsel at ye without moving. And he's 
 throwing himsel at me frae beyond the grave." 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay beat her desperate hands. Her feeble 
 remonstrance was a snowflake on a hill, to the dull in- 
 tensity of this conviction. So colossal was it that it 
 gripped herself, and she glanced dreadfully across her 
 shoulder. But, in spite of her fears, she must plead 
 with him to save. 
 
 " Johnnie dear," she wept passionately, " there's no 
 e'en! It's just the drink gars you think sae." 
 
 " No," he said dully; " the drink's my refuge. It's a 
 kind thing, drink. It helps a body." 
 
 [307]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTERS 
 
 " But, John, nobody believes in these things now-a- 
 days. It's just fancy in you. I wonder at a college- 
 bred man like you giving heed to a wheen non- 
 sense! " 
 
 " Ye ken yoursell it was a by-word in the place that he 
 would haunt the House with the Green Shutters." 
 
 " God help me! " cried Mrs. Gourlay; " what am I to 
 do?" 
 
 She piled up a great fire in the parlour, and the three 
 poor creatures gathered round it for the night. (They 
 were afraid to sit in the kitchen of an evening, for even 
 the silent furniture seemed to talk of the murder it had 
 witnessed.) John was on a carpet stool by his mother's 
 feet, his head resting on her knee. 
 
 They heard the rattle of Wilson's brake as it swung 
 over the town-head from Auchterwheeze, and the laugh- 
 ter of its jovial crew. They heard the town clock chim- 
 ing the lonesome passage of the hours. A dog was bark- 
 ing in the street. 
 
 Gradually all other sounds died away. 
 
 " ]\Iother," said John, " lay your hand alang my 
 shouther, touching my neck. I want to be sure that 
 you're near me." 
 
 " I'll do that, my bairn," said his mother. And soon 
 he was asleep. 
 
 Janet was reading a novel. The children had their 
 mother's silly gift, a gift of the weak-minded, of for- 
 getting their own duties and their own sorrows, in a 
 vacant interest which they found in books. She had 
 wrapped a piece of coarse red flannel round her head 
 to comfort a swollen jaw, and her face appeared from 
 within like a tallowy oval. 
 
 [308]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 " I didna get that story finished," said Mrs. Gourlay 
 vacantly, staring at the fire open-mouthed, her mutch- 
 strings dangling. It was the remark of a stricken mind 
 that speaks vacantly of anything. " Does Herbert Mont- 
 gomery marry Sir James's niece?" 
 
 " No," said Janet, " he's killed at the war. It's a gey 
 pity of him, isn't it? — Oh, what's that? " 
 
 It was John talking in his sleep. 
 
 " I have killed my faither," he said slowly, pausing 
 long between every phrase: "I have killed my faither 
 ... I have killed my faither. And he's foil-owing me, 
 . . . he's foil-owing me . . . he's foil-owing me." It 
 was the voice of a thing, not a man. It swelled and 
 dwelt on the " follow," as if the horror of the pursuit 
 made it moan. " He's foil-owing me . . . he's foll- 
 owing me . . . he's foil-owing me. A face like a dark 
 mist — and e'en like hell. Oh, they're foil-owing me 
 . . . they're foil-owing me . . . they're foil-owing 
 me! " His voice seemed to come from an infinite dis- 
 tance. It was like a lost soul moaning in a solitude. 
 
 The dog was barking in the street. A cry of the 
 night came from far away. 
 
 That voice was as if a corpse opened its lips, and told 
 of horrors beyond the grave. It brought the other world 
 into the homely room, and made it all demoniac. The 
 women felt the presence of the unknown. It was their 
 own flesh and blood that spoke the words, and by their 
 own quiet hearth. But hell seemed with them in the 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay drew back from John's head on her 
 lap, as from something monstrous and unholy. But 
 he moaned in deprivation, craving her support, and she 
 
 [ 309 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 edged nearer to supply his need. Possessed with a devil 
 or no, he was her son. 
 
 " Mother! " gasped Janet suddenly, the white circles 
 of her eyes staring from the red flannel, her voice hoarse 
 with a new fear, "Mother, suppose — suppose he said 
 that before anybody else! " 
 
 " Don't mention't," cried her mother with sudden pas- 
 sion; " how daur ye, how daur ye? My God! " she broke 
 down and wept, " they would hang him, so they would; 
 they would hang my boy; they would take and hang 
 my boy! " 
 
 They stared at each other wildly. John slept, his 
 head twisted over on his mother's knee, his eyes sunken, 
 his mouth wide open. 
 
 " Mother," Janet whispered, " you must send him 
 away." 
 
 " I have only three pounds in the world," said Mrs. 
 Gourlay — and she put her hand to her breast where it 
 was, but winced as if a pain had bitten her. • 
 
 " Send him away wi't," said Janet. " The furniture 
 may bring something. And you and me can aye thole." 
 
 In the morning Mrs. Gourlay brought two greasy 
 notes to the table, and placed them in her son's slack 
 hand. He was saner now; he had slept off his drunken 
 madness through the night. 
 
