THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF JAMES J. HC BRIDE BARNACLES BARNACLES BY J. MACDOUGALL HAY AUTHOR OF 'GILLESPIK 1 NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY Printed in Great Britain TO JOHN ADAMS 712374 BOOK I A BESIDE a tattered gate half unhinged, at the foot of a dishevelled farm-garden in the uplands of Renfrew- shire, stood a lonely figure gazing over the roofs of Paisley at Ben Lomond. The mountain loomed out of the mist with the air of a man bowed with age, as if in the midst of the gloom and silence it had grown weary of the skies. Winter was about to break up her camp in the dawn, and go stealing like a ghost through the mists into the North. In that moment Paisley, far down in the valley beneath, was to the watcher at the gate a town of apparitions, a place of some strange dream. As he gazed with wonder in his eyes footsteps were heard coming along the road the heavy tread of a man who, but lately risen from a warm bed, was not yet awake to the urgency of affairs while day was yet dark in the sky. Out of the fog the ghost man came, passed on in silence without seeing the figure at the gate, and was swallowed up. The hoar darkness, the severe magnificent mountain, the phantom town, the ghostly man, were dreams in a dream to the lad at the gate. ' I never thought the world could be so unearthly,' he said aloud. A wind blew west from the sea and 8 4 BARNACLES carried inland a savour of healing salt through the mirk. It made the gate creak and swing. The sound aroused the lad. He tugged at a rope in his hand, and he and his companion moved away, vanishing also like ghosts in the mist and darkness. His father, Dauvit o' the Battlemains, a shrewd, peevish little man with a grey torpedo beard and a quick, restless eye, had some local repute from an idiosyncrasy he had of giving his children Biblical names. Spanning the earth as far as Babylon, he called his first-born Telassar Brocklehurst, whom he sent out into the world saying, ' I 've gien ye a braw bouncin' name ; mak the maist o't ; it 's enough to bring ye to the gallows or to a fortune.' Benjamin from of old was a hostage, and fate still looked sourly on the name. It belonged to him who had walked into the mist. He had a complexion studded with fiery little knobs, and from the days of his first trousers was nicknamed Barnacles. He was now very tall, loose-knitted, had a gawky air, and went with a stoop. But his eyes behind the spectacles which he wore were as blue as the spaces hi a red sunset sky. Mr. Brocklehurst, his father, was a farmer not by profession but by marriage. This indicates his char- acter. He was a byword for meanness. He was a dairy-farmer or ' cowfeeder,' driving his milk nine miles into Paisley every morning, and delivering it to a dairy. All his sons, to the number of four, had worked on the farm. Three were now married and lived on the land, one Kilmacolm way, one hi Fife, and one * ayont Kilmarnock.' Benjamin was also being brought up to the graip when he fell under notice of the Laird. He was entered at Glasgow University, made BARNACLES 5 good progress there in his first session, and during the second met with catastrophe. He was standing up in the Greek class-room, a gaunt swaying figure, con- struing a portion of Pindar indifferent well. There were reasons for this. His shoes had needed re-soling. He took them, wrapped in brown paper, to the village cobbler. This Irishman of middle age, with olack bettling eyebrows and a square head a little awry from long habit of eyeing his work sideways, mended shoes and watches, repaired bicycles and motor bicycles, sold eyeglasses, manufactured violins and played the same. Barnacles found him in the middle of ' Kate O'Shane.' When the tune was ended Barnacles said, ' I should like to be able to play the fiddle, Mr. Docherty.' * If that 's on your mind, me bhoy, sure I '11 tache ye, if ye be the way of learnin' me to read the music.' Mr. Docherty, so deficient in the fundamentals that he could not tune the violin, nevertheless taught Barnacles that day to play a scale on the open string. ' I '11 buy your fiddle,' said Barnacles, flushed with mastery. The Irishman, in arrears to his landlady, agreed to sell. ' It 's the bow an' the case, the rosate an' the fiddle I '11 be lettin' ye have for five shillins ; it 's the sort of fiddle that will cheer ye up when all the world 's cryin' ; there 's nothin' like a fiddle, me bould bhoy, for kapeing a whisker off a man.' Barnacles spent a series of evenings with Mr. Docherty, until he discovered that the Irishman's tongue prevented him from swallowing the theory of music. Thereafter Barnacles, the fiddle, and Bemy's Tutor consorted in the f orenight hi the barn, ' Pindar ' 6 BARNACLES languished, and Barnacles was at sea before the eyes of the Professor of Greek. ' Who taught you Greek ? ' roared that spartan. ' The village schoolmaster.' ' He is no scholar then.' ' Please, sir,' stammered Barnacles, ' he is a gentleman.' The class showed its approval. ' Speak to me at the end of the hour,' said the Professor. Barnacles omitted to speak. Now the Professor was a friend of the Laird, over whose estate he slew God's creatures with a gun. Barnacles received a communication from the Castle, inviting him to attend hi person and give informa- tion touching the public insult to the Professor of Greek. Barnacles had a tender heart but an independent mind. He wrote briefly, defending the fair name of Mr. Gerrard, the schoolmaster, and adding that if the Laird wished to inquire further he knew where the writer could be found. Barnacles' career at the University was finished. During the remainder of that winter he worked on the farm without wages. Mr. Brocklehurst, on being asked for one pound sterling, became ironic. ' Hauf an oor o' a guid sun is worth mair on the ferm than a week o' your puir fushionless idlin'.' Barnacles thought his father said ' son,' and was grieved at the heartless comparison between him and his brother. And he had need of the pound sterling to buy a better fiddle. The Irishman's was worn to a squeak. Wherefore we find this ardent musician attached to one of his father's sheep by a rope, and both BARNACLES 7 about to take the road from the tattered gate to the market at Paisley, before the day broke to call up Mr. Brocklehurst and his milk -cart on the same road. II The silence of the earth and the majesty of the ghostly mountains looming up across the Clyde like the first-born of the dawn filled Barnacles' soul with awe. ' Little one,' he said to his companion, ' you and I are God's poor waifs.' As his companion made no answer, Barnacles ad- dressed himself to take the road whose dim face went stealing northwards into the greyness. As he put out his foot to take his first step, the thought came to him that his life was about to go on an adventure. He looked down the road that climbs the hills and leans upon the quays where the ships of the nations come. He was about to mingle with it, and along with it go towards the barred doors of the unknown. He cast one glance behind at the darkling house, gave the rope a tug and set off, addressing the sheep, ' Poor wee one, we are adrift ; what the evening will bring is uncertain.' As he rose the first hill, the wind of Spring bearing mooning melodies from the Gleniffer Braes received him roguishly and blew away his sadness. It was a good wind for his escapade. The time that is not winter neither is spring was over those heavy brooding days sodden with the dregs of winter under a lowering sky. Barnacles could almost hear the chains of ice fall off the earth and the manacles of frost snap asunder as the redeemer came, a shining wind full of the sap 8 BARNACLES of living things. Barnacles felt this salt west wind that had been wooed by orchards in some far valley of whirring wings, and he began to whistle and to shout, * Can an anchor keep its hold upon thee whom thine own home could not keep from wandering.' The sheep, also perhaps feeling the pungency of spring, took little runs and darts all over the road. It was likely scenting the tender green about to burst from its lair of hibernation. The various hopes of youth and beast clashed. ' Come on, you foolish nibbler,' cried Barnacles, ' before a rescue party be on us.' The sheep, misled by a green piece of ribbon dropped from the chocolate-box of a pair of sweethearts the night before, looked up at Barnacles. He was sure it had an ironic grin on its black face. ' Foolish sheep, do hurry. To-day the fiddle, or never. If I fail I will bury my heart in the farm.' The mist had thinned away, and from where he stood he looked down on the valley of the Clyde spread beneath him like a map. He turned with a pang from the sight of Glasgow University to Paisley's huddled roofs in the east and her hundred chimney stalks now standing up like the masts of a naked fleet. Smoke was beginning to cloud the valley from the populous factories and engineering shops of the Clydeside. ' Come, come, my sheep, I think we have the whole wide world to cross.' At that moment the sheep, as if realising the gravity of the situation, began to trot. In spite of his eagerness to follow, Barnacles was filled with pity when he heard the pattering of the hard little hoofs. BARNACLES 9 ' My poor bleater, you hurry only to die. But what can I do ? I must get the fiddle or I shall die myself.' . . . And because the sheep was often recalcitrant ; because they had to go into hiding when Mr. Brockle- hurst drove by ; and because the sheep tried to drown itself in Stanely Loch, it was the slack time of the afternoon when they reached Paisley and a policeman yawning in the Square. Ill Barnacles was not a man of affairs. His mind all morning was lodged in a musicseller's shop in Paisley, but he did not know where the cattle-market was situate. He followed the sheep's itinerary. It passed through the Square into the seclusion of Dyers Wynd, till it came to a flight of stone stairs above the muddy Cart. Baffled, it returned to the Square and began to explore Paisley. Once it sought entrance to a public- house, got into a hole in the ground near Back Sneddon Street where some men were laying a wire. It was ejected, bleating. It got in the way of tram-cars, delaying the traffic. A driver dismounted and hit it on the hoofs with his driving handle. Barnacles was hungry and dismayed. Twice they had plunged across Paisley Square. The second time the sheep betrayed that it was also hungry. It charged the shop of a florist hi Moss Street, where young vegetable plants were displayed in little wooden boxes at the door. The sheep began to browse, and Barnacles watched, glad that his feet were at rest. Presently he was conscious of an angry voice. 10 BARNACLES ' What are you doin' here wi' that bloomin' sheep ? This is no' a park.' ' I don't know,' said Barnacles ; ' we 're lost.' ' Clear out or ye '11 get lost in the jyle. Look at the mess you 've made o' thae cabbage plants.' * I 'm very sorry,' answered Barnacles ; ' I was not aware of meddling with them.' ' Well ! your sheep did ; it 's the same thing.' ' I think the poor beast is hungry,' said Barnacles. Before the shopkeeper could answer the sheep made a fresh sally at the succulent greenlings. 'Be off ! be off, will you ! ' the angry guardian kicked the sheep in the snout. ' Don't hurt the sheep,' cried Barnacles, ' it 's harm- less.' The shopkeeper was almost speechless with rage. ' Harmless . . . harmless . . . look at my stock . . . look at the crowd gathering.' Barnacles looked. A lot of people were hanging in the offing. They were all laughing. Paisley Square had become a play -ground. ' I 'll no' get over this for a fortnight,' the shopkeeper was crying. * ' Get out, get out.' ' What 's a' this ; what 's ado ? ' cried an authorita- tive voice ; and the keeper of the Square approached with sinister ponderousness. ' Looks like a circus,' some one said. The crowd laughed again. The shopkeeper was hopping from foot to foot, ward- ing off with his apron playful attacks of the sheep. In the midst of this confusion it occurred to Barnacles that perhaps after all the sheep was not familiar with the way to the market, and that he ought to inquire. BARNACLES 11 Before he could speak, however, a question was loudly addressed to him. ' Young fella ! what are ye bouncin' a' over Paisley wi' that sheep for ? ' ' Please, where is the market ? ' said Barnacles, taking off his spectacles and his hat, and wiping the sweat from his brow. ' The mercat ; there 's no mercat the day.' ' Do they not sell sheep every day ? ' ' Are ye a publican's son ? ' ' No,' answered Barnacles mystified, ' why do you ask? ' ' The publicans would like fine a mercat every day/ The crowd roared at this sally. In the midst of the laughter could be heard the scream of the shopkeeper, ' Be off ! be off ! deil tak ye ! ' He flounced the marauder with his apron. ' And when is the market ? ' asked Barnacles, without paying any attention to the sheep. ' Monday, my lad : ten o'clock by the Clark Town Hall nock. This is Wednesday.' Barnacles looked from face to face hi his perplexity. The sheep, baffled at the door, was tugging in the direc- tion of a banana skin on the pavement. ' How am I to dispose of the animal ? ' he said stupefied. ' Tak her home,' said the policeman testily (he did not like the dimensions of the crowd), ' and mind ye, don't let me catch ye stravaigin' aboot here, if ye don't want ludgins for the night.' ' I 'm afraid that 's just what I want,' answered Barnacles helplessly. ' March now,' said the policeman sternly, making a menacing gesture. He thought Barnacles had joked 12 BARNACLES at his expense, and the laugh of the crowd was turned against him. Barnacles ruefully surveyed the sheep a moment. ' Let us go,' he said ; ' we are getting famous.' The sheep and Barnacles went off in the direction of the banana skin. The tide of Paisley life flowed on again. IV Barnacles, dragging the sheep, passed once more across the Square. The sheep tried to break in to the toy gardens of Dunn Square, lured by some rhododen- drons there. Barnacles jerked it on, and they drifted into Abbey Street. In the quiet here Barnacles realised that he was tired, and tied the sheep to the iron railing that bound in the Abbey graveyard. The sheep sniffed through the bars at the* sparse grass, but finding its snout could not penetrate, it lay down on the pavement. Barnacles sat on the stone wall in the shadow of the famous edifice and began to think. He could not return with the sheep or the chance of his fiddle was gone for ever. Once lifted, doubly guarded would be Mr. Brocklehurst's outlook. What was he to do ? The spring sun had hidden itself as if in mourning. Among the shadows the air was cold. A drop from Barnacles' nose fell on the nose of the sheep. It shook its head, twitched its ears, and looked up. ' I am not weeping, woolly one,' said Barnacles sadly, ' but if you and I do not part company soon, I assure you I soon will be.' Then Barnacles saw a policeman. It was not the same one, but Barnacles jumped to his feet. BARNACLES 13 ' Let us get on, poor creature, in God's name,' he cried. They came into Bridge Street, where the town seemed to be trying to escape the river Cart, which hereabouts is green as grass with chemicals. On they went past ancient houses with crow-stepped gables, whose eaves were little more than the height of a tall man. At the end of one of these streets a man who had been talking on Socialism to a street congregation, and had passed round the hat ' for the cause of the propaganda,' was counting his gains. Barnacles, who heard the chink of money, went towards this man. ' I will sell you a sheep,' he said. ' I am not a resetter,' answered the man, barely glancing up from his bank. ' The sheep is not stolen,' said Barnacles indignantly. ' I don't deal in live stock,' the answer was rapped out ; ' go to a flesher.' ' Why didn't I think of that,' cried Barnacles with joy- ' Young man,' said the orator, as if he were addressing a multitude, ' humanity is divided into those who think and those who don't,' and he went away with his hat on the back of his head, chinking the money in his pocket. Barnacles eyed the sheep. ' Woolly one,' he said, ' humanity and sheep are divided into those who have a lodging and those who haven't. Come and let us search for one.' They continued their Odyssey, Barnacles looking for a flesher's shop ; the sheep, mayhap, for a florist's. Just as Barnacles steered the sheep out of the track of a lorry full of brand-new cart wheels, he saw a man walking by the side of a little grey pony, which was dragging a light cart, on which was a herring-box. It 14 BARNACLES was a grandmother of a pony. Its harness had plainly been made for a horse, for it hung from the little grey animal as a father's clothes would hang on his seven- year-old son. There was such an air of comradeship between the pony and its master that Barnacles went forward towards them. They all stopped men and animals both. The pony bent its head sniffing at the sheep. ' Can you tell me, please, where the nearest flesher's shop is ; I want to sell this sheep.' The man with the pony was of some forty years, bad a ruddy complexion and a light moustache. His face was disfigured by a long weal running from the ear across the jaw to the chin. He eyed Barnacles sharply and nodded to the sheep. ' Whaur did ye fa' in wi' the beast ? ' ' I brought it from my father's farm to-day.' ' Your faither ; wha 's he ? ' ' Mr. Brocklehurst is his name.' ' Never h'ard tell o' him.' ' I am not astonished,' answered Barnacles; 'he has not acquired any fame. As I am hungry and tired, will you please direct me to a flesher's shop ? ' The man with the pony was scrutinising the sheep. It was standing with drooping head gazing at the pony's feet. 4 What are ye seekin' for 't ? ' he asked abruptly. ' One pound.' ' Ye '11 no tak less.' ' I would,' answered Barnacles, ' under any other circumstances, but there is a violin hi a shop in the High Street which I want to buy, and it costs one pound. I cannot sell the sheep for less.' BARNACLES 15 ' Weel, I 've come across some queer jokers in my time, but you 're special/ he said laughing. ' I '11 tak ye on.' ' Thank you,' said Barnacles, ' it is a great relief.' ' Ye '11 hae to come hame wi' me ; I haena that muckle siller on me. Fish is scarce an' dear ee noo. I tred in fish.' ' Very well,' answered Barnacles, ' let us hurry.' ' Gee-up,' said the man to the little grandmother pony. Side by side they walked, men together, beasts together. Presently Barnacles said : ' I have a favour to ask of you. This poor sheep has walked a long way to- day. Will you oblige me by putting it into your cart ? ' The Kawker stopped. They all stopped. ' Well, you are ripe ! might as well put the sheep in the trams an' gie the powny a lift.' Nevertheless something in Barnacles' face, like the mute pain of a child, caused the hawker to change his mind, and the sheep was lifted into the cart. It staggered and lay down, and never once moved during the journey. Barnacles gave a deep sigh of relief. ' Good little pony,' he said, and patted the hard hide that was galled by the ill-fitting harness. In a little wooden shed in a courtyard behind a house in Cotton Street the pony was stabled and the sheep found a fold. The man watered and fed the pony. ' Will you not, please, give something to the sheep ? ' said Barnacles ; ' she must be starving.' ' What for,' asked the hawker ; ' she '11 be killed the morn. 16 BARNACLES ' Do, please,' urged Barnacles ; ' you can keep the value of it off the pound.' The hawker threw the wearied animal a bundle of hay. ' I am so glad she has a shelter for the night and with a companion. She is accustomed to the open fields, and might have been ill at ease in a stable alone.' ' Hach,' answered the hawker, ' sheep don't think like that. Ye '11 spend less peety when ye come to forty an' hae a wean to feed.' Half an hour later Barnacles, out of breath, put down a handful of silver and copper on the counter of a musicseller in the High Street. * I want to buy the violin in the window marked one pound, but I have only nineteen and ninepence.' The shopkeeper, a wizened little man with grey mutton-chop whiskers, peered at him over his spectacles and shook his head. ' Business is business ; a good sound instrument.' ' I had the money, but I gave threepence to a little boy who was crying with the toothache.' ' Weel ! weel ! ye '11 no' put his toothache on me.' ' But I must have the violin,' answered Barnacles earnestly ; ' I left home early this morning to buy it.' 1 Did ye sae ; an' whaur are ye frae ? ' ' I 'm from Battlemains ; my father is a farmer there.' ' Weel ! weel ! ye look a dacent body ; it ! s no' everybody in the Paisley Philharmonic would walk that far for a fiddle. I '11 tak your word on 't. Ye can pay me the thruppence the next time ye 're in the toon.' As he handed Barnacles the parcel he said, BARNACLES IT * Tak care ye dinna walk ower faur some day for a gee-gaw.' ' If I have no sheep with me,' answered Barnacles, * it does not matter.' The dealer, about to wipe the counter, had his hand arrested. Open-mouthed he peered over his spectacles at Barnacles leaving the shop. The sky looked as brittle as crystal and the stars seemed floating in the air, for the frost had crept back under cloud of night. Barnacles looked up to the cold congregation of frost-bound stars glittering overhead. He was hugging the violin as a mother clasps her first- born in her arms. He felt neither thirst nor hunger nor the fatigue of the journey as he looked to the ancient lights in the heavens. All was beautiful and lofty, because it was a reflection of his own soul. The vexation of the long day vanished in that overarching sea of glory on which his eyes rested. There was a kindred splendour hi the fashioned wood under his arm that made it luminous in the dark. His joy suddenly sobered him. ' I hope I have left no one unhappy to-day by what I 've done,' he spoke aloud. And he thought of the sheep, his lost companion. To-morrow it would be killed. Its bleat was stealing about his heart. ' My God,' he said, raising his eyes again to the shining skies, ' Thou who hast made the beautiful stars and the creatures of the earth, judge me not according as I have done, but according to the desire that is in my B 18 BARNACLES soul for the loveliness of music which Thou also hast created. Glory to Thy name for the wondrous things which Thou hast made.' He wondered, if he should pray for the sheep. , ' For the little humble beasts in the stable among which Jesus was born, O Lord, Thy protection,' he whispered. And the sheep and the pony, music and himself, and the big stars crossing the heavens, all mingled together in one grand drift towards rest. Peace filled the soul of Barnacles. In the midst of the road he stopped, took the brown paper off the fiddle, and began to play softly, ' O gin I were where Gadie rins.' The sacrament of the earth's silence was matched by the grave stars in the profound void. The night mingled with the music as with a child it had begotten, and the gaunt figure of the player swayed as if in the wind of the melody. On and on he played, wandering through a dreamland of shadows, phantasy, and such soft sounds as are heard far off on the beaches of an unattainable sea. Far from the weariness of the day, the heart of this child of Nature was flitting on wings across seas and mountains towards the Golden Land that lies beyond all habitations. The music died away hi the heavens, leaving an echo of invincible beauty and fragrant praise lingering about the player. Again it sobbed from the strings upwards, and the eyes of Barnacles rose with it. What is beyond where the golden sounds melt into light ? Eye hath not seen the exquisite face that is there ; ear cannot hear the full story of that immortal joy and impassioned yearn- ing ; neither can words utter what is beyond, where the BARNACLES 19 song fades in the deeps of the everlasting hills the unplumbed sorrows and hopes hi the breast of man ; the majesty of life ; the pathos of existence ; the grandeur of faith ; and the excellent light which shines as from the face of the Living God. ' Where Gadie rins ; where Gadie rins.' O golden illusion ; cry of heartbreak, dripping tears ! He ceased playing and shook all over. The blue wide eyes stared along the pallid road glimmering away in the infinity of the night, as if it too were winding on and ever to that Never-Never-Land. Suddenly a sheep began bleating across a field. There was a homeless sound in the cry. Barnacles, looking towards it with a wondering sadness in his face, saw a faint surprising moon peering over the top of the low hills. ' The night is late, surely,' he whispered, and stood alert listening for the sheep. But the sheep cried no more ; and Barnacles' heart was filled with joy, he did not know why. He put the violin in his oxter and began to hurry. When he reached home the farmhouse was all dark. A great silence and a great coldness surrounded it, as if some one lay dead within. VI Barnacles had the sight of only one eye. When a boy he had occasion to bore air-holes in a rabbit-hutch, and watching for the tedious pocket-knife to come through the wood, received unexpectedly its point buried in the ball of his left eye. The weal across the eyeball gave 20 BARNACLES to his eye the semblance of a horrible squint. It also caused him to peer at objects which he wished to scrutinise. Standing beside the grandfather's clock at the head of the kitchen bed, he was peering now at the phis of the Irishman's fiddle, which he was dismantling because he had no fund of sheep, and it concerned him to be economical of violin fittings. He had worked the string out of the last pin and had thrown the hulk of the violin on the bed, when Mr. Brocklehurst entered the kitchen with alert step. He was always an agile man. He was home first from his wife's funeral, and when his sons arrived they found him in his working clothes, mending the machinery of the big churn. He was angry to find his son wasting time on a violin so early in the morning, and snapped, 'Ye'd think there was naethin' to do here but ca' a fiddle an' gang jauntin'. Whaur were ye gallivantin' a' yesterday ? ' * I went to Paisley to buy a violin, father.' ' Did ye tak a' the day to the job ? ' * Yes, and the night as well,' said Barnacles, winding the violin string round his fingers in a coil. ' Ay,' sneered Mr. Brocklehurst, ' it 's unco like ye. I wonner npo how lang ye 'd tak to gang round the warld.' ' It depends, father, whether I 'd company on the road.' Barnacles put the coil in his top waistcoat pocket. ' Dod ! he 'd company ; oot wi' the lasses whustlin* to the moon.' Barnacles' face, framed hi a tumult of thick black hair, was pale with the fatigue of yesterday. It suddenly BARNACLES 21 flushed crimson. ' You are wrong ; the company was a sheep.' He kept his eyes downcast. 'Eh? ' The beautiful blue eyes of the son looked up smiling. ' Yes ; blackfaced, playful, refractory, finally wearied, and inclined to lie on the streets of Paisley.' On Mr. Brocklehurst's face incredulity was struggling with suspicion. ' Whaur got ye the sheep ? ' he rapped out. Barnacles pointed through the kitchen window. ' Lifted it ? ' Mr. Brocklehurst asked. He was executing a slow form of dance from leg to leg, and beginning to chew his wiry grey moustache. Barnacles cast a timid look at him. ' No, father : you refused me money for my work ; the sheep was mine.' Mr. Brocklehurst's face was swept with flame. ' Did ye tak a sheep o' mine an' sell 't for a fiddle ? ' The blue eyes of Barnacles became clouded. ' I had no option,' he said in a low voice. ' An' I '11 hae nane, ye fiddlin' gowk, but to clap ye in the jyle,' Mr. Brocklehurst roared. It was this roar which, to the weak-sighted Barnacles who could read no other signs, betrayed that his father was angry. * Very well, father, I am ready to go to prison.' Mr. Brocklehurst was taken aback by this submis- sion. It would not restore the sheep. ' Wha is the resetter ? ' ' Father, I implore you, do not talk so loudly. It will do no good.' ' Wha 's the resetter ? ' said Mr. Brocklehurst with an oath. 22 BARNACLES ' There is no resetter, because the sheep was mine.' The tall thin figure with its stoop, and pale face, and marks of fatigue about the eyes, seemed ready to collapse. Mr. Brocklehurst in a foam of rage was tramping up and down the stone floor. His rage got an instant's ease when his eye fell on the violin on the bed. He seized it. ' It was yours, was it ; an' the lamb inside her as weel.' ' I didn't know of that circumstance,' said Barnacles ; and in a tone of tenderness which drove his father to fury, added, ' poor woolly one, this accounts for your weariness.' * Ye didna ken ; no, ye ken nowt ; nowt, nowt, ye fiddlin' fule.' He swung the instrument aloft and brought it down crashing on the toe of his boot. The neck and part of the body remained in his hand. These he tossed on to the fire, and kicked a splinter at his feet across the floor. Barnacles watched, immovable, in silence. He wiped his spectacles and put them on. ' Ye '11 fiddle nae mair in my hoose ; there 's for your fiddle.' ' I 'm sorry, father, you did that. It was the fiddle I got from Mr. Docherty, and I was going to give it back to him to-day.' ' The Irish cobbler ? ' Mr. Brocklehurst turned his head over his shoulder and glowered at his son. ' Yes ; he 's getting old now and is perhaps cheerless. I 'm sure he is missing his fiddle. It is hard to be old and alone out of one's native land.' Mr. Brocklehurst was not listening. He was roving BARNACLES 23 round the kitchen, fighting a secret sense of shame which came upon him at the vindictive triumph he had achieved over the tawdry instrument of the Irishman. He would have no peace till he had smashed the other. ' Whaur is it ? ' he was like a terrier on the scent. ' I '11 mak short wark o't.' Barnacles was alarmed. The blood rushed to his face, and the blue eyes hardened. He would die before he would see his violin ruined. With the instinct of self-preservation he darted to the kitchen-poker and picked it up. It was a massive piece of steel, brightly polished. He heard his father grunting and rummag- ing in the parlour. The noises in his father's throat sickened him. He ran up the narrow stairs. ' Whaur is that fiddle ? ' he heard his father roar. ' It is here, in my room.' Mr. Brocklehurst also ran up the stair. His son stood in the midst of the bedroom floor, the violin in his left hand, the poker in his right, his face ghastly pale, his body, tense as a bow-string, leaning forward. For a moment father and son looked at one another, Mr. Brocklehurst with a fixity of purpose in his gaze which even Barnacles did not fail to see. The atmo- sphere had suddenly become charged with menace and horror. All at once the silence was broken by the bleat of a sheep. Barnacles drew in a sobbing breath. Mr. Brocklehurst without moving held out his hand, and showed his teeth. ' Hand it ower.' ' Father, I warn you I will defend my violin with my life.' ' By God, ye wull.' 24 BARNACLES Again the terrible silence filled the room. And once more a sheep bleated without. ' little sheep, be quiet, be quiet ! ' said Barnacles in a sob. The sound of his son's voice roused Mr. Brocklehurst. He seemed all at once to be set on springs. With stealthy tip-toe movements he began dodging round his son. Barnacles pivoted round, confronting his father at every turn. ' Go away, go away,' he moaned, ' in case I hurt you.' ' Are ye gaun to gie up the fiddle ? ' Mr. Brocklehurst was now at the far side of the door. ' I could run now,' answered Barnacles, ' but I won't, for you would only torment me in the future.' Mr. Brocklehurst made a leap. Barnacles jumped back and jerked up the poker. It shook in his quiver- ing hand. * No ! no ! no ! ' he sobbed, ' don't, don't ; I will strike you.' Mr. Brocklehurst eyed the steel shining in the spring morning. * Ye wad murder me,' he snarled. ' It might come to that. Go away ! go away, quick ! ' Mr. Brocklehurst was roused to a sense of his danger by the changed face of his son. Its paleness was wet with a fine sweat. The eyes behind the spectacles were gleaming. He was crouching back hugging the violin, like an animal defending its young. * Ye 're your mither's ain son, dour as daith,' he snapped, seeking to escape the humiliation of defeat by traducing his dead wife. * God bless my mother,' answered Barnacles quietly; ' I rejoice in your testimony ' : he lowered the poker. BARNACLES 25 ' Ye dae, dae ye ; weel, just bide her son.' ' I shall never be worthy of her,' said Barnacles. * Nae deot, nae doot ; dae ye unnerstaun' ; ye 're nane son o' mine ; I 've nae need o' ye here, ye sheep- lifter. Be aff wi' ye before I clap ye in jyle.' ' I said already that I am willing to go there.' Mr. Brocklehurst spat contemptuously. ' Ye 're no' worth jyle-room. Go,' he roared ; ' tak the road. Dae ye hear, ye fiddlin' gowk, leave my hoose.' ' I will,' answered Barnacles, ' but not till you leave my room first.' Mr. Brocklehurst tasted the full bitterness of defeat in these words. He had expected the fiddlin' gowk to whine for mercy. Instead he stepped aside and made room for his father to pass. He passed trying to stare down his son, and from the stair-head cried : ' See if your bonnie fiddle will fill your belly when ye 're hungry.' There was no answer. Barnacles had shut the door, and was sobbing face downwards on the bed. One arm was outstretched, clutching the violin. Within an hour he descended. In one hand he carried a violin case ; in the other a small black leather bag. His father was standing near the kitchen fire, looking sullenly into the coals. ' I 've come to say good-bye, father.' Mr. Brocklehurst kept his back to his son. ' Will you not say good-bye, father ? ' Mr. Brocklehurst slowly turned and gazed for a long moment at the haggard face. ' I hope,' he said surlily, ' ye 've lifted nae mair o' my stuff ' ; he nodded grimly at the bag. 26 BARNACLES Barnacles gazed at his father sadly. ' My mother's son does not steal,' he said in a low trembling voice. Then Barnacles left home and again took the road to Paisley. VII Mr. Nicol Gilfillan, a Glasgow banker resident in Paisley, was standing in the Square of that town waiting for a tram-car. He was a tall man of some sixty years and of a handsome appearance, with cheeks the delicate tint of a girl's, a liquid brown eye, and a broad white brow. He was inconspicuously dressed in grey, and though there was a rawness hi the air wore no overcoat. Perhaps it was the simple sartorial appearance of this man, or the air of silent strength about his head and face, which inspired the confidence that prompted the question : ' Please, sir, do you know where I can find work ? ' Mr. Gilfillan turned and saw a tall, ungainly young man in spectacles, with a sallow, mottled face ; a violin- case in one hand and in the other a black bag. He liked the mild blue eye of the youth, and a certain boyish expression on the face of one who seemed to be wandered. * May I ask why you have applied to me ? ' ' You look like a man who would have a job.' Nicol Gilfillan smiled at the naivete\ It also touched his heart. ' Out of a job,' he asked, not without a humorous twinkle. ' I really never had a job in all my life.' BARNACLES 27 Mr. Gilfillan liked still more this frank answer, and said in a jocular tone which brought them nearer to each other than when the conversation began : ' Where did you grow up ? ' ' On the Gleniffer Braes.' ' Aren't you just a little late beginning to work ? ' ' I was at the University.' Mr. Gilfillan, a man by nature tender-hearted and sensitive, suddenly felt he was acting like a school- master or catechist, and that this lad with blue eyes, perhaps ready to fill, was patiently answering questions with weariness in his heart and soul, for he seemed ready to drop. ' Tell me about yourself ; what can you do ? have you no friends at the Gleniffer Braes ? ' ' My father is there. I took one of his sheep to buy this,' he slightly raised the violin-case, ' and he turned me out of the house.' ' An unusual, but not a very handsome testimonial for one looking for a job,' Mr. Gilfillan said in grave tones. Barnacles blushed. ' The sheep was mine ; I worked for it.' * Ah ; yes,' answered Mr. Gilfillan, ' that 's a sheep of another colour.' He was genuinely glad that the answer of this homeless lad bore the conviction of truth. * Pardon me for asking, but is this all you possess ? ' ' Yes,' Barnacles took off his specs and held them in his hand, as if to add to the bulk of his treasure. ' Where are you going to sleep to-night ? ' Barnacles cast a bewildered look round Paisley Square. ' I had not thought of that/ he faltered. ' How many houses there are in this town, and I have nowhere 28 BARNACLES to go.' He turned his gaze from Paisley Square to the sky. It was pure with great spaces of blue and fleeces wandering in the wind. ' I 'm afraid I 'm a wanderer.' Mr. Gilfillan studied the face puckered with childish helplessness, and put his hand in his pocket. ' You will allow me to help you,' he said. He trans- ferred his hand from his trouser pocket to one inside his jacket, and took out a pocket-book from which he drew a piece of cardboard. This with some silver coins he handed to Barnacles and said : ' This is my name and address. I shall be glad if you will call on me any evening after seven, except Wednesdays.' Mr. Gilfillan felt intuitively that something more than a mere invitation for business purposes was the due of this exile. ' I will show you my peach-trees and vines.' His tone was spontaneous and warm. * Thank you,' said Barnacles. ' I should like to see vines on an Italian hill-side in the autumn.' ' You would,' answered the banker, and pulling his moustache, mused upon Barnacles for a moment. ' I have a friend who has been there ; perhaps she will tell you about it.' Barnacles sighed. ' I envy her,' he said. ' You need not,' answered the banker abruptly, and pulled out his watch. He saw the tram-car coming. ' Good luck ' ; he held out his hand. Barnacles flushed. * Will you mind, sir, taking something from me ? ' ' What is it ? ' Barnacles put his violin-case on the pavement, opened the black bag, rummaged, took out a book, and still BARNACLES 29 / stooping handed it to Mr. Gilfillan. He glanced at the title. It was called The Art of Playing the Violin. 