 " John," she said in pitiful appeal, " you maunna stay 
 here, laddie. Ye'll gie up the drink when you're away 
 — will ye na? — and then thae e'en ye're sae feared of 
 '11 no trouble you ony mair. Gang to Glasgow and see 
 the lawyer folk about the bond. And, John dear," she 
 pleaded, " if there's nothing left for us, you'll try to 
 work for Janet and me, will ye no? You've a grand edu- 
 
 [ 310 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY- SIX 
 
 cation, and you'll surely get a place as a teacher or some- 
 thing; I'm sure you would make a grand teacher. Ye 
 wouldna like to think of your mother trailing every 
 week to the like of Wilson for an awmous, streeking 
 out her auld hand for charity. The folk would stand 
 in their doors to look at me, man — they would that — 
 they would cry ben to each other to come oot and see 
 Gourlay's wife gaun slinkin doon the brae. Doon the 
 brae it would be," she repeated, " doon the brae it would 
 be " — and her mind drifted away on the sorrowful fu- 
 ture which her fear made so vivid and real. It was only 
 John's going that roused her. 
 
 Thomas Brodie, glowering abroad from a shop door 
 festooned in boots, his leather apron in front, and his 
 thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, as befitted an 
 important man, saw young Gourlay pass the Cross with 
 his bag in his hand, and dwindle up the road to the 
 station. 
 
 " Where's he off to now? " he muttered, " there's some- 
 thing at the boddom o' this, if a body could find it out! " 
 
 [311]
 
 XXVII 
 
 When John had gone his mother roused herself to a 
 feverish industry. Even in the early days of her 
 strength, she had never been so busy in her home. But 
 her work was aimless and to no purpose. When tidying 
 she would take a cup without its saucer from the table, 
 and set off with it through the room, but stopping sud- 
 denly in the middle of the floor, would fall into a muse 
 with the dish in her hand; coming to herself long after- 
 wards to ask vaguely, " What's this cup for? . . . Janet, 
 lassie, what was it I was doing? " Her energy, and its 
 frustration, had the same reason. The burden on her 
 mind constantly impelled her to do something to escape 
 from it — and the same burden paralysed her mind in 
 everything she did. So with another of her vacant 
 whims. Every morning she rose at an unearthly hour, 
 to fish out of old closets rag-bags bellied big with 
 the odds and ends of thirty years' assemblage. " I'll 
 make a patch-work quilt o'thir! " she explained with 
 a foolish, eager smile — and she spent hours snatching 
 up rags and vainly trying to match them. But the 
 quilt made no progress. She would look at a patch 
 for a while, with her head on one side, and pat it all 
 over with restless hands; then she would turn it round, 
 to see if it would look better that way, only to tear 
 it off when it was half sewn, to try another and yet 
 another. Often she would forget the work on her lap, 
 
 [312]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVE:N" 
 
 and stare across the room, open-mouthed; her fingers 
 plucking at her withered throat. Janet became afraid 
 of her mother. 
 
 Once she saw her smiling to herself, when she thought 
 nobody was watching her, an uncanny smile as of 
 one who hugged a secret to her breast — a secret that, 
 eluding others, would enable its holder to elude them 
 too. 
 
 "What can she have to laugh at?" Janet wondered. 
 
 At times, the haze that seemed gathering round Mrs. 
 Gourlay's mind would be dispelled by sudden rushes of 
 fear, when she would whiniper lest her son be hanged, 
 or herself come on the parish in her old age. But that 
 was rarely. Her brain was mercifully dulled, and her 
 days were passed in a restless vacancy. 
 
 She was sittino^ with the rasjs scattered round her 
 when John walked in on the evening of the third day. 
 There were rags everywhere; on the table, and all 
 about the kitchen; she sat in their midst like a witch 
 among the autumn leaves. When she looked towards 
 his entrance the smell of drink was wafted from the 
 door. 
 
 "John!" she panted in surprise, "John, did ye not 
 go to Glasgow, boy? " 
 
 " Aye," he said slowly, " T gaed to Glasgow." 
 
 "And the bond, John? — did ye speir about the 
 bond?" 
 
 " Aye," he said, " I spiered about the bond. The 
 whole house is sunk in't." 
 
 "Oh!" she gasped, and the whole world seemed to 
 go from beneath her, so weak did she feel through her 
 limbs. 
 
 [313]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GEEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 " John," she said after a while, " did ye no try to get 
 something to do, that you might help me and Janet now 
 we're helpless? " 
 
 " No," he said, " for the e'en wouldna let me. Meht 
 and day they follow me a' where; nicht and day." 
 
 "Are they following ye yet, John?" she whispered, 
 leaning forward seriously. She did not try to disabuse 
 him now; she accepted what he said. Her mind was 
 on a level with his own. " Are they following ye yet? " 
 she asked with large eyes of sympathy and awe. 
 
 " Aye, and waur than ever, too. They're getting red- 
 der and redder. It's not a dull red," he said, with a 
 faint return of his old interest in the curious physical; 
 " it's a gleaming red. They lowe. A' last nicht they 
 wouldna let me sleep. There was nae gas in my room, 
 and when the candle went out I could see them every- 
 where. When I looked to one corner o' the room, they 
 were there; and when I looked to another corner, they 
 were there, too; glowering at me; glowering at me in the 
 darkness; glowering at me. Ye mind what a glower he 
 had! I hid from them ablow the claes, but they fol- 
 lowed me — thev were burning in my brain. So I gaed 
 oot and stood by a lamp-post for company. But a con- 
 stable moved me on; he said I was drunk because I mut- 
 tered to mysell. But I wasna drunk then, mother; I 
 wa-as not. So I walkit on, and on, and on, the whole 
 nicht — ^but I ave keepit to the lamp-posts for company. 
 And than when the public houses opened, I gaed in 
 and drank and drank. I didna like the drink, for whis- 
 key has no taste to me now. But it helps ye to forget. 
 
 " "Mother? " he went on complainingly, " is it no 
 queer that a pair of e'en should follow a man? Just a 
 
 [314]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEYEIT 
 
 pair of e'en! It never happened to onybody but me," 
 he said dully; " never to onybody but nie." 
 
 His mother was panting open-mouthed, as if she 
 choked for air, both liands clutching at her bosom. 
 " Aye," she whispered, " it's queer," and kept on gasp- 
 ing at intervals with staring eyes, " it's gey queer; it's 
 gey queer; it's gey queer." 
 
 She took up the needle once more and tried to sew, 
 but her hand was trembling so violently that she pricked 
 the left forefinger which upheld her work. She was 
 content thereafter to make loose stabs at the cloth, with 
 a result that she made great stitches which drew her 
 seam together in a pucker. Vacantly she tried to smooth 
 them out, stroking them over with her hand, constantly 
 stroking and to no purpose. John watched the aimless 
 work with dull and heavy eyes. 
 
 For a while there was silence in the kitchen. Janet 
 was coughing in the room above. 
 
 " There's just ae thing'll end it! " said John. " Moth- 
 er, give me three shillings." 
 
 It was not a request, and not a demand; it was the 
 dull statement of a need. Yet the need appeared so re- 
 lentless, uttered in the set fixity of his impassive voice, 
 that she could not gainsay it. She felt that this was not 
 merely her son making a demand; it w^as a compulsion 
 on him greater than himself. 
 
 " There's the money! " she said, clinking it down on 
 the table, and flashed a resentful smile at him, close 
 upon the brink of tears. 
 
 She had a fleeting anger. It was scarcely at him, 
 though; it was at the fate that drove him. Nor was it 
 for herself, for her own mood was, " Well, well; let it 
 
 [ 315 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 gang." But she had a sense of unfairness, and a flicker 
 of quite impersonal resentment, that fate should wring 
 the last few shillings from a poor being. It wasna fair. 
 She had the emotion of it; and it spoke in the strange 
 look at her son, and in the smiling flush with the tears 
 behind it. Then she sank into apathy. 
 
 John took up the money and went out, heedless of 
 his mother where she sat by the table — he had a doom 
 on him and could see nothing, that did not lie within 
 his path. Nor did she take any note of his going; she 
 was callous. The tie between them was being annulled 
 by misery. She was ceasing to be his mother, he to be 
 her son; they were not younger and older, they were 
 tlie equal victims of necessity. Fate set each of them 
 apart to dree a separate weird. 
 
 In a house of long years of misery, the weak become 
 callous to their dearest's agony. The hard strong char- 
 acters are kindest in the end; they will help while their 
 hearts are breaking. But the weak fall asunder at the 
 last. It was not that Mrs. Gourlay was thinking of her- 
 self, rather than of him. She was stunned by fate — as 
 was he — and could think of nothing. 
 
 Ten minutes later John came out of the Black Bull 
 with a bottle of whiskey. 
 
 It was a mellow evening, one of those evenings when 
 Barbie, the mean and dull, is transfigured to a gem-like 
 purity, and catches a radiance. There was a dreaming 
 sky above the town, and its light less came to the earth 
 tlian was on it, shining in every path with a gracious 
 immanence. John came on through the glow with his 
 burden undisguised, wrapped in a tissue paper which 
 shewed its outlines. He stared right before him like 
 
 [316]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 a man walking in his sleep, and never once looked to 
 either side. At word of his coming the doors were filled 
 with mutches and bald heads, keeking by the jambs to 
 get a look. Many were indecent in their haste, not wait- 
 ing till he passed ere they peeped — which was their 
 usual way. Some even stood away out in front of their 
 doors to glower at him advancing, turning slowly with 
 him as he passed, and glowering behind him as he went. 
 They saw they might do so with impunity; that he did 
 not see them, but walked like a man in a dream. He 
 passed up the street and through the Square, beneath a 
 hundred eyes, the sun shining softly round him. Every 
 eye followed till he disappeared through his own door. 
 