1 Is this for me ? ' asked the banker. ' Yes ; if you will have it.' The banker whistled a single note, ending in a 'whew.' ' I 'm afraid I 'm too stiff in the joints to take to the violin,' he laughed. Barnacles rose, his face red from bending, and put out his hand for the book. He scrutinised it. ' It 's the wrong book,' he said, and dived once more into the black bag. This time he produced a thin volume in yellow covers, which he handed to the banker. Mr. Gilfillan read the title, Apology of Socrates. ' Thank you,' said Mr. Gilfillan heartily, and slipped the book into his jacket pocket. The car had stopped a little from them, and as the banker held out his hand, Barnacles, a little tremulous of voice, said, ' Is the lady who has been to Italy in great sorrow ? ' For a fraction of a moment Mr. Gilfillan hesitated ; and then felt sudden shame at suspecting the sincerity of the question. ' Not now/ he answered. ' Good-bye.' Mr. Gilfillan was standing on the footboard : a bell on the car rang. ' By the way,' he cried, ' what is your name ? ' ' Barnacles,' the car was moving . . . ' no, I mean Benjamin Brocklehurst.' But it was only ' Barnacles ' which the banker had heard. . . . ' I met one of God's own innocents this afternoon,' he told his wife when he reached home ; ' his name is Barnacles, and he 's coming here for a job.' He told of the encounter. When he had finished he pondered, looking in at the fire. 80 BARNACLES ' Strange,' he said in measured tones, ' he seemed to divine that Martha had been in trouble.' ' You must have said something to him, Nicol.' Mr. Gilfillan reflected. * No ; except that she had been in Italy.' ' It is queer,' said his wife. After a prolonged silence she added, ' What on earth made you talk about Martha to a stranger ? ' The banker still pondered. ' Blest if I know ; it 's the way he had of talking. Oh ! by the way he gave me a book. Here it is.' Mr. Gilfillan put his hand in his pocket and gave The Apology of Socrates to his wife. She read the title. ' I will give it to Martha,' she said. ' All right,' answered the banker, ' but I 'm going to read it on Sunday.' VHI Barnacles, brought to realise his homelessness by a question of Mr. Gilfillan's, looked round the Square. * I wonder what I am to do now,' he said aloud. There was nothing in his pocket save four violin strings carefully coiled and a violin bridge. He was about to scratch his head with his spectacles a common habit when he discovered money in his hand. Also a piece of cardboard, on which he read : NICOL GILFILLAN, BABSHAW, CASTLEHEAD, PAISLEY. BARNACLES 31 As he read he was aware of a shadow falling upon him. He looked up, and his heart thumped on his ribs as he saw the policeman of yesterday, standing solidly before him. ' Sold the sheep, young fella ? ' ' It is disposed of,' answered Barnacles hi a fluster. The policeman scrutinised the luggage lying at odds on the pavement. The black bag was open. The policeman pointed. ' Do they belong to you ? ' Barnacles pocketed what he had in his hand, and picked up the violin-case. He was at a loss to explain his scattered possessions, and jerked out, ' I got this in exchange for the sheep.' The policeman replied in mild irony, ' This is not a bedroom,' and pointed again to the open black bag. Barnacles closed it and picked it up. * Do you know,' he asked mildly, ' where I will get work ? ' ' Are you on the hoof ? ' ' I beg your pardon.' ' Down on your luck ; out o' a job.' ' That is my predicament.' The policeman ran his eye over Barnacles. ' Can you write an' read an' figger ? ' ' A little.' ' Try the force ; you 've got the height ; have you any influence ? ' ' None hi the world.' ' Oh ! well ; you 're no use without it nowadays. If you 're a good hand wi' the pen you may have a chance.' The policeman nodded, not unkindly, and moved off. 82 BARNACLES Barnacles walked aimlessly in the opposite direction. After he had been walking some time he stopped in the middle of a street and said to himself : ' Dear me ! I am folio whig the sheep.' He walked on to the stable of yester-evening. It was closed blankly in his face and was silent within. He put his available eye to one of three keyholes in a scarred door and peered. He could see nothing. ' I 'm afraid the sheep is dead,' he said to the door, and walked sadly out of the yard. This street was fertile in certain industries. Over a close-mouth beside Barnacles was a sign RAG, WASTE, AND METAL MERCHANT JOBBING SMITH. The close itself was scarcely broader than a stout woman. The front of the houses was full of little windows, each window about a yard apart. To the weak-sighted Barnacles the low tenements looked like a dove-cob. He moved up the street past another close-mouth adorned with two Corinthian pillars, relics of an ancient grandeur when men of substance lived in the environment of the abbey. Beyond this there was another sign RAGS AND METAL BOUGHT BEST PARAFFIN OIL beneath which the window, which contained a pair of skates, a broken clock, brass candlesticks, and pewter teapots, struggled to keep the air of a shop divorced from a dwelling. At its door stood a red-faced woman in a tartan shawl. ' Can you please tell me,' asked Barnacles, ' where a man who sells fish lives hereabouts ? ' BARNACLES 38 The woman took her fingers out of her hair. ' Are ye a freend ? ' she asked. ' No, not exactly.' ' An' whaur are ye frae. if I 'm no' too bold ? ' ' From Battlemains on the Gleniffer Braes.' * I didna ken Skeily was acquent there. It '11 be him ye 're aifter.' * I don't know his name. He has a pony.' ' Ay ! that 's him ; a wee blin' grey powny.' She folded her arms beneath pendulous breasts. ' Ye '11 be related to his wife that 's deid an' gone ? ' ' No,' answered Barnacles ; ' will you please tell me where he lives ? ' ' No. 21 ; through the close ; up the stair ; him an' blin' Ned bide on the ae stair-heid ; is 't ludgins ye 're aifter ? ' ' I am at present a wanderer,' answered Barnacles, and continued his search for a roof. He entered close No. 21. Here the street looked better, like a pair of boots half -soled. The little shops were not dwelling-houses with a sign over the door or the window. On the left-hand side of close No. 21 was a wooden door with a big brass plate on which was engraved the words FUNERAL UNDERTAKER. The close opened unexpectedly into a courtyard on which the windows at the back of the house looked down. On one of these windows was printed LOAN OFFICE. LIBERAL ADVANCES MADE ON WRINGING AND SEWING MACHINES. On another SLATER AND SWEEP. Three spiral stairs led up to three separate doors. c 84 BARNACLES Some children were seated on the ground beside three young men. The men had been playing cards, and each child had taken turn to watch for the police. Barnacles, puzzled by the stairs, asked for Mr. Skelly's house. He was directed to the middle stair. At the top of it there was a sink smelling badly, and a passage floored with wood. This floor had many holes, in one of which Barnacles tripped. He brought himself up betwixt two doors near the end of the passage. He knocked on the one on the right. It was opened by a little stunted boy of some seven or perhaps nine years, it was difficult to tell, so pitiably thin he was, with a white face and big eyes. There were sores on his face. Barnacles smiled sweetly on the boy and said : ' May I come in ? ' A voice which he recognised shouted, ' Ay ! if ye 're no' the factor.' Barnacles stooping entered. The fish-hawker was seated on a stool at the window mending a little pair of boots. An old man with a long white beard and side whiskers and snow-white hair sat over the embers of a fire. He gazed at Barnacles for a moment, then turned and spread his blue-veined hands over the fire. Barnacles put down his baggage on the floor and said : ' It 's a strange town this, Mr. Skelly. You leave the High Street and the Square and in a few minutes you are among the little shops of the rag stores.' ' Ay,' answered Skelly, laying down the boot, ' we 're the scavengers o' Paisley here ; us an' the Cart ; we gether in the cast-offs o' Castleheid.' * Castlehead,' mused Barnacles, * I seem to remember that name.' BARNACLES 35 ' It 's whaur the swells bide,' said Skelly. Barnacles, vainly searching in his memory for the springs of Castlehead, noticed the little boy crouched between his father's legs, his big dumb eyes staring out of his white face like dark stars glowing in a sky of alabaster. The puzzled look on Barnacles' face gave way to a smile. ' Is your toothache better, my wee man ? ' The boy drew farther into the shelter of his father. * Speak to the gentleman,' said the fish-hawker ; ' this is the man that gied ye the pennies.' The boy turned and hid his face against his father's shoulder. 'He hasna stopped speakin' aboot ye since he waukened ' ; the boy began plucking at his father's coat, earnestly beseeching him by signs not to betray anything further. ' I 'm glad if I made him happy,' said Barnacles, and his face became radiant. ' Ye did that ; ye 're the first that ever gied him ony thing.' Barnacles was amazed. He would have been more astonished still had he known that his simple act of kindness had made of the fish-hawker a steadfast friend. Those who live in the midst of constant vicissitude and struggle put heaven's value on a kind deed. The fish-hawker picked up the little boot again and was examining it in the light of the window over the boy's head. ' Can you mend shoes ? ' asked Barnacles. ' Hae to do it.' ' Strange,' said Barnacles, ' it was a shoemaker 86 BARNACLES taught me to play the violin, and through a violin I came to meet you.' Before the fish-hawker was able to reply, the old man turned and looked at Barnacles. * Are ye a scholar ? ' he quavered. ' I have been at the University.' * Hae ye sae,' asked the fish-hawker, a smile quicken- ing his face. Barnacles liked the smile. This poor man was rejoicing in the good fortune which he had enjoyed hi studying at the University. Barnacles had a sense of shame that he was incapable of such unselfishness, and felt there was something big and protecting in the fish-hawker. The old man arose, his body trembling with both age and excitement. ' May be,' he quavered, ' ye could win for me my auld-age pension.' ' Are you the age ; I will help you all I can.' ' I 'm ower seveenty,' he sighed deeply ; ' the log's runnin' oot fast ; ninety degrees West is the Port ; let go the anchor, Mr. Mate ; ninety West an' the sun goes doon ' ' Noo, noo, faither, nane o' that argle-bargle.' The old man put on an apologetic face, and crouched back like a wounded bird which tries to conceal itself. Casting a sidelong glance of both timidity and spying at his son, he hirpled to a large black trunk, whose lid was studded with iron-heads, which stood against the wall between the foot of the set-in-bed and the door. When he lifted up the lid, Barnacles saw the name Hector Cochran ornately carved with foreign devices inside the lid. The letters A.B. had been scratched in BARNACLES 87 after the word Cochran. There was also a crude paint- ing of a full-rigged ship. ' Have you been a seaman ? ' asked Barnacles. * Ay,' a light flashed "across the faded face, ' round the Horn.' He sidled up to Barnacles, and in a trem- bling voice whispered, ' Nae rent to pay in the fo'c'sle- heid.' He looked over his shoulder with the air of a hunted animal. ' I 'm no' wastin' the fire when I 'm sittin' at it ; it wad be burnin' onywy.' He whispered these words to Barnacles as if to a fellow-conspirator, then dived down and with an air of great busyness took from a drawer in the trunk a little parcel in tissue paper bound about with a faded pink ribbon. The atmosphere, which had been gloomy, had now become dark, and thunder sounded in the distance like a great wind. The old seaman, who was undoing the tissue paper with palsied hand, raised his head. ' It 's goin' to blow, Mr. Mate,' he cried in a sharp tone, ' look away to leeward . . .' He was interrupted by Skelly laughing and saying : * Dinna heed him. Whiles he thinks he 's a captain at sea. You never heard such a clash o' nonsense as he talks.' The rain broke on the street and crashed on the window. The old man, almost doubled, made a little dart towards his son. ' It 's a wild day, SkeUy ; I don't think I '11 bide at the close-mooth the nicht.' ' If ye daur,' answered Skelly, shaking a hammer at him, ' I '11 put the hems on ye.' The old man trotted back to Barnacles, and began fumbling with the tissue paper. ' Did ye hear thon ? ' he whispered ; ' I '11 no bide at 38 BARNACLES the close the nicht ; he '11 put the hems on me if I dae ; is he no' the guid son ? ' Barnacles was astonished no less at the glad light on the old man's face than at his words. He appeared to be released from the ' close-mouth ' as from a dire vigil. ' What is it you do at the close-mouth ? ' asked Barnacles. With an intensity of passion surprising for his years, he whispered, ' I hate it ! man, I hate it ! is he no' the guid son ? I '11 just sit doon at the fire-en'. The coal wad be burnin' onywy.' He had taken out a yellow tattered document from the folds of the tissue paper. * If I win my auld-age pension,' he whispered, at the same time casting his half sly, half timid glance at Skelly, ' I '11 be independent. I can bide at the fire-en', can I no' ; man, I hate the close.' He had opened up the document. It was pieced together with stamp paper, which cracked under the tremulous fingers. As Barnacles looked, a clear drop fell upon a woman's name written on the paper Mary Rutherford. The old man gazed upon it a moment, and wiped the tear away. * It 's my mairraige-lines,' he said. His eyes shone with hope as he handed the docu- ment to Barnacles. ' I '11 maybe hae some trouble,' he quavered. ' I 've some o' my discharges here.' ' Never mind these,' said Barnacles. * I think you can make your mind easy.' His dream about to be realised, shook the old man with excitement. ' My mairraige-lines ; they '11 show BARNACLES 39 I 'm a respectable man and was mairrit on a dacent wumman. We had a hoose o' oor ain. I wasna aye beholden for a corner at the fire ; but I '11 be inde- pendent noo. Mary 'ill stand by me.' All this he kept whispering in a low broken voice. He shot a glance at his son, who was paring a leather-sole with his knife and cried out loudly, ' It 's clearin' away again, Mr. Mate ; hold her to the s'uthard ; pass the word to the helmsman,' and he continued to babble strange names of far lands, dead captains and lost ships, till it seemed to Barnacles that the factory chimneys of Paisley, which rose against the grey sky, were the masts of ships, and the rigging was humming in the wind of the back-court, and the earnestness of a gale was driving salt water hi sprays upon the window. ' Is he no' the blether ? ' said Skelly, laughing again. ' I like when he laughs,' whispered the old man to Barnacles, ' I like to hear Skelly laughin'.' The light of unwearied paternal affection shone upon his face. As Barnacles looked at him so illumined with affection, he felt a lump rising in his throat. He was unable properly to control his voice. ' If you will give me this paper,' the rest of the words came away with a rush, ' I will find the official who looks after these things.' The old man brushed back his thin white hair. ' It was God sent you here,' he said. ' I think it was,' answered Barnacles after a moment's reflection on the manner in which his footsteps had been guided by a sheep. . . . When Barnacles reached the courtyard he remem- bered that he had not told these good people why he had visited them. He went back. 40 BARNACLES ' My friend/ he said to Skelly, ' I forgot to tell you that I came here because I have no money and am looking for work.' The fish-hawker was not unacquaint with men in such a case. He reflected a moment. ' I sold the sheep for twenty-seeven an' six. I '11 gie ye the seeven an' six.' ' No, no,' said Barnacles in a distressed voice, ' I will not take the money. I hope to get a job as policeman ; it 's what to do till then ; I 'm a stranger in Paisley.' ' Stay here an' welcome.' The old man made a little run towards Barnacles. ' Did ye hear that ? is he no' the guid son ? ye '11 no' waste the fire by sittin' at the fire-en',' he whispered in a tremulously eager voice, ' it wad be burnin' ony- wy. That 's what I aye think.' ' Thank you very much,' answered Barnacles, ' it 's a great relief.' * You 're welcome,' laughed Skelly ; and in a bantering tone, ' It 's a kittly sort o' job, a bobby's ; geyan lang oors ; staunin' hauf the day daein' naethin' but gantin' intae your haun ; it 's cruel work for ony man. They 're no' hained I can tell ye ; Sunday as weel. They canna dae withoot bobbies in Scotland even when the kirk-bells are ringin'.' * It is remarkable,' answered Barnacles, ' in the twentieth century.' ' Me an' you 'ill be snog an' cosy at the fire-en',' whispered the old seaman as Barnacles turned to go the second time. As he was on the stair-head he heard the old man's voice raised : ' All snug aloft, Mr. Mate, out reefs. Do you remember BARNACLES 41 the Evandene, from Sydney ? bad winter weather off the Spanish coast ; not a glimpse of the land ; boring through it ; sails blew out, adrift ; flooded deck . . .' and Skelly's voice, ' Never mind the Evandene, faither ; put on the kettle for the gentleman's tea.' When Barnacles reached the street the rain had ceased but was dripping from the eaves. He lifted a smiling face to the clearing heavens. He was thinking of the tenderness and devotion which had wrapped the faded marriage-lines in tissue paper, and of the faith which the aged seaman had in his dead wife. IX This old man had lived with his son from the time that Skelly went to the Boer War in the Scots Fusiliers, and from which he returned with a weal on his face, a bullet wound in the leg, and high commendation for his skill and heroism in serving a maxim. On his return he found that his wife was dead and that he had a son. His father, mindful of Skelly in the midst of the battles, had called the child Kitchener Cochran, and shrinking, as if he were about to be beaten, apologised for giving the boy this warrior-name. He was always in a state of shrinking timidity, this little old hunched-up man whom no one took any notice of as he crept about Paisley from Cotton Street to the Coffin End, in jerks and starts as if the shadow of a foe were constantly upon him. He was friendless save for a blind man who lived on the same stair-head. This blind man tried to support his mother by adding to the earnings of his brother, who tended the furnaces 42 BARNACLES of a small moulding shop. The blind brother, with a tin placard suspended from his neck on which was printed KIND FRIENDS BLIND FROM BIRTH sought for alms chiefly on the bridges of the town, where he stood all day like a monument under the inclemency of the skies. Hector the seaman and his blind companion met in the evenings at the close-mouth, and the mariner recounted to the other wanderer old adventures on the deep, taking him from hot harbour to frozen port around the seaboard of the world. The blind man then told of that other dark ocean where he lived, and of how the ship of his soul adventured with frigate daring along the shores of humanity, from which he heard wafted out to him on his dark sea laughter like a calm, sobbing as rain, and the storms of rage and anger. ' I wish I could see, Hector, I wish I could see,' he would say when the faded mariner enchanted him with strange things concerning the high places of the earth. * Never mind, Ned, never mind ; if ye 'd your sight an' were a sailor ye micht hae been drooned. Mony a mate I had that never came back. Better to be blin' in Paisla' than lyin' oot yonder on wild nichts at the bottom o' the gales.' ' I winna heed,' answered Ned, ' if only I saw. What 's a crood o' folk like walkin' hi the High Street ? ' ' Like a wheen peacocks an' jeckdaws, the ane tryin' to be bigger than the tither. They haena the fear o' God in them,' the old mariner would answer tartly. Commonly, however, he was alone, even in the house into which he would come as if he were a stranger ; and BARNACLES 43 only after he had been there a very long time did a certain wary look leave his face. At first he would sit down as if ready to bolt, and eye Skelly apprehensively, as if asking his permission to stay. By stealth he would remove his seaman's cap, nursing it in his hands till he managed with noiseless movement to throw it on the bed or beneath a chair. This afforded him great relief. He felt he was more of an inmate when rid of the cap, and the smile of senile obsequiousness would fade off his face. If by chance Skelly spoke to him his face would light up with joy, his hands would begin to tremble, and he would pour forth a torrent of in- coherent phrases about the sea, mingled with the high names of big ships. This demeanour had grown from the days when he realised that he was a dependent. His pride had broken as his body grew enfeebled. Only on one day of the week was he bold, for on Saturday he earned a little money by washing tumblers and carrying loaded trays in a large public-house. Sometimes if Skelly was busy or preoccupied, the old man would quietly leave the room, trying to suppress his sighs, and after wandering in the streets till he was fatigued, would stand in the close-mouth wearily watching the passers-by. About ten o'clock he would be shivering with the cold, and would cast long glances up the close, muttering, ' I wadna be wastin' the fire if I was sittin* at it ; it wad be there onywy.' He trembled when he heard a footstep on the pavement, for the question was always the same, ' Not home yet, Hector/ or ' It 's a caul' nicht to be oot ' ; and he would pipe up as cheerily as he could, ' I 'm just new oot,' or ' I like a bit dander afore I go to bed.' Quite often Skelly would coine hi search of him. 44 BARNACLES ' What hi a' the warld are ye doin', faither ? Dae ye no' ken it 's aifter ten ? ' ' Aifter ten ; shairely no ; ca' the watch,' and like a child running at the summons of the school-bell, he would shuffle up the close crying, ' I 'd scarcely time to tak a breath o' fresh air, Skelly.' ' Hach,' answers Skelly, going on in front, ' you an' your fresh air ; I think ye 're leevin' on 't.' ' Weel ! weel ! the morn's nicht I '11 bide in.' But when to-morrow night came he felt as much as ever an intruder. Perhaps Skelly would happen to catch him going out. ' Whaur noo, faither ; whaur awa noo ? ' With a humble smile the old man would hesitate in the midst of the floor and slip off his cap. ' I '11 maybe bide in the nicht,' and in a louder voice brimming with glee : ' Ready, Mr. Mate, with the anchor : let go.' ' Ye 'd be as weel, faither ; I canna onnerstaun whit ye dae doon at the close.' ' Ay ! ay ! ye 're richt, Skelly ; it 's only a lee shore on a wet nicht, the close-mooth.' Already he would be unlacing his boots, and a bird of joy would be singing hi his breast. He was inordinately fond of Skelly, and went out nearly every day searching the streets and listening for the bell with which Skelly summoned his customers. He would peer round corners before trusting his person in the open lest he come on his son unawares. When he caught sight of the grey pony he would watch afar off, dodging in and out of closes, and all the tune follow- ing Skelly's trafficking with anxious intent. Once as he stood in a short street blinking round the corner, BARNACLES 45 Skelly came round the corner at the other end, and before the old man was aware the bell rang at his neck. He turned with a scared face, and his confusion was so great that he became dumb. ' What are ye doin' here, faither ? ' He grew more and more confused. He tried to say he was just out for a bit dander, but the words would not come. ' Hach,' said Skelly, ' you 're shiverin' wi' caul' ; gae awa hame.' After he had hobbled along for a dozen yards he turned back and burst out : ' Skelly, I was lookin' for a shop that sells peeries for wee Kitchener.' ' Hach ! never heed peeries.' Skelly wrapped a whiting and two haddock in a sheet of newspaper, ' Tak hame thae fush an' hae them ready for the tea.' For a week after this he was scared of spying, and sat like a stone in one of the seats in Dunn Square, wondering all the time where Skelly would be now^ and if the sales were good. He always shivered when he saw his son ring the bell and no one came to the cart. In a little while perhaps there would be one, two, three, a crowd of women round the cart. How the old man's eyes would light up ! He would rub his hands and hop from foot to foot, thinking all the time, ' Skelly will be pleased.' He wanted to cry to every woman in the street to go to the cart and buy fish. When he attended from afar on one of Skelly's good days, he would walk home as dignified as an admiral, smoothing down his clothes, and with a tremendous smile of satisfaction, whispering to himself, ' Skelly will be pleased ; Skelly is the boy.' He was a broken old man no longer then, 46 BARNACLES but cheerily spoke to every one he met, even to the red-haired undertaker in the close, whom he disliked, using the grandest sea-terms and smiling from face to face. He made a point of ' bidin' at hame ' that evening. ' Trade good the day, Skelly ? ' he would venture. * Tip -top, faither.' * Ay ! ay ! caught the Trades,' he would chirp quite boldly. ' I caught the trade onywy,' and the joy in the old man's heart could not be hidden on his face as he heard his son laugh. ' I like to hear Skelly laughin' better nor onything in the world,' he would whisper to himself. On such a night he would become quite daring, and never dream of creeping out of doors. He would even pick up a boot and a last, and cackle that it was time he was doing something. If Skelly told him, even with solicitude, ' you canna manage that, faither,' his face would turn foolish, and he would put down the boot, keeping his back to his son as he tried mightily to regain his composure. But the gods are kind to the patient. Skelly would perhaps say, ' You micht wash up the dishes, faither : I 'm a wee thrang the nicht.' And the old man was reprieved. The kitchen had suddenly become a home as he began splashing in the jaw-box. Soon he was wheezing snatches of a sea-chantey. Skelly would look up. ' Gie 's the tither ane, faither ' and then ' Times are bad an' wages low, Leave her, Johnnie, leave her ' ; and the heart of Hector Cochran jumping for joy as he sang to his son. . . . BARNACLES 47 More than ever to-night it leapt for joy, for this man Barnacles was going to get him his pension. He would be independent. He could help Skelly. He could buy the world. This Barnacles was an angel of light. The Pension Officer, though an official, was neither cold nor dry hi manner. He was not even precise. The fact is he had aged parents who also enjoyed the bounty of the Government. Constantly licking his lips with his tongue, he examined the document Barnacles offered, and said he must see Mr. Cochran. At the same time he asked Barnacles if it were true that the Paisley races were to be revived. ' What races ? ' asked Barnacles. ' Horses.' 'Oh! I don't know.' ' Thought you might. You have an air. P'raps it is the specks.' ' Could I get work there ? ' said Barnacles, leaning eagerly forward. ' Work ; it isn't work ; it 's betting, gambling, cheering, waving your hat, excitement ; two to one bar one on the field ; you understand ' : the official made a smacking noise with his tongue. ' I think I shall go away,' answered Barnacles, ' I have to look for a job.' He stood on the pavement without and looked at the sky. ' Dear me,' he murmured, ' life here is very confused ; waving your hat ; excitement ; two to one on the field.' 48 BARNACLES Barnacles took his off and mopped his forehead. He went to the Police Station, and looking at the fine castellated edifice, thought he should like very much to work there. It was a great blow to him to be told by a jesting lieutenant of police, that however noble it is to be single-eyed metaphorically, it has its disadvantages viewed literally. ' I am sorry I can only see with one eye,' said Bar- nacles. The way he answered touched the heart of the lieutenant, who stopped jesting, and bade him good-bye with the utmost respect. Happy Barnacles ! He did not peep at the police- men he passed with even the littlest pang of envy. Happy Barnacles, taking every new blow as if it were the first, his misfortune no more to him than a fall to a child who in a little rises, his tears gone, his pain forgotten, and his eyes open to nature again. When he returned to Skelly's he found the seaman in the greatest state of excitement. He ran to Barnacles at once. ' Thank ye, thank ye, my freend ; the pension skipper was here ; I 'm to get five shillings a week. Is my mind right, Skelly five shillings every week round the compass. Got o' the doldrums at last. An' I hae the mairraige-lines safe happit in the kist. Thank ye, thank ye.' He could not keep still, but was running about the floor. ' Thank ye ; what 's your name ? I don't mind.' ' Barnacles,' said Barnacles. The old man stopped in the midst of this hilarity. ' Barnacles, eh ! are ye a sailor ? ' ' No ! I 'm nothing as yet.' The brave tone did not deceive Skelly. He looked up, dripping knife in hand, from frying black puddings. BARNACLES 49 ' Did ye go to the jyle ? ' ' Ay me/ said Barnacles, ' I can only see with one eye.' ' Damn it ! ' ejaculated Skelly, ' there 's a wheen bobbies canna see wi' their twa.' The ancient mariner approached Barnacles and whispered sympathetically : ' Dinna heed ; tak aff your hat ; mak yersel at hame.' As Barnacles meekly took off his hat the seaman slyly whipped it out of his hand and deftly jerked it on to the bed. ' There noo/ the whisper grew more tense, ' ye 're a' richt.' He then raised his voice shrilly, ' What '11 he dae noo, Skelly ; let go his anchor,' and lowering his voice again to Barnacles, ' dinna be feart or blate ; I hae the pension.' Barnacles, smiling at the excited old man, said, ' What I would like to do now, if you don't mind, is to play the violin.' The old man burst out gleefully : ' Is this no' the hoose ? I 'm gaun to bide in the nicht, Skelly ; the close is caul' an' draughty. All snug aloft, Mr. Mate. . . .' At this moment a precious tissue of sound began to embroider the dingy room as with cloth-of-gold. The eyes of the player saw neither walls nor frowsy house across the street. Skelly had left the frying-pan and was sitting on the edge of the jaw-box. Now and again he hummed between his teeth. He was holding his head perceptibly higher. Hector the seaman stood immediately in front of Barnacles, gazing at him as if he were the ghostly commander of the Flying Dutchman. The boy had crept to Barnacles' side, and was looking up open-mouthed at the gleaming back of the violin. D 50 BARNACLES Barnacles had again met with misfortune ; but about him nevertheless were strains of a triumphant music. The squalid room was flooded with a mighty magnifi- cence of melody. It was glowing like fire, soaring with inspiration, swelling with beauty. It melted away, and as it was about to die it breathed out the haunting air of ' The Auld Hoose.' Once, twice he played it, touching holiness, sobbing sorrow for what was and is no more. It ceased. The poor room had yet a holy breathing in it, the vibration of angels' wings. Barnacles, pale and all shaken, was conscious of a voice, and saw the figure of an old man with thin white hair before him. ' That was the auld hoose whaur my mother bided, an' I was a wee cullan. There was no hard times ; there werena caul' closes ; it was the auld hoose ; it 's a' by noo.' ' No, no,' said Barnacles, pale yet with ecstasy. ' It is all yet to be. He will say, " Come, you old seaman who have stood on the stormy deck, I have a haven ; come, you poor old man, there are no straitened circumstances with Me." Barnacles raised his arm and pointed upwards with the violin, ' There are no cold closes, no single apartments there. Poor mortals who have to pay for everything here in money or tears or blood, you will pay nothing there. It is a place of many mansions rent-free ' ; his voice rose full and swelling, ' Christ has paid the rent long, long ago.' His arm dropped to his side. No one spoke. They seemed to be waiting for something some answer. All at once the silence was broken by the child, who tentatively put out a finger and touched a trembling string to life. The action of the boy and the twang of BARNACLES 51 the string broke the spell. The boy felt this, and backed away scared. * Do it again, little man/ and Barnacles held the violin towards wee Kitchener. ' Wull ye be angry ? ' a hand hesitated in the air. Barnacles smiled down on the white eager face, and the smile reached the boy's heart. The thin fingers began plucking at the strings. As Barnacles patiently held the violin he was conscious that a presence was lacking hi the room one brooding and beneficent. ' Has he no mother ? ' asked Barnacles. Skelly, who was again at the frying-pan, said over his shoulder, ' She 's deid an' gone lang syne.' Barnacles suddenly stooped and kissed the boy. ' You and me are to be chums,' he said. Wee Kitchener gave him a shy smile, and held out a bolder hand towards the violin strings. When they had sat down to the tea and black puddings, Barnacles said to Skelly : ' Do you sell fish because your father was at sea ? ' ' No,' answered Skelly, bursting out laughing, ' I couldna get a job when I cam hame frae the Boer War.' ' It is a confused world,' said Barnacles in a com- miserating tone, ' and so far as I know you have no violin like me to cheer and console you.' ' Hach,' spluttered the reservist, ' we micht be waur aff. I hae my pension. The Aibbey minister signs a blue paper for me every quarter, an' the money's in my haun. It 's the winter taks it oot o' ye trampin' in the rain. I got a bit o' a wound in the leg an' whiles it bites ; but we micht be waur. An' noo farther has got his pension we '11 be a' richt. We 're obliged to ye for lookin' aifter it.' 52 BARNACLES The reference to his pension roused the old man. ' It 's been runnin' through my heid, Skelly, that I hae gotten my pension at lee-lang last.' ' Ay,' said Skelly, ' I doot ye hae.' ' An' him there that wan it for me is oot o' a job.' ' Ay, faither.' 'It was runnin' through my heid keepin' time wi' the tune that I '11 gie him mine's. I dinna need it noo that I 'm independent, dae I, Skelly ? ' ' I doot no, faither.' ' What dae ye say ? your name 's slippit me again ; what 's your mind ? Ye 've lost your deid reckonm' ; will ye tak my bit job till ye haul on your ain course again ? ' ' No, no ; I can't take the bread out of your mouth.' ' It wasna breid,' snorted the old man, * it was nae mair nor hardtack. I 'm scaured o' my life onywy at the wark, am I no', Skelly ? ' ' Ye are,' said Skelly in a merry tone. ' What is it you do ? you are so old,' said Barnacles. ' Scoor glesses an' tumblers in a public-hoose on Setterday nichts.' ' I don't quite understand,' said Barnacles. Hector the seaman was getting quite excited again. He had never had such a splendid conversation for years even with blind Ned. ' Weel,' he drew his fingers through his hair, ' Macaffer took me on years ago for a chucker-out ; puttin' oot drunk men when they were makin' a noise. Nooadays I couldna chuck oot a flea ; but I 'm handy cairryin' roond the glesses an' wipin' the tables. When I ax them to gang awa hame an' no' be makin' a noise they respec' me an' they gang. But whiles I 'm feart some- body as doesna ken me 'ill gie me a clout on the jaw. BARNACLES 58 Ay ! I '11 gie up noo. Is it no' runnin' through my held that I hae gotten my pension. Come doon on Setterday nicht at ten o'clock, an' I '11 speak to the foreman for ye. They '11 think twice afore they stairt in to cloor the likes o' you.' ' I shall be very glad,' said Barnacles. He pondered a moment and added gravely, ' I think you were right to-day when you said it was God brought me here.' ' Ay,' answered the old man. ' He has led me over the stormy seas, an' brought me safe to hairbour.' He turned to his son, ' I '11 bide in the nicht, Skelly ; it 's caul' in the close ' ; and again to Barnacles, ' Folk in Paisla* an* the big toons dinna fear God. They '11 never learn to say their prayers till they 're on the top- gallants off the Horn amang the sleet an' snow. It 's thon that '11 put the fear o' God into them.' . . . Skelly got up, saying he must go and look to the pony. ' I 've an early start the morn,' he said. He had to be up before six o'clock, and drive into Glasgow to be at the Fish Market when it opened. The old man was overjoyed. Barnacles and he were left to clear the table and clean the dishes. The old man sang and chattered, rolling out his sea-jargon with extreme volubility. In the midst of all this a tap-tapping of a stick was heard in the passage, and a hand feeling over the door. ' It 's blin' Ned,' chirped the old man. Next moment the blind man was in the room, where he had never been before, asking if he too might hear the violin. Skelly returned. Barnacles played on through the gathering dusk, with wee Kitchener close at his side, until Skelly putting a penny in the slot lit the gas. 54 BARNACLES Then Barnacles put the violin away, drew his black portmanteau from beneath the bed, took out a book, and without introduction began to read aloud the first tale from The Arabian Nights. The stick of the blind man was at rest. Wee Kitchener crept to his father's knee ; Hector the sea- man forgot the cold close ; Skelly the nipping of his wound. No one heard the rain on the window or the wind moaning in the dark courtyard below. XI It was ' pay Saturday,' a night of trial for Hector the seaman. His back was aching, his knees trembling. Every time he looked at the clock he whispered, ' It '11 soon be ten ; I hae got my pension ; I '11 never cairry another tray aifter the nicht.' He had a cloth over his shoulders with which to dry the tables and wipe the glasses. It was the badge of his servitude. Since seven o'clock, when tea was over, and the foot- ball matches were brought into judgment at the bar, he had been kept running. It was now nine o'clock. The public-house was full of smoke, talk, the clinking of glasses : the bar full of men ; the tables all occupied. Hector, carrying a loaded tray, collided with a drunk and noisy young man. Only by the greatest dexterity, the fruit of long practice, had he saved a smash. He dodged to this side and that imploring : ' Hae some sense, man, an' let me by.' 'No! but I '11 hae a drink.' Hector was unable to defend his trust. A hand BARNACLES 55 pounced on the tray and seized a glass. If the scene continued, all chance of bringing the man who had played the violin and got him his pension into suc- cession would vanish. He was to ask for this job to-night. Thoroughly frightened, he sought to dodge the hilarious corsair who hung upon the tray. ' Man ! man ! what dae ye want followin' me like a wee dog ? ' he said almost in despair. ' I want-sh a drink-sh.' * Let me alane ; I 'm only an auld man ; it 's no* my whisky.' ' You be damned see-sh ane o' thae.' One of Paisley's engineers who had been working overtime entered the public-house and took in the scene as he crossed to the bar. ' Here you,' he grunted, ' let the auld chap alane.' ' Who-sh inter niter f ersh with you damn black-sh face.' The wet cloth was plucked off Hector's shoulder and flung hi the face of the bully. ' Let that cool yours onywy,' said the engineer. A row started. The foreman came from behind the bar, and catching the pirate by the shoulders pushed him towards the door. As he was being ejected he screamed at Hector : ' By God, I '11 eat ye when I lay hand-sh lay hand-sh ' The corners of Hector's lips drooped as he went about his duties. He stole many glances at the foreman. Could he ever get the job now for Barnacles ? If not, he would be ashamed to go home. And the bully would be waiting for him in the street. Twice he tried to ask the protection of men about the bar, but his 56 BARNACLES courage failed him. He hoped he would not be badly hurt. What would Skelly say ? He was feeling sick a palpitation like a hammer was in his side. The bar emptied. The lights were put out one by one, and the place became mournful and vast. He could scarce sweep away the sawdust round the bar. At last he was finished, and sank down at one of the tables faint and breathless. He heard the front door being locked and barred, and the chink, chink of money being counted. This made him think of his pension, and a faint smile stole across his face. The foreman came towards him ; and his heart began to beat faster than ever. He was forced to press it down with his hand. ' Not feeling well, Hector ? ' ' No,' he managed to whisper. ' I 've a wee kin' o' pain in the side. My hert 's beatin' ' The foreman went away. Hector closed his eyes. Was his pension too late after all ? ' Drink this, Hector ; it '11 put some smeddum hi ye.' He opened his eyes and saw the foreman offering him a glass. He could scarce believe it. ' Ye 're waitin' on me,' he whispered incredulously. He drank the brandy, and it revived him wondrously. ' See here, Hector,' the foreman spoke hi a kindly voice and laid a hand on his shoulder, ' your waiting days are by ; it 's time you were getting a rest.' This was his chance. His heart leaped up. ' If ye winna objec' there 's a freen o' mine I wad like to put in a word for.' ' All right, Hector ; who is he ? ' Hector was puzzled. ' He got me my auld-age pension,' and he advocated BARNACLES 57 eagerly, ' he plays the fiddle like a lord, an' reads story- books, an' an' he has the fear o' God in him.' The foreman smiled. ' Tell him to come and see me on Monday. Have you got your pension ? ' * I hae, God be thankit ! I 've weathered the Hungry Forties at lee-lang last.' He tottered to his feet. The foreman pressed a parcel into his hands. ' A presentation, Hector, for long years of faithful service.' Seeing the ready tears of those unaccustomed to kindnesses, he added, ' Hoots, man ; it 's only a few sandwiches and pies ; they 'd be hard by Monday.' And as he handed the old man his pay he gave him also a small bottle of brandy. ' Take a wee drop when you feel bad, Hector.' Hector the seaman, overwhelmed by this kindness, left the public-house by the back door, forgetting all about his enemy. He was wiping his eyes as he peered down at the steps, and was clutching the parcel to his breast. XII There was no inimical face in sight ; and he shuffled along, his heart high, his parcel under his arm. The thoroughfare was bright and full of the Saturday night people artisans out with their wives ; women shopping ; groups of young girls all of them uncon- sciously enjoying that freedom which is defended from the drudgery of Monday by the buffer day of Sunday. There was a holiday air abroad, and the night itself was gentle. 58 BARNACLES A good way up the street a crowd had gathered. Hector at first thought some one had had an accident ; but coming nearer he heard ' Annie Laurie ' being played on a mouth harmonium. Pressing forward, he was astonished to see that the player was wee Kitchener. A stout woman with rusty black clothes and bugles nodding in her bonnet and a basket in her hand spoke to him. 1 He 's that thin an' white, puir wean ; p'r'aps he 's neither faither nor mither.' She took a penny from her purse and threw it into the ring. As if this were a signal, other coins began to follow. At this moment the ring was pierced, and Hector, trembling, saw the drunk man of the public-house beside his grandson. ' Gie-sh the Barren Rock-sh of Aden.' Wee Kitchener looked up at him with eyes of fear and began playing ' The Flowers of the Forest.' ' The thin white wean that he is,' sighed the fat woman. The drunk man, whose hands had been moving spas- modically to the plaintive cadence, picked the boy's cap off his head, searched in his pockets and found some coppers. He put these hi the cap and went round the crowd. ' Pey upsh Barren Rock-sh.' He reached Hector, who tried to crouch away. ' Pey up smert damn auld mishert ' Hector the seaman dropped a shilling, two-thirds of his pay, into the cap. The drunk man began stuffing the coins into the boy's pockets. BARNACLES 59 ' Awa hame afore ye 're robbit ' he hiccuped ; and began to dance in the ring. Some of the folk were laughing and applauding ; others were drifting away. Among them the fat woman, who said : ' Some o' thae men are faur better drunk nor sober.' Hector darted to the edge of the crowd and signalled to wee Kitchener. The barefoot boy came and put his hand in the old man's. ' Kitchener,' he quavered, ' were ye no' frichtened amang a' thae folk ? ' ' Ay, grandfaither,' he answered, wiping his little turned-up nose as he trotted along. ' What made ye dae 't then ? ' ' Barnacles.' ' Barnacles ! ! ' ' Ay ! I heard him say to faither he was gaun to play the fiddle in the street. So I thought I wad play my mooth-organ.' ' Does Barnacles ken ? ' ' No, grandfaither ; wull he be angry ? ' ' No, Kitchener, he '11 no' ; but we '11 no' let on.' As the boy trotted on sniffing, and the coins jingling in his pocket, the old man said : ' I 'm no' gaun to stand at the close ony mair, Kitchener ; I 'm to get my pension next Friday.' ' Ay, grandfaither, I 'm pleased.' The old man was a little out of breath. He stopped and looked at the boy. ' Dae ye ken what I 'm gaun to buy, Kitchener ? ' ' Ay, grandfaither ; a bag o' pastry an' a knife.' ' No ! no ! Kitchener. I 'm no' carin' for pastry. If I tell ye, ye '11 no' cheep.' 60 BARNACLES ' No, grandfaither.' The old man bent down and put his hand to his mouth. ' A pilot reefer jaicket.' ' Whit 's that, grandfaither ? ' 4 It 's what the captains weir, Kitchener ; ye '11 no cheep a word.' They walked on. The old man glanced again at the boy. Something naked, lonely, homeless about the child was forced on the consciousness of the aged dreamer. ' Kitchener,' he said, his voice shaking, ' I '11 buy ye a pair o' buits as weel.' ' I 'm no heedin' for buits, my feet's no' caul'.' ' An' whit are ye heedin' for ? ' ' A bag o' pastry, grandfaither, an' a knife.' At that moment they came into Causeyside Street, and saw the head of Barnacles towering above a deep, silent crowd. On his face was the smile which teaches us that man is divine. His eyes had that look seen oftener hi the paintings of the Great Masters than in the face of living beings which betrays our kinship to the Infinite. A nameless beauty of radiancy was in his countenance. The very tones of his violin spilling glory upon the street seemed to blossom from him. Hector the seaman was tremendously proud of the friendship of this man whose playing held the crowd spellbound, and hi that luminous hour in which the golden gates were also lifted up for him, the miseries and cruelties and fears of the public-house vanished away for ever. He smiled around at the intent faces ; he nodded and made rude gestures, and was only recalled to himself by wee Kitchener, who was tugging at his sleeve. BARNACLES 61 ' Whit wy is Barnacles no' gettin' money, grand- faither ? ' The old man peered at Barnacles. ' Kitchener,' he whispered excitedly, ' Barnacles has forgotten a' aboot the money. Tak your kep an' gang roond.' The boy, taking courage from his grandfather, extended his cap timidly to one and to another. The mute appeal of his large dumb eyes, no less than the effect of the music, helped rapidly to fill the cap. All at once Barnacles' eyes rested upon the boy. A sense of the quiet tragedy of this child begging moved him. Pity and shame overwhelmed him. He suddenly stopped playing. Those in the crowd saw his features become distorted as if he were in a passion. ' Good God,' he cried, ' what a world ! ' and stepping to the boy, picked him up hi his arms, and pushed his way through the crowd. ' Never, never, never,' he was saying to the trembling lad, ' let me find you doing that again. You must never beg.' Wee Kitchener began to cry. ' Are you angry ? ' he gulped. ' Yes ; I 'm angry, I 'm angry ' Barnacles gazed around as if to find some one to accuse ' that a child has to beg before men and women.' His body was quivering with anger. ' Good God, what a sight, what an outrage ! ' He heard his name, and looking back saw the seaman panting towards them. ' Kitchener,' he jerked out when he came up, ' sclim doon an' rin an' buy a tin o' saumon. You 're mither was gey an' fond o't.' 62 BARNACLES ' Ay, grandfaither, an' a bag o' pastry.' ' Ay ! ay ! Skelly will be pleased if we bring some- thing hame for the bre'kfast.' And while the boy was spending part of his earnings on the delicacy which his mother had esteemed, Hector told Barnacles that she had died of consumption in the fever hospital while Skelly was in South Africa fighting the Boers. Skelly could neither read nor write, and when he came back he said : ' An' whaur 's the missis ? ' ' She 's deid,' said the old man. Skelly reeled on the floor as if struck with a bullet. ' Deid ; an' I 'm leevin' aifter a' thon oot yonder.' . . . ' We must be a mother to the boy,' said Barnacles, and when he appeared, wee Kitchener was once more picked up and carried home. Hector the seaman, who carried the tinned salmon and the violin, was feeling the terrible weakness creeping again at his heart. The sweat came out on him as he ascended the stairs. As soon as he got inside the door he handed Barnacles the violin and Skelly the bottle of brandy, and sank on the floor. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his breathing so faint that he seemed dead. Barnacles undid the collar and tie which the old man wore on Saturdays in order to clean whisky-glasses. Skelly poured some brandy into a spoon and held it to his father's mouth. The old man swallowed the liquid, gave a long-drawn sigh, and opened his eyes. They fell on the anxious face of Skelly. An oppressive silence which had enveloped him and seemed about to claim him eternally melted away before that anxiety. Slowly the colour began to flow back into the livid cheeks. BARNACLES 63 * Are ye feelin' better, faither ? ' * I 'm just a bother to ye, Skelly.' ' Bother ! bother ! ' said Skelly angrily ; ' ye were never a bother to me a' your days. I wish ye were twenty tunes the bother.' A glad light leapt into the worn face. ' Are ye shair, Skelly ? ' ' Ye 're just an auld fule,' said Skelly laughing. ' I 'm gaun to mak ye a warm cup o' tea.' The old man nodded . ' For us a' , ' he whispered timidly. And Skelly as he rose from his knees laughed the laugh of relief which has a wee sob in its heart. The old man beckoned on Barnacles, who knelt beside him. * It 's fine to be no' weel,' he whispered ; ' did ye hear thon ? I was never a bother to him a' my days, never a bother, never a bother.' He glanced at Skelly who was at the fire : ' Is he no' the guid son ? he 's makin' tea. I 'm no' in the way. Ye ken the auld hoose. I winna staun in the close ony mair. I 'm gled I wasna drooned at sea.' Barnacles, who was beginning to understand some- thing of the timidity, the sensitiveness, the exile, the paternal hunger hi the heart of this old man, leaned down, and like a fellow-conspirator whispered : ' Skelly would break his heart if anything came over you.' ' Did he say that ? what was it he said ? ' ' Just what I told you,' answered Barnacles gravely. And as Barnacles arose it was difficult to say who was the happier the old man or he. Immediately he was on his feet he saw something which made his heart stand still for a moment in pity 64 BARNACLES and immense compassion. Wee Kitchener was looking down at the old man with a forlorn face. One finger was in his mouth, and a single large tear in the corner of his eye. There was something in this mute distress more poignant to Barnacles than even the collapse of the seaman. It was the first tear the child had ever shed for another. There was something sacred and at the same time terrible in the sight. ' Kitchener,' he said softly. The boy took his finger out of his mouth and looked at him. Instinctively Barnacles began to smile, and the smile broadened almost into laughter. Slowly the answer came into the frightened little face a ghost of a smile at first, which soon grew radiant and shone through the wet eyelashes. Barnacles' heart swelled with joy. He had driven something dark away from that trembling breast. In that moment the boy had needed above all her who had died in the consumption ward. Barnacles felt he had taken her place. The maternal presence, tender, infinite, wondrous kind, was in the room. The smile on wee Kitchener's face broadened till it was almost a grin. He turned with interest to his father cooking at the fire. The fight against mysterious sorrow had been silently won by Barnacles and the boy with the aid of a ghostly third. XIII The old man had recovered ; wee Kitchener was asleep ; the salmon tin had been opened ; and Barnacles was preoccupied. He had gone out to the stair-head BARNACLES 65 for the tin of salmon which had fallen, and had listened at the door of the blind man. It was like the grave inside. This silence oppressed Barnacles. Had they not even one single thing to talk about ? It must be terrible for the blind man. He spoke to Skelly about it when he came back. ' They 've nae time for talkin' in there,' said Skelly. ' Sanny him that 's in the moulding shop taks his supper an' just gangs to bed. He 's up at the back o' five o'clock. It nearly braks his mither's he'rt waukenin' him. We 're no' slaves in this toon o' Paisla, ye ken, but some hasna time to talk to a blin' brither.' Before Barnacles could reply Hector the seaman piped : ' I clean forgot aboot that, Skelly. I was sweirin' I wadna staun in the close-mooth ony mair, but I clean forgot blin' Ned. It 's me talks to him aboot the China Sea an' Iquique. Ay ! ay ! I see I maun gae back to the close. It 's nane that caul' ; I 've tholed it noo for ten years ; surely I can put up wi't a wee whilie langer, an' me wi' my pension too.' Barnacles was silent. He was fast learning about the sufferings of men. He remembered also the sight of the tear which had opened his soul a tear which was gaining a sublime significance. It was a window by which he looked into the heart of the Sufferer-in- Chief and made him think of the Man of Sorrows. Suffering, he recognised, is the profile of love. Surely it was not a light saying, but one born of tears and blood, ' Blessed are they that mourn.' As Barnacles pondered thus and connected the blind man and wee Kitchener by a common bond he cried out : E 66 BARNACLES ' It is the eyes full of tears that behold heaven ; it is the blind who sit in a dumb house that hear un- heard melodies.' He rose from his place at table and went to the bed. For a long minute he gazed at the thin face of the boy. ' Christ be gracious to you, my boy,' he said, and returning to the table, added, ' The tears of children water the gardens of Paradise ' he leaned his elbows on the table and gazed at Skelly ' and the light which has been denied the blind is lighting heaven. " There shall be no night there." Skelly, we '11 go to church in the morning.' * No' me,' answered Skelly tartly ; ' I haena the clothes for the Aibbey.' He looked quizzically at his garments, ' I doot if they wad let me in.' The old man having finished eating was engaged on one of those whimsies on which simple minds near dotage love to dwell. He picked his teeth with a fork, ran his fingers through his hair, and spoke almost from the table, so bowed was he with age. ' Is it no' strange here in the middle o' Paisla we 're a' connecit wi' the sea ? You 're Barnacles, you know a deep-sea name. Skelly 's sellin' fush, an' I was roond the Horn five times.' * Ay,' answered Skelly with laborious sarcasm, ' an' we 're a' eatin' saumon. An' maybe wee Kitchener 'ill go for a sail on the Cart or ane o' the burns roond Paisla.' Barnacles had an inspiration : ' I will take him to-morrow,' he said, ' to a burn 1 know at the foot of the Gleniffer Braes.' BARNACLES 67 XIV Over the tall chimney-stalk of Coats's Mill a faint cloud of smoke hung. Elsewhere the atmosphere was clear. Beyond the Clyde marched the blue Kilpatrick hills as if they had been newly created in the spring morning. Ben Lomond glittered in the North cowled in white as for the solemn day. From the Clyde came the grunt of a siren. It was tide-time on the river. Also in Paisley streets there was a tide. Men were walking with their wives on the only occasion in which they performed this duty during the week. They passed or met their cronies with grave face, saluting them solemnly by raising their hats. Though there were many people there was little talk. The silence of the town was broken mainly by the tread of boots. These cross-currents of black-dressed men and women, carrying Bibles, met and passed hi the Square, for in the vicinity of the Square stand many of the churches of the town. But in the midst of the Square one young man stood motionless. All who passed him by took a prim Sunday glance at him, and then a more fixed look. For his attitude was arresting. He had not the air of one awaiting a friend, nor did he appear to be going to church. He had no such look of propriety as men carry with them into the streets. He occupied the Square as if it was his own house. Barnacles was listening, for over the town there floated a melody of bells. Clear and sweet they rang out on the still spring morning one of the echoes on earth of the eternal. The four solid walls of the Square with their arterial streets running off surrounded C8 BARNACLES him on every hand, but he was in reality in a vast cathedral. The shining music overhead, wandering with the brightness of the sun over the grey sleeping roofs, was stirring a divine sweetness in his breast. The solemn rich sounds were not rising from things made by the hands of men ; they were falling out of the blue skies upon the grave morning, and mingling with the subdued melody of that listening soul. Barnacles was conscious of something vague yet profound which the harmony in the air alone could answer. A glow came upon his spirit. A world of nestling birds was alive within him and without him, round about and aloft. ' Beautiful bells,' he breathed, ' mount up to the throne of music in the heavens.' At this juncture he heard a voice saying : ' Oh ! it 's you.' Barnacles peered through his spectacles and saw a man and two women. ' Don't you know me ? ' said the man. ' No,' answered Barnacles. ' What ! and you gave me a book what was it again ? The Apology for Socrates ; splendid stuff in it.' ' Yes ! I remember,' answered Barnacles. ' I didn't recognise you hi these clothes.' One of the women burst out laughing. The banker looked down his frock coat and said : ' I 'm going to church,' as if in apology for his dress. ' So am I,' answered Barnacles. ' When I have finished listening to the bells.' ' Aren't they glorious ? ' one of the ladies said. ' I wish I was a bell-ringer,' Barnacles answered her. BARNACLES 69 The banker introduced him to the lady who had spoken Mrs. Gilfillan, his wife. ' My name is Brocklehurst,' said Barnacles, ' but my friends call me Barnacles.' ' I have heard of you from my husband,' said the lady merrily. ' I think I shall call you like a friend.' ' And this lady,' said the banker, ' is Mrs. Norman- shire.' Barnacles held out his hand to her. All he was conscious of was her high bearing, and a head of snow- white hair. He marvelled at this, for she was young, and of a clear complexion. ' Will you come with us ? we are going to the Abbey/ said Mr. Gilfillan. Barnacles assented. ' I expected you to call on me,' said the banker as they moved across the Square. Barnacles grew red with confusion. ' I had forgotten.' ' Come and see me on Friday evening. You have my address. I have spoken to some people about you.' ' Thank you,' said Barnacles absently. He had suddenly realised the strange silence that fell upon the town. The dying bells were lingering on the air and drifting far away. They were now walking up among the tombstones towards the door of the ancient and historic fane. Barnacles turned to Mrs. Normanshire. * One goes in here in the presence of the dead.' They were just entering the door of dark carved stone. She gave Barnacles a look of gratitude, and was about to say something, but being now hi the vesti- bule she checked it. Once more, however, she looked at 70 BARNACLES him, and as Barnacles met her look and saw for the first time her lovely face, he thought of the breast of the sea full of calm and flushed with an autumn sunset. And when he stood beside her and heard her sing in the church her voice was like the bells, full and clear, swelling up also to the throne of music in the heavens. . . . When Barnacles reached Skelly's house he gave a visiting-card to the fish-hawker. ' Please let me have this on Friday morning,' he said. ' What is it ? ' ' It 's a job ' Barnacles face grew confused ' and perhaps also,' he added truthfully, ' I may hear a woman with white hair, who has a magnificent voice, sing.' Then Barnacles told the story of the visiting-card. ' It is amazing,' he ended, ' how a man's footsteps are led. I saw a tear in the eye of wee Kitchener last night, and it sent me to church, and there I met these people.' ' Wha are they ? ' asked SkeUy. Barnacles read from the card Mr. Gilfillan's name and address. ' Castleheid,' said Skelly, in a voice of contempt, ' a swell.' He despised the rich because they lived off the poor, and had suffered many like him who had been broken in war to be cast adrift. ' Never mind,' said Barnacles, ' the sun shines here as well as in Castlehead, and the bells call over every roof humble or grand. It 's not the house, Skelly ; it 's the heart that 's in it.' Skelly was softened by this answer, which he felt was a tribute to his own home. * Man,' he said, with admiration in his face, * it '11 tak a lot to haud ye doon, Barnacles. You 're like the birds I used to chuck stanes at aifter dark when I BARNACLES 71 was a laddie. It was only when ye flang a stane they began to whustle. It '11 tak a lot to defeat you,' said Skelly the soldier. Barnacles smiled. ' You cannot be defeated when there 's nothing in you to defeat,' he said. ' There 's plenty o' stuff in ye onywy, if it 's no' the stuff that can be defeated,' Skelly answered stoutly. ' I canna gie 't a name ; but ye mak a man feel good. I haena kent it was Sunday for mony a lang day till noo.' ' And wee Kitchener and I are going for a Sunday walk to Gleniffer Braes,' said Barnacles. ' Nae fears,' said Skelly sharply, ' he 's nae buits ; if we 'd a' oor ain in this warld he 'd be cled an' shod an' maybe your freend wadna be gantin' his heid aff in Castleheid the day.' ' Perhaps you are right, Skelly,' answered Barnacles sadly, ' often the purple of the rich is dyed with the heart- blood of the poor ; but that has nothing to do with Kitchener. If he went barefoot yesterday he can to-day.' ' This is Sunday,' said Skelly dourly, as he lifted the pot of Irish stew off the fire. ' Oh ! Skelly, Skelly ! let him come ; perhaps heaven will see the naked feet better out there beneath the sky, and send us a way of getting boots.' ' Let me gang, faither ; I 'm no heedin' aboot buits.' Skelly regarded his son for a moment with misty eyes. ' Hae your wy,' he said gruffly to Barnacles. . . . The events of this day were not over. After dinner Hector the seaman handed Barnacles the page of the Glasgow Herald, in which the gift of pies from the foreman had been made up. 1 Deep-water ships ; Iquique, Valparaiso, Sydney ; 72 BARNACLES ye micht read me oot the Shipping News,' he said excitedly. Barnacles searched the page of advertisements in vain. ' There 's nothing of that kind,' he said. Just then his eye caught the following : ' Wanted young man of good education, willing for small fee and board to act as amanuensis.' Barnacles read it out. ' That 's naethin' to dae wi' deep-water ships,' said Hector testily. ' No,' answered Barnacles thoughtfully, ' but it 's work that I '11 apply for. There may be a star rising here out of a newspaper brought from a public-house.' And to wee Kitchener on their way to a glorious ride in a tram-car the first part of the journey to the Braes Barnacles said, ' I wonder, my child, if heaven put this paper in my way to get you boots.' ' I 'm fine as I am,' answered wee Kitchener, sniffing as he trotted ; and his eyes were full of confidence and gladness. As for Skelly he was washing the shirt of his son for to-morrow's school, and thinking, as always, when at such a duty, of the dead hands which would have rejoiced over this work. He now took opportunity to perform those tasks when Barnacles was absent. XV Barnacles, who had forgotten the public-house on Monday, accompanied Skelly and grandmother pony to the Glasgow Fish Market. Every day now he assisted Skelly, and in the evening played his violin for alms BARNACLES 78 in the streets. But first of all, after tea, he went over with wee Kitchener his lesson for school next day. Hitherto Skelly was wont to ring a bell in the streets. He still did this, but Barnacles improved matters considerably by carrying the fish to the doors. On Wednesday afternoon of his first week at this work he returned from one of these forays with a white face, because he had just seen a dead baby. The illusiveness of life, the intangibleness of its pos- sessions, and the precariousness of its tenure were centred on that tiny face around whose stillness a shrill battle was raging. Barnacles was dumbfounded at the death and the quarrel. It was all a reproach against Life. From the close-mouth he beckoned on Skelly. ' What 's ado ? ' asked Skelly, approaching. Words came with difficulty from Barnacles. ' There 's something wrong with the world.' ' Ay ! I told ye that on Sunday ye mind Castle- heid ; hae ye fin' it oot noo that ye 're sellin' fush.' ' It 's not that not that come in here.' A young girl distracted with grief, with her hands pressed hard on her cheeks, was gazing wildly at the dead baby. A dark-haired woman of some sixty years, with a debauched face and a blue weal across the left cheek-bone, stood up from stooping over a skillet as the two men entered. This woman, the girl's stepmother, was a widow. Her husband had been killed in a curious manner. He was a slater and along with others had been washing with concrete the walls of a factory. Two stages had been rigged up, sup- ported by ropes passed over the roof and fastened on 74 BARNACLES the other side. A portion of the wall had been finished, and it was necessary to shift the staging vacated for this purpose by its two tradesmen. One of the men went to the back of the factory to slacken the ropes of this staging, but by some mischance slackened the ropes of the other. One of its occupants, who fell on his head, survived ; the other, crashing down on his back, was killed. His widow received compensation, and Barnacles found his daughter fighting with all the fierceness of maternal love for some of this money, in order to purchase a coffin for her dead baby. The stepmother, who hated the girl, swore she had spent her last shilling on a shroud ' Only for me the brat wad be burit in its rags,' she cried. When Skelly learned the sad intelligence of No. 9 back stair, one up, right, he pointed out that the parochial authorities would bury the child. The step- mother denied this. She had been there. She con- cealed from Skelly the knowledge which Parochialism possessed of her compensation. Wherefore you behold Skelly cursing Parochialism and offering his herring-box. He will wash it and paint it and lay it fit for a baby in the offertory of the chancel of Death. Had he not buried men without even that shadow of a home, in the great graves beside the waters of the Tugela ? The older woman called upon his head the blessing of heaven, but the girl wheeled from the bed like a tigress. ' Is my bonnie wee wean to be buried in a herrin'- box?' ' Awa then an' get his faither to bury him,' sneered the stepmother. The girl put her hands on her face, BARNACLES 75 pressing the nails into the cheeks, and making low moaning sounds. ' Nanny Lusk had a white coffin for her ane,' she sobbed at length, and lifted her haggard eyes to the cob-webbed window as if the patch of visible sky were hung with white coffins. ' The insurance burit Nanny Lusk's,' the stepmother gloated. There was silence in the room. The house of Lusk seemed to triumph. Its chariot-hearse bearing a white baby's coffin from the office of an Insurance Company thundered over a herring-box in tragic splendour to the cemetery at a premium of a penny a week. Ah ! Skelly ! Skelly ! who dug the graves across the salt seas at Tugela River ? And were the coffins really white there ? And was the premium a penny a week ? Was it not so much as a whole shilling a day ? Have you remembered these things, or is it the girl's piteous cry which startles you ? ' I 'm gaun whaur I '11 get the price o' a white coffin.' Like the old campaigner you are, you restrain the crazy young mother, saying soothingly : ' We '11 bring you a coffin to-night.' And Barnacles ! why, he has at last found his voice : ' A white coffin ; a white coffin yes to-night I will sell my violin ' Good Skelly ! As you stable little grandmother in its leaky hovel and examine the galls which the harness has made, for it chafes infernally, you whisper in her ear that to-morrow she is going on new work no less than to carry a little white coffin to the cemetery. To-night you cannot meet her dumb look over her shoulder which says, ' I 've dragged your cart to 76 BARNACLES Glasgow and back and through Paisley's streets all day in a raw wind, and I 'm tired and hungry.' For all your soldiering you are a coward, Skelly, and have not the courage to confess outright. ' Only half a feed to-night, Maggie ' the other Maggie left you mysteriously hi a fever hospital when you were at the wars ' only a half -feed, Maggie ; we must make up the price of a baby's coffin. The other Maggie would approve.' You need not curse Parochialism with soldiers' oaths, thinking to hoodwink a hungry pony, nor dribble in half a feed as if it were a feast. You who never fled from the enemy to fly from the stable ! Nor need you have closed the door so softly, locking up suffering Patience in the draughty dark. You know she is too tired to think of crawling out any, any more. Does her good-night whinny sting your heart then ? Does that plaintive bleat reveal to you a nobler plan ? Good Skelly ! open the door again ; pour in the other half -feed as quickly as if the beast were starving to death. It is dark. No one can see your arm about the scraggy neck. No one can hear your heart whisper- ing ' Maggie ' ; but we all know that these many years the beast has kept Maggie's bairn in life. How tough the old hide is where it touches your own rough cheek. Were you not then hardened hi the wars, Skelly, that there appears to be one spot of the scraggy hide wet ? Oh no, you are not hungry to-night. A touch of the old African fever has spoiled your appetite. Yes, faither, tred was good to-day ; a roarin' tred. Arid how are you not eating ? You have walked leagues of causey-stanes, and your throat is hoarse crying on the women to come and buy cheap fish. Yet you dare the BARNACLES 77 old seaman to boil the black pudding. You to feel faint with hunger who have tramped across South Africa. Yes ! yes ! tred was good ; the whitings melted off the cart like snowflakes. It is worth the lie to see the anxious look vanish like a snowflake also from the seaman's face. No ! then ! you will not have an egg. You know how to draw in your belt another hole. You learned that also in the wars. He is so glad, the foolish old man, that your fish have sold so well to-day that he does not notice you are not smoking to-night ; nor, you know, to-morrow night, nor all the nights of this African fever causing loss of appetite until you have saved the price of a baby's coffin. Ah ! Skelly ! Skelly ! what an Insurance Company is an old Reservist's heart ! Have you not to-night somehow won your V.C. in the teeth of that terrible challenge, ' I 'm gaun whaur I '11 get the price o' a white coffin ' ? For it is not seemly, Skelly, that with the price of shame you should bury your love-child. . . . And is that why Barnacles is absent so early to-night, offering his beautiful melodies in the streets at the doors of the public-houses ? . . . ' Faither, Barnacles didna teach me my lesson the nicht.' ' No, son ; he 's awa helpin' a wee baby an' her mither the nicht ; try an' warsle awa. yersel.' ' It 's no' the lessons, faither.' ' Is 't no, son ? ' 1 Barnacles taks me on his knee an' puts his airm roond my shouther.' Skelly gathers the child to his own knee and says : 78 BARNACLES ' Barnacles has aye got his airm roond somebody's shouther.' ' Times are bad an' wages low, Leave her, Johnnie, leave her ' a voice is quavering in the midst of the splashing of water. Hector the seaman has quietly seized the chance and is washing the dishes. He alone of the house hi Cotton Street is untroubled. XVI Though Barnacles, when he got his first lessons on the violin, also received teaching in Agnosticism from a clock-repairer, maker of violins, and cobbler, yet he believed in the Deity ; and though it is a sign of the times that three Scotsmen living together for as many weeks never spoke of God, yet Barnacles in the house of Skelly in Cotton Street insisted that a minister be got to help to bury the baby. The other matters in respect of the obsequies had been arranged, Hector the seaman having said, ' I '11 get the hearse ; I hae my pension noo, ye ken.' ' Ay, faither,' answered Skelly dryly, ' but your pension canna buy a' the warld.' Hector concealed his confusion by turning his face away, for he thought Skelly was angry with him. He had been going to propose that day to buy a pilot reefer jacket : perhaps his pension then could not do everything. He had a sinking at the heart, and felt so stupid that he never heard them decide that little grey grandmother and her shallow cart would draw the tiny white coffin to the cemetery. If only the sheep BARNACLES 79 were there ! It would have been a monumental procession. All this being arranged, Barnacles asked : ' Is nothing to be said for mother and child in the name of God ? ' Skelly, who had been at many burials without a minister across the salt seas, growled : ' One man 's as good 's another in God's sight.' Hector the seaman propitiated his angry son. ' Off the Horn we committed a Swede to the deep withoot a minister.' ' But this is Paisley,' urged Barnacles, ' and we are surrounded by ministers.' ' I Ve never seen one here,' Skelly said. Barnacles insisted. ' You are prejudiced on some things, Skelly.' ' I dinna like the breed ; but it doesna maitter to me,' he yielded grudgingly. Skelly, who also believed in God, had in India known a parson whom from canton- ments he had carried home. Barnacles had difficulty in finding the residences of the ministers so great difficulty that the forenoon was spent in interviewing three. Rather he arrived at three residences. One minister was not at home. Another crustily asked Barnacles to what church he belonged, and then said that the street of the dead baby was outside his parish. The third stood on his doorstep and said the notice was too short. He was going to attend a meeting of a public board. *' Courage, my soul,' said Barnacles to himself as he hurried away, and thought how Skelly had seen soldiers who had died for their country being buried without the clergy. Yet the sight of a church as he passed saddened him. 80 BARNACLES He entered a bookseller's shop. A little middle- aged man, with a fresh pleasant face and contemplative eyes, showed him a copy of a book suitable for a funeral. It cost half a crown. Barnacles shook his head. * Is there nothing cheaper ? ' ' Yes,' answered the bookseller, ' there is the Bible.' Barnacles bought the New Testament for a sixpence, and hurried home, ashamed that his lack of a Bible had been discovered to him by a dead baby. ' WeU ? ' asked SkeUy. Barnacles shook his head. 