 He went through the kitchen, where his mother sat, 
 carrying the bottle openly, and entered the parlour 
 without speaking. He came back and asked her for the 
 corkscrew, but when she said "Eh?" with a vague 
 wildness in her manner, and did not seem to understand, 
 he went and got it for himself. She continued making 
 stabs at her cloth and smoothing out the puckers in her 
 seam. 
 
 John was heard moving in the parlour. There was 
 the sharp phmJc of a cork being drawn, followed by 
 a clink of glass. And then came a heavy thud like a 
 fall. 
 
 To Mrs. Gourlay the sounds meant nothing; slic 
 heard them with her ear, not her mind. The world 
 around her had retreated to a hazy distance, so that it 
 had no meaning. She would have gazed vaguely at a 
 shell about to burst beside her. 
 
 In the evening, Janet, who had been in bed all the 
 afternoon, came down and lit the lamp for her mother. 
 
 [ 317 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 It was a large lamp which Gourlay had bought, and it 
 shed a rich light through the room. 
 
 " I heard John come in," she said, turning wearily- 
 round; " but I was too ill to come down and ask what 
 had happened. Where is he ? " 
 
 "John?" questioned her mother, "John? . . . Ou, 
 a3-e! " she panted, vaguely recalling, " Ou, aye! I think 
 — I think ... he gaed ben the parlour." 
 
 " The parlour! " cried Janet, " but he must be in the 
 dark! And he canna thole the darkness! " 
 
 " John ! " she cried, going to the parlour door, 
 "John!" 
 
 There was a silence of the grave. 
 
 She lit a candle, and went into the room. And then 
 she gave a squeal like a rabbit in a dog's jaws. 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay dragged her gaunt limbs wearily across 
 tlie floor. By the wavering light, which shook in Janet's 
 liand, she saw her son lying dead across the sofa. The 
 whiskey-bottle on the table was half empty, and of a 
 smaller bottle beside it he had drunk a third. He 
 had taken all that whiskey that he might deaden his 
 mind to the horror of swallowing the poison. His legs 
 had slipped to the floor when he died, but his body was 
 lying back across the couch, his mouth open, his eyes 
 staring horridly up. They were not the eyes of the 
 quiet dead, but bulged in frozen fear, as if his father's 
 eyes had watched him from aloft while he died. 
 
 " There's twa thirds of the poison left," commented 
 Mrs. Gourlay. 
 
 " Mother! " Janet screamed, and shook her. " Moth- 
 er, John's deid! John's deid. Don't ye see John's 
 deid? " 
 
 [318]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 " Aye, he's deid," said Mrs. Gourlay, staring. " He 
 winna be hanged now! " 
 
 " Mother! '' cried Janet, desperate before this apathy, 
 "what shall we do? What shall we do? Shall I run 
 and bring the neebours ? " 
 
 " The neebours! " said Mrs. Gourlay, rousing herself 
 wildly. " The neebours! What have we to do with the 
 neebours? We are by ourselves — the Gourlays whom 
 God has cursed; we can have no neebours. Come ben 
 the house and I'll tell ye something," she whispered 
 wildly. " Aye," she nodded, smiling with mad signifi- 
 cance, " I'll tell ye something . . . I'll tell ye some- 
 thing,'^ and she dragged Janet to the kitchen. 
 
 Janet's heart was rent for her brother, but the frenzy 
 on her mother killed sorrow with a new fear. 
 
 "Janet! " smiled Mrs. Gourlay, with insane soft in- 
 terest, " Janet! D'ye mind yon nicht langsyne when 
 your faither came in wi' a terrible look in his e'en, and 
 struck me in the breist? Aye," she whispered hoarsely, 
 staring at the fire, " he struck me in the breist. But I 
 didna ken what it was for, Janet . . . No," she shook 
 her head, " he never telled me what it was for." 
 
 " Aye, mother," whispered .Janet, " I have mind o't." 
 
 " Weel, an abscess o' some kind formed — I kenna weel 
 what it was — ^but it gathered and broke, and gathered 
 and broke, till my breist's near eaten awa wi't. Look! " 
 she cried, tearing open her bosom, and Janet's head 
 flung back in horror and disgust. 
 
 "Oh, mother!" she panted, "was it that that the 
 wee clouts were for? " 
 
 " Aye, it was that," said her mother. ** Mony a clout 
 I had to wash, and monv a nicht I sat lonely by mysell, 
 
 [319]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 plaistering my withered breist. But I never let ony- 
 body ken," she added with pride; " na-a-a; I never let 
 onybody ken. When your faither nipped me wi' his 
 tongue, it nipped me wi' its pain, and, woman, it con- 
 soled me. ' Aye, aye,' I used to think; ' jibe awa, jibe 
 awa; but I hae a freend in my breist that'll end it some 
 day.' I likit to keep it to mysell. When it bit me it 
 seemed to whisper I had a fi-eend that nane o' them 
 kenned o' — a freend that would deliver me! The mair 
 he badgered me, the closer I hugged it; and when my 
 he'rt was br'akin I enjoyed the pain o't." 
 
 " Oh, my poor, poor mother! " cried Janet with a 
 bursting sob, her eyes raining hot tears. Her very body 
 seemed to feel compassion; it quivered and crept near, 
 as though it would brood over her mother and protect 
 her. She raised the poor hand and kissed it, and fondled 
 it between her own. 
 
 But her mother had forgotten the world in one of her 
 wild lapses, and was staring fixedly. 
 
 " I'll no lang be a burden to onybody," she said to 
 herself. " It should sune be wearing to a held now. But 
 I thought of something the day John gaed away. Aye, 
 T thought of something," she said vaguely. "Janet, 
 what was it I was thinking of? " 
 
 " I dinna ken," whispered Janet. 
 
 " I was thinking of something! " her mother mused. 
 Her voice all through was a far-off voice, remote from 
 understanding. " Yes, I remember. Ye're young, Jen- 
 ny, and you learned the dressmaking — do ye think ye 
 could sew, or something, to keep a bit garret owre my 
 heid till I dee? Aye, it was that I was thinking of — 
 though it doesna matter much now. — Eh, Jenny? I'll 
 
 [ 320 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 no bother you for verra lang. But I'll no gang on 
 the parish," she said in a passionless voice, " I'll no 
 gang on the parish. — ^I'm Miss Kichmond o' Tenshilling- 
 land." 
 
 She had no interest in her own suggestion. It was an 
 idea that had flitted through her mind before, which 
 came back to her now in feeble recollection. She 
 seemed not to wait for an answer, to have forgotten what 
 she said. 
 
 *' Oh, mother," cried Janet, " there's a curse on us 
 all ! I would work my fingers raw for ye if I could, but 
 I canna," she screamed, " I canna, I canna! My lungs 
 are bye wi't. On Tuesday in Skeighan the doctor telled 
 me I would soon be deid — he didna say't, but fine I 
 saw what he was hinting. He advised me to gang to 
 Ventnor in the Isle o' Wight," she added wanly, " as if I 
 could gang to the Isle o' Wight. I cam hame trembling 
 and wanted to tell ye, but when I cam in ye were ta'en 
 up wi' John, and, ' Oh, lassie,' said you, ' dinna bother 
 me wi' your complaints enow.' I was hurt at that, and 
 * Well, well,' I thocht, * if she doesna want to hear, I'll 
 no tell her! ' I was huffed at ye. And then mv faither 
 came in, and ye ken what happened. I hadna the heart 
 to speak o't after that; I didna seem to care. I ken 
 what it is to nurse daith in my breist wi' pride, too, 
 mother," she went on. "Ye never cared verra much 
 for me, it was John was your favourite. I used to be 
 angry because you nedected mv illness, and I never 
 telled you how heavily I boasted blood. ' She'll be sorry 
 for this when I'm deid,' I used to think — and I hoped 
 you would be. I had a kind of pride in saying nothing. 
 But, oh, mother, I didna ken you were just the same, I 
 
 [ 331 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 didna ken you were just the same." She looked. Her 
 mother was not listening. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Gourlay screamed with wild laughter, 
 and, laughing, eyed with mirthless merriment, the look 
 of horror with which Janet was regarding her. " Ha, 
 ha, ha! " she screamed, " it's to be a clean sweep o' 
 the Gourlay s! Ha, ha, ha! it's to be a clean sweep o' the 
 Gourlay s! " 
 
 There is nothing uglier in life than a woman's cruel 
 laugh, but Mrs. Gourlay's laugh was more than cruel, 
 it was demoniac; the skirl of a human being carried by 
 misery beyond the confines of humanity. Janet stared 
 at her in speechless fear. 
 
 " Mother," she whispered at last, " what are we to 
 do?" 
 
 " There's twa thirds of the poison left," said Mrs. 
 Gourlay. 
 
 " Mother! " cried Janet. 
 
 " Gourlay's dochter may gans: on the parish if she 
 likes, but his wife never will. Ynn. mav honst vourself 
 to death in a garret in the poorhouse, but I'll follow my 
 bov." 
 
 The sudden picture of her own lonely death as a 
 pauper among strangers, when her mother and brother 
 should be gone, was so appalling to Janet, that to die 
 with her mother seemed pleasanter. She could not bear 
 to be left alone. 
 
 " Mother," she cried in a frenzy, " I'll keep ye com- 
 pany! " 
 
 " Let us read a Chapter," said Mrs. Gourlav. 
 
 She took down the big Bible, and "the thirteent' 
 Chapter o* first Corinthians," she announced in a loud 
 
 [ 323]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 voice, as if giving it out from the pulpit, " the thirteent' 
 — o' the first Coriiitliians ": 
 
 " * Though I speak with the tongues of men and of 
 ajigels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding 
 brass, or a tinkling cymbal. 
 