'Ye winna tak a tellinY Skelly's tone was sym- pathetic. ' Did they no' ask ye whaur ye were frae ? ' ' I forget one of them did, I think.' ' Hach ! ' said Skelly, ' they 're just a wheen peeries spinnin' in their am noise ; but they ken whaur to spin. The folk in oor close never hear the name o' Christ except in an oath. Ye '11 no' see us in the Square on Sunday morn when the kirk bell 's ringin' . Sunday 's no' made for the like o' us. The bobby wad think we were trespassin'. We just creep oot in the daurk o' the evenin' when a'thing 's quate.' The passion in these words moved Barnacles. ' Skelly,' he said, ' will you come with me next Sunday morning to the Square and listen to the bells ? It 's heavenly.' ' I wull not,' answered Skelly ; ' they 're a holy frost. See 's your boots.' Barnacles sighed and watched Skelly clean the boot. ' Skelly,' he said, ' the things we know least about are the things we are most cocksure of. You would like the bells.' BARNACLES 81 * Hach ! ' answered Skelly, ' what 's the use o' arguin' wi' you ; ye 'd find an excuse for auld Nick himsel. See 's the other boot.' But Barnacles cleaned the other boot himself. Then all three Barnacles, Skelly, and the pony went to bury the baby. The mother, dishevelled, followed to the close-mouth, crying in a paroxysm of grief, ' My wean, my bonnie wee wean ! ' Barnacles was softly weeping. Skelly, having laid the coffin on the cart, covered it from prying eyes with a sack. Barnacles was to perceive further how cruel is the world. The child was buried in common ground a parcel of ground in a corner of a graveyard, where a trench is dug, and is kept open, save for a roof of boards, as coffin after nameless coffin goes into it until it is filled. They learned at the massive gates of the cemetery that it would cost money to take the funeral equipage within the grounds. Wherefore Skelly left grand- mother Patience without the gates. Barnacles, who insisted that he would carry the coffin, discovered that it had no name-plate. The poor, whom Parochialism put in common ground, all went this unrecorded way, and their dust mingled in an obscure grave, said Skelly. As for this baby he did not know ; perhaps it had no name ; it was a waif. ' But now no longer,' answered Barnacles, taking up the coffin under his arm ; ' its brief wanderings are ended. God grant the child has come into the city that hath no sunset, crying, or hunger.' And so they went to the common grave. Now a woman was there carrying a wreath. She had watched the strange spectacle of a white coffin being F 82 BARNACLES discovered beneath the sack, and when she saw Bar- nacles she followed the two men at a distance. The common grave was hard by some bushes : and the woman drew near beside the bushes. A keeper of the cemetery removed the planks which roofed the grave. Within lay a long black coffin, on the top of which, at its head, they laid the tiny coffin. ' So much land,' said Skelly bitterly, gazing round the fields and hills of Renfrewshire, ' an' we canna gie the wee lass a bit soil o' her ain.' ' It is better so, Skelly. The white coffin is in the arms of the big one. Perhaps a childless woman lies below, and in the Great Day when she wakens up she will gather the wee waif to her breast.' The woman behind the bushes lifted a corner of her veil and touched away a single tear with her fore- finger. The keeper of the cemetery had gone away without replacing the planks perhaps because the day was fine. On departing he had thrown a handful of soil on the foot of the white coffin. This pious act on the part of a stranger aroused the anger of Skelly. ' Where is the faither ? what sort o' toff is he, passin' himsel off for a fine chap among the girls that go to his mother's house ? ' he demanded fiercely of Barnacles. ' P'r'aps he isn't that at all,' answered Barnacles sadly. ' It 's a' ane what he is. I wish I had him here naked and a sjambok in my fist. I 'd gie him hell for leather. Thon girl she '11 be in the street yet.' ' We must guard her, Skelly,' said Barnacles earnestly. Skelly looked quizzically at him. ' Wull ye mairry her ? ' BARNACLES 88 Barnacles flushed. ' No ! I can't do. that ; I have no home.' ' Then ye 're a pair,' said Skelly ironically. * See here,' he stamped on the ground, ' there 's no' a blade o' grass aboot this grave. It 's ane o' the forgotten spots. May the faither o' the bairn hae as little shelter yet ower his heid. May he hear the wean's cry in heaven an' his faither's he'rt wauken at it an' loup up when he 's in the torments o' hell ' ' Don't, Skelly,' Barnacles pleaded, with pain in his eyes and voice, ' don't ; you are only making things worse.' A little way off, among some tangle, primroses were in bloom. Skelly went and plucked one and returned to the grave. ' See that,' he said the flower shining with pale gold lay hi the midst of his hard palm, ' that 's the wy he found the lassie.' He closed his fist and opened it again. Three pairs of eyes were fastened on the crushed and bleeding flower. Skelly made a gesture of despair, and flung the broken primrose on to the white coffin. They stood looking at it in silence. ' Dust to dust,' said Skelly ; ' there lies the mother's he'rt on the coffin o' her wean.' He swore an oath and moved away. But Barnacles went into the grave and picked up the flower and put it in his pocket. When he overtook Skelly he said, ' It is not dust to dust. I don't believe that the love which the dead had is dust beneath our feet.' Skelly made no answer. ' Skelly, do you believe that the tenderness of your wife is dust ? ' 84 BARNACLES Skelly turned round on him with flashing eyes. ' Let me alane, will ye ? let me alane by God ! ' They reached the gate in silence. Barnacles suddenly came to a dead halt. ' Will you please wait for me, Skelly ? ' he said quietly, ' I 'm going back to the grave.' ' What for ? ' ' I brought a Testament : I should like to read a bit of it,' he said shyly. A struggle of some kind was showing in Skelly's face. At last, and without speaking, he turned and led the way back to the common grave. And when they reached it, lo ! there upon the little white coffin reposed a beautiful wreath of white flowers. Skelly was dumbfounded. * Well ! I 'm flummoxed,' he said, and took off his cap. ' Heaven is kinder than we know,' said Barnacles ; ' the wreath lies there like the tears of the angels.' Skelly turned aside, plucked a grass, and began chewing it. Barnacles was fumbling with the leaves of the book. His face was growing very red. ' I cannot find a suitable passage,' he stammered. ' Tak your tune,' said Skelly. He was gazing reflectively at the wreath. After a considerable time Barnacles said, ' This is what I have been looking for,' and began to read ' And they brought young children to Him that He should touch them, and His disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it He was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not ; for of such is the Kingdom of God. Verily I say unto you, BARNACLES 85 Whosoever shall not receive the, Kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And He took them up in His arms, put His hands upon them, and blessed them' Barnacles closed the book, and gazing steadfastly up at the sky said, ' Lord Jesus Christ, who wast born a child here and ate our bread and salt and traversed our nights, and lay down with us in the grave, keep the child and bless the mother.' Skelly gathered a handful of soil, and let it fall on the little white coffin, careful not to touch the wreath ; and when he emptied his hand he said hi a loud gruff voice, as Barnacles' words died away, ' Amen.' XVII They reached the back streets in the twilight streets full of sadness and nameless sounds. The sight of a woman swearing at a child left Barnacles' heart full of pain. ' If the child were to die,' he said. ' Hach ! ' answered Skelly, ' they 'd hae a booze wi' the Insurance money.' As they trudged on the hard grey aspect of the town vanished in the gas-light, and night, with the sorrows of the world hidden in its bosom, descended upon men and beast as the pony clattered into the stable. Night that nurses the sorrows of the earth filled the stable. In its midst the pony sniffed at its feed, took a sup of water, and lay down with a weary sigh. Before morning was come night had drawn from the breast of little grey grandmother another of the sorrows of 86 BARNACLES earth, and left the pony quiet and healed of its smart. . . . Man, it may be, in Castlehead and in Cotton Street hears the footsteps of his fate approach, surrounded with anxious faces and upheld by an affection that would trace across the coming night a path towards a diviner day ; but the inhabitants of little white coffins lovely and fragile heads budding in the first ray of life and the dwellers in draughty stables, know nothing at all as the 'silent night draws the last weary sigh of their loneliness into her bosom and gives them rest. ... As the stars began to set the pony grew stiff and cold. XVIII Who cares for a fatherless baby born in shame, and who for the carcase of a half -blind, worn-out hawker's pony ? As for a dead baby it costs money to bury it ; as for a dead pony it brings money to the pocket of its owner. For Skelly, hardened by having seen many dead men and many dead horses of war, proposed to sell the body of little grandmother to a bone factory in the environs of the town. This was intolerable to Barnacles. ' The pony helped to bury the baby yesterday. Let us bury the pony to-day. She has been a faithful servant.' ' She has,' answered Skelly ; ' she 's been my mate for nine years.' A very good epitaph that would have been, if ponies received epitaphs : ' Mate for nine years of a man wounded in the wars.' So the pony received BARNACLES 87 interment next day at dawn. As Barnacles went along the passage then, he heard subdued sounds of sobbing within the house of blind Ned. They came from the mother who was in despair of being able to waken her son, the moulder. If he was late he would lose his job, and none would be more chagrined than he. Yet he was so sunk in weariness that he would not rouse. Barnacles listened, put up his hand to knock, hesitated, and went on his way. Day had not yet broken. He looked abroad at the close-mouth and said aloud, ' Is there an hour at all in which no one weeps ? If such an hour once every day were only given to men ' Barnacles and Skelly, the one pulling, the other pushing, a large hand-barrow loaned by DAVID BOWSKILL SLATER AND SWEEP BEST PAEAFFIN OIL as a wooden board hi his window showed, passed through the Square. ' Hain yoursel, Barnacles, we hae a lang wy to go,' Skelly was crying as he puffed and pushed the dead pony covered with sacks in the barrow. The pony was also bound for common ground beside a slag-heap alongside the railway at the Arches in Elderslie Parish. Skelly kept adjusting the sacks which the jolting of the barrow displaced and showed the pony naked in the eye of day. The sacks also belonged to Mr. Bowskill, and for ordinary carried soot from the chimneys. Such is the hereditary charity of the poor by which they live. The horns of the engineering shops were sounding a 88 BARNACLES harsh requiem as they dragged their burden by the West End Cross. Innumerable windows of the vast red structure of Coats's Mill looked blankly at the little procession as it crept by in the silence of the dawn. ' It 's like a thousand eyes upon us,' said Barnacles, wiping his forehead as they stopped to rest, and nodding towards the gigantic structure. Skelly sniffed. ' I 'm smellin' the bone factory,' he said, and looking at a grey leg protruding from a sack, added, * I 'm gled I took your advice, Barnacles.' Beyond the Arches in waste ground they buried grey grandmother. It was an unlovely spot. From the grave no flowers or green things would spring. Cinders from passing trams would cover the place, where lay one whose life had of late been mutely passed in the fires of pain and weariness. A passing workman thought these two were scav- engers raking for lost treasure, whereas they were burying treasure. ' Many a man got a worse grave,' said Skelly very gruffly as he took the trams of the barrow. But be gruff as you like, Skelly, the heart knoweth its own bitterness. A grey familiar presence with the precious name of Maggie is gone from your side for ever. . . . He was caught red-handed. The waste ground stood on the left, a little distance off the main road, and another road flanking this waste ground joined the main road, where two high stone walls one running along the side of each road met at right angles. Hector the seaman had dodged and followed the barrow some BARNACLES 89 way behind. When he reached this corner where the two walls met, he keeked round to take observations. He was puzzled. The cortege had vanished off the main road. He was just bringing his eye round to sweep the waste ground when Barnacles and Skelly, their work completed, came down the side road to the corner. It was the white beard waving round the corner which Skelly first saw. It seemed familiar. Then Skelly looked into two peering red-lidded eyes, and taking another step saw the rounded form crouch- ing back in consternation. ' Well, I 'm flummoxed,' said Skelly. The breath of the old man was sobbing, and his body shivering. A button of his jacket was hanging by a single thread. He tried to button it. It kept slipping out of his fingers. He looked more lean and dry than ever, with his teeth chattering and his thin knees shaking. All at once Barnacles cried out, ' I am so sorry, Hector, we did not wait for you I told him last night, Skelly I thought he would ' Barnacles made a vague gesture. The old man threw him a look of gratitude. ' Dinna wait for me, Skelly,' he quavered. ' I 'm no' sae blithe on my feet as I used to be.' ' Hach,' answered Skelly, ' we 're in nae hurry ; come along ye 'd have been faur better in bed.' Hector the seaman showed his relief. ' Call the watch, Mr. Mate,' he chirped as he fell into step ; and being a water man, with no sense of horses, ' we '11 get another powny wi' the pension.' ' No,' answered Skelly, beginning to whistle, ' ye can buy me a motor-caur.' 90 BARNACLES The old man ran forward to Barnacles. ' Did ye hear that ? he 's wantin' a motor-caur ; an' me with my pension I was nearly disgraced keekin' round the corner do you think Skelly is angry ? ' ' No, Hector ; he was saying when we buried the pony, " It 's a pity my father isn't here." ' Was he ? was he ? isn't he the guid son ? what will he dae noo wantin' Maggie ? A motor-caur 's no' Maggie. Maggie was his wife Skelly's he'rt brak in twa when he cam hame God be thankit I hae my pension I 'm pleased, pleased to be oot walkin' wi' you an' Skelly. I 'm a different man. I don't feel the caul'. Man ! man ! I was nearly affrontit keekin' roond the corner I thocht he wad be angry.' So he babbled on like a child, trotting by Barnacles' side, until they reached Cotton Street, where they found the other child, a pitiful figure, barefoot, and clad only in a shirt, standing on the floor in the greatest consternation. He had wakened up and found himself alone in the glimmer of dawn. His cry sounding through the house aroused blind Ned, who was sooth- ing him, and had told him that all had gone to bury the pony. The boy's face was pinched with the cold ; violently shivering he kept biting the neck of his shirt. As soon as they entered he ran to his father with his little body all shaking. ' My puir wee powny ; I want my powny back.' He began sobbing uncontrollably. He was finally comforted by Barnacles, who promised to take him to the Gleniffer Braes. BARNACLES 91 XIX The voyage was a great success. Worship was in the eyes of the man, wonder in the .face of the child, as the friendly land flashed around them in the flush of day. They sat high up on the Braes, and saw spread- ing away at their feet a land of corn, barley, wheat, turnips, potatoes a vast chequered carpet for miles. It was all full of nooks, inlets, nestling farms, head- lands of trees, puffs of steam from the trains. The solemn trees on the earth and the clouds in the heavens advancing with the majesty of armies, sailing like navies, and melting like hoar frost, enchained their spirits. Profound stillness surrounded them. ' We 're awfy high up,' whispered wee Kitchener. Barnacles laughed. ' We 're not at the top storey yet, son.' They set off again. Wee Kitchener dived into a clump of broom, darted out beneath a giant gean, white as snow, and again plunged into a verdurous continent of gloom haunted with a delicious loneliness. He burst out once more upon a green brae in the sunlight like a ship come to haven after a daring voyage across an unknown sea. Still they ascended, striking up through the pines and firs by a footpath carpeted with the soft brown dust and needles of the trees. All at once they burst upon the hill-top in the midst of heather. The spacious Clyde valley lay beneath them smoking towns and rolling plains. Wee Kitchener gazed in awe upon this New World. His bewildered eye roved over clumps of woods, burns, fields, roofs, chimney- stalks, and spires. An imperial light turned far-off 92 BARNACLES windows to molten gold. Wee Kitchener's eyes rested on the blue hills beyond the Clyde and three great mountains, of which Ben Lomond is chief. * It 's an awfy big place this,' he whispered. Down beneath beside the flame of the whin his spirits had trooped and shouted. Now upon the heather the sombre moor quieted him, the vast spaces awed him, and he drew nearer to Barnacles. And Barnacles, divining his vague dread, began to tell him that beyond these hills were harbours and ships and sands of gold. There were even houses standing on the very sea. ' Wet hooses ? ' asked wee Kitchener. Yes, said Barnacles, and across their windows sea- birds passed, and large fish could be seen swimming in the clear water. And on the sea white sails, large as a house, stood up in the great ships sparkling on frosty mornings ; the ships all hi a glitter going out from the harbours, with boys and men singing round the anchor- chains ; and other ships coming in with parrots swing- ing in big cages, and monkeys scampering up the rigging. Yes ! and pirates, too, beyond where the sun went into the ocean in the home of the big winds. What place did the sun do that in ? Far, far away, where it was so warm that the top waves of the sea dried off, and it was always calm like a sheet of glass. And the sun was fond of the sea at night, when it was thirsty after its long journey over the sky, and so went down into the great water. ' Does it gae doon like the sweep's brush hi the chimney ? ' * The very same, Kitchener ; deep, deep down.' ' Ay ! ay ! but it '11 no' get dirty in the water,' he cried in a triumphant voice of discovery. BARNACLES 93 ' Neither it will/ said Barnacles, accepting the dis- covery with admiration ; ' that 's why it comes up clean every morning, and sometimes very red, because it has slept in, Kitchener, and is in a terrible hurry.' * Ay,' he answered, his pug nose tilted up as he scanned the heavens for a red sun. The world across the hills had opened magic and wonders a sea of glass upon which sat great ships crowded with monkeys, and out of which a wet red sun climbed in the morning. ' I like this better nor the school,' he said with decision. * Poor little bird,' thought Barnacles, ' still thinking of your cage.' ' Never mind the school, Kitchener,' he said aloud, ' this is a big school you 're in to-day ; no slates and maps and blackboards. Come, and we '11 explore the school and see what 's in it.' They descended by the path through the wood, and in one of the bushes came on a blackbird's nest. Barnacles lifted up Kitchener who peered in. i Oh ! crickey ! there 's fower wee blue eggs.' But Barnacles would not allow him to touch them. ' Wull I no' ? ' he pleaded. ' No, Kitchener. You know the pony is dead ; and in the eggs are four wee birds, and if you touched them they might die too, like the pony.' ' I '11 no' touch them then ' he drew a deep breath ' are they no' awfu' bonnie ? ' ' Yes,' answered Barnacles, ' they are bits of the blue sky.' ' Hoo did they manage to come doon ? ' ' The angels brought them.' ' Wull they be blue birds ? ' ' No, black.' 94 BARNACLES 4 Got o' blue eggs ? ' incredulously. * Yes,' answered Barnacles ; ' if all eggs were black, Kitchener, one bird wouldn't know from another which eggs were hers.' ' Ay,' he pondered a moment, ' are they a' blue eggs ? ' ' No, Kitchener, or the birds wouldn't know them either.' ' An whit are they ? ' ' Some are yellow ; some brown Wee Kitchener interrupted, ' Are they bits o' sky as weel ? ' ' Of course.' ' I never sawayella sky in a' my natural ; whaur is 't ? ' Again the wee snub nose was tilted upwards. ' It 's far away,' said Barnacles gravely, ' where the ships with the parrots go.' Wee Kitchener remained silent. Barnacles was wondering if he was convinced. ' Dae the nests fa' oot o' the sky as weel ? ' ' Oh no ! the birds build them.' ' Ay,' eagerly, ' what wi* ? ' ' Bits of grass, hay, moss, wool, and horses' hair, Kitchener ; the sheep and the horses help the wee birds.' ' That 's good o' them,' answered Wee Kitchener. ' Isn't it,' said Barnacles, his face suddenly glowing at the sympathy hi the boy's heart, ' isn't it just ? and the wee birds with the nests hi the bushes getting help from the sheep and the horses tell us of the Good One up in the sky, Kitchener, who watches over all. You 're going to get your boots, and I 'm going to get a job,' his voice rang with conviction. It was perhaps this thought of Providence which BARNACLES 95 caused Barnacles to remember the food which he had carried for them both in his pocket. It was not a sumptuous repast a bottle of milk, bread, cheese, a few biscuits, two hard-boiled eggs, part of a black pudding ; but there upon the grass above the burn it was eaten with a relish. A sheep showed an unwinking solemn face over a low dry-stone dike as they ate. Its black mask caught wee Kitchener's eye. ' Dae sheep have nests ? ' he asked. ' Of course, Kitchener.' ' What kin' o' eggs have they ? ' ' It 's not eggs, it 's fiddles,' answered Barnacles. * Show me ane o' their nests wi' fiddles,' cried wee Kitchener gleefully. ' I can't, I herrit it, and the fiddle is in the house.' ' I wish I could hae a sheep's nest,' sighed the boy. ' Why, Kitchener ? ' ' I want to get a fiddle an' play like you.' ' So you shall, so you shall, Kitchener ; when I get work I '11 buy a fiddle for you.' * I '11 be very pleased,' answered wee Kitchener. When they had finished their meal and stood up, Barnacles said, ' We had a fine time here, Kitchener, hadn't we ? ' ' Ay, Barnacles.' ' Well, Kitchener, never be mean ; always give if you can.' He handed the boy a piece of bread, ' Break it up, Kitchener, and scatter the crumbs on the grass. The birds that have the nest will get their supper.' With loving eyes Barnacles watched the boy furnish- ing a table for the birds. ' Come away now,' he said, ' down to the burn.' This stream flowed down the valley. It laughed 96 BARNACLES in the shallows among the pebbles and was full of dancing dimples. ' Look ! look ! ' cried Kitchener, ' I saw a wee fush.' Troutlings whisked among the stones. Wee Kitchener became excited and chased them with pebbles, dart- ing about the bank as lively himself as the brown fish. Barnacles, all this time, was whittling little dug-outs from a branch. One he gave to wee Kitchener and one he retained. * Now, Kitchener, this is two boats and we '11 have a race.' ' Bicht,' and wee Kitchener spat on his palms. ' Not you and me our boats, Kitchener.' He handed the boy a switch. ' This is to push off your boat if she catches on the bank or sticks at a stone.' Barnacles forded the burn. ' Now place your boat in the water, Kitchener, and I '11 put in mine.' The boats were off. They danced down the bank folio whig them, and Kitchener urged his on with all the cries of Cotton Street and the school. A sudden swirl spun the boat of Barnacles ahead. ' No ! no ! Kitchener, fair play ; you mustn't touch yours with the switch unless she sticks,' yelled Bar- nacles. Wee Kitchener was leaping into the air and thro whig out his arms, crying, ' Gae on, gae on.' Each was doubled up again, watching the progress of the boats ; now running forward, now halting, as the boats were whirled in the middle of the current or staggered into still bays. ' Gae on, gae on,' Kitchener was shouting, when suddenly a rabbit darted across his path. He leapt into the air breathless, and leaving BARNACLES 97 the race pursued bunny's tail up the brae till the bob- bing fur vanished in the wood. When he turned again to the race he saw Barnacles rising from the ground with rueful face. With all his eyes bent upon his tiny ship, Barnacles had plunged into a dike which in a mad caper of stone had also ran down to the blandishment of the burn. By this time the twin craft had vanished down the jolly stream. Barnacles recrossed. * You 've won, Kitchener,' he said. Kitchener was overjoyed ; his eyes grew bright as the burn. ' Hae I ? hae I ? I saw a rabbit scootin' up the brae an' I didna see the en'.' ' You have, Kitchener ; you get the prize.' ' What prize ? ' ' Why, didn't I tell you ? ' said Barnacles, sitting down and rubbing his knee : ' a pair of boots and a knife, when I get work.' ' Never heed the boots ; I '11 just tak the knife,' and wee Kitchener sat down beside him. ' Is it wi' work you get boots ? ' he asked. ' Yes, Kitchener.' ' No' wi' pownies ? ' ' Sometimes.' ' An' whaur wull ye get work ? ' Then Barnacles remembered the banker of Castle- head. ' I think we shall soon go,' he said ; ' I am going to see about work to-night.' But though the day was waning over the Delect- able Land they were loath to go. All was silent around with the brooding peace of the close of day. An early bee twanged past accentuating the stilhiess. The grave beauty of the twilight ; the witchery and depth of the middle distance ; the clear chant of a 98 BARNACLES single blackbird he had perhaps found the crumbs the fluttering of a timid wind in the leaves ; the blue- black shadows which are the feet of Night ; and the sighing of the lonely burn water were the voice of the brooding spirit of Dusk calling to the soul of Barnacles. He listened to the pale water as if it were not only living but breathing. ' Is the water laughing or crying ? ' he asked. ' Water canna greet,' answered wee Kitchener. Barnacles had risen. The boy followed, looking curiously at the burn. ' See the big an' the wee shadows hi the water, 'he said, slightly shivering. In speaking of the shadows he had named a sudden fear which had assailed him, whispering it to gather courage from the presence of a protector. Barnacles gave him his hand. * Come, Kitchener, let us cross the burn and tramp down the shadows.' The boy went fearlessly. After they had crossed Barnacles sighed. ' Ay, Kitchener ; when we get older the shadows become real.' He looked down at the child's hand reposing confidently in his. Why am I not reassured and tramp down the shadows, who can bestow such assurance on this child ? he thought. He gets his trust because his hand is in mine. Barnacles looked up. ' The Hand that made the stars is stretched out to me,' he whispered. ' Eh ? ' said wee Kitchener. ' I am very confident,' answered Barnacles, ' that 1 am going to get work.' Through the deepening shadows they went on hand hi hand in silence. BARNACLES 99 XX Wee Kitchener burst into the house. * Faither, my boat won the race ! ' ' What race, son ? ' ' In the burn ; in the burn ; an' I 'm to get a pair o' buits.' ' Whaur frae, Kitchener ? the powny 's deid.' Kitchener's face fell. The corners of his mouth began to twitch. ' I don't ken ' suddenly a transfiguring light shone on his face ' Barnacles telt me.' The radiance of his face convinced Skelly. ' The whipper-in was here for you, Kitchener,' piped Hector the seaman ; ' I telt him we made a mistake hi oor dead reckoning, an' thocht this was Setterday. Ye 'd better look out for squalls on Monday.' ' Don't you fear,' said Barnacles, ' I '11 go with you to the school.' ' Are you gaun to Castleheid the nicht ? ' asked Skelly. He handed Barnacles the visiting card. ' Yes ; perhaps I '11 get a job for you, Skelly.' ' I 've got ane,' answered the fish-hawker. Barnacles' face lit up. ' I 'm awfully glad ; what is it ? ' ' Blin' Ned's mither is deid, an' Sanny his brother is gein' up his job in the mouldin' shop.' This was one of those countless obscure tragedies of the poor. It was necessary for ' blin' Ned's ' brother Sanny to be hi the moulding shop at five hi the morning and have the fires cleaned out and going before the 100 BARNACLES moulders arrived at six. He had to remain behind in the evening when the men were finished, and did not reach home till almost seven o'clock, to eat his supper and tumble into bed into a trance. The anxiety of his mother's life was to get him up in the morning, but he was so fagged that he would moan for another quarter of an hour : and every morning there was a scene between mother and son. She herself was forced to be up at half -past four ; and after her son had his supper she was the last to go to bed ; but her brief rest was broken with fears that she would sleep beyond half- past four. The lad received eighteen shillings a week. This had gone on for three years. He had wanted to give up such a life and serve his apprenticeship as an engineer, but that meant only five shillings a week to begin with, while the eighteen shillings were absolutely necessary. As year succeeded year this struggle with privation, fatigue, and want of sleep went on. But one morning the envious horns and whistles screaming over Paisley called up none of Skelly's neighbours. About eleven o'clock the son stretched himself and yawned. He was astonished at the full sun striking in his eyes ; but a delicious drowsiness possessed him ; his body was bathed in soft warmth, and he languidly closed his eyes. A second time he awoke, hearing a tap-tapping of a stick on the floor. All at once he was aware of a silence in the house. He could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. ' Ned,' he shouted, ' is that you ? ' The blind man's stick tapped into the room. ' Are ye here, Sanny ? ' ' Ay, what time is 't ? ' BARNACLES 101 ' It 's the dinner oor.' Ned had come off his alms- beat. * Whaur 's your mither ? ' asked the brother who was in bed. Immediately he had asked the question a sudden fear seized him, and he jumped from bed and ran into the kitchen. His mother was in bed, lying on her back, her mouth open, her eyes fixed upwards. One hand lay on the bed-clothes. He knew she was dead. Something was rising up in his throat a choking. Noiselessly he approached her. Her face was puffy, her lips tinged with blue. ' She 's dead, dead,' something inside him was saying ; ' she '11 speak to me no more ; she 's lost to me ! ' He wanted to burst into tears but could not cry. He was dimly conscious in the terrible silence of the blind man groping about. Suddenly the blind man spoke. ' Sanny ! whit 's wrang ? ' Then something within his breast burst and gushed out in tears. ' Ned, Ned ! oor mither's gone.' * Ay,' answered the blind man, his face going white, ' I smelt something ; daith 's a thing the blin' can see.' He began groping towards the bed. . . . In this way Skelly got a job at eighteen shillings a week by working at furnaces from five in the morning till seven in the evening. Sanny, emancipated by death, was going to serve his apprenticeship as an iron-turner. When Skelly informed Barnacles, Hector the seaman arose from before the fire. ' Then ye '11 no' be thinkin' o' a powny ony mair ? ' he said. 102 BARNACLES ' Powny, faither ; whaur '11 I get it ? Ye micht as weel say a Derby horse an' be done wi't.' ' Ye wad get it wi' my pension, I 'm thinkin'.' Skelly winked at Barnacles. ' No, faither, I 'm no' thinkin' o' a powny noo.' The old man took a turn up and down the floor. His thin white hair was ruffled ; there was a pink flush on his cheek-bones ; his eyes were sparkling. * Then I '11 get my pilot reefer jaicket,' he said in a loud excited voice. Again he began walking the floor. ' What 's come ower ye, faither ? ' Skelly asked in amazement. ' Would you like a pilot jacket ? ' Barnacles asked soothingly. ' Wad I like it,' he burst out with passion, ' wad I no' ! Hae I no' been thinkin' o't thae five years ; a pilot reefer jaicket wi' a velvet collar an' a black silk muffler ? ' * Well, I 'm flummoxed,' and Skelly burst out laughing. The old man looked with fright at his laughing son. ' I am ashamed to say it,' he said in a humble voice. ' I am ashamed, Skelly ; but I canna bear it ony langer ; I hae my pension, an' ye 're no needin' a powny.' ' It 's all right, Hector,' came the cheery voice of Barnacles, ' you '11 get your pilot jacket, with brass buttons on it, if you like.' ' No, no,' Hector the seaman began, wringing his hands, ' I never thocht o' brass buttons a' thae five year.' . . . About an hour later Barnacles was on his way to visit Mr. Gilfillan in Castlehead. With invincible faith in human nature he carried a note in his pocket. BARNACLES 103 ' A pair of boots, a pilot reefer jacket and black silk muffler,' and in some vague way he hoped to carry back these treasures from Castlehead ; and the greatest of these was boots for a bare-footed child. Let cannon roar, and philosophers talk, the world has never yet heard a sound that will draw, subdue, and win the heart of a man like the voice of a child. It is not altogether of this earth, such a voice. So thought Barnacles as he came near the house of Mr. Nicol Gilfillan, in whose drawing-room sat Mrs. Normanshire listening to the recital of the episode of a man, a sheep, and a violin. Nothing on earth like a child to win the heart of a man. He still felt the boy's hand in his own. He had a na'ive expectation of the world opening its heart to a waif in Cotton Street, and a joyful emotion that he was about to be a voice for those who live mutely in dark corners, who wander about the streets till the night comes, or stand begging on the bridges and at the corners ; who cry quietly behind their doors when the windows are dark and make no other sound ; who receive help only from sweeps and coffin-makers. They did not know anything except what they saw in their own streets nothing of other countries they knew, or of olden times, and how Christ died to save us all. They were blind, and weary with toil, and shivering in their old age. ' Heaven will be kind to us yet,' he cried hi a fervent voice, as he went up the garden path to the house of the wealthy banker, whose windows were full of lights. His face was glowing ; he was quivering with emotion. BOOK II MRS. NORMANSHIBE'S mother was one of two daughters of Mr. Edwin Sangster, a wealthy Glasgow merchant, whose firm had a lucrative connection with South America. She had received her musical education from Dr. Boyd Crawford, organist of a United Free Church hi the city, of which her parents were members ; and in the course of time Dr. Crawford asked permis- sion of Mr. Sangster to marry his daughter. This was peremptorily refused. The folio whig week Margaret Sangster, who had been out for the evening, returned home, and without taking off hat or gloves walked right up to her father and said : ' I was married this evening.' Mr. Sangster put down his evening paper and rose with ominous deliberation. * Your place is with your husband. Go to him.' ' We have no house,' she said, and unflinchingly met his eyes. Mrs. Sangster was clinging to her husband's arm, crying, ' Edwin ! Edwin ! are you daft ? ' He shook off his wife's hands. ' This is her home no longer ' ; he pointed to the door, sat down, picked up the Glasgow News, and over its edge watched his daughter leave the room. It was late. The rain was blattering on the windows. The whole church knew the story. Mr. Sangster, 107 108 BARNACLES though a member of the Kirk Session, made no attempt, in spite of his influence, to have the organist dismissed ; and no one had the temerity even to name Dr. Boyd hi his presence. Nor after a week's pleading had his own wife. Only she visited the couple secretly in their home at Garnethill, carrying there delicacies, clothes, money especially after a child was born. Mr. Sangster was present in the church when the child was baptized, and named after his own wife, Martha. When the baptismal ceremony was over, with the words intoned by the choir yet echoing in the church, ' The Lord bless thee and keep thee ; the Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee,' he went round with one of the collection-bags as he had done for years, with his face like a rock. Soon after his wife fell into a nervous decline, and having scarcely spoken for six weeks, passed from dumbness into death. As soon as she was dead Dr. Boyd and his wife removed to Edinburgh, and Mr. Sangster was left alone, for his younger daughter had married a coalowner alone in an avenging solitude. On the first Sunday on which the new organist played Mr. Sangster was hi his place ; but after that day he never returned to the church. Two years afterwards, on a whiter day when the church bells were ringing and snow was thickening hi the sky, he lay dying. As the evening drew in the snow turned to sleet and at last to ram. He made signs, pointing to the window, but neither the nurse nor his younger daughter could understand what he wanted. They heard a single whispered word, 'Bain.' BARNACLES 109 A little later, all lonely, and dumb as had been his wife, he too met death, hearing the rain blattering on the window. The woman who washed the body found hanging round his neck a locket containing a strand of hair. By directions in the will, the body was put in a black coffin and buried in Hawkhead Cemetery, near Paisley, where lay the dust of his fathers. II The will was read to the daughters who came, each accompanied by her husband, to the funeral. The coal merchant stood distantly, looking through gold spec- tacles with insolent condescension at Dr. Crawford, whom he always thought was an adventurer. The church of which Mr. Sangster was a member received a benefaction to supplement the salary of the organist ; to Alice the younger daughter 20, in order to buy a mourning ring ; the residue of the estate was bequeathed ' to my granddaughter Martha Crawford, daughter of Dr. Boyd Crawford, to be inherited by her when she attains the age of twenty- three.' Until then her parents were to act as trustees on her behalf. ' It 'a absurd, indecent ; my father couldn't have been in his right mind. I '11 dispute the will,' stormed the coalowner's wife. ' As you choose,' said the lawyer. She wheeled on her sister. ' It paid you to quarrel with father.' Mrs. Crawford burst into tears. 110 BARNACLES After the coal merchant had gone off, dumbfounded, along with his wife, the lawyer explained their legal position to Dr. Crawford and his wife. ' Can we live here ? ' she asked, gazing around with the hunger of a returned exile. ' Certainly, certainly.' She went at once to her mother's room. On the threshold she stood, her hands at her breast, gazing at that sacred spot which she had not seen for years. Her eyes slowly filled with tears, as she thought of her who had wept every time the terrible clock warned her that she must finish her visit in the home at Garnethill. Her heart was bursting with the grief of years of separation and with the anguish of being in that room now alone. Every object was pressed to her lips, as, with a soul thirsting for memorials of her dead mother, she ransacked the drawers. She came on a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was a bundle of her own letters, written to her mother when illness had made an end of the maternal visits to Garnethill. At first she thought the parcel had been made up by her mother, with, God only knows, what trembling and sighs and tears ; but when she drew off the wrapping, there on the top was a half sheet of note- paper, on which she read those words written hi the firm handwriting of her father : ' I have read those letters ; I ask your forgiveness, my daughter.' He knew all that her mother had visited her ; that she and her husband had refused to leave Glasgow so long as their mother was alive. His pride was broken ; his heart too. ' daddy ! daddy ! daddy ! ! ! ' she moaned, and BARNACLES 111 sank on her knees, with the half sheet of note-paper over her eyes. Do the spirits of the dead see and hear us mortals ? If so, that would be a moment of mingled agony and bliss for Edwin Sangster. X III Martha had gone to Germany for two successive winters, hi order to complete a musical education begun by her father ; and when she returned from her final session at Berlin, she found her father a liberal supporter of the Glasgow Choral and Orchestral Union, whose members were the chief visitors at his house. Among them was a young man, Patrick Normanshire, tall, delicately built, with a pale clean-shaven face, dark lustrous eyes, and thick black hair. He was next in place to the cashier hi a large commercial firm in the city a post to which he had been promoted through the influence of Dr. Crawford, who held hi this firm certain ' interests ' which had been bequeathed by Mr. Sangster to his granddaughter. Martha, now a tall, beautiful girl of eighteen, was not long at home before she entered a new world the beat of whose heart was centred in a being with a pale face and eyes of great lustre. Sometimes she feared this face with a fear which gave her a strange wild joy. There was not a night that she did not see it when her head was laid on the pillow. She even hovered over his signature on pieces of music. Never once did a nearer realisation of her dreams occupy her mind. So that such a realisation when it came took her unawares as by an onset. 112 BARNACLES They were returning in a taxi-cab from one of the Choral Union concerts at which he had been singing, when, before she was conscious of it, her hand was shut hi a large warm clasp. She struggled, but with no desire to be free. She scarcely knew what she was saying. ' Don't, Patrick ; you mustn't.' The eager flame of the pale face was beside her own ; wave upon wave of delicious sweetness was thrilling through her ; she closed her eyes, feeling on the verge of a delicious swoon, as she eagerly drank in his words, ' My darling, my darling Martha, I love you I ' She gave a little gasp, and her head sank on his shoulder, and his lips closed over hers. She became covered with blushes when her mother spoke to her. It was hi the dining-room after break- fast, and Edwin Sangster from his oil portrait on the wall looked down at them. Patrick had told her father last night of his love, of his increasingly hopeful prospects. Her heart was beating so loudly, and she felt so giddy, that she did not know what her mother was saying. She put out two imploring hands, and sank into her mother's arms. ' I won't leave you, mummy ; I don't want to never, never ' ' But you love him, dear ? ' She pressed her burning face on her mother's breast. ' I love you best of all he took me by surprise I don't want to ! ! ! ' she began to sob. ' Hush ! hush ! ' her mother was stroking her hair, ' it 's the way we have all been ' : she felt the girl coming closer the keen ear of love, listening at the mother's heart, ' he 's very fond of you ; you will be very happy.' * I 'm not going to leave you,' she cried in sudden BARNACLES 118 terror, clinging to her mother with a fierce grip. ' I couldn't live without you he had no right I did not mean him to to anything ' she ended with a gasp. Mrs. Crawford poured out all her love upon the girl alarmed at the dream come true, and assured her they would never be separated, and that marriage lay away somewhere far off hi the dim long years. That evening, with lower lip quivering and eyes full of tears, she reproached him with revealing their secret. ' It would not be right of us to carry on clandestine love-making,' he answered. He was right. Mingled with her admiration of him was respect for his manliness. ' I thought we were going to have a lover's quarrel,' she said a little gaily, as if such were a half -sweet adventure. ' That 's impossible,' he said fondly. The icy breath which had passed between them melted in the fervour of their kiss. IV The next week he introduced his brother Ganson, an artist who had studied hi Paris and had now set up a studio in Glasgow. He had his brother's dark eyes, save that they were more piercing than Patrick's. He was older, short, squat, with a low broad head always butting forward, a bull-dog neck, and massive shoulders which betrayed great strength. There was a dark bar above his eyes which gave him a scowling look. His hands were delicate, white, and prehensile ; and he was dandified in his dress. 114 BARNACLES He made no good impression on first appearance ; but this distaste soon vanished when his engaging and sometimes erudite tongue began. Besides, he was well-bred, affected a cosmopolitan air, possessed the art of displaying his gifts to the best advantage, and with subtle simplicity concealed this self-advertisement. Not very long after he was introduced to Dr.Crawford he suggested in the most casual way that Dr. Crawford should invite certain people of standing whom he knew to a dinner party, and especially members of the Committee of Glasgow Corporation who bought pictures for the city. Such intriguing was unpalatable to Dr. Crawford, who, having thought over the suggestion, told the artist that he could not bring himself to attempt such a course, and was amazed when the artist answered : * I did not suggest this, did I ? it must have been pure absent-mindedness, if so.' Dr. Crawford eyed him with suspicion, and from that moment took a strong dislike to the artist. Even his lazy attitude as he lounged in the deep chair had something sinuous in it ; and his quiet self-assurance was that of an intellectual animal watching when to spring. Nevertheless, because it was more to his taste than intriguing for commissions with committees, Dr. Crawford accepted the artist's offer to paint the portrait of Miss Martha. The girl was overjoyed, because Patrick had been mourning his brother's want of luck in Glasgow. At the same time the evening papers contained a notice that the rising young artist, Mr. L. Ganson Normanshire, was painting the portrait of Miss Martha Crawford, daughter of Mr. Boyd Crawford, BARNACLES 115 Mus.D., late organist of St. David's U.F. Church, and granddaughter of the late Mr. Edwin Sangster, of the well-known firm Sangster and Traill. Every morning at ten o'clock Martha sat to him in a room, once a nursery, at the top of the house. He wished her to be painted in Greek costume, and dwelt fatiguingly long hi arranging her draperies. One morning during the second week he kissed her on the shoulder. She felt the spot sting like flame, and crouched into the chair for a moment, as if the kiss had been a blow from a hatchet. The next she rose, her face pale as the dead, and her nostrils flutter- ing like the wings of a butterfly. ' What did you do that for you little monkey ? ' ' How could I help it. I 've loved you since the first day I saw you.' She burned with shame. ' Me,' she gasped, ' your brother's fiancee ; you make me feel I am bad.' Amazement was hi his face and voice. ' My brother's fiancee ! ' ' Didn't you know ? ' ' How could I know : my action proves I was ignorant ' he made a pretty play of gesture, after the manner of France. ' You are lying,' she said coldly, and passed out of the room. In that moment the soul of Mr. Ganson Normanshire was filled with a venomous hatred of the girl. He walked up and down the nursery, his eyes blazing, and little sounds, as of an animal, coming from his throat. He stopped in front of the portrait and spat on the canvas. 116 BARNACLES She was sure he would not return to the house, and when in the evening she opened the drawing-room door and saw him sitting at his ease, legs crossed, and measuring the finger-tips of one hand against the other, she was so overcome with faintness that she could not move. ' Oh ! Miss Martha,' she heard his suave, deferential tones, * we have deferred a matter of dispute to you. Which has the greater influence upon the masses lyric music or that which we call classical ? I pointed out to your father that the ballad singers were in vogue long before the era of orchestras.' ' And fingers long before forks,' laughed Dr. Crawford ; ' yet forks appear to have a refining influence.' She could not remain any longer where she was. A sickly atmosphere enveloped her as she walked pale and cold into the room. She felt she must say some- thing for her father's sake, when he spoke again. ' Orchestral music fails because it needs an educated audience. The ballad is the cry of the people.' * Just as painting fails, I suppose, because it needs an educated eye,' she said. * Right,' he answered, ' I agree with you. The meaning inherent in art or music is everything. For instance, the Pathetic Symphony. Its music is barbaric. That is its lasting worth. It is the voice of the steppes. Will you not play it, Miss Martha ? ' She was heart-sick, soul-weary of him. She pitied the composers of music whose pearls were used by such rogues. BARNACLES 117 ' You must excuse me,' she answered coldly, ' I have had a headache to-day.' ' I am sorry. Art becomes ashes at such times. This forenoon, for instance, I could make no speed with your portrait.' She was seized with inexplicable fear when she heard him speak openly of the portrait, the arena of her shame and of his effrontery. The room began to sway about her. She wished to scream out that she would give no more sittings. ' Will you do that, Martha ? ' she was at last conscious of her father's voice. ' Do what ? ' She could scarcely articulate the words. ' Mr. Normanshire wishes to commence half an hour earlier.' ' It may be a little inconvenient for you ; but it is helping my career,' he said earnestly ; ' time is of importance to me.' His words gave rise to an intense loathing of him in her soul. She saw that both she and her father were being made his dupes. Afraid that every succeeding moment would prove disastrous, she arose, her breasts heaving stormily, and with all the pride of Sangster blood she raked him with a look, and said : ' I cannot come before ten o'clock ; and even then it depends on circumstances whether I shall come at all ' : and she turned to her father, ' Excuse me, daddy ; I have some things to attend to.' He was at the door before her, holding it open. ' I shall have the pleasure then at ten to-morrow.' She passed him by in silence, her eyes held steady in front of her, her step as firm as a soldier's. ' I will make her pay for all yet,' he almost breathed 118 BARNACLES audibly in the face of her father, as he went back to his seat. As for Martha, she determined to go to-morrow on a visit to a Norwegian friend whom she had met in Germany, and who was now at school in Edinburgh ; but before long she became convinced that this was sheer flight, and her pride was roused. Such was the nature of this girl. Where she genuinely loved she would love with tenderness and ardour to the death ; and where her pride was touched it would sting like fire, and cause her to endure, if need be even in silence, as much as her love itself would bear of suffering. Her cheek burned on the pillow ; she would face Mr. Normanshire in the morning ; she would be finished , once and for ever with this conflict. He was at work when she arrived. As he approached to arrange the draperies she stood up. ' Stay where you are, if you please.' He shrugged. ' You have not got these things properly arranged.' ' Understand/ she answered, ' you are here on sufferance ; you must not come near me.' Jaded of body from a sleepless night, she was weary in spirit of this clash. She wanted to walk away from this man and his painting for ever. ' But the portrait will be spoiled.' * I am indifferent ; I do not care if it is never finished.' Mr. Norrnanshire's heart went on fire. There and then he meditated her murder. For two long minutes he kept his head bent behind the canvas out of her sight. She never knew the tremendous struggle that was going on behind the concealing easel. Only one thing saved her life, and that was his sane conviction BARNACLES 119 that in that room and at that hour he could not hide the murder. At length he lifted his face, which yet showed traces of his madness in spite of the supreme effort which he made to conceal it. ' Oh ! very well,' his voice had just the suspicion of a tremble ' I shall have to do my best. It is a matter of importance to me, I assure you. I am putting all I know into your portrait. My future may depend on it.' She was disarmed by these words ; and their appeal to her clemency, in a voice which had none of his characteristic assurance, touched her heart. She sat down, breathing a little rapidly. ' I have no desire to spoil your chances of success ; but you mustn't take the slightest liberty with me again.' He permitted himself one look of malice over the edge of the canvas a long look, for her head was down- cast, which preserved his hands at their lawful task. But it was impossible to work. A devil within him would subside for a little, then rise and tear him. If he yielded to it now he would get her life, but his own would stand in dire jeopardy. At last he stepped back from the canvas. ' It won't do,' he said. ' I 'm making a hash of things. You '11 be glad to hear that I relieve you of your servitude.' He turned his back on her and began working with his materials. ' Do you mean,' she asked, with a rising inflection, ' that I need not return any more ? ' For a moment he kept his back to her. She heard 120 BARNACLES the little dull thud of paint tubes on a metallic surface. Something snapped with a click, and then he faced her smiling a little wanly. ' That might be the deatn-warrant of my career. I only ask that you will consider yourself released from bondage for to-day. I 'm making a mess of things.' The wan smile looked pathetic ; his voice was very penitent ; she felt grieved that he was put out. With downcast eyes she made her slow way to the easel, hoping that by showing some interest she might banish his disappointment. She was astonished, not only at the lifelike appearance of the portrait, but at its growth. ' Oh ! ' she cried in admiration, ' how well you are getting on.' ' I have to ; I was working at it at six this morning,' he answered. ' Here ? ' she asked in amazement. * No ! in my rooms ; I took it away last night.' She was seized with remorse. He was struggling hard, and she was putting obstacles in his way. He did not know she was engaged. She allowed her mind to dwell on this. Perhaps she had wronged him. ' 1 shall do everything I can to assist you,' she said impulsively. Again he smiled a little wanly, and shook his head. ' There is only one thing needed, but it seems out of the question now.' ' What is it ? ' ' The draperies. I assure you it is essential, and I will not take any liberty. I did not know you were engaged to Patrick. I swear it, Miss Martha.' Her heart was beating to suffocation. She could not raise her eyes to meet his. BARNACLES 121 ' Why did he not let you know ? ' Her voice was scarcely audible. He shook his head. ' I don't know anything about that. What I want to know is, am I forgiven, Miss Martha ? It is the only condition in which I can make progress with my work.' At last she raised her eyes. They rested on his face a moment, faltered, and looked down. ' I will give you all the help I can that the portrait may be a success,' she said softly. He bowed ; and ' I am forgiven,' he said. She nodded to him and ran out of the room. He closed the door noiselessly after her, and stood listening till her footsteps died away in silence down the stair. Then a remarkable change came over him. For a moment he stood hissing while his dark eyes blazed up in his pale face. Suddenly his tense body relaxed ; he gave a howl, gripped his hair, ran to the canvas and spat and spat on it ; then fell on the floor, rolling over and over, making horrible sounds in his throat, while his hands tore his hair. When he finally arose quietened, his spent face had the look of a man who has been engaged in an orgy. VI She felt extreme pity for him that day as she thought of the isolation and obscurity of his lot. With a frail brush, some paint, and a piece of canvas he was struggling unseen and unheard for a place in the earth. Her father and her lover carried the immediate practice of their art before the public, and had the chance of 122 BARNACLES inspiration from the crowd. He was working alone and unapplauded, like an animal in the dark burrowing towards the light. She thought as well of his work, which she admired the more in that she herself could neither paint nor draw. It seemed to her miraculous that by means of a brush and paint the living likeness of a person could be put on to canvas. She stole to the nursery ; put the canvas on the easel, and for a long time gazed at the half-finished painting. It was one of Patrick's evenings and he came late, excusing himself with a press of business at the office stocktaking and the like. She stood back from him, smoothing down a collar of lace, and spoke with an air of reserve. ' Then you couldn't come and keep me company when I 'm sitting to your brother ? ' ' At ten in the morning ? Do you want me to get the sack, Martha ? ' ' I wish you could, just for a few days, till the portrait is finished.' ' Is he boring you with his eternal Paris ? ' Patrick laughed. ' N no,' she hesitated and coloured. His lean jaws suddenly clamped as he keenly scrutinised her face. ' What is it, Martha ? ' He reached out and drew her to his knee. He felt her come reluctantly. ' It is of no consequence now ; I thought you might ask off and come. I Ve never asked anything from you before.' BARNACLES 128 ' You don't know what you are saying. It is im- possible. We 're all working overtime just now. Look here ' there was a little break of anxiety in his voice * don't look disappointed because I can't come ; better give up this portrait business altogether.' His tone was peremptory. A frown had gathered on his face. She shrank back. ' I only asked you to come ; I did not ask for advice. Her tone was a little distant, a little cold. ' You cannot come. That is all ... as for giving up, would it be fair to your brother ? He has his career to make. . . . Oh please, you are hurting my hand.' He released the hand. A look of gloom settled on his face. ' I don't understand you. Why do you ask me to come to the sittings ? ' She had begun to pleat the folds of her skirt with nervous fingers. The blood was slowly ebbing away from her face as she did this, as if her ringers had some- thing to do with the draining away of her colour. Suddenly her fingers ceased, her body stiffened, and she rose slowly off his knee. It was like a gesture of farewell. Her head was held very high. Within the last few moments dark circles had grown about her eyes. She was absolutely pale, and spoke breathlessly. ' Why did you not tell your brother we were engaged ? ' The moment the question was asked there was a shudder at her heart. She knew she had taken a terrible step. He rose slowly, and stood over her frowning with the dark blood rushing to his face. ' Did he teU you that ? ' 124 BARNACLES ' Would I ask if not ? ' she said scornfully, though fear was rapidly invading her heart. She was forced to look up at last because of his pro- longed silence. His eyes seemed to be searching to her soul. ' May I ask what you were talking about that led my brother to give you such curious information ? ' His tone seemed to withdraw his very person away from her, in an icy suspicion which flicked her quiver- ing soul. ' No, you may not.' ' Is that all you have to say to my question, Martha ? ' ' Yes ; except that you are very absurd.' * If I am, it is because I am afraid of my brother.' ' You ought not to have brought him here, then.' ' I see that.' These words made a sudden gulf of silence in the room. Each felt there was something irreparable in them. Her face became scarlet at the innuendo, and her pride rose fiercely. ' You need say no more ; I was not aware that it was not safe to bring him here.' He made a gesture of despair. * It was yourself said so.' ' No, it was not.' ' It was ; and what is more, you are keeping some- thing back from me ; something that there is between you and my brother, that made you ask me to come to the sittings.' ' I asked you why you did not tell him we were engaged.' He lost control of himself and flamed out : ' What BARNACLES 125 right have you to ask that ? why did my brother tell you that ? ' Her pride swelled to meet his anger. ' I will not be subjected to your jealousy. ... I am not accustomed to scenes.' ' Do you think they are food and drink to me ? ' he asked fiercely. ' I don't know, I 'm sure.' She spoke as if he was a stranger. For one tense moment they gazed at one another. Each felt that if they separated now the irrevocable would sunder them for ever. ' You don't know after all that has been between us,' he said in a hard voice. ' And what do you know, after all there has been between us, that you call me in question with your brother ? ' Their eyes no longer held each other ; that moment had passed ; the irrevocable came ; there only remained for their bodies to separate. . . . ' You stand in front of me like a judge . . .' the rage of pride blinded her . . . ' please let me pass.' One moment, as he looked at her, he wondered if he had ever seen this girl before. The next moment he stood aside. Patrick stood over his brother who was painting, and stared down at him gloomily. ' What made you tell Miss Crawford that you did not know I was engaged to her ? ' he burst out. His brother looked up. ' And all the time I thought you were admiring my work. It is to be a gift to Dr. Crawford.' 126 BARNACLES ' Tell me,' said Patrick, ' or I will strangle you.' He raised his clenched fist. The artist slipped his brush in the cleft of his ear and rose. ' My poor Pat ; your Miss Crawford is kittenish : I would not grieve or break my heart, if I were you.' Before he could say any more the clenched fist took him full in the face. The artist staggered back against the easel, which with the canvas came crashing on the floor. He picked them up, dusted the canvas with his handkerchief, and replaced it on the easel. Then with his hand on his face he turned on his brother. ' What did you do that for, Pat ? ' ' For your slander ' the younger brother was towering over the other, his fist again ready, and his eyes blazing. The artist shrugged. ' I have told you the truth, Pat. I have to arrange the Greek gown when I am painting her portrait. She told me I must be a good boy, and asked if I did not know she was engaged to you.' ' That 's a lie.' Patrick took a single stride towards his brother. He held up a delicate white hand, palm open. ' What 's the use of striking me again, Pat ? I have told you what took place. Look here ' sudden passion sprang into his voice and quickened his face ' all I want is to get this portrait finished. My career in Glasgow may depend on it. Do you think I would ruin my chances by playing the silly goat ? ' Patrick's jaws were working, as if he were chewing something. He was thinking, in face of this candour of his brother's, of Martha's evasion and her refusal to tell him anything. He had yet an insane desire to take his brother by the throat, and drew a deep sobbing breath, BARNACLES 127 ' Why, then, did she ask me to be present at the sittings ? ' ' I suggested it,' said Ganson Normanshire calmly. Patrick suddenly felt sick. ' You ? ' he said, hi a faint voice. ' Yes, me ; I didn't want to be involved in a flirta- tion, and have to take till the Greek Kalends to get the portrait finished.' ' My God ! ' said his brother, and collapsed on a chair. ' Ganson ! Ganson ! I could have pledged my soul for her.' ' Your soul ; she 's not worth a tinker's curse.' The artist's face was suddenly convulsed with rage. ' I have just received a blow through her but that 's nothing. Do you know what she said about the portrait ? " I don't care if it is never finished. I 'm indifferent." I have starved myself in Paris to hear this from a doll. I will exact the penalty, Pat ; for the blow too.' His face full of black blood and his glittering eyes were like his brother's just when he had swung his arm to strike. But his brother did not hear him. His face was buried in his hands. VII Ganson Normanshire was sometimes seized with a rapture of invention. When this ecstasy was upon him he forgot everything in the world, and lived hi a paroxysm of painting. He was jealous of every moment then in his lonely pursuit of beauty, and hi these hours of great passion he was careless either of applause or of reward, The one end for him was the 128 BARNACLES loveliness of the dream woven on the canvas ; and in those hours in which he was lost to the world in loving beauty for its own sake his soul was noble. But once the work was finished and the spell had vanished and the glow had died out, his soul was like a desert which could only be refreshed with the waters of applause. For such refreshment he was insatiable. He had finished the painting that was to be a gift to Dr. Crawford. It showed a long stretch of white sand on the edge of a vast sea ; and above the sand a multitude of flowers. The light of the sea came up on the flowers. It was all as if stained with scent ; as if through the light and flowers there passed a strain of music. The waves were wandering for ever beside the flowers beneath an unearthly light ; and away on the edge of the sea of flowers kneels a girl with gold dust in her hair, whose face has caught all the glow and about whose head is the brightness of a sea-wind a girl whose heart flows as the sea, whose beauty is as the flowers. In a pause of her being, before love dawns for her or motherhood comes, she is listening perhaps to the moving of the waters, perhaps to the sea-wind in the flowers, or to music hi the liquid air from an unseen instrument, as if an angel had slipped into the twilight and with jewelled hand had touched an empyrean chord. He wept when he had finished the picture. The soul of Dr. Crawford, so sensitive to music, will appreciate this, he thought, as he went with heart hungry for recognition to the musician's house. Dr. Crawford, who had thanked him, was examining the painting. BARNACLES 129 ' What is the girl doing ? ' he asked in his heavy, slow voice. The artist was speechless. ' I don't know much about painting, but it seems to me you artists give us a sea and a lot of flowers and then, to toss it off, stick in a girl or somebody, and then like little Peterkin we outsiders ask, What is it all about ? and we are left asking.' At this juncture Mrs. Crawford came into the room. ' Here you are, mother ; Mr. Normanshire has given us a painting.' Mrs. Crawford's neat little figure came forward almost at a run. Her two hands were out. ' Oh ! ' she cried, ' how lovely ! ' Her head jerked a little ; her mild eyes, full of the tenderest admiration, went from the picture to the artist's face and back again to the artist. The canvas shook hi her trembling hands. ' I don't know how you can do this, Mr. Normanshire ; you ought to feel very proud. I am sure I should be. It is exquisite. What a gift you have.' His being glowed. He looked at the silvery face and the sad illumined eyes with rapture. ' It needs more than a gift,' he answered ; ' it means rising early and late to bed.' ' If I could do that I should never want to sleep,' she said, smiling tenderly at him. ' You 've got an enthusiast in mother, anyhow,' said Dr. Crawford, laughing heartily. The artist shot a glance of venom at him. ' I 'm afraid it 's not worth while being enthusiastic about,' he said. ' Oh ! don't say that ' Mrs. Crawford looked at him with a great light of affection hi her eyes ' you have I 130 BARNACLES toiled night and day and given it to us. We shall be so proud. I wish Martha were here to see it. I don't know how to thank you.' He forgot the lukewarmness of Dr. Crawford : he was ready to worship his wife. He even thought with pity of her small jerking head, and her eyes half- smiling, half -pleading, looking at him more fondly, more wistfully than eyes had ever looked at him. When he left the house his heart was filled with rancour as he thought of Dr. Crawford. ' Curse him, the Philistine ! he is his daughter's father,' he growled fiercely. The thought that his picture was hanging before the icy eyes of this man steeped him in agony the whole night long. In the morning he began to work feverishly at another painting, and day by day allowed himself hardly to eat or to sleep. He was like a man de- mented before the canvas. As soon as it was finished he packed it up and sent it to Dr. Crawford along with a brief note : ' I send you this in which the meaning is plain, so that you may rest your eye on it when you are weary and even the charm of music fails.' Dr. Crawford felt insulted and hid the picture from his wife. He was greatly astonished when a friend to whom he showed it said : * I don't know whether the fellow is a genius or merely a very clever man, but it is amazingly fine.' It showed a derelict in mid-ocean bathed in the sunset, with nothing left standing but her three stumps. She was far gone by the bow. Her hatches were open like a wound ; and a single shaft of the last light streamed BARNACXES 131 into the forehold and revealed a dead man lying there, and near him a big rat lean to the ribs with famine. The rest of the hold was hi darkness. Only the white face and the grey beast stood out hi the light. The rat was about to attack the face when it heard the inrush from a leak. Its companions had already fled. Its ears were cocked back at the sound of the water, but its eyes, bright with hunger, were fastened on the face. Dr. Crawford's friend shuddered. ' I can hear the gurgle of the water. Will the rat bolt ? ' and he put his finger to some neat lettering on the low right-hand corner of the canvas which ran ' Appetite the Last Look.' ' The rat is done for,' he said. ' It is horrible,' answered Dr. Crawford. ' I wonder what the fellow meant ; is it the last look of the rat, or of the setting sun as it watches the tragedy of appetite ? ' ' Oh ! take it away with you if it pleases you,' was the disgusted answer ; ' I meant to burn it.' The following evening the artist called. Dr. Crawford, hi his slow, deliberate way, with his straight, almost hard and staring look, said to him : ' That picture of yours may be all right as a work of art. I have no knowledge of painting : but it gave me the grue.' ' Did it ? ' said the artist in a quiet voice. * It did. To be frank with you, Mr. Normanshire, I would not have it hi my house. Fine thing to rest the eye on. I gave it to a friend of mine who appeared to appreciate it. All the same, I think you are wasting your tune painting such stuff.' 132 BARNACLES A sickly smile appeared on the artist's face. His lips moved but no sound came from them. ' Lucky my wife or Miss Crawford did not see it. They 're raving over that girl of yours among the flowers. It might have spoiled their high opinion of you. What has come over Patrick ? He hasn't been here for an age.' The artist made no answer. He lay back in the chair as if he were dead. He was thinking of how he might murder Dr. Crawford. VIII The house was hushed and every one went about white-faced servants, mother, and daughter dread alternating with hope in their bosom. Dr. Crawford, who had been curling, was forced to leave the roaring sport because of a pain in his side. This pain increased until he felt as if a hot iron band were bound about his chest. The doctor had pro- nounced the dread word, ' double pneumonia.' Martha, who had never seen serious illness, was in consternation from the very first sight of her father, whose face had changed its appearance in a single day, and had upon it another-world look. What appalled her most was that though he smiled and gasped, ' A discord here Martha,' she was conscious that all the strength of his nature was needed for himself. Already he had receded from her. As she wiped the sweat on his brow she could scarcely stand at the bedside. She gave him a look of agonised tenderness. BARNACLES 133 ' Are you feeling any better, daddy ? ' she managed to articulate. ' By and by don't be alarmed.' The attempted cheerfulness of his smile rent her heart. The nurse came quietly to her side. ' I think you should leave him now, Miss Martha. He is not to talk.' Her heart was full of despair. It was like taking an eternal farewell. * I '11 come soon again, daddy.' He nodded. When she was gone he turned his face to the wall. As soon as she reached her room she sank in a state of collapse on the bed, dry-eyed, mute as a stone, as wave upon wave of pain rolled over her. In this state Mrs. Crawford found her. At her mother's touch she looked up and moaned, ' mummy ! mummy ! will he get better ? ' The frail head was jerking violently ; it seemed to jerk out the low-spoken words, ' Hush ! hush ! he is in God's hands.' The sight of her mother's trembling lips filled the heart of the girl with a great fear. She jumped up and hid her face on the maternal breast. ' daddy ! daddy ! daddy ! ' she cried ; and a relieving flow of tears came. The silent tears of the mother were dropping fast on the head of the girl. In the evening some one knocked at her door. When she opened it the sight of the maid's scared face turned her blood to water. ' What is it, Lizzie ? ' She could hardly speak the words. There were large dark rings round her eyes ; 134 BARNACLES her hair had become dry and brittle since the morning ; her lips were blanched and parched. The girl's appear- ance made the maid stare. ' Can you come down to the library ? ' she said ; ' Mr. Normanshire and his brother are in.' She recoiled and put a hand on her breast. The maid began to cry. ' It is awful ; he won't leave till he sees you,' she sobbed into her apron. The sight of the servant in this condition roused her courage. The look of death passed from her face. ' Don't cry, Lizzie ; I '11 come at once.' She went downstairs with a firm step, which she quickened as she came near the door of the library. A determination in which fear and despair had vanished filled her being. When she reached the library door, which was ajar, and pushed it open, her eyes were flashing angrily. A horrible sight met her gaze. Sprawling on the chair was Patrick, his clothes disordered, an imbecile look on his face, his eyes muddy and blinking feebly. ' What does this mean ? ' From the threshold her voice rang clear and penetrating. The artist, who was standing near his brother, turned to her and clenched his hands. ' He is unspeakable ; he won't leave.' She felt as if she were standing on adamant with red-hot fire beneath. This fire was also in her body. ' You must get your brother out of here at once.' Her eyes were flashing on the artist. As if they drew him, he walked towards her, and said in a low voice : * I hope you do not lay the blame for this on me. He insisted on coming and kicked and screamed. I had to yield for fear he would be put in jail.' BARNACLES 135 ' Better there than here,' she answered in a voice full of scorn. The blood drained away from the artist's face. His dark eyes glittered at her. ' No doubt,' he answered calmly ; ' perhaps if you speak to him he will go away quietly. 1 have 'phoned for a cab.' She walked right up to Patrick, whose head was fallen almost between his legs. ' Mr. Normanshire, will you please go away my father is very ill ? ' He lifted his eyes in a sodden stare. ' That sh you Martha ? ' She made an imperious gesture to the artist and said, ' Take him away.' A devil of malice lurked in the artist's eyes as he came forward and they rested on her. He took his brother by the oxter and jerked him on to his feet. ' Come, Pat,' he said coaxingly. * All ri' ' He staggered to his feet. ' Let go ! ' He tried to shake off his brother's grip, reeled towards Martha, and put a hand on her shoulder. The artist, gnawing his under lip, watched. She was filled with intense disgust, but stood quietly as he pawed her. * Please go away father is so ill.' ' Shorry Marthe.' She looked at the artist. ' Won't you take him ? ' The soul of the artist gloated over her pleading eyes. He took his brother by the arm. ' Don't you hear ? come on. Dr. Crawford is ill.' * Let sh go Marthe ' He stretched out his hand to her as he was being dragged away, and turned 136 BARNACLES his head, attempting to look back. He cannoned off the door-post and reeled out. ' Mr. Normanshire, don't hurt him ! he 's going quite quietly,' she cried. The artist bared his teeth. She thought it was anger at his brother. She heard the shuffling of feet as if they were sounds in a nightmare ; then the front door opened and closed. It shut out a horror greater than that of mortal sickness. There was a noise of struggle, a murmuring of voices, then wheels rattling away. With their last echo there also died in her heart the final flicker of the ardent fancy of a girl. Silence, grave and healing, settled down on the house. Slowly she went upstairs and listened to the awful sounds of laboured breathing within her father's room. They did not leave her faint of body or sick of heart now. She had realised that there are worse things on earth than the presence of death. She had passed in a moment from girlhood to womanhood ; and as she stood listening there she took a ring off her finger. Calmly she gathered together all his presents, wrote on a sheet of notepaper the words, ' I never want to see you again,' folded the sheet of paper over the ring, and placed it on the top of the bundle. With the parcel in her hand she stood once more outside her father's door. The laboured breathing had ceased, and all was still within. Perhaps he was asleep hi ease at last. Perhaps the worst was over. Her heart beat wildly with hope, and she breathed a prayer to God as she hurried to the Post Office at Charing Cross with a parcel addressed to Mr. Patrick Normanshire. When she returned, running half the way, her BARNACLES 137 mother, as soon as she caught sight of her drying the rain on her face, cried, ' my dear, my dear, where have you been ? We looked for you high and low. O Boyd ! Boyd ! my dear, dear man.' There was no need for the artist to murder Dr. Crawford. IX The evening was wet and raw, and as Patrick Nor- manshire walked up and down his teeth chattered and his body shivered. He was starving with cold and hunger, and was hanging hi the offing in the hope of seeing Dr. Crawford leave or return to his house. The policeman, who was not starving, and was a handsome silver-worked safety valve for that splendid neighbourhood, was ignorant of this loiterer's motives, and accosted him in a surly voice, for it is the duty of the law to suspect. ' What are you doing here ? ' The interloper was startled and answered in a good- natured but hopeless tone, ' Nothing.' The policeman, agreeably to the spirit of the law, pursued, ' Who are you ? ' * I ? oh, just a wren in a wilderness.' ' Well, you 'd better fly off ; this is not a place for you to be hanging about.' ' I only wished to see Dr. Crawford.' ' Don't try on ; Dr. Crawford was buried a fortnight ago.' The good-natured look that was part of the tone gave way to consternation. 138 BARNACLES ' Buried ? he was in good health when I saw him last.' ' Many a man in good health yesterday is in no health at all to-night. Come on ; get a move.' He made a shepherding movement with his arm and at the same time began to bear down on Patrick. For a minute the young man kept stepping backwards with his eyes riveted on a single lit window across the street stepping backwards as if bruised in retreat. The policeman, irritated at this dour manner of yielding ground, made a threatening gesture. Thereupon the young man wheeled and began to walk away so rapidly that he soon outdistanced the bulk of animated stone that was murmuring irascibly about stray dogs. The houses hereabouts, each with a railing in front, were laid out in large square blocks flanked by wide clean streets. They were plain of face, large, sub- stantial, with an air of solidity as if then 1 builders had reared them to become coeval with the hills houses typical of the centre of commercial Scotland, and worthy a nation of bankers. At the corner of this solid square the young man turned sharply to the right, and with increasing length and rapidity of stride began to walk round the block. A certain nervousness had entered into his gait, and was betrayed also hi his mobile mouth and finely chiselled nostrils, which were expanding and contract- ing like the inverted cup of a flower stirred in a gentle breeze. He had forgotten the cold, weariness, and hunger. He was overwhelmed with sorrow. The rapidity of his movements was not due to a desire to fling off the pursuit of the law, but to the excitation of his thought. In spite of his quarrel with Martha, BARNACLES 139 he determined to see ' poor Mrs. Crawford.' He circum- navigated the square like a horse going round a circus this was his own thought and found himself once more opposite the lit window. The policeman was nowhere visible. He had no hesitation now. At once he crossed the street. There was a shrubbery here fenced off from the street with an iron railing, and at each end of the shrubbery an avenue leading in a half -moon curve from the street to the drive in front of the houses, among which stood that of Dr. Crawford. At the fourth door along Patrick Normanshire stopped, looked at the single lit window, and wondered who was there. He slowly went up the four stone steps and pressed a large brass knocker in the form of a hand on the electric push beneath. Presently the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with high cheek bones, a thin, sallow face, and red hair. She had a remarkably large mouth, the lips of which for all her thinness had a tendency to curl upwards at the corners. She had a pair of grey, alert eyes. ' Well ? ' she said, standing with arms akimbo. ' Is Mrs. Crawford at home ? ' ' What is your business ? ' Her lips had the appearance of sheering out at Patrick. She seemed ready for attack. ' I am her friend.' ' She and Miss Martha are away.' 1 Away ; where ? ' ' Foreign.' Patrick sighed. ' Is it true,' he asked in a slightly broken voice, ' that Dr. Crawford is dead ? ' ' Yes ; God has removed him.' She took her hand from her hip and made a sweeping gesture. 140 BARNACLES Patrick, about to turn away, said, * I thought, seeing there was a light, some one was at home.' The woman jerked her head forward, and her lips curled up. ' It 's a nasty painter that 's hi there.' Patrick's face went white. ' What is his name ? ' * Name o' Normanshire and full of the evil one.' In spite of the deep feeling that moved him at the mention of his brother's name, he smiled. ' He is my brother,' he said. The woman, who was still holding the door, again thrust her face forward. ' Excuse me for saying it, but he is a reprobate. 