 " ' A7id though I have the gift of prophecy, and under- 
 stand all mysterien, and all knoivledge ; and though I 
 have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and 
 have not charity, 1 am nothing.^ " 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay's manner had changed; she was in the 
 high exaltation of madness. Callous she still appeared, 
 so possessed by her general doom that she had no 
 sense of its particular woes. But she was listless no 
 more. Willing her death, she seemed to borrow its 
 greatness and become one with the law that pimished 
 her. Arrogating the Almighty's function to expedite 
 her doom, she was the equal of the Most High. It was 
 her feebleness that made her great. Because in her 
 feebleness she yielded entirely to the fate that swept her 
 on, she was imbued with its demoniac power. 
 
 " ' Charity suffereth long, and is kind ; charity envieth 
 not ; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. 
 
 " ' Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, 
 is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil ; 
 
 " ' Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoicefh in the truth ; 
 
 " ' Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all 
 things, endureth all things. 
 
 "' Charity never faileth : but whether there be prophe- 
 cies^ they shall fail ; whether there be tongues, they shall 
 cease ; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish atvay. 
 
 " ' For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. 
 
 " ' But when that which is perfect is come, then that 
 which is in part shall be done away.'' " 
 
 [ 323 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 Her voice rose high and shrill as she read the great 
 verses. Her large blue eyes shone with ecstasy. Janet 
 looked at her in fear. This was more than her mother 
 speaking, it was more than human, it was a voice from 
 beyond the world. Alone, the timid girl would have 
 shrunk from death, but her mother's inspiration held 
 her. 
 
 " ' A7id now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three : 
 hut the greatest of these is charity.^ " 
 
 Janet had been listening with such strained atten- 
 tion that the " Amen " rang out of her loud and invol- 
 untary, like an answer to a compelling Deity. She had 
 clung to this reading as the one thing left to her before 
 death, and out of her nature thus strained to listen the 
 " Amen " came, as sped by an inner will. She scarcely 
 knew that she said it. 
 
 They rose, and the scrunt of Janet's chair on the 
 floor, when she pushed it behind her, sent a thrilling 
 shiver through her body, so tense was her mood. They 
 stood with their hands on their chair-backs, and looked 
 at each other, in a curious palsy of the will. The first 
 step to the parlour door would commit them to the 
 deed; to take it was to take the poison, and they paused, 
 feeling its significance. To move was to give themselves 
 to the irrevocable. When they stirred at length they 
 felt as if the ultimate crisis had been passed; there could 
 be no return. Mrs. Gourlay had Janet by the wrist. 
 
 She turned and looked at her daughter, and for one 
 fleeting moment she ceased to be above humanity. 
 
 " Janet," she said wistfully, " / have had a heap to 
 thole! ]\Iaybe the Lord Jesus Christ'll no' be owre sair 
 
 on me." 
 
 [ 324 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 <c 
 
 Oh, mother! " Janet screamed, yielding to her ter- 
 ror when her mother weakened. " Oh, mother, I'm 
 feared! I'm feared! Oh, mother, I'm feared! " 
 
 " Come! " said her mother; " Come! " and drew her 
 by the wrist. They went into the parlour. 
 
 The post was a square-built, bandy-legged little man, 
 with a bristle of grizzled hair about his twisted mouth, 
 perpetually cocking up an ill-bred face in the sight of 
 Heaven. Physically and morally he had in him some- 
 thing both of the Scotch terrier and the London sparrow 
 — the shagginess of the one, the cocked eye of the other, 
 the one's snarling temper, the other's assured impu- 
 dence. In Gourlay's day he had never got by the gate- 
 way of the yard, much as he had wanted to come far- 
 ther. Gourlay had an eye for a thing like him. " Damn 
 the gurly brute!" Postie complained once; "when I 
 passed a pleasand remark about the weather the other 
 morning, he just looked at me and blew the reek of his 
 pipe in my face. And that was his only answer! " 
 
 Now that Gourlay was gone, however, Postie clattered 
 through the yard every morning, right up to the back 
 door. 
 
 " A heap o' correspondence thir mornins! " he would 
 simper — his greedy little eye trying to glean revelations 
 from the women's faces, as they took the letters from his 
 hand. 
 
 On the morning after young Gourlay came home for 
 the last time, Postie was pelting along with his quick 
 thudding step near the head of the Square, when 
 whom should he meet but Sandy Toddle, still unwashed 
 and yawning from his bed. It was early and the streets 
 
 [ 335 ]
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GKEEN SHUTTEKS 
 
 were empty, except where in the distance the bent figure 
 of an old man was seen hirpling off to his work, first 
 twisting round stiffly to cock his eye right and left at 
 the sky, to forecast the weather for the day. 
 
 From the chimneys the fair white spirlies of reek were 
 rising in the pure air. The Gourlays did not seem to be 
 stirring yet; there was no smoke above their roof tree to 
 show that there was life within. 
 
 Postie jerked his thumb across his shoulder at the 
 House with the Green Shutters. 
 
 " There'll be chynges there the day," he said, chir- 
 ruping. 
 
 " Wha-at! " Toddle breathed in a hoarse whisper of 
 astonishment, " sequesteration? " and he stared, big- 
 eyed, with his brows arched. 
 
 " Something o' that kind," said the post carelessly. 
 " I'm no' weel acquaint wi' the law-wers' lingo/' 
 
 " Wiirt be true, think ye? " said Sandy. 
 
 " God, it's true," said the post. " I had it frae Jock 
 Hutchison, the clerk in Skeighan Goudie's. He got fou 
 yestreen on the road to Barbie and blabbed it — he'll 
 lose his job, yon chap, if he doesna keep his mouth shut. 
 — True, aye! It's true! There's damn the doubt o' 
 that." 
 
 Toddle corrugated his mouth to whistle. He turned 
 and stared at the House with the Green Shutters, gawcey 
 and substantial on its terrace, beneath the tremulous 
 beauty of the dawn. There was a glorious sunrise. 
 
 " God! " he said, " what a downcome for that hoose! " 
 
 " Is it no'? " chuckled Postie. 
 
 "Whose account is it on?" said Toddle. 
 
 " Oh, I don't ken," said Postie, carelessly. " He had 
 
 [ 326 ]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEYEN 
 
 creditors a' owre the country. I was aye bringing the 
 big blue envelopes from different airts. Don't mention 
 this, now," he added, his finger up, his eye significant. 
 " It shouldn't be known at a-all.'' He was unwilling 
 that Toddle should get an unfair start, and spoil his own 
 market for the news. 
 
 " Nut me ! " Toddle assured him grandly, shaking his 
 head as who should conduct of that kind a thousand 
 miles off. " Y«i me, post! I'll no breathe it to a liv- 
 ing soul." 
 
 The post clattered in to Mrs. Gourlay's back-door. 
 He had a heavy under-stamped letter on which there 
 was threepence to pay. He might pick up an item or 
 two while she was getting him the bawbees. 
 
 He knocked, but there was no answer. 
 
 " The sluts! " said he, with a humph of disgust; 
 " they're still on their backs, it seems." 
 
 He knocked again. The sound of his knuckles on the 
 door rang out hollowly, as if there was nothing but 
 emptiness within. While he waited he turned on the 
 step, and looked idly at the courtyard. The enwalled 
 little place was curiously still. 
 
 At last in his impatience he turned the handle, when 
 to his surprise the door opened, and let him enter. 
 
 The leaves of a Bible fluttered in the fresh wind from 
 the door. A large lamp was burning on the table. Its 
 big yellow flame was unnatural in the sunshine. 
 
 "H'mph!" said Postie, tossing his chin in disgust, 
 " little wonder everything gaed to wreck and ruin in this 
 house! The slovens have left the lamp burning the 
 whole nicht lang. But less licht'll serve them now, I'm 
 thinking! " 
 
 [327] 
 
 ^O '
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS 
 
 A few dead ashes were sticking from the lower bars 
 of the range. Postie crossed to the fireplace and looked 
 down at the fender. That bright spot would be the 
 place, now, where auld Gourlay killed himself. The 
 women must have rubbed it so bright in trying to get 
 out the blood. It was an uncanny thing to keep in the 
 house, that. He stared at the fatal spot till he grew 
 eerie in the strange stillness. 
 
 "Guidwife!" he cried, "Jennet! Don't ye 
 hear? " 
 
 They did not hear, it seemed. 
 
 "God!" said he, "they sleep sound after all their 
 misfortunes! " 
 
 At last — partly in impatience, and partly from a wish 
 to pry — he opened the door of the parlour. " Oh, my 
 God!" he screamed, leaping back, and with his bulky 
 bag got stuck in the kitchen door, in his desperate hurry 
 to be gone. 
 
 He ran round to the Square in front, and down to 
 Sandy Toddle, who was informing a bunch of unshaven 
 bodies that the Gourlays were " sequestered." 
 
 " Oh, my God, post, what have you seen, to bring 
 that look to your eyes? What have you seen, man? 
 Speak for God's sake! What is it? " 
 
 The post gasped and stammered — then " Ooh! " he 
 shivered in horror, and covered his eyes, at a sudden 
 picture in his brain. 
 
 " Speak! " said a man solemnly. 
 
 " They have — they have — they have a' killed them- 
 selves," stammered the postman, pointing to the Gour- 
 lays'. 
 
 Their loins were loosened beneath them. The scrape 
 
 [328]
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 of their feet on the road, as they turned to stare, 
 sounded monstrous in the silence. No man dared to 
 speak. They gazed with blanched faces at the House 
 with the Green Shutters, sitting dark there and terrible, 
 beneath the radiant arch of the dawn. 
 
 THE i;nd
 
 
 
 
 
 RECENT 
 PUBLICATIONS 
 
 of 
 
 iHcCliire,li)tl= 
 Ups 8i Co. 
 