1 have put his case before the Lord ; a bad young man, full of tricks ; no temptation ; no temptation to me.' She was pointing at Patrick with a fierce forefinger. The cold was again making him shiver. ' May I see him ? ' he asked. * Come in ; come in.' She led him into the dining- room and lit the gas, saying, ' You will not know me, sir, though you are a friend of the family.' ' No, I don't think I 've met you before.' ' My name is Beezle. Mrs. Crawford left me here in charge during her absence. I have taken the responsi- bility of inviting you in, a young man ; no temptation, no temptation ; but you are a brother of the painter ; are you coming to take him away ? ' Patrick was gazing round the well-known room with the portrait of Edwin Sangster looking down on him. In the warmth of the room he realised his faintness. A pulse was beating irregularly hi his throat. He ex- perienced a choking sensation rising upwards from his stomach. It would be impossible for him to meet his brother in this condition. He had a feeling of shame BARNACLES 141 in making known his state. ' Yes,' he answered, ' I wish to see my brother ; but, before that, may I have something to eat ? The fact is, I have had no food to-day.' He saw hesitation grow into suspicion, and this give way to alarm in the woman's face. ' It is due, I am afraid, to my brother,' he added. Again the lips swiftly curled. ' He is full of tricks ; he is a reprobate. Do you say it is his fault that you have eaten nothing to-day ? ' ' I suspect it, but I am going to find out.' * If I dared I would write to my mistress in Italy and let her know his carry on ; but I am not respon- sible ; I have put it before God ; I am not responsible for him. I will get your dinner. Will you attack him then, will you scourge him ? ' She departed in a fury of haste. While Patrick was supping the hot soup and trying to conceal his ravenous hunger, a chance question as to how long she had been in the house revealed Mrs. Beezle. * I have been here three weeks. I just want to tell you, young man, how strange are the ways God leads us.' Her hands slowly at first, and then more rapidly, began to make those gestures familiar to public speakers and preachers. She was leaning forward on her chair, her legs crossed, her face keen with its sheer- ing look. ' When my own dear one died, young man.' ' Your own dear one ? ' ' My husband ' she flung her hand at Patrick ' he was removed five years ago. When he was taken up ' she pointed to the ceiling ' I just went down on my knees and laid it before God ' her left eye, which had 142 BARNACLES been opening and closing during this narration, re- mained more and more closed as she proceeded, and her lips became more and more curled up, as if in scorn of the circumstances to which human affairs are subject ' and I said, " dear God, I would just like a quiet home to pass the rest of my days in " ; but only, mark you,' she raised an admonitory finger so that the puzzled young man did not know whether she was now addressing him or still petitioning the deity, ' only a Christian home. I left it all with God.' Now Mrs. Beezle had already told all this to the artist. Her opinion of the two brothers rested on the respective comment which each made at this juncture in her history. The artist's was brief : ' Get out, you canting psalm-singer ; you weary me.' Patrick, not without concern in his heart and in. his tone, said, ' I am afraid, madame, if you are not careful, you may fall off the chair.' She gathered herself back and opened her left eye wide upon him. ' Thank you, young man, but I 'm nimbler than all that.' She waved her hand. ' Well, after I had left it all with God,' again she leaned forward with legs crossed, closed one eye, and pointed a forefinger at Patrick as if she were sighting a rifle ' I went to live with Aunty Janet at Bearsden.' * If you will be so good, will you bring your narrative soon to an end ? ' asked Patrick, who had finished eating and felt revived. The forefinger curved like a claw ; the whole hand curved as if Mrs. Beezle were about to grasp the hair of her impatient listener. * I want to tell you because you are an educated and well-bred young man ; no temptation, no temptation ; BARNACLES 143 not like that nasty artist ; it will be useful for you to see how God leads us ; but if you are in a hurry to chastise the reprobate I will tell you in a word. I was living with Aunty Janet, and I just went down on my knees and said, " dear God, do guide me," and when I rose ' she lifted her hand, remained silent for a full minute, then brought her hand down on her knee ' I knew, mark you, I knew what to do. Young man, that is how to live ; don't shilly-shally ; know what to do and push.' She flung out her arm with catapult force. ' You '11 fall, madame ; you '11 fall,' cried Patrick in alarm. ' No fear, no fear ; I knew what to do. I advertised for a place as housekeeper. I put my name in a news- paper. Not with a young man, mark you ; no tempta- tion, no temptation. In three days I had a letter from a gentleman in Strathbungo. I went down on my knees and thanked God for that letter. Do you not see where I was being led ? ' ' No,' answered Patrick. His interest in this fiery creature was growing. ' Have patience, young man ; I have learned on my knees ' she spread her palms over the floor and looked downwards ' on my knees to have patience since my dear one was removed.' ' I have it,' answered Patrick with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, ' but will you tell me for how long ? ' * Do you know what my dear one used to say he came from the isle of Skye he used to say, " Patience, my dear, the horse is aye trotting." Well, I arranged an interview with the gentleman in Strathbungo ; it passed off all right ; he said he would let me know on Monday. And when I came home I just put it before 144 BARNACLES God. " Dear God," I said, " I am going to live in a strange house. Keep me from temptation." He was a very nice gentleman, not a young man, mark you, nor an old one. You are yawning. But watch and see. The horse is aye trotting. Monday came and no word from Stra'bungo. On Tuesday I was just stepping off the car at Aunty Janet's corner when who ran into me but Aunty Liza's girl. ' " Is that you, Aunty Beezle ? " she said.' ' Yes, yes ; go on,' urged Patrick. ' Well, young man, she had just been to Aunty Janet's to tell me that a lady had called at her mother's about a housekeeper. This lady and Liza, my sister, went to the same church. Her husband, Dr. Crawford, was the organist a beautiful player. He could make your soul ascend on Sabbath morning.' Mrs. Beezle flung up her arms and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. Patrick's interest now quickened. ' Yes, I know Dr. Crawford,' he said. ' Do you see, young man, how God was leading me ? ' ' I see, I see.' ' The very next morning I had a letter from the gentleman in Stra'bungo. He had interviewed two others, and would I come and keep his house. I just went down on my knees with the letter in my hand and said, " dear God, I am in a great difficulty ! I want you to tell me where I am to go," and I thanked God for that letter too.' Patrick was definitely impressed by this woman, who appeared to spend the major part of her life praying with the innocence and faith of a child. ' Then I went and saw the lady, Mrs. Crawford, you BARNACLES 145 know. I saw at once she was a Christian woman when I spoke to her of God's ways in removing her husband, and I told her of my difficulty about the gentleman in Stra'bungo. She advised me to go and see him. So 1 did. He received me beautifully ; no temptation, young man, no temptation ; and told me I wasn't to worry, but to take up duty with Mrs. Craw- ford, and that he couldn't give me the wages she could afford. So I just came home to Aunty Janet's and thanked God for the way I was led.' She stopped, panting a little. Patrick rose and said : * You have been led as the good are led.' She also rose. ' No, I am not good ; I am a sinner. Satan tempts me in many ways. Sometimes it is to lie in my bed late in the morning. I am fond of that. And some- times he whispers in my heart that I have not the learning to go and speak at the meetings.' ' Do you do that ? ' ' Don't you see how God has led me ? ' She pointed at him, screwing up the left eye tightly. ' If I had gone to Stra'bungo I would have had no leisure there. Here I have only an empty house to look after and I have a world of time ' she swept her arms wide as if to embrace Patrick ' abundance, abundance ; and I go here, there, everywhere to morning meetings and guilds ; but Satan tempts me not to go, whispering that I have not the words ' Patrick interrupted her, laughing : ' That is not Satan, Mrs. Beezle ; it is your own humility.' Her face took on a comical expression, as if she had 146 BARNACLES walked up against a physical obstacle. This expression vanished, giving way to a flood of joy. ' Dear God,' she cried, locking her hands and holding them aloft, ' I thank you for this new light on my weakness. I will lie in bed no more. It is not Satan but my own humility. joy ! joy ! joy ! what a burden you have rolled off my heart, young man.' She seized his hand, ' Thank you, thank you ; go now and scourge that nasty reprobate.' She began dragging Patrick to the door. ' Go. I wish to be alone to thank God for this great relief.' She shook her locked hands at the ceiling as Patrick left the room, and cried in a transport, ' joy ! joy ! joy ! ' Patrick turned the handle and found the door locked. ' Who 's there ? ' came his brother's voice, sharp and irritable. ' Open ; it 's me, Patrick.' As soon as the door was opened his brother said : ' What are you doing here ? what the deuce ' He was plainly disconcerted. He was in slippers, had no collar on, and was wearing a short red jacket. Between two of his fingers was a half-smoked cigar. His face was flushed. ' Have I to ask you whether I may come in ? Are you master here, or porter, or what ? ' ' Oh ! come in by all means.' As soon as Patrick entered, the artist shut and locked the door saying, ' There 's a religious termagant down- stairs, whose zeal nothing but a locked door can repress. BARNACLES 147 She has a vile red head. I think she imagined I was going to seduce her. I would as soon try to seduce the Andes. Sit down, man ; sit down.' Patrick saw that his brother was half drunk. There was a bright fire burning, and an easy-chair full in front of it. On the floor at hand-reach was a tumbler half full of whisky. ' Sorry ' the artist took the chair in front of the fire ' there 's only one tumbler. The termagant has the great seal upon everything. Had to sneak this one in. The only thing she '11 give me is water.' ' You 've carried in the whisky, then ? ' ' It doesn't well up here, I assure you, my good Pat.' ' And the cigar ? ' ' Found a box of them here ; belonged to old Crawford ; as well smoke them as let them rot.' There was a prolonged silence. ' I wouldn't call him " old " ; you 've eaten his bread ; it 's not decent,' Patrick said at length in a low voice. ' And his salt ; and it 's nothing to what I '11 eat yet, with a woman's tears to season the dish. I 'm damn well sick of these Crawfords. I 'm like a prisoner in this house waiting for a reprieve.' He leaned towards his brother. ' Do you know what it 's like in Paris just now ? ' He flung the cigar hi the fire. ' Ah ! by God, have I to wait till eternity in this dungeon slapping paint on canvas ? ' ' What are you talking about ? ' asked Patrick, eye- ing his brother partly in curiosity, partly in contempt, of his condition. ' Are you curious to know ? ' said the artist with a comical air of suspicion. ' One fallen god is enough in 148 BARNACLES this house, in this select circle; there won't be a second. Firm on a pedestal stands the brave and daring artist. You are a fallen god, Patrick, and a fallen god is a goose. Have a drink ; it will warm your brains.' The younger brother was gazing into the fire with a sad, meditative look. It is doubtful if he heard the babble of his brother. Instead of replying to the invita- tion he turned his eyes searchingly on his brother's face. ' Do you know where I 've come from ? ' * From going up and down in the earth like Job's devil.' Patrick's face showed that he was wounded. ' Didn't you miss me from the digs, Ganson ? ' | -Yes, I had visions of you lying in the Clyde.' The younger brother smiled. ' A pretty jest in these last few days a grave would have been welcome. I came out of jail yesterday, Ganson.' * What hi heaven's name have you been up to ? ' The younger brother was again gazing at the fire. ' Do you remember, when we were boys, we used to walk to church with our mother,' he said in a low voice. ' She 's dead, Ganson ; you know she 's dead ; are you not glad she is dead, seeing I have come out of jail ? Do you think she sees us now ? ' He suddenly stood up, towering over his brother. ' If she were here just now, what would you say, Ganson ? man, what would you say if she asked you how Patrick came to be in jail ? ' He suddenly sat down and put his face hi his hands. There was no answer. The fire crackled in the silence. A struggle was going on in the face of the artist. ' Is this what you 've come to because a damn minx has jilted you ? ' he snapped. Patrick looked up. ' Let her be,' he said ; ' we 're not BARNACLES 149 fit to talk about her, Ganson, you or I let us talk about something else you didn't know I was hi jail.' The artist reached up to the mantelpiece, to a small bottle of whisky, and as he poured some into a tumbler he said in an angry voice, ' What are you driving at ? ' Patrick gave him a long, scrutinising look. ' You and that friend of yours were with me in the Arando ; what 's his name ? ' ' Baxter.' * Quite so, Baxter. You were drinking port ; you insisted on me drinking it ; port would do no harm. I believed in you, Ganson ; we used to go to church together with ' ' Oh damn you, shut up with that ! It was you who began howling for more booze ; began to kick up the devil's own shindy ; you wanted to fight me over this infernal portrait business. I had to make tracks to save a row. I told Baxter to get you into a cab and take you to the digs. That 's all I know ; that 's the last I saw of you till this moment ' he spoke with rising anger ' and what 's more, I don't want to have any- thing further to do with your scrapes.' He gulped down the whisky. ' You needn't get angry, Ganson ; I 'm only asking for information.' ' Well, you 've got it ; at least all I can give ; you will drink the wines of France and Spain.' * No, I will not ; never again.' ' Just as well. For one thing, you can't carry your liquor ; for another, remember our father it 's in the blood ; and for a third you get as excitable as the devil. Pretty mess you made here the night old Crawford died. Kicked up old Harry.' 150 BARNACLES * That 's enough,' cried Patrick, in an angry voice. ' You 've gone over all that already there 's only one thing I want to speak about now I 'm going to America ; will you lend me some money ? ' The artist burst out laughing. ' Money ! ' his face suddenly sobered * America ! I 'd give you the chink like a shot, Pat, but I 'm living on the wind.' He pondered a moment. ' Try your boss.' 4 No ' Patrick spoke decisively ' he took me out of jail.' * Damn it all ! what did you tell him that for ? ' ' I was sick, Ganson, sick, sick at heart. He was the only one living I could appeal to. Do you know, Ganson, the only one.' His brother's eyes boring into the artist's face made him, half drunk as he was, squirm in his chair. ' When I wakened in the morning I didn't know where I was. I was wakened by a loud noise. Afterwards I learned it was your friend Baxter. He was lying on his back hi the cell paddling and kicking on the door and screaming to be let out. They took him away somewhere. Afterwards they came to me and brought me to the office. I told the lieu- tenant all I knew frankly. I think he was impressed, for he asked me if I had ever been hi jail before. You have to submit to such questions, Ganson. He asked me if I had any friends. I was ashamed, Ganson. I could think of no one in all Glasgow except Dr. Crawford ; but he is old ; it would have grieved him. I asked permission to use the telephone. I rang up Mr. Taylor. He came in the evening along with a doctor who visits the prison a friend of his. Mr. Taylor vouched for me and paid some money for my liberation.' BARNACLES 151 He rose and stretched himself. ' I thought I might have got my passage money from you to follow the other broken men across.' Ganson also rose, his head butting forward. ' I haven't enough to send you over in a punt.' The younger brother was gazing round the room. ' Where is the portrait, Ganson ? ' The artist took the canvas from a corner and held it up. Then he shook it fiercely and his face became distorted with rage. ' I loathe it ; by God I loathe it ! It is like chains on my ankles and my wrists. And the subject the sub- ject ; she jilted you, Pat. I could paint this with her blood ' He was convulsed with passion. ' What are you looking at ? ' he snarled at his brother ; ' it is only paint. Do you want it ? do you think she loves you ? ' He flung the canvas down on the chair. * Go, go to America out of my sight what did you say of our mother ? ' He raised his clenched fist and took a step towards his brother. ' Who put you in jail- ? was it not this beautiful fiend ? ' He pointed at the canvas. .' I '11 do for her yet for causing my mother to appear in judgment against me do you hear ? it 's me she '11 marry ' ' God save her from that fate ! ' answered Patrick, appalled at the revelation which his brother had just made, ' and God save you, Ganson, from the fate of our father. If I were you I would give up drinking.' The rage had ebbed away from the artist. He stared moodily at his brother. ' Man, you 're right ; there 's a lot at stake. I can paint, paint, I tell you. Do you know what Paris is like just now ? ' Patrick began to go towards the door. 152 BARNACLES The artist came towards him, staggering a little. ' Some day I '11 be there again, and then do you know what '11 happen ? ' Patrick turned the key in the door and opened it. ' No,' he said coldly. ' Then I '11 pay my debts and old scores.' He burst out laughing and pointed at the canvas. . . . ' Did you chastise him ? ' Mrs. Beezle was following Patrick to the door. ' I do not feel I am hi a Christian home while he is here. No temptation, no temptation. I 've prayed for him. He is robbing me of all my time.' ' I thought he avoided you, Mrs. Beezle.' 1 He will not face me ; no temptation, mind you.' Patrick moved away from her forefinger. ' But he robs me of my time for all that. Every morning and every night I count all the things in the drawing-room and the dining-room. I had to write them all down on paper. Twice a day, young man, I count them. I 'm responsible to my mistress. He is a wolf in sheep's clothing.' She pressed hard on Patrick, who retreated before her, lifted his hat, and said good-night. As he went down the steps she was crying after him, ' He is as proud as Satan, the reprobate. My knees are sore for him. He robs me of my time.' ' Keep your mind easy,' answered Patrick ; ' whatever he does, he won't steal.' XI Ganson Normanshire was wielding both pen and brush to some tune. His correspondence to Italy began with a note covering a miniature of Dr. Crawford. His brother's behaviour had been a sore drag upon him. BARNACLES 153 He was ashamed to have to confess it, but he had to take Patrick out of jail oh ! a thoughtless boyish prank ; nevertheless it had cost the writer many a sleepless night. Patrick had now turned over a new leaf, and was going to America. There he might mend. When were they returning to greyer skies ? The unfinished portrait was beginning to cry out. . . . But Patrick was not gone to America. If it is true that the tears of the penitent are the wine of the angels, then the angels drank deeply from those wells of remorse in Patrick Normanshire. This wren in a wilderness was pawning and knew that tears are salt so salt that one lesson was graved in lines of fire upon his heart, a lesson common enough Drink No More. He had received a frosty testimonial from his firm, signed by Mr. Taylor, which, after two months of usage, had become black, ragged, and half split across at its fold. In a mean lodging in the south side of Glasgow he looked back on his adventures with this tattered instrument, and heard once more door after door in the commercial quarters of the city close upon him with iron face. He regarded the testimonial with a whimsical smile. * Looks now like the black flag of a pirate ; I ought to go armed with a gun. It 's the only way I can force a job,' he thought. Then he took a match and set the testimonial on fire. ' Bridges burned,' he said to the empty grate, ' and no Rubicon to cross.' And that is worse than burning one's bridges on the other side of the Rubicon, as some at least in the world know. 154 BARNACLES Every third night he bought an evening paper, and from its advertisement columns made a list of the names of those hi Glasgow who wished to hire the services of their fellow mortals. He had just completed such a list for to-morrow's quest, and was now reading the news of a busy world, every line of which was a satire upon his existence. One paragraph caught his eye. It ran that Mr. L. Ganson Normanshire was exhibiting in the Fine Art Institute a portrait of Miss Martha Crawford, daughter of the late Dr. Boyd Crawford, the well-known organist. Mr. Normanshire had studied in Paris. The portrait was a vigorous example of his art. The younger brother realised the depths of his out- lawry as he read the notice. He gazed at the list of commercial firms which he had taken from the news- paper. It cried out with burning tongues lost ! lost ! lost ! He saw the picture on the wall, and well-dressed people gazing at it. He thought of his brother, and of Martha, and groaned. The room became hideous ; its silence and loneliness unendurable. Picking up his cap he went out into the wilderness and walked steadily northwards until he arrived at his old rooms and asked for his brother. The landlady kept him on the stairhead, where he hung like a weather-beaten ship trying to make a haven. His brother had gone. No ! he had left no address. A tall man with a stoop came out of a room. He was coughing fitfully. He saw Patrick over his wife's shoulder, nodded, and disappeared hi another room. Patrick remembered the cough, the sallow face. All was unchanged save that the worldly little woman who ruled the house would not let him in now, and was even impatient for him to be gone. Patrick saw this, and thanking her for her information turned away. BARNACLES 155 It was raining. He stood in the close-mouth looking with despair on the black shining street, and the lights glancing in the little pools. A shudder went through his frame. ' My God ! ' he moaned, ' how has it all happened ? ' When he reached his lodgings he was wet through. In the afternoon of the following day he received by chance ninepence for carrying a bag from Queen Street Station to St. Enoch's. The man who paid him said he had a good mind to give nothing, because he had lost his train through Patrick's dilatoriness. Yet Patrick had walked as fast as he could. The bag was heavy ; he had had no breakfast ; and had been obliged to stop frequently and shift it from one shoulder to another. The man at one of these stoppages lit a cigar in the lee of the bag. He went immediately to a place hi Howard Street and got a cup of coffee and some bread and butter for threepence. Thereafter he walked to the Fine Art Institute and paid his last sixpence to see the portrait. He searched room after room, ashamed to find the sole of one of his boots flapping on the floor. At last he discovered the painting on the second line in Room No. 3. He stood before it and took off his cap. It was an unconscious act, as much due to weariness as to loyalty. The portrait showed a young girl, dressed in a rich white stuff, clasped at the neck with a brooch of gold, and bound about with a purple cincture. There was a girdle round the brow. Her face glowed ; her eyes laughed ; there was a cry of beauty from her counte- nance. Patrick, his own face worn and white, and standing 156 BARNACLES on the frontiers of tramp-land, was impressed by the art of his brother. The portrait was life-like, skilful, with every detail scrupulously finished. The minutes passed and still he gazed into the laughing eyes, warming himself at the canvas. Were they laughing ? Was there not something lacking in the face and eyes an expression of tenderness and innocence which this lover knew hi the original ? Anger began to burn in him. It was not laughter which was in those eyes. It was mockery. The blood mounted to Patrick's head. The face hi the portrait, shadowed by the hair, had some- thing feverish in it a faintness of voluptuousness, as if seen through a veil. The longer he looked the more a feeling of mockery grew in the eyes which he watched, until they seemed to look out upon him, jibing, cruel with exhausted passion, and having the knowledge of horrible secrets : subtle eyes which were laughing at the desires of men. ' It 's a blasphemy ; a blasphemy ; a desecration ! ' he said aloud ; and unable to endure the sight he turned away. ' Here it is, mummy.' The voice thrilled his cold body as if a generous wine had been poured through his veins. She was not more than two yards from him all in black. At the same time she saw him. For a moment they looked in at one another's eyes. A spell bound them. Would any power on earth cause her to stretch out her hand ? He looked desperately ill. Her heart went out to him in pity. His hand was stretched out, and for one tremendous moment it hung in the air a flag of surrender as these two struggled with the unseen forces which hedge our lives. He was swaying slightly BARNACLES 157 with physical exhaustion. The girl, flushed to the eyes, was just about to go forward impulsively and take the pleading hand when Mrs. Crawford came up. She uttered an exclamation mingled of horror and of fear, and put her hand on the girl's arm. ' Come away, Martha.' Even then the secret influence which had bound them together in that moment had not vanished. She hesi- tated : but glancing at her mother's shocked face she felt as if she had been caught in a clandestine act. She followed her mother not daring to look behind. Patrick walked along Sauchiehall Street as if he had been blinded. He had escaped from the Institute like a man fleeing a dungeon. The face of the girl, suddenly flooded with shame as her mother took her by the arm, branded him with a stigma which the cruelty of the world had been powerless to inflict. He was trying to grope among recollections of the past in order to account for the fear which his presence had aroused in Mrs. Crawford. He summoned his life, as it were, before an unseen judge, and in a flood of distracting thought that whirled his very body along the street he could arrive at nothing stable, save the one reality that they had turned from him as if he were a leper. The profound agitation which drove him blindly down the stairs of the Institute was ebbing away, leaving strewn upon his soul at its high-water mark a wreckage of pride, broken hope, and perished love. Something chivalrous that resides in the heart of youth a longing to worship without any return had died. His heart was a garden suddenly withered on a black frost : and looking out on the world he saw it empty and loveless too. The evening was come when spent in body he 158 BARNACLES reached his lodgings. The heart that had been restless as birds in spring are restless, and had harboured a hundred doves of mystery from the warm nest of a girl's bosom, was weary and sick and mocking itself. He was only a moth scorched at a flame, and naught was left but a fierce and sickening pain a home that would have been holy and beautiful with her now his naked feet were cold on the floor of an empty world his head was nodding, drowsiness was creeping over him ; he gave a lurch on the chair and almost fell. He roused himself ; he had been dreaming ; he was wet and shivering and. faint with hunger. He rose and dragged himself to the bed when the west wind gathers clouds from the sea what was that, a song of hers ? yes, he remembered ; he had lost the song ; he could not find it anywhere ; she had written asking for all her music a home holy with her love is a home where wild flowers wet with dew all bloom but the flowers were withered and the door was shut in^he street he was hearing doors bang to in his face all over Glasgow the west wind gathers clouds and the door is shut hi the street a deep sigh like that of a tired child's escaped into the gathering darkness sleep in her mercy had come and was giving him a dream of bells in his grey Argyll village by the sea, calling on the evening air across the foam they were calling him and he went and Ganson and he were walking to church, one on each side of their mother. There was a peaceful smile upon his haggard face. BARNACLES 159 xn The easel had been brought close to the window of the nursery, and together they looked at the portrait. It was the luminous face of a dream, as if it had appeared there by magic with the music of birds upon its eyelids and the fragrance of youth upon its face. It was not a lovely face ; it was the face of love. Men's vows and passionate tears had given that look ; the largess of the human heart in its thrilling and melting moments had made those hands. This face had been young even in antiquity, and ever since had breathed perennial bliss. And over, and in its eternal charm, faint as the shadow of a flower, was the melody and melancholy of passion. The girl drew a deep breath. ' It is perfect,' she whispered in an awed tone ; ' it is like a star.' These words were her doom. For the artist, the work being finished, yearned, with an ache whose pain left his very body weary, for praise of this triumph. He drank in the words, and would have blessed even the assassin of his mother if in that moment he had spoken them. He turned sombre eyes not on this girl but on a being who had spoken the true word of appreciation. ' It is a star, and my soul is in darkness ' pools of light shone in the depths of his dark eyes ; ' it has drained the light from my soul. It is finished ' a sudden change came over his face ; there was a storm of tears in his voice ; ' I have spent the happiest hours of my life here painting, painting.' His eyes were searching 160 BARNACLES her face ; they were looking into her very soul. ' It is this face which inspired me.' He touched her face with his finger-tips as if it were a flower. ' I have seen this face in my dreams ; I have seen it before me in the streets, in the air, in the stars. It gave me joy, joy, joy ! There is no joy like it.' He had taken his fingers away. The beating of her heart hi her side forced her to press her hand there. His words were sending thrill after thrill through her. She knew not that it was an artist who was speaking of the quest of beauty. ' It burned me, this face. Night and day it gave me no rest ; my blood is hi it.' His head dropped ; despair came into his eyes ; he looked like a man crushed under an intolerable weight. ' It 's finished, it is all over. I have no portrait to paint like this any more. What shall I do when to-morrow comes ? ' His voice broke, hot tears rose in his eyes. * Oh ! don't, don't go away ' emotion overcame her ; ' you can paint another I will come again to-morrow every day.' He looked at her hungrily. ' Can you restore to me the life I had ? I had life here, life.' ' I will try,' she sobbed pitifully. ' Come, face of all the world, the face I have made,' he cried ; ' do not leave me or I shall die.' His arms were around her. She fell heavily against him, half -swooning. He took her face in his hands and held it up to the light, gazing hi rapture on it. He passed his hands over it. ' It troubles me,' he groaned. He would not kiss her. She was clinging to him in a frenzy of pity and of innocent shame. BARNACLES 161 ' It troubles me day and night ' All at once she burst into tears and hid her face on his breast. The noise of her weeping brought him out of the spell, and he found her lying on his breast. He gazed at her head for a moment in wonder ; and suddenly a terrible look of malice came into his eyes. It cost him a tremendous effort to keep his hands off her throat. Her face was cold and wet with tears as he kissed her. XIII From the day of their marriage she became the victim of his hatred. He bluntly demanded her fortune, not because he was fond of money, but in order to reduce her to penury. Amazed and dismayed, she told him she was still a minor, and that her mother was trustee along with a Mr. Gilfillan, a banker, co-opted thereto since the death of her father. She soon recognised that her mother was her only shield. In the presence of Mrs. Crawford he was unswervingly polite and courteous. On the other hand, he demanded that Mrs. Beezle be dismissed. When that lady heard the news she refused to go. ' He will devour your substance, my lamb, if I go ' ; and she went intrepidly to the artist, pointed a stern fore- finger at him, and said : ' I have put it before God on my knees, " dear God, do guide me," and I see my way, young man. I am your enemy ; mark that, your enemy with God's help. Do not talk to me of dismissal, you reprobate. I am paid by my mistress. You cannot dismiss a fly. L 162 BARNACLES I am your enemy. I will defend my mistress with my marrow and my bone.' Something relentlessly hostile breathed from her fiery face. * By God ! ' he snarled, ' I will poison you yet.' She flouted him with shrill laughter that made him writhe. Yet there was no concealing his evil courses from Mrs. Crawford, for he filled his table nightly with para- sites, before whom he displayed his pictures and on whose fulsome adulation he battened. Mrs. Crawford's nervous affliction grew. She would start out of her chair at every sound from the rooms below. ' It doesn't matter so long as we are together, mummy,' and Mrs. Normanshire would pat the hand which was in hers. She saw her mother pine away beneath the growing bulk of her white shawl. Some- times she saw a light on her mother's face as if some- thing unearthly, a reflection of that world to which she was slowly going, were breaking out through the flesh. Every time Martha saw this a feeling of great joy and profound sorrow mingled in her breast, for she witnessed her mother approaching rest, and leaving her alone. She could not restrain herself, but weeping on her mother's breast, yearned for her being to be drawn into her mother's, that together they might pass away into a priceless peace. And after she had wept and raised her head again, it was to gaze at the face whose beauty no frost of age could touch, whose tenderness no fire of suffering could quench, and was soothed hi the depths of her soul by those twilight eyes, which seemed to be looking back at her upon earth from a region of mysteri- ous repose and unassailable calm. BARNACLES 168 XIV Mrs. Beezle, almost beside herself, informed the policeman on the beat of the nocturnal orgies. ' They are not disturbing the lieges, my good woman ; I can't interfere. A man can smash his own furniture if he wants to, and wreck his house. That 's the law of the land.' Mrs. Beezle clasped her hands under the policeman's nose, and lifted her face to the stars that look down on humanity's unseen tragedies. ' Dear God,' she sobbed, in the intensity of her anguish, ' give me light in this dark hour. Teach me what to do. There is no help in this officer ' ; and open- ing her eyes on the astonished policeman said, ' You are only wearing your legs on the pavement. I will interfere, seeing you can't.' ' Look out that you don't land yourself in for trouble,' he cautioned. ' I came for help, not advice,' she snapped ; ' your buttons need cleaning,' and pushing him smartly on the shoulder she sheered away with a list. She went straight to the room where mother and daughter were, and went on guard saying, ' Here I am, my dear,' in a tone which also said, ' take courage.' She insisted on mother and daughter going to bed, and yawned fiercely as the dragging hours went by, and she kept an alert eye on her restless mistress and a wary ear to the sounds from beneath. In intervals she read from the Scriptures, and delivered addresses to phantom meetings. At last she heard the sounds of drunken men leaving the house. She waited till they were gone and silence 164 BARNACLES was restored. Then pocketing her Bible she went downstairs as quietly as a cat. The dining-room was full of dregs cigar stumps, spilled wine, broken crockery ; and straddled across an arm-chair the artist lay in a drunken stupor. She seized him by the hair, jerked up his head and let it fall again. This failed to rouse him. He muttered, without opening his eyes. Mrs. Beezle was satisfied. Seizing him by the collar of his jacket she dragged him on to the floor, stripped from off him his jacket and vest, and took off his boots and socks. Putting her hands into his arm-pits, she dragged him out of the dining-room and through the hall to the front door ; thence down the steps ; and watching him like a hawk lest he came to, drew him along the crescent avenue to where it joins the street. There she laid him prone on the pavement. Swiftly and dexterously she pulled off his trousers, left him in his shirt, fled to the house, locked the door, and gather- ing up boots, socks, and clothes along with the trousers, reached the kitchen, passed out, and scooping half the contents from the dust-bin put hi the bundle and covered it with the rubbish which she had already taken out. Then she clasped her hands and raised them to the greatly shining stars. ' dear God, give strength to my arm for the sake of my dear ones ; wilt Thou not, dear God, send rain to-night ? ' XV He recovered himself in jail and learned that the charge was one of being ' drunk and incapable,' with the added aggravation of having been found in an indecent condition. BARNACLES 165 He was profuse in suave apologies, and the officer in charge recognised in him a man of culture who had made an indiscretion. By payment of a certain sum he could be set at liberty. He sent a letter to Martha demanding money and clothes. It contained a jibe about a former lover of hers who had been in jail. Mrs. Beezle was angry. ' That for him ; let him fry in the grease of the jail. Let him drink there and paint the walls.' But Martha, with the marks of suffering on her face, insisted, and Mrs. Beezle yielded. Mrs. Crawford was not told what had happened. Mrs. Beezle took the money for the fine, and on the way to the prison visited a pawnbroker's, where she bought a vile cast-off suit many sizes too large for the artist, and broken boots which were not matched. She took no socks. She invaded the police-office with the bundle, sheering in like a frigate, and trounced the policeman in charge for daring to set ' that reprobate ' at liberty. * Are you his wife ? ' he asked in amazement. * No temptation, sir, no temptation. I am his enemy ' : and she pushed the bundle across the counter with the handle of her umbrella ; ' give him that with my compliments, and tell him Mrs. Beezle will be waiting for him when he comes home.' When Ganson Normanshire learned that it was ' a red-haired woman with a tongue like a bell ' who brought his clothes, he was wrung with rage, for he had meant to expose his wife to this humiliation, and also to force her to wait till he accompanied her from the prison. 