 New Yoi^k 
 
 1901-1902 
 
 
 

 
 Anthony Hopes New Novel 
 
 TRISTRAM OF BLENT 
 
 IT is always a question what Anthony Hope will do 
 next. From a dashing romance of an imaginary 
 kingdom to drawing-room repartee is a leap which 
 this versatile writer performs with the greatest ease. In 
 his "Tristram of Blent" he has made a new departure, 
 demonstrating his ability to depict character by some 
 exceedingly delicate and skillful delineation. The plot 
 is unique, and is based upon the diflference of time of the 
 Russian and English calendars, by which a marriage, a 
 birth, and the ownership of lands and name are in turn 
 affected, producing complications which hurry the reader 
 on in search of the satisfactory solution which awaits 
 him. The Tristrams are characters of strong individual- 
 ities, of eccentricities likewise. These, coloring all 
 their acts, leave the reader in doubt as to the issue ; yet 
 it is a logical story through and through, events following- 
 events in carefully planned sequence. A work of un- 
 doubted originality based on modern conditions, "Tris- 
 tram of Blent " proves that the author does not need an 
 ideal kingdom to write a thrilling romance. (I'-imo, |1.5U.) 
 
 IRISH PASTORALS 
 
 By Shan F. Bullock 
 
 " TRISH PASTORALS" is a coUection of character 
 X sketches of the soil — of the Irish soil — by one who 
 has lived long and closely among the laboring, farming- 
 peasantry of Ireland. It is not, however, a dreary re- 
 cital of long days of toil with scanty food and no recre- 
 ation, but it depicts within a life more strenuous than 
 one can easily realize, abundant elements of keen native 
 wit and irrepressible good nature. The book will give 
 many American readers a new conception of Irish pas- 
 toral life, and a fuller appreciation of the conditions which 
 go to form the strength and gentleness of the Irish char- 
 acter. (12mo, $1.50.)
 
 THE WESTERNERS 
 
 By Stewart Edward White 
 
 WHEN the Black Hills were discovered to be rich 
 in valuable ores, there began that heterogeneous 
 influx of human beings which always follows new-found 
 wealth. In this land and in this period, Stewart Edward 
 White has laid the setting of "The Westerners," a story 
 which is full of excitement, beauty, pathos and humor. 
 A young girl, growing to womanhood in a rough mining 
 camp, is one of the central figures of the plot. The other 
 is a half-breed, a capricious yet cool, resourceful rascal, 
 ever occupied in schemes of revenge. Around these two 
 are grouped the interesting characters which gave color 
 to that rude life, and, back of them all, rough nature in 
 her pristine beauty. The plot is strong, logical, nnd well 
 sustained ; the characters are keenly drawn ; the details 
 cleverly written. Taken all in all, "The Westerners" is 
 a thoroughly good story of the far West in its most pict- 
 uresque decade. (Hrao, fl.^O.) 
 
 BY BREAD ALONE 
 
 By I. K. Friedman 
 
 MR. FRIEDMAN has chosen a great theme for his 
 new novel, one which affords a wealth of color 
 and a wide field for bold delineation. It is a story of the 
 steel-workers which introduces the reader to various and 
 little-known aspects of those toiling lives. In the course 
 of the work occurs a vivid description of a great strike. 
 The author, however, shows no tinge of prejudice, but 
 depicts a bitter labor struggle with admirable impartiality. 
 Along with the portrayal of some of man's worst passions 
 is that of his best, his affection for woman, forming a 
 love-story which softens the stern picture. The book 
 will appeal to students of industrial tendencies, as well 
 as to every lover of good fiction. (12mo, $1.50.)
 
 HERE are two volumes of most thrilling tales, (/leaned 
 from the material which the age has brought tis. 
 Each collection occupies an original field and depicts some 
 characteristic pJiase of our great commercial life. 
 
 WALL STREET STORIES 
 
 By Edwin Lefevre 
 
 IT would be diflBcult to find a better setting for a good 
 story than this hotbed of speculation. On the Ex- 
 change, every day is a day of excitement, replete with 
 dangerous risks, narrow escapes, victories, defeats. There 
 are rascals, "Napoleonic" rascals, and the "lambs" 
 who are shorn ; there is the old fight between right and 
 wrong, and sometimes the right wins, and sometimes — 
 as the world goes — the wrong. In the maddening whirl 
 of this life, which he knows so weO, Edwin Lefevre has 
 laid the setting of his Wall Street stories. A number of 
 them have already appeared in McClure''s Magazine, and 
 their well-merited success is the cause of publication in 
 book form of this absorbing collection. (12mo, $1.25.) 
 
 HELD FOR ORDERS 
 
 STORIES OF RAILROAD LIFE 
 By Frank H. Spearman 
 
 WHILE railroad life affords fewer elements of pas- 
 sion and emotion than the life of Wall Street, it 
 offers however a far greater field for the depiction of 
 the heroic. Deeds of bravery are probably more com- 
 mon among these hardy, cool, resourceful men — the rail- 
 road employees — than among any other members of 
 society. ' ' Held For Orders " describes thrilling incidents 
 in the management of a mountain division in the far West. 
 The stories are all independent, but have characters in 
 common, many of whom have been met with in McClure's 
 Magazine. Mr. Spearman combines the qualities of a 
 practical railroad man with those of a fascinating story- 
 teller, and his tales, both in subject and manner of tell- 
 ing, are something new in literature. (I2mo, $1.50.)
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 AUG 1 1958 
 
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