166 BARNACLES When he put on the garments selected by the widow Beezle, he became speechless, and had to suffer the further mortification of an enforced stay in the prison until dark, when he slunk home, a sorry figure. Mrs. Beezle let him in. He passed her in glum silence, and waited till she had closed the door. ' It was you brought this ' he lifted a corner of the jacket. ' dear God, help me now ! ' she cried, and faced him saying, ' It was, young man, and good enough for a convict.' ' I 'm going to make you pay,' he sobbed in rage ; ' 0, by God ! the lot of you are going to pay.' ' You 've made us pay already,' she shrilled, ' more than you 're worth, you low man ; fourteen and six- pence I paid in a pawn. I was never in such a place before a dirty Jew, a dirty shop ; that 's what I get for having anything to do with scum. Where were you brought up, you rascal ? in some loose city like Paris. You make me pay, indeed.' ' I will, I will, for all you 've done ; every farthing.' Tears of mortification were in his eyes. She laughed loudly in his face and pointed contemptu- ously at him. * All I 've done,' she shrilled ; ' you don't know half. It was me that clothed you like a scarecrow ; it was me that stripped you and dragged you into the street. " dear God," I said, " send rain to-night " ; and the next night you get drunk with these blackguards I '11 leave you naked do you hear, you reprobate ? naked in the rain.' Her face was in a flame of wrath. It drew off the heat of his hatred, and left him in a cold, deadly passion. ' By God,' he breathed, ' I '11 do for you ! ' BARNACLES 167 ' You will, you will ' ; she raised her clasped hands, ' dear God, Thou hast heard.' She closed her eyes. The temptation to strike was overwhelming, but some- thing hi her fearless, suppliant attitude paralysed him. Suddenly she opened them. ' You have warned me,' she cried, ' that you will murder me. I will go this very moment to that policeman out there and tell him what you have said. When I am found dead there will be no escape for you.' She curled up her lip and pointed at him. ' You will hang, young man. How will you like a rope round your neck ? ' She took a sudden step towards him and gave him a violent push, ' Like that off you will swing. I will go and warn the policeman.' Her action was so abrupt that not till she had whirled out of the door did his amazement give way to chagrin, and this hi turn to black fury as he ran towards the stairs, up which he leapt two at a time, and wrenched at the handle of the door of his wife's room. It was locked. ' Let me in ! ' he shouted, breaking his nails on the wood. There was no answer. ' Do you hear, you ,' he screamed an obscene name, ' open the door.' At the first shout Mrs. Crawford had sat up hi bed, her body trembling violently. Martha ran to the bed. ' Don't be afraid, mummy, he can't get in.' Blows and kicks rained on the door. Mrs. Crawford buried her face hi her hands, rocking her body and moaning. The face of the girl hardened, and a gleam as of swords came into her eyes. She ran to the door. ' Please go away/ she said. 168 BARNACLES * Let me in in at once,' he screamed. ' I cannot,' she answered. The door shook once more under the kicks. She heard her mother groan, and drew the bolt and stepped out, closing the door, and putting her back against it, slim but fearless in defence. * For mother's sake,' she said. Without speaking at all he struck her on the breast, on the mouth, on the cheek. The last blow knocked her head against the door. A red weal stood out on her marble cheek ; blood was trickling from her mouth. She made no attempt to defend herself. ' you coward ! ' she said in a low, steady voice ; * finish with me quick and go away ; mother is ill and needs me.' She raised her head from the door, pouring contempt upon him from her eyes. He recoiled from her face and began biting his fingers. ' Are you finished ? ' He made a hissing like that of a trapped animal and backed away. She remained erect, her hand on the door handle, her head high, harrying his retreat with her eyes. In the middle of the stair he turned round and made a gripping gesture with his hands. ' I '11 drink your blood yet,' he said hi a low growl, and slunk downstairs. When Martha returned to the room she found her mother lying sideways on the bed, unconscious. She had been seized with a shock. The artist was oblivious to the sounds of feet hurrying through the house ; he was ignorant that the doctor had come and said there was no hope. He was sitting before a half-finished painting chewing the end of a brush, a look of despair on his face, his impotent eyes BARNACLES 169 full of tears. He had hurried to the canvas, his soul famished, and was like a marooned seaman who lands and comes on water only to find it salt. He had tried to paint and could not. Between him and the canvas floated a small jerking head, and sad patient eyes. Before the night was over he lay dead drunk at the foot of the easel. Before the night was over the small head jerked no more, and the sad patient eyes were closed. Mrs. Beezle was on her knees praying she knew not what a cry for vengeance mingled with supplication for mercy and consolation and strength for her lamb. XVI Martha was like a bird which has lost the shelter of the maternal wing. She missed the music of the voice, the soothing hand on her brow, the gentle presence which had never once failed of its power to console her for all the ills of life. Every day she sought in memorials of her dead mother some fresh witness of a happiness that was gone for ever. She continued to do those things which her mother had loved, and thus won a victory over death. In this way her mind was inspired with the tenderest thoughts, her grief was made luminous, and her spirit gained a quiet fortitude. An additional support in helping her to withstand the rancour of her husband, which had increased since Mrs. Crawford died, was Mrs. Beezle, to the thistle of whose nature adversity appeared to be a congenial soil. The thistle had its down, as witness the awkward caresses which she lavished on the weeping orphan. Herself widowed at an early age, she divined the in- 170 BARNACLES communicable pain of the girl, and sought by every means in her power to comfort this life ravaged by cruelty and maimed by death. ' It 's easier for us to fight him now,' she would say bravely, ' when there 's just the two of us.' Unaccountably, after the death of Mrs. Crawford they were left in peace. The truth is that Ganson Normanshire laboured unweariedly at his painting, and the walls of the sombre house began to glow with landscapes which had the power to soothe in a measure even the great sorrow of the girl. His hatred of her increased as his passion for painting grew. She never once referred to his pictures, even when he came on her standing before one of them. She would walk past him then in silence, with level glance and proud face shining out white and still in a sea of pain. It tormented him. He thought that she, who in reality adored his work in secret, and stood for hours gazing in rapture at it, despised it all. Often there was a terrific conflict in his mind, when he burned to go and torture her and yet grudged the time from the easel. She began to hope that her suffering was in some miraculous way at an end. Every night on her knees she prayed it might be so, for it was weeks since he had even spoken to her. During these weeks he was in an ecstasy of invention, and even Mrs. Beezle was fain to believe that the death of Mrs. Crawford had made a change in the man. They were soon disillusioned, however, when one morning he brought to Martha the finished picture. It showed a white girl, slim and tall, in the glimmer of dawn with her bare feet in the daisies fleeing from a BARNACLES 171 house of terrible aspect. She was in the shadow of a wood, and over the tree-tops a quiet moon was setting in the sky. One hand was pressed to her bosom as if pain was there ; her face looked as if she had been crying, and there was a stain of blood on the daisies from one of her feet. Away in the dimness through the thickening trees was the phantom form of a knight sitting on a white horse. There was a marvellous threat of rain over the trees ; the horseman was as ghostly as the light of eclipse which reigned, and the girl, sorrowful in the dawn, was almost an illusion in the midst of the shadows of the forest. In the low right-hand corner the artist, after his manner, had printed the title, ' The Escape.' He thrust it into her hands. ' Take it,' he said, ' I give it to you. Night and morning admire it. If I cut off your hands some day, crawl to this painting and lift your bleeding stumps to it. Are you dumb ? Have you nothing to say ? You are like your father, a blind bat, a Philistine. Do you hear ; I am leaving you alive to look at this.' Never once did she take her fearless glance off his face. His voice broke in a sob. * I must have some one to look at it night and day. I hate you because it is you.' ' Have you anything more to say ? ' she asked. ' Go,' he snarled, ' before I strangle you ! ' When she gained her room she was terror-stricken, and sat down lapsing into death. In the afternoon he intercepted her as she was about to go out on a visit to the wife of her trustee, Mr. Gilfillan, and commanded her to bring him her wedding 172 BARNACLES dress. He had plainly been drinking. She, who had long ceased to question his actions or demands, went for the dress, and in stony silence delivered it up to him hi the library. His eyes were glittering as he smoothed its satin softness. 'You will bring the painting down to the dining- room to-night at seven,' he said ; ' if you cannot find one word to say for it, there are others ' his face grew suddenly black. ' Do you think I have forgotten what you called me ? "You little monkey" ; that was it; " you little monkey " ; me, me. To think that I sweated in Paris for you to torture me. By God ! but I have been patient ; but to-night at seven ; you will be there ; and Pat he struck me because of you. I have borne it all. But to-night at seven ; do you hear, you sphinx ? this is a night to be merry ; Julius Caesar ought to be at your side ; he would help you to be merry ; you were gone on each other, eh ; but he was poor poor, you understand. Do you know what poor is to be a slave,' he burst out with passion. ' Yes/ she answered, ' I know what it is to be poor : I know it now.' ' You poor ? bah ! haven't you a fortune I can despise whom I like gold in a box and the key hi my pocket how much is it thousands and thousands my teeth are watering day and night thousands and thousands and off to Paris.' She tried to withdraw. He was smelling of whisky and was slavering horribly. He checked her. ' But tell me, would you not like Julius Caesar to be at the dinner ? ' * Who is Julius Caesar ? ' ' What ! don't you know ? Ha ! ha ! he was such BARNACLES 178 a devil of a fellow at school, our dear Pat cavalry charges and all that Julius Caesar he has a grudge against me thinks I led him astray in drink and landed him in jail.' Her heart seemed to shake itself loose in her breast. In a flash she saw the truth which this half-drunken man was babbling. ' Was it you,' she gasped, ' brought him here the night my father died ? ' ' Am I a decoy ? did I ever tell Pat you were my mistress ? ' he licked his lips as he recalled his foxiness, and rolled the remembrance of it like a sweet morsel on the palate of his mind. ' Did you tell him that ? ' her face had gone pale as death. His head butted forward as if he would suck out her agony on his tongue like honey. ' Did I ever tell him you were my mistress in the quiet of the studio did I ever send him to jail did he ever come whining to me for money when he came out what a general what a Roman ! ' He coughed over his cigar. Her horror deepened. The terrible picture of the past was being filled in with ghastly clearness by a pernicious voice, a white evil face and mocking eyes. Remorse for her blindness mingled in her breast with a sense of shame. She put her hands on her eyes to shut out the sight of her husband. ' Are you crying, my pretty ? Pooh ! life is too short for tears. It is weaklings who weep ; slaves. Let us eat and drink ; let us also be very merry.' She plucked her hands away as if fire in her face had stung them. 174 BARNACLES ' No, I 'm not crying ; it 's impossible.' ' Is it ? ' he sneered ; ' what of laughter then, what of being merry with Julius Caesar at your side to-night ? Money would fetch him. What will you give to bring Adonis to your side ? ' ' The winds from the West bring cool clouds from the sea.' He began to hum one of her favourite songs. ' My passion as restless breeds nothing but fears ; The night brings her stars to the breast of the sky ; My love is all barren with heartache and tears.' ' You need not sing more, I am past tormenting, Satan,' she answered, with a cold intensity of loathing. ' Now that is ungenerous, my darling, to call me Satan me who gave up a certain widow for your dear sake.' Having flung his adultery in her teeth, he set to humming the song again. Her face underwent a sudden change. In a single moment it looked as if it had been blasted with lightning. ' Sing on,' she said, ' it does not hurt,' and with a deep moan, ' I am past your hurting now.' His face became contorted. * You do not know me,' he snarled ; ' tell me that to-morrow and I will believe you. To-night I bring the cream of mankind to your feet, and among them,' he sniggered and lisped, ' a certain widow. You will grace the board.' She turned cold to the very heart. She was in a region of nightmare, living out those terrific moments confronted by a squat figure that was the incarnation of evil. An hour ago she would have welcomed death ; but now she had to find his brother and kneel at his feet. If only she could escape. She forgot her shame, BARNACLES 175 her humiliation, her trampled wifehood ; she was terribly afraid ; she felt he might come at any moment this little, sly, leering, loathsome figure, and smilingly put his clammy hands round her throat. She felt with extraordinary intensity and clarity that her life was hi danger. Something prophetic, vivid, full of agony warned her that he was ready to stamp upon her. If she moved he would spring at her. She tried to whisper a little prayer to God for help. And he made a movement. In a dead silence he arose. She saw him like a figure in a dream stepping with feline tread. She tried to scream and closed her eyes. ' Look at it, by God, look ! ' his voice was surcharged with sobs. She opened her eyes. He had lifted her portrait on to the easel and was pointing at it. It was mutilated. The white Greek gown was painted scarlet ; a snake was writhing about the feet ; one eye was gouged out. Sick with horror, she could look no more. ' It was you who forced me to do this.' His face was working convulsively ; his eyes, full of tears, were flashing with rage. ' You you you called me a little monkey. I 'm going to put your life-blood here.' One patch of the robe over the heart was white. He laid his forefinger on the spot. ' I have reserved it for the blood of your heart. If only I could get your father's to mingle with it. He was a Philistine, a snob, a demi-semi-quaver crotchet. He gave away one of my paintings the dog. He talked to me me of Beethoven, and didn't know he was talking to a genius ' his breath was coming in jerking little sobs ' he died too soon ; but I will have your life. I will have no peace on earth or in hell if not. Look at it,' he moaned, pointing to the portrait, ' my darling, my ravish- 176 BARNACLES ing dream. It has made me mad ; you made me do it you you with your divine face ' ; he was now advancing towards her. She felt she was about to die at last. Again she closed her eyes would he never, never come and be done with it. She could hear his breathing feel it on her face. ' Take my life,' she moaned, and opened her eyes, and looked into his close to her own, blazing with a fierce light. He raised his hand. Darkness gathered about her. An eternity passed and still the blow did not fall. ' No, no, not yet,' siie heard him groan, ' it would be too cheap,' and he breathed on her face, ' dinner at seven.' She could endure no more. ' May I go now ? ' * Don't try to leave the house I '11 be on watch.' She could hardly walk. Twice she rested on the stair as she climbed, conscious that he was watching her. When she reached her room she had not the strength to lock the door. ' God ! ' she moaned, as she fell across the bed, ' let me die before the night comes.' XVII Her fingers were so numb that she could not fasten her clothes, and she was forced to ring for Mrs. Beezle, into whose arms she sank moaning : ' dear God, I wish I were dead.' Mrs. Beezle attempting to soothe her began to undress her. ' You must go to bed, my poor lamb, you are ill.' BARNACLES 177 ' Oh ! don't, don't ! 1 must go down he '11 come and drag me he '11 kill me.' For the first time in her life Mrs. Beezle was alarmed not because of the artist whom she despised, but at the condition of her young mistress. ' Kill you,' she whispered fiercely, ' let him try. Go down ; yes, it 's the best way. Remember I 'm in the library. Sit among them like a stooky. That 's the way to fight the scum. Don't open your mouth, my lamb. Sit watching them like a kirk-steeple watching a street. Kill you indeed ; remember I 'm in the library.' ' It 's not them I 'm afraid of,' she sobbed, ' it 's him to-night when they go away.' Mrs. Beezle laughed shrilly. ' Him. I '11 drag him into the street and leave him without a shirt. " Dear God, I thank you it 's raining." ' ' You could never do that,' she said, her eyes full of amazement. The widow Beezle laughed again. ' That 's a trifle. I feel exalted ; I hope for pneu- monia when he 's lying in the rain. Come,' she took the girl's arm, ' 1 will go down with you. He 's afraid of me. Let him beware.' Martha took the picture, and with her courage strangely mounting left the room. On the stair-head she whispered : ' You '11 not leave me.' Mrs. Beezle put her arms around the girl. ' Have no fear, my lamb ; the moment they are all gone I will be at your side. He 's afraid of me. He 's only a louse.' She lay in the comforting embrace, loath to leave the M 178 BARNACLES protecting breast. The canvas fell out of her hand. She made a movement to pick it up. * What 's this,' said Mrs. Beezle ; ' one of his nasty pictures ? ' ' He wants it.' Mrs. Beezle took it out of the girl's hand, and together they went down the stair. Ganson Normanshire was hi the hall. ' See, he 's watching,' Martha whispered. * Let him, let him ' Before she had time to say more he came forward with a mock bow. ' The company is gathered ; we are waiting.' * I am ready,' she answered, and looked at him with- out a tremor. ' Remember, like a stooky,' said Mrs. Beezle loudly, ' like a steeple among the ungodly.' Ganson Normanshire turned to her. ' So good of you, red-haired lady, to bring the picture. Is it not exquisite ? ' he held out his hand. She shot a finger at him. * It is not for you, you blackguard. I am going to keep this ' she shook the canvas. He made a dart at it. Mrs. Beezle swung it aloft. * Stand back, you low man, or I '11 break it over your head.' The artist's body began to tremble. ' For God's sake be careful,' he screamed. ' No, but you be careful ; I 'm going to keep this idol, and if you dare touch a hair of her head I '11 break it over my knee.' ' Give it to me,' he whined ; ' I 've promised to show it to them.' BARNACLES 179 ' Show them your whisky bottles,' she snapped ; ' it will please them better.' ' I promise,' said the artist, advancing to her with a cat-like movement, ' nothing will happen to her.' ' No further,' cried Mrs. Beezle, heaving the canvas aloft once more. The artist stopped and glowered at her. ' But I told them ' ; tears were in his eyes. ' Amuse them with whisky, I tell you. I 'm going to keep this,' she shook it at his face, ' and I 'm going out to warn the policeman. If anything happens to my mistress, remember, you reprobate, the rope is waiting for you.' She walked to the library. At its threshold she stopped and shrilled : ' I will wait here all the night with this nasty picture. As soon as your drunken crew go home, I will come for my mistress ' ; her voice softened, ' go, my lamb ; remember I am here.' Martha went into the dining-room with her heart full of courage. She had learned how vulnerable was her husband. XVIII The room was full of men and women, mostly young and in evening dress. Immediately the artist entered he shouted ' Jubilee.' ' Right 0, totty,' some one answered. The next moment a coarse stout woman of some thirty years, with saucer eyes, a double chin, and pendulous cheeks thick with paint, came up to Martha and her husband. She was wearing the wedding dress. 180 BARNACLES ' Let me present to you, my dear wife,' he said, ' a certain widow, the best dressed woman in Glasgow.' The creature smirked and held out her hand, saying, ' Glad to meet you, Mrs. Normanshire.' Martha met the woman's eye with contempt, put her hands behind her back, and facing her husband, said coldly, ' You are not an artist after all ; you have forgotten the orange blossoms.' And immediately she walked to the foot of the table and sat down. The artist followed her, and putting his mouth to her ear said, ' I will cut out your heart for this.' She smiled at him and answered : ' I think we had better have dinner.' She did not know how the terrible evening passed. She was only conscious that the jewelled fingers of those loose women were like spears of fire in her heart, but that the moment of death had passed when she had found courage to ignore the woman who was- wearing her wedding dress. Her husband taunted her down the length of the table with elaborate jibes. Those on either hand were nauseous in their attempts to outdo one another hi cleverness and wit. For a little they kept themselves in hand ; but the language grew more and more un- measured and their conduct infamous. Among the wine they were like toads croaking in a marsh. Argu- ment, stories, theatrical talk, inane laughter were all punctuated by the plunking of corks, the striking of matches. The women were smoking cigarettes. The artist was parsimonious of his drink. The sight of his face, like a cold pallid mask appearing out of clouds of tobacco smoke, froze her heart. She knew BARNACLES 181 that his eyes were glittering upon her with hawk-like narrowness. Did he mean to murder her to-night ? A phrase of his came back to her, ' I will drink your blood ' ; and her heart became parched with terror. Mrs. Beezle seemed to be miles away. She wondered if he was mad. Suddenly he jumped to his feet. ' Ladies and gentlemen,' he cried, ' my dear wife had an expensive musical training in Germany ; she will now condescend to display her divine art on the piano.' This was greeted with laughter and clapping of hands. When he sat down ' the widow ' leaned over and whispered in his ear. He burst out laughing. Martha rose quietly to her feet, but in spite of her effort she sank half fainting on the piano-stool. Her fingers were moving blindly on the keys ; she was not playing ; she was beating on the gate of heaven for mercy. And then she was conscious of his voice at her ear : ' The winds of the West bring clouds from the sea.' ' Sing it.' ' I can't,' she said, looking straight in front of her. She was trying to pluck out the keys of the piano. ' You can't ! By God, it 's him you love ! ' Beaten almost to death as she was, she realised in a terrible flash that he was jealous. He was making the same hissing noise which he had made on the landing outside her mother's room. It was like that of an angry snake. ' Play it, sing it,' he hissed, ' or by heaven I '11 strangle you!' By instinct she looked up over the piano, as if his spirit had attracted her, and saw the portrait of Edwin 182 BARNACLES Sangster. He seemed to be gazing at her as if in the flesh, his leonine head and rugged face full of strength. The look of his steadfast eye passed like iron into her blood. Her faintness passed away ; she stood up steady as a rock, smiled at her husband, and said hi a loud, clear voice : ' This creature threatens to strangle me if I won't sing a certain song ; I refuse ; do it now ; strangle me.' Her eyes were blasting him with contempt. Before he could say or do anything a voice drawled, ' Fair do, Normanshire ; play the game.' He wheeled, the black blood surging in his face. ' What the hell are you interfering for ? ' The widow in the wedding dress shouted, * Hit him, Ganson ; coming between a fellow and his wife ' : and she guffawed. The artist walked up to her with a slow, measured step. He could hardly speak. ' You you put it off that dress by God ! ' His two hands shot out, seized the neckband and ripped open the bodice. The flap hung down like chastity torn, exposing the woman's breasts. A tall young man with fair hair jumped up and struck the artist full on the jaw with a fist hi which was clenched a half-smoked cigar. The pain of the burn appeared to madden him, for he leapt forward and clinched with the artist. The two of them swayed drunkenly in the space between the table and the piano. Chairs were overturned. They reeled against the table, smashing the glass. Martha, gathering her skirt in her hand, turned to the right of the table, and collided with a little dark-haired girl, who whispered, ' Run, run.' She gathered herself together with a little sob and darted BARNACLES 183 for the door. Out through the hall she ran and through the front door, unconscious of the rain. On she ran, stumbling, panting, imagining she heard footsteps behind her. When she reached Woodlands Terrace she came to a dead halt. At the foot of this short street the glare and traffic of Sauchiehall Street burst upon her and made her realise her condition hatless, in evening dress, with white satin shoes. She was soaked with rain. She had no money ; the fear of what was behind her drove her on again. When she had reached quarter way down the street, she noticed a little man hi a tall hat approaching. Ashamed of her condition, she retreated to the corner, but afraid of going back farther came to a halt. The little man, humming beneath an umbrella, ran into her. ' My stars ! ' he said, shutting the umbrella. The next moment he opened it, and promptly put it over her head. He had a grey beard, a fresh-coloured face, and wore glasses. Despite that he was not tall he stooped a little. ' My lassie,' he said, ' what is wrong ? ' ' I have escaped,' said Martha, her whole body trembling. He gazed at the beautiful tear-stained face, yet marked with the traces of terror, and noted her glance of fear over her shoulder. ' My name is Yuille Lothian Yuille ; perhaps you may have heard of me. If not, I am a professor at the University. I live three doors along. Will you come to my house out of the rain ? ' His old-world courtesy and paternal benevolence surrounded her with a warm atmosphere, and opened the fountain of tears long parched with dread, 184 BARNACLES ' ! ! ! ' she sobbed, clinging to him and allow- ing her dress to fall on the wet pavement. ' Take me with you don't let him take me he '11 murder me ! ' He patted her on the arm. ' Don't be afraid ' he began to walk slowly, still patting her ' don't be afraid, my lassie. You will be as safe in my house as in heaven 1 wish my students could see old Yuille now, with a bonnie girl on his arm, the young cubs.' He felt her twitching all over with nervous spasm as she clung to him on his own doorstep. The professor lived alone with a housekeeper, a tall, thin woman, with high cheek bones, large eyes, and dark hair. ' Phemie,' he said, ' put a fire in the middle front bedroom and a hot-water bottle in the bed ; but first of all make a big bowl of gruel.' ' Yes, sir,' and Phemie hurried away. The professor led Martha into a room on the right, whose walls were completely lined with books. There was a good deal of curious apparatus about. He drew an easy chair to the fire and made her sit down. ' You will sleep in my house to-night,' he said, in a way of abrupt speech, which appeared to be char- acteristic. ' Oh ! please, please, yes.' She was shivering violently. Her face was like clay. The professor left the room. Presently he returned with a wine glass in his hand. ' My lassie, you are under the care of a professor in the faculty of medicine, and he orders you to drink this good Burgundy to the last drop.' BARNACLES 185 She drank with shrinking obedience, timidly recognis- ing that he was very shaggy in the full light. ' Put off these shoes and stockings : yes, yes, I 'm old enough to be your grandfather nearly ; stockings as well ; and you '11 wear a pair of slippers belonging to a professor. While I fetch them you do as you are told.' If his head were a little whiter it would be like her father's. She looked up at him to signify her obedience, and caught a pair of twinkling eyes. ' 1 've a good mind to wait and see a pretty ankle,' he said, and trotted from the room. When he returned with the slippers he knelt at her feet and put them on. ' That little foot,' he said gallantly, ' has no business getting wet a night like this. No, no,' he held up his hand as she attempted to speak, ' not one word to- night, except your prayers.' He stood up. 'My stars! I haven't my overcoat off yet ; we must get to bed. If I sleep in hi the morning these young cubs of mine will rag the life out of me old Yuille was on the spree last night think I don't know what they say ' At this juncture Phemie announced that the room was ready. ' Phemie,' he said severely, ' you '11 give my young lady not your prettiest but your warmest nightdress. Now be off ' he shooed Martha with hands and voice, and followed to the door ' if you leave as much as one drop in the very big bowl of gruel, you '11 get castor-oil. You hear.' Her heart filled, and she saw the shaggy grey head through swimming tears. ' And when you 've drank the vast bowl, Phemie will give you a wee white powder in water which I will 186 BARNACLES go and find. You will drink it also to the last drop. You hear.' ' I will be very obedient ' ; her voice broke. ' And then, miss, you '11 say your prayers, not forget- ting a petition for old Yuille the professor, and close your eyes and go ba ba.' He took a quick step towards her and held out his hand. ' Good night, my lassie,' he said ; ' have no fear, you 're safe.' The events of that long terrible day had not the power to break her down which this man's kindness possessed. She began to cry softly. ' Tut, tut,' said the professor, ' a bonnie-like doctor I am forgetting to tell you that you will not rise to- morrow till I see you. I '11 be back from teaching my cubs at lunch-time. Good night,' he was still holding her hand, ' good night, a sound sleep.' He returned to the fire, to the chair she had been sit- ting on, picked up one of her shoes and stared at it. ... For a man afraid of sleeping in, he continued gazing at the fire a long time, with the shoe in his hand. . . . The next day the widow Beezle, summoned by Phemie, was running up the stairs shouting, ' God, dear God, dear God, I thank you, I thank you, I have found my lamb ! ' When she entered the room and saw Martha hi bed she threw up her hands, ' joy, jy 3y 1 dear God, this is heaven ! ' and she fell on Martha and wellnigh smothered her, mingling a hundred words of tenderness with such phrases as ' reprobate,' ' black eye ' ' tried to strip him and drag him out wakened ; defended myself with a poker ' till Martha was crying and laughing in one breath. Then the banker was spoken to by telephone, and BARNACLES 187 invited to dinner by the professor, who said he had discovered one of his gilt-edged securities last night lost in the rain. When Mr. Gilfillan arrived his astonished gaze encountered Mrs. Beezle in all the splendour of Phemie the housekeeper's best clothes. The professor came forward with Martha. ' You '11 take hi this lady, Mr. Gilfillan,' said the professor, laying his hand on Mrs. Beezle's arm. ' You Ve had the good fortune to know Mrs. Norman- shire for many a long day. As I haven't, I '11 make the most of my opportunities hi helping myself to youth and beauty.' He made a deep bow, wagging his grey beard, and offered his arm to Martha. After dinner the professor and the banker had a consultation, hi the course of which the professor learned the outlines of the life of his temporary ward. ' If you weren't trustee I would take her for a daughter,' said the professor. ' And being trustee, sir ? ' interrogated Mr. Gilfillan. ' You will take her for your daughter.' ' And him ? ' asked the banker. ' Leave him,' was the grim answer, * to the world, the flesh, and the devil. They '11 finish him.' ' I 'm afraid he will make trouble.' * Where do you live ? ' said the professor, by way of answer. ' At Paisley.' ' Ah ! well ! let him find her first. Afterwards, if you will honour me by letting me know, I will deal with him ' the shaggy eyebrows gathered together in a frown. ' I will do it,' said the banker, and added, ' to- morrow our house will no longer be empty.' For his son was shot leading on his men in the Boer 188 BARNACLES War ; and his daughter well, his son when at Oxford brought home to Paisley a college friend from New Zealand. His daughter was there now, and had sent home the photograph of a baby. ' And mine/ answered the professor, ' will be gey an' empty to-morrow. I could keep her, Mr. Gilfillan, with all my heart.' And this conviction deepened hi him to a sense of great loss, when later he sat in the drawing-room and Martha played and sang. ' Man,' said the professor, as the banker stood on his doorstep, ' it 's an angel with the voice of a bird you 're bringing into your home. Mind you,' he urged, ' you '11 bring her to see me now and again ; and I '11 come and see her every Sunday I 'm no' healing the sick.' So these two became fast friends for life. . . . In two months Martha attained her majority. In six she had bought a house next but one to Mr. Gilfillan's at Castlehead, Paisley. Every week she visited her parents' grave, and every week she laid a wreath on the grave of her grandfather, Edwin Sangster, who slept with his own folk near Paisley. Sometimes she wondered how strangely fate had led her to come and live where her grandfather's folk had been born and lived and where they were buried. Indeed she said this to Barnacles. And he told her how our vagrant footsteps are guided. ' We think we are waifs/ he said, ' but our wanderings are as sure as the stars. We shall come to our appointed place, to our destined end.' And he also told her of the Odyssey of a sheep. ' And I saw you bury a baby when I was going to grandfather's grave/ she said. They sat together in a long silence. BARNACLES 189 ' My footsteps came to the grave of a baby,' he answered, ' and there you came by many a weary and cruel path with a wreath in your hand.' ' It is only waifs like us,' she said, smiling a little wistfully, ' that could meet at a baby's grave.' But this conversation did not take place until Barnacles had known her quite a long time. As for Mrs. Beezle, she ruled the servants at Castle- head, holding family worship every night punctually at nine. She felt the house secure, for going past the window of an antique dealer in the Back Sneddon she saw a sword there. She entered the shop and asked for it. ' The sword ! ! ' asked the dealer in surprise. * The sword ; I said the sword,' she snapped, ' not a monkey.' The dealer was ruffled. ' It is very expensive ; it was the sword of one of the Covenanters.' ' Give it to me,' cried Mrs. Beezle, transfixing him with a single eye and finger, ' give me the martyr's sword.' And having received it she carried it home and hung it up in the hall, immediately beside the front door, where she showed it to her mistress. ' It is a sword of the Covenanters,' she said fiercely ; ' it will be a bad day for him if ever he comes here. I am ready.' XIX Old Fate and the things which grind the face of life made Patrick Normanshire somewhat old and serious. He found nothing consoling hi life, and no good person upon his side. He drifted from lodging-house to 190 BARNACLES lodging-house, half starved, and haunted with gloomy thoughts. He was on the point of leaving Glasgow on foot recognising thereby that he was a tramp, when, as the result of raking once more the advertise- ment columns of the press, he got work in one of the many shops owned by a large commercial firm whose headquarters were in London. They dealt in ham, tea, and butter mainly. He was taken on as a dubious hand, because the firm, which was expanding itself in branch shops in the growing suburbs of Glasgow, were unwilling to offer a standard wage to its hands in localities where custom was all yet to make. Their plan was to have a competent ' first hand,' with an underpaid man hi assistance, who would, they hoped, soon learn the business, and still retain his initial pay ; or if increase of trade justified it, gain a small advance thereon. Patrick soon learned that he was for six days of the week part of a machine that must keep running from eight hi the morning till seven in the evening, and on Saturdays till ten. He had learned patience, however ; was apt at business ; and the firm still pursuing its policy of expansion, elevated him to the charge of a small new branch shop on the outskirts of Glasgow. He was not unhappy ; avoided Glasgow altogether, and revived his old interest by becoming a member of a church choir. Life ran smoothly thus for some time, and he was even beginning to look forward to a tune when he might be able to ' start business for himself,' when a new inspector was appointed to the district. From the first this man proved himself to be irascible and malicious. He had hoped that this branch shop would BARNACLES 191 have fallen to a friend of his, for whom he had exerted his influence in London, and he hated Patrick for sup- planting this far-out relation of his wife's. One of his duties was to visit the shops hi his district at all hours, hi order to satisfy himself that the men were not shirking. He began to harass and finally to harry Patrick, who would find him waiting outside the shop in the morning at five minutes to eight. He frequently turned up as well about seven in the evening, like a spy. He was short, thick-set, fair, with bristles over his eyes : he had a coarse, sensuous face, bursting with purple blood, and vast ears with thick red lobes. He walked about the shop, his little pig's eyes every- where, and hands in pocket, as if he carried in this way in front of him a pendent stomach. He spoke through his nose always with triumphant assurance in his own infallibility. As for his life outside the shop, he never gave away anything. He was a thoroughly business man as characterless as a stone wall. There was nothing but ' business ' on his horizon. He moved about the shop as if the floor were hot coals, preaching in season and out of season the doctrine of his trinity advertisement, economy, and a smile the latter for all customers, though he himself was never seen to smile. Instead he would snap contemptuously at Patrick or the stripling who was part assistant, part message boy, ' Don't hurry, don't hurry ; you '11 be in the thick of it next year p'r'aps ; the world will wait for you.' At first Patrick attempted rejoinder, but as the inspector's answer was always the same, ' Don't try to get round me,' he met the man's growling with a contemptuous silence even when he went foaming round the shop, because a rival firm had 192 BARNACLES opened a place across the street, and by selling every- thing cheaper in the first week, had drawn away all Patrick's customers. ' It 's your business,' he howled, ' to make mince meat of them.' ' How can I do it ? ' said Patrick ; ' they 're selling a ha'penny a pound cheaper.' ' Get a pamphlet printed, an attractive pamphlet ; scatter it wholesale,' and he rounded on the halflin ; ' look at that fly-catcher there with his mouth open ; he lives on flies ; get busy ; do something useful,' and he raged out of the shop, leaving the lad paralysed. But none of these things moved Patrick. Punctually every Sunday he prepared his returns and had them posted on that day for London. They showed the business to be increasing. Only one thing troubled him. For some time past he discovered that his cash was not squaring with the results of his stock-taking. He was obliged to take the assistant lad into his confi- dence. They watched everything narrowly ; yet the leakage continued. The matter was becoming serious for Patrick, because it was taking a good part of his wages to make up the deficiency. One evening, a little before seven, the boy was washing out the floor of the shop. Patrick had asked him to perform this task a little earlier than usual, hi order that he might be free as soon after seven o'clock as possible to go to Glasgow to one of the concerts of the Choral and Orchestral Union. During the time the lad was on his knees a woman with a shawl wrapped about her head came in, and asking for half a pound of butter, nodded to the lad, and said, ' The inspector 's comin' ' for many in the neighbourhood knew of BARNACLES 193 the man's tyranny, and often warned Patrick in this way. The lad jumped to his feet and rushed with the pail of water behind the counter. Just at that moment the inspector entered the shop and stood like a dead wall surveying the wet floor. The lad in his fear dived beneath the counter and lifted in the pail beside him. At that moment it struck seven from a church clock. The inspector waited till the woman had left, and then in a squeaky nasal voice opened fire : ' I '11 have to report this ' his heavy face was flooded with blood ' there 's nothing disgusts a customer more than coming into a shop sloppy with water. Where 's that boy ? ' ' It 's my fault,' said Patrick in a quiet tone. ' I wished to attend a concert hi Glasgow to-night and wanted off punctual at seven.' The inspector forgot the boy. A gleam of malice lit up his eyes. He walked behind the counter and grunted. ' Bring me your books, I want to go over them.' ' They 're not made up to date,' said Patrick, at the same time taking off his apron. The inspector knew that the books were not made up until Sunday for the week that had elapsed ; and Patrick knew that the man simply wanted to delay him as much as possible. ' It doesn't matter ; I 've come specially here to-night to see them.' ' Very well,' answered Patrick, ' but I 'm also bound to complain at headquarters about this. It 's after seven.' ' Complain away, but bring me the books.' The lad beneath the counter, trembling almost between the legs of the inspector, now saw a sight which N 194 BARNACLES thrilled him. The inspector had the books open on the counter before him, and was bent over them, his pendulous belly covering the till. Inch by inch the lad saw the till open. The sight made him cease shivering. His fascinated eyes were riveted on a white podgy hand sqiieezed between the bulge of the belly and the till. Presently the hand crawled up like a thing apart from the inspector and tried the opening. It was like an animal at a hole. It retired baffled. Again the till was pushed from beneath ; and again the white fat hand crawled up, wriggled sideways, and disappeared. The lad heard the faintest chink of money. The hand reappeared. It was more fascinating than a scene in the cinema to the boy. It travelled down and across to the man's pocket. And all the time the boy heard the other hand of the inspector feverishly ruffling the pages of the books he was examining. . . . Twice, thrice, four times that stealthy hand travelled up the swelling of the belly, disappeared hi the till, reappeared clenched, and sidled across to the pocket. . . . Then the books were shut with a snap. ' That '11 do now ; I '11 finish the rest on Monday. Tell that young cub I '11 see him then and teach him to wash the floor before seven o'clock. Get out the lights now, and put those books in their place.' When Patrick returned from replacing the books the shop was empty. * Mr. Normanshire.' He heard a cautious voice from beneath the counter. ' It 's all right, Alick ; you can come out ; he 's gone.' ' Mr. Normanshire, come here, come here.' Alick crawled out hi a fever of excitement. BARNACLES 195 * I 've fin' oot, I 've fin' oot. He leans his big fat belly ower the till an' opens it canny, bit by bit, and shoves in his haun.' Patrick's face grew pale. In a flash he saw the trick. ' You 're sure, Alick ? ' ' Shair, as shair 's I 'm leevin' ; was I no' ablow the coonter watchin' him. Man, he 's the fly ane ; that 's whaur the money 's goin'.' Patrick leaned over the counter against the till. ' That 's the wy ; that 's the wy, Mr. Normanshire ; only your belly 's no' as big as his. Pit doon your haun noo.' 1 No ; there 's no need, Alick ; I understand.' He pondered a moment. ' You '11 say nothing about this to any one, Alick ; we '11 catch him red-handed on Monday.' Monday came and in the forenoon the inspector stepped briskly into the shop. His ferrety eyes glanced all round. ' Here, you,' he cried to Alick, ' what do you mean by washing the floor before the door is closed ? ' ' I 've already told you that I am to blame,' said Patrick. ' Mind your own business,' the inspector snapped contemptuously. ' I 'm doing that and I will do it,' answered Patrick grimly. ' Where 's them handbills ? haven't they come ? ' ' No handbills have come here.' ' Here you, boy ! cut away along to the railway station and fetch them.' Patrick was taken aback. He wished Alick to be in the shop, an extra eye upon the inspector. 196 BARNACLES 1 There 's no train,' he said, ' till twelve-thirty.' * Let him go and wait ; he 's clever enough idling and smoking cigarettes at other times.' ' He '11 be wasting more than an hour in the station,' urged Patrick. * Am I the boss here or you ? ' he snarled, and wheeled on the lad ; ' be off with you and hurry back with these bills the moment they arrive.' Alick left the shop as if a dead elephant were tied to each boot. ' Don't slouch ; hurry,' yelled the inspector after him. At once he went behind the counter and asked for the books. ' Quick now, you lout ' he pulled out his watch ' I must be off in half an hour.' When Patrick returned with the books a woman and a girl were in the shop. The counter flanked each of two walls of the shop. As Patrick served the customers he stood opposite the inspector, at one of the counters, and glancing from his eyelids saw one of the man's hands disappear. The woman left the shop, and Patrick delayed the girl sufficiently long to enable the inspector to get the till opened. When she left he picked up a cloth and began to move round the shop, dusting the fittings. The inspector threw him a casual glance from beneath his bristles and pursued his study of the books. Quietly Patrick worked round till he gained the same side of the counter as that at which the inspector was. He could see nothing but the expanse of the man's side. The inspector on his part dared not move, for his hand was hot in the till. But he had been in this position before, and had merely to wait until BARNACLES 197 Patrick moved away out of range. He began whistling over the books. Patrick was in a dilemma. He could not tell whether the inspector had his hand in the till or not, and to make a leap in the dark might lead to confusion. He went on dusting. Presently stealing a glance at the inspector his eyes met the other's watching him side- ways. For one long moment their eyes dwelt on one another. A tram-car outside rushed past. Some one tramped by the door. And silence fell on the shop. Still their eyes rested long-drawn on one another. Patrick was standing with his arm stretched out holding the duster. The look in their eyes changed. That of the inspector's clouded, then darkened with suspicion. Patrick saw fear coming into the man's face. His own eyes were those of a fencer, bright, keen, unwavering. He saw the inspector lick his lips. ' What are you staring at, you lout ? ' Even as the man spoke Patrick's body became tense for a spring. The next moment he leapt. The in- spector was paralysed. His body hung limply against the counter. Without protest he allowed Patrick to lift his hand out of the till. Some coins dribbled weakly from his grasp. In a spasm of anger Patrick raised the man's arm and brought down his knuckles smash on the edge of the till. ' You damn thief ! ' he said, and flung the hand from him. It fell to the inspector's side and hung there numbed. The man seemed impervious to the pain of the blow. He was in fact stunned, and his mind was only slowly returning to reality. 198 BARNACLES At last he moved away, a dazed expression still on his face, and began to rub his smarting hand. ' It ought to be burned,' said Patrick. This roused the man. All at once he was boiling with rage. ' You dare to interfere when I was finding out how your cash stands.' Patrick scanned him contemptuously. ' No,' he said, ' you were not ; you 're a thief.' ' I '11 make you smart for this ; I have influence ; you '11 get short shrift,' he foamed. ' No,' answered Patrick, ' you '11 not have that satisfaction.' ' Won't 1? won'tl?' Patrick made no answer, but passed him by and disappeared hi the back shop. A moment later he came out, hat and coat on. * Where are you going ? ' the inspector bellowed. ' I do not discuss my affairs with a thief.' Patrick walked towards the door. ' Are you going to leave the shop this way ? I can't stay here ; I must go away.' * I leave you to rob the till at your leisure.' The inspector, who seemed on the point of taking an apoplectic shock, ran round the counter after Patrick. ' There 's no one here to look after things that boy ' ' No ! there 's no one,' answered Patrick, * for I count you nobody. That 's just the mistake which I regret I made ; I ought to have had in a policeman. You 'd have been on your way to jail by now.' These precipitate events alarmed the inspector. His flabby face took on a yellowish tinge. BARNACLES 199 ' Look here ; don't go away ; I '11 use my influence ; you 've done very well here ; you '11 get promotion ; a Glasgow shop ; there 's one vacant in New City Road.' Patrick allowed him to finish. 'Good-bye,' he answered coldly, 'I'm going now to write to London and give my reasons for leaving. Go to the till. It is still open.' And Patrick left the shop. He went straight to the railway station and told the boy. ' Gripes ! if I 'm gaun back there/ said Alick. Patrick gave the boy sixpence in a farewell gift, shook hands with him, and set off for his lodgings. All afternoon he sat brooding on Life how our mothers conceive us, every one, and we cause each other an abundance of pain and tears ; how we struggle and suffer ; some degraded, some triumphant every- where a jostling crowd pushing to make way and headway, and all being ground between great invisible mill-stones. He stood up and stretched out his arms with a weary gesture. ' No,' he said, ' I '11 not report him ; he '11 have enough to stand without me,' and he took a deep gulp of the air. ' Freedom, my God ! freedom ! ' He felt as if chains had fallen from him, and he was hunted no more. He did not realise the great victory which he had won for himself. Yet the inspector did not escape. Alick went home and told his mother he was not going back to the shop and why. This woman carried a rasping tongue to the shop, and shrilly interviewed the inspector. Un- luckily he ordered her out. She went, flinging threats ; 200 BARNACLES and Alick's father that night was enjoined to write to London concerning the character of the inspector. As for Patrick, the little money he had was gone in making good the leakage of the till. Old Fate and the things which grind the face of Life between the great invisible mill-stones lay hard upon him. The old desire of escape into vague freedom gripped him. As soon as the last penny was spent he walked out of Glasgow a tramp. XVI The next blow of fate followed rapidly, as it often does once a man is down. Overcome with hunger and fatigue, for he could not bring himself to beg, he was passing through a village in Dumbartonshire, when, hi the midst of its long mam street near a river, he was stopped by a policeman a tall man with a fair mous- tache and lips slightly tinged with blue. He was sneezing and his eyes running. ' Are you on tramp ? ' ' Yes, I am.' * Where are you from ? ' * Glasgow.' ' What were you doing there ? ' ' Starving.' * Where are you going ? ' 4 God knows.' A mournful look came into the swimming eyes of the policeman. * You are a vagrant,' he said. * No,' answered Patrick, ' an outcast.' ' You '11 have to come with me.' BARNACLES 201 ' Where ? ' ' To the police-office.' ' Is this how it is done ? ' Patrick asked. ' All suspicious characters,' said the policeman, drawing himself up and beginning to quote a regulation. ' Will you give me a meal ? ' asked Patrick. The policeman drew himself up still higher. ' I get tuppence for giving a prisoner a meal. You '11 know what to expect.' They walked on up the street. ' Am I a prisoner ? ' asked Patrick. ' You are under arrest.' ' What crime have I committed ? ' ' You are a vagrant.' ' It is strange,' said Patrick. ' I know a thief and he is at large.' ' Give him time,' said the policeman, ' and he '11 follow you.' Patrick made no answer. A spasm of faintness had seized him. ' Is it far ? ' he asked, wiping away a cold sweat which was oozing out on his brow. The policeman looked sideways at him, ' Some of you fellows are fools, wandering about when you might be comfortable hi a good berth.' * I think I am a fool,' gasped Patrick, ' but life has hammered me.' As much the tone as the words caused the policeman to look at him once more. ' Had you bad luck ? ' he asked hi a quick tone of sympathy. ' I never stole ; I never cheated ; I never lied or wronged any one I once got drunk that is all ' he 202 BARNACLES reeled against the policeman ' I 'm not drunk now it 's hunger.' He had a sensation as if his body were rising and falling in the air. He began to stagger, and could scarce prevent himself from pitching forward. A veil of darkness, full of little fiery blots, came and went before his eyes. Suddenly he felt a strong arm in his oxter, and heard the policeman saying, ' Lean on me.' He stammered his thanks, and closed his eyes for the rest of the journey. The grip of the policeman kept him more than once from pitching forward. When they reached the police-station he collapsed on a chair, and went swimming away into darkness. He was roused out of it by the taste of fire in his mouth and throat. He began to cough and opened his eyes. He was lying on a floor near a fire, and beside him on his knees was the policeman, glass in hand. The officer's tunic was open. This gladdened Patrick. It made the man appear homely. ' Take another mouthful.' Patrick swallowed the liquid. After what seemed a long interval he heard the voice again : ' Sit up and take this.' An intolerable weight pressed him down as he struggled to sit up. An arm was put around his shoulder. The policeman was holding a bowl of soup in his hand. Patrick began to eat ravenously. There was also a slice of bread. Before the soup was half finished he felt his strength coming back. ' Is this how you treat your prisoners ? ' he asked, smiling up into the policeman's face. BARNACLES 203 ' For tuppence a meal ? ' The blue grave eyes twinkled. ' And why me preferential treatment ? ' ' You 're not an ordinary tramp ; I know the breed.' ' No, I 'm not.' * See here ' the policeman rose, opened a drawer and took out a ledger ' I ought to enter in this book your name, age, height, colour of hair and eyes' he was pointing with a forefinger to the headings of the columns ' marks if any ; my own remarks.' He closed the official record with a snap. * I 'm not going to do it. I ought to put you in a cell for to-night ; but you can sleep here. I 'm not going to be the first to put you in jail.' Patrick was still weak. ' Thank you,' he said, ' it 's the first kindness I Ve met ' His voice choked. ' It 's all right ; all right,' said the policeman, swing- ing his long arm as if he were going to strike some one. He bent down to Patrick, ' You 're right ' the blue eyes took on a cold hard look ' it 's the likes of you get landed in, while the rogues get off. There 's a publican down there offered me a bottle of whisky to shut my eyes. I wouldn't take a thousand pounds in a bribe. What right has he tempting an honest man from his duty ? ' The policeman swung his fist and brought it down on the bar. Then he stalked out of the room. He returned with a cup of tea, bread, and butter. While Patrick was again eating, the officer carried in a greatcoat, a pillow, and two blankets, and made a bed on the floor. Patrick lay down. He heard the policeman putting coal on the fire ; the figure, the sounds gradually 204 BARNACLES faded away ; and the next moment as he thought he was being wakened. ' Time to go,' a voice said. It was scarcely dawn. * You 'd better get away before folks are stirring.' He was given cocoa, bread, and butter ; and when he had finished the policeman said, ' Let me give you a bit of advice : if the police stop you tell them you have a destination in view; a tramp is a man that comes from nowhere an' goes nowhere.' Patrick suddenly made up his mind. ' I have a destination hi view,' he answered ; * I 'm going home.' ' Where 's that ? ' ' Argyll.' ' Well, you have a tramp,' said the policeman. He put his hand in his pocket. Patrick at once realised the truth of the definition of a tramp. ' The road 's not long or weary that leads to home/ he answered. ' Here,' said the policeman, offering Patrick a shilling, * it 's all I can spare. I 've five weans all in school yet.' ' I cannot thank you, but I '11 never forget your kindness and cheering words.' The policeman at once looked uncomfortable, and began to swing his arms. ' It 's all right, all right ; get a job ; keep off the road ; it takes the heart out of a man.' * You 've put heart and life into me,' and afraid his emotion would master him, Patrick shook hands and hurried out of the door. The still greyness of the coming day lay around. BARNACLES 205 The stars were small and dim and about to be lost in their vast depths. The air was beautifully fresh ; the fields silver-grey ; and every blade bright with dew-baby eyes watching for the morning. It had come. The East was looking at him with a faint flush. Joy sprang up in Patrick's heart because he had not reported the inspector, for he had suddenly recalled the policeman's words : ' I 'm not going to be the first to put you in jail.' Patrick lifted a morning face to the new day. But as he walked along he began to brood on his misfortunes, wondering what had caused them. Once life was a rock beneath his feet. Now everything was insecure. He was soon to learn the secret of his misfortune. XVII On the second day he passed through Arrochar, came round the head of Loch Long, and struck west through the pass of Glencroe. It was dark when he came down on the shore of Loch Fyne at the ferry at St. Catherine's. He had spent the last of the policeman's shilling in Arrochar, and had no means of crossing by the ferry. He would have to walk round the head of the loch. He was weary to the bone. It was raining heavily, and thunder was beginning to growl hi the hills of Argyll. He remembered seeing back on the road a shed half full of hay. Flash after flash of lightning blinded him. He stumbled on through the drenching darkness, despairing of ever finding the shed. All at once a greenish flame opened up the landscape and 206 BARNACLES revealed the bowels of the huddling heavens. It burst on the zinc roof of the shed and streamed off in fire. Patrick set to running. By the time he reached the shed the storm was roaring from horizon to horizon ; the wind was like a demon trying to tear the bulky mass of the darkness to tatters ; the rain was making a clean breach with a million black spears over a naked world. Spent by the force of the gale Patrick, who felt hay beneath his feet, was suddenly overcome with a yearning for rest. * My God ! what a night.' He groaned and stumbled forward. ' You are standing on my leg,' he heard a calm voice say. He leapt back as if he had been stabbed, and stood trembling. The voice spoke again : ' Please be careful that you do not tramp on my violin.' There was a rustling in the hay and again the voice : ' It 's all right ; I Ve got my violin.' A lightning flash filled the shed, and Patrick got a glimpse of a long lean figure sitting up among the hay, holding a violin to its breast. The sight of this person and his quiet indomitable voice had an immediate effect of calm on Patrick's mind. Whoever he was he seemed oblivious to the insensate fury of the tempest. Patrick took a step nearer. ' Who are you 1 ' he shouted, for the rain streaming off the edge of the shed made a loud hissing and drumming. BARNACLES 207 ' I am a waif in the meantime.* The answer, consorting with Patrick's own estate, made him burst out laughing. 4 Draw in here beside me,' the voice said again. ' I am glad to hear you laughing.' Patrick groped on his fours till he felt his comrade in misfortune. * And who are you ? ' the voice at his ear in the dark said. ' I am a wren hi a wilderness a very wet and cold and hungry wren.' There was silence of speech for a moment. Then the voice spoke again with a coolness and con- fidence which not even the falling heavens might break. ' If you are wet take off your trousers and jacket and lie among the hay.' Patrick recognised the wisdom of the advice, and stripped. The man by his side, Patrick judged by his movements, was doing the same. ' Are you wet too ? ' he asked. Shivering, he was trying to heap the hay upon himself. ' No ! I got in here in time.' He was evidently pulling off his trousers. ' What are you doing ? ' asked Patrick. There was a final tug, and the same quiet voice said : ' Put on these trousers.' They were pushed into Patrick's hand. ' But you '11 be cold,' he protested. ' No, I 'm quite warm and dry. Put them on, please.' Patrick, ashamed of his selfishness, took the trousers. * And this jacket.' It also was thrust into his arms. 208 BARNACLES ' No, I won't,' he said. ' Yes, you will, or I cannot sleep.' Patrick, numb with cold, took the jacket like a famished man taking food. ' Put this violin away in case it gets damaged.' Patrick obeyed. ' Now, my friend, lie down.' Patrick, who five minutes ago felt as if he had been sheathed in melting ice, began to feel a genial heat steal over him. The unknown was on his feet. Suddenly a bluish flash filled the barn, and Patrick got a glimpse of a tall gaunt figure in shirt and drawers with his arms full of hay. The bundle fell over Patrick's feet. Again and again a bundle fell. ' What are you doing ? ' ' I 'm making a rampart against the storm.' Tirelessly the stranger built up a wall of hay all round the place where they lay. Then he crept in and lay beside Patrick, who was buried in the hay to his chin. Patrick was uneasy in his ease. ' Won't you take your clothes ? ' he said. ' No, thanks ; I am quite warm.' The wind at that moment came in an appalling scream as if a cry of pain were wrenched out of the breast of the night. It swooped with battering wings upon the shed. When it passed, Patrick shouted : ' I 'm afraid the roof will go.' The voice at his ear spoke with a calm that resisted the night of the tempest. 4 Did you say you are hungry ? ' ' Yes ; famishing.' BARNACLES 209 ' Put your hand in the jacket pocket and you '11 find a parcel.' Patrick rolled on his side, found it, and took it out. He handed it to the stranger, who said, ' If God would strike another match I could manage better.' So far from being a blasphemy, Patrick divined the simple faith of a child in the words, and he asked curiously, ' What is your name ? ' Just at that moment, as if in answer to the stranger's request, the shed shone from end to end. There was a rustling of paper and Patrick felt something soft pushed hi his face. ' Here is a scone ; eat it.' He spluttered, laughing, ' That 's my face you 've got,' and took the scone in his hand. ' Here is another.' Patrick munched, feeling the delicious tang of salt butter in the scone. ' Would you mind telling me your name ? ' he asked again. A gust of the gale battered at the shed. In the lull Patrick heard the unknown answer : ' My name is Barnacles.' ' Barnacles ! Barnacles what ? ' There was a fresh sheet-glare in the shed, a fresh crash in the heavens. In the sudden darkness and stillness that followed Patrick heard the voice at his ear clear and strong saying, ' In this night of storm I pray that all little birds may have covert, and sheep upon the moor shelter ; for all seamen upon the deep, and men in war whose blood is soaking the soil, that they shall have mercy and rest.' Patrick waited. . A silence that was more than 210 BARNACLES rest from the tempest filled the shed. The petitioning words, like a quiet thing of heaven, stole away his trouble and rebuked him who had shelter from the night. Peace stole in upon his soul as if from the folded hands of the man at his side. Another roar split the heavens. When it rolled away into the hills living with echoes in the wild darkness, Patrick leaned forward and said : 1 Ay ! there are many far worse off than us ; I did not think of that.' There was no answer, except a gentle snore. Barnacles was asleep in the lap of the thunder. BOOK III ' THIS is a be be beautiful room,' he said, slightly stammering. Mrs. Normanshire was quietly watching him his head high, beautifully poised, and graceful in its movements as his eyes turned from object to object in the room. Mrs. Gilfillan was flattered. She was a woman of indefatigable amiability, who always put forth her best efforts in presence of a new face. In appearance she was small, bird-like, with bright eyes somewhat roguish, and a rosy face. She affected a mincing walk, and in conversation held up a coquettish chin. She ran after every new thing which she heard of or saw advertised. At the present moment she was burning an aromatic stick to scent the room. ' Loot from a ladies' journal,' the banker described it. Much of her house was fur- nished from what she had seen in the homes of others. This is why she was now flattered. Besides she had told Mrs. Normanshire of the banker's discovery ' one of God's innocents.' Barnacles, by his first naive remark, had not failed to come up to her description. The banker was delighted. He was rubbing his hands, and his ruddy face was wreathed in silent laughter which betrayed a set of excellent white teeth. ' You like the room,' he said ; ' my word ! He drew his forefinger across his brow and flicked it, as if it were loaded with sweat. 213 214 BARNACLES The gaze of Barnacles which had travelled slowly round the room rested on Mrs. Normanshire. He took off his spectacles and went forward to her, with his hand out : ' I have never forgotten how you sang in the Abbey ; I went back twice in the hope of hearing you again.' She was dressed in black, without any adornment save a cameo portrait set in gold, of a man of some sixty years, at her throat. Though her hair was white her face had the pure freshness of a water-flower, and breathed the indefinable perfume of a delicate girl. She raised her eyes and gazed full at Barnacles, with a look which came out of a central calm. Barnacles had never seen such eyes. The long lashes shielded them from the hard light, and they had the softness and depth of colour of a dark-purple pansy. Her face was as impassive as marble, and a quiet strength, almost of determination, breathed from her person as she took his hand and answered : ' I may not thank you for your courtesy, since I was singing in church.' Her voice was as soft as her eyes. Still holding her hand he pondered her words. ' That is wise,' he said at length ; ' we do our very best there, and ought not to speak of it.' He sat down on the couch at her side. ' My word ! ' cried the banker, flicking invisible sweat, ' at home with the ladies already. Don't sit down ; I 've something to tell you ; come and have a game of billiards.' ' What an idea,' said his wife ; ' the moment he comes in, to drag him off to the billiard-room, and he so nice about the room and Martha's voice.' BARNACLES 215 ' All right, all right ; peace at any price, Barnacles.' The banker waved his hand, sat down, and crossed his legs. 'Tell us about that sheep and the violin you remember.' * No,' said a low voice at his side, ' tell us about the baby that you buried.' Barnacles turned in astonishment and met her profound gaze. ' You know ? ' he asked eagerly. ' Yes ; I saw you.' ' My word, my word ! found out, Barnacles.' Barnacles paid no attention to Mr. Gilfillan. He was staring at Mrs. Normanshire. ' Did you put the wreath there ? ' Her face flushed. ' My word, found out ! ' a big hearty laugh rang through the room ' a couple of conspirators ; thief catch thief.' ' Nicol, for shame ! ' chided his wife. ' Heaven will bless you for it,' said Barnacles earnestly. He made a movement to take Mrs. Norman- shire's hand, but checked himself. ' It was the baby of a poor girl. I found out by accident. She does not know where her child is buried. A nameless grave. That is how they suffer. It fills me with shame.' His cheeks began to burn. ' Every day they suffer. It is their lot. There is a blind man lives beside me. He lost his mother. He is blinder than ever. Some of them are silent always ; and some are weeping every hour of the day. They live like rats in a cellar. They drink, too, where I live, and fight ; but don't blame them.' He leaned forward, watching Mrs. Norman- shire's face. She shook her head as if to say that she 216 BARNACLES at least never blamed them. ' They have nothing else to do.' His body was trembling. ' They suffer in silence, like the poor mother of the baby. They do the hard work of the world for very little. One would always be sad living among them were it not for the eternal goodness of then 1 heart.' He stopped, all out of breath. The banker was look- ing at him with a curiously puckered face. ' Have you discovered that ? ' said the low voice at his side, which was vibrating with sympathy. ' Their goodness is an angel in the midst of their suffering. It would be hopeless, too, only God knows about it. But better days will come to us.' His voice rang out clear and strong. ' To whom ? ' asked Mrs. Normanshire. ' To all of us ; wee Kitchener and his grandfather and me and you.' ' Do I need better days ? ' she asked gravely. ' Never was a heart but had hope of to-morrow,' he answered, and smiled into her eyes. The banker, whose jollity had been eclipsed at this strange dialogue, broke in : ' I nearly forgot your own hope, Barnacles. I pro- mised to get a job for you/ he said in a more earnest tone, for his opinion of this ' one of God's innocents ' was changing rapidly. ' That is not my hope at all,' answered Barnacles. ' Eh ! I thought you were out of work.' ' So I am ; but my hope is for the old gentleman I live with. He was a seaman. Once he could stand the cold and the gales ; but now he is old ; the wind goes through him.' ' Can I help him ? ' asked Mrs. Normanshire, who BARNACLES 217 indeed spent a large part of her means in secret deeds of charity. Barnacles grew very red in the face. ' He has spent the last years of his life shivering. For five years he has been hungering for a pilot reefer jacket. I am not betraying his secret since you have offered your help.' He turned from the banker to Mrs. Normanshire, and again to the banker. ' I meant to ask you, sir, for this jacket and pay you when I get work. If I do not help him I am sinning against the Lord God, and am in danger of hell-fire. When I was without work and utterly alone, and had nothing to eat and not a friend in all the world, they took me in.' At those words Mrs. Normanshire pitied this unfor- tunate, and had a desire to give him some recompense for the hardness of his lot. * Be easy, be easy,' said the banker ; ' we '11 leave hell-fire for the Abbey Kirk on Sunday. And don't borrow. It 's a pernicious habit in young men.' ' Don't heed him, Mr. Brocklehurst,' said the banker's wife ; ' he 's just teasing you.' ' My word ' he embraced his wife and Mrs. Norman- shire in a glance ' we '11 raise the goods between us.' ' No ! I wish to do this,' said Mrs. Normanshire. Barnacles took a slip of paper from his pocket. ' There are other things.' He put on his spectacles. ' A black silk muffler ; and for wee Kitchener a knife and a pair of boots.' * Wee Kitchener,' roared the banker ; ' where did he get the name ? ' ' His father, Mr. Skelly, served in the Scottish Rifles in the Boer War.' 218 BARNACLES A sudden change came into the banker's face. Tears welled up hi the eyes of his wife. She left her seat and crossed the room to the fireplace, where she knelt, and picked up the tongs. ' Tell Mr. Skelly that my son fell leading on the men of the Scottish Rifles,' said the banker. Barnacles rose and went towards the banker. ' That was splendid ' he put his hand half across the banker's shoulder ' peace came out of his blood. God will give you peace too.' An awkward silence filled the room. Barnacles' gaze was resting on the kneeling woman. He took one step towards her. ' I am not fit to speak to the mother of a soldier who has died for his country,' he said. The tongs rattled on the grate. Mrs. Normanshire saw the blue eyes of Barnacles swimming with tears. She rose swiftly, touched the banker on the shoulder as she passed, and met his look with a smile. The next moment a soft melody from the piano slipped into the air. The gaze of Barnacles was riveted on the player. He was about to sit down on the couch, but the music held him where he stood. When the last of the melody died away she found him behind her, standing quite close as if he had known her for a very long time. She felt his presence friendly and intimate, and hesitated whether to go on playing or to leave the piano. ' Where did you learn ? ' he asked. His underlip was quivering like a child's. The question was steeped in a past both sacred and tragic. The blood ebbed away from her face. BARNACLES 219 * Have I afflicted you ? forgive me it was so beautiful.' She was ashamed of herself. Candour and simplicity were in his words. Nor was she insensible of his air of homage, and the look of worship in his eyes. * No, no,' she answered, a little breathless, ' I learned long ago in Germany and from my father.' ' I wish I had known him ; he must have been worthy of admiration.' These words of tribute suddenly rolled back the years, and left her for a fragrant moment in the presence of her father. The illusion vanished, leaving a terrible ache. Her soul went out to the man beside her who by a word had made her sacred dead live once more. She rose, and said in a low voice, ' We will talk of him again ' she faltered ' when we know each other better.' Fingering the cameo at her throat she passed to her former seat. Barnacles' face was radiant. ' Then I may come again,' he said in a loud voice, ' and hear you 1 ' It was Mrs. Gilfillan who answered : * Would you like to, Mr. Brocklehurst ? ' ' You don't know what you ask. If you lived where I live, where you see the cruelty of men ! It is a dark power. Men are crushed by it. The mother of the blind man beside me was caught in it. It would not let her sleep. It crushes all their hopes. I see it every day. There is the most terrible anguish in the back streets of Paisley. They don't know it because they are accustomed to it. It is like heaven to be in this beautiful room. I am only a poor man. I have hardly a friend. Is it true I can come back ? ' 220 BARNACLES * As often as you like,' said the banker. ' And hear you play ? ' He advanced towards Mrs. Normanshire. She turned on him wondrous eyes. Here was the recompense she had desired to make him for the hardness of his lot. ' You will always be welcome,' she said. 4 It is very gracious of you. It will give me power to live.' He made a nervous gesture with his hands. ' I am very stupid ; I do not know how to tell you what 1 feel. Everything has a place where it is glorified the rainbow in the sky and the grasses dancing on the earth. In this beautiful place, speak- ing to you all and listening to such music, I am filled with joy.' Mrs. Normanshire was receiving, if she also gave, recompense, for his words moved her strangely. ' Perhaps you help us too, Mr. Brocklehurst,' she said. Her cheeks were suffused with colour ; her soft eyes were glowing. As Barnacles gazed into their velvet depths they were like a caress. Their eyes held each other for a moment., in which their souls were merged in a mutual joy, in a loftier hope of life. The next moment Barnacles abruptly took his leave. Mrs. Gilfillan was still at the fireside. ' What a strange man,' she said ; ' I feel as if things weren't the same since he was here.' The banker had also been influenced by Barnacles. He felt the man's touch of benediction still on his shoulder ; but he would not openly betray himself. ' He seems to be a Socialist,' he said in a careless tone. BARNACLES 221 Mrs. Normanshire was pulling on her gloves. * No ; he 's not,' she answered in a quiet voice ;^ ' he has experienced everything he said. He is the poor man. He was speaking of himself.' ' My word ! I believe you 've hit the nail, Martha. 5 He took her arm. ' Are you ready ? change for the Buchs, Mulguy, and Castlehead.' As they walked up the road to Mrs. Normanshire's large wooden door in a high stone wall, she said : ' I think you forgot to tell him about his job.' The banker stopped and slapped his thigh. * My word ! ' he drew his finger across his forehead ' it was himself put me off.' They walked on again. ' He '11 need to gather his wits about him if he 's going to do anything.' * Where were your own when you forgot to tell him ? ' ' I don't know ; he makes you think there are more things in the world than getting a job.' The jolly banker sighed deeply to the summer night. The next moment he began to whistle vigorously, with his face to the stars. One could see that he was prematurely grey. . . . The stars were high over the town which lay silent in sleep, but Barnacles was awake watching the glow of Glasgow on the sky. He heard the hours strike ; and sometimes the coughing of the old seaman. Some one sighed deeply. Skelly or the old man, he could not determine. Then all these things died away, and silence filled the darkness. Barnacles' heart was full of joy. He was thinking of the tremendous pleasure the old man would soon be afforded. It had been a dream for five years, this jacket. Sadness fell on 222 BARNACLES Barnacles. To-morrow or the next day he would have his heart's desire. Then he would have nothing left to dream for. ' Without hopes and dreams we are dead,' he whispered. And he thought of a white head and deep velvet eyes like a caress. He remembered she had seen him at the baby's grave. The calm within his soul was as the calm of prayer as he thought how wonderful she was. . . . ' Nicol ! Nicol ! a nameless grave.' Mrs. Gilfillan was sobbing at that moment on the breast of her husband. The banker's arms were around her ; his eyes were shut, and his teeth clenched. II Barnacles expected the pilot reefer jacket and boots for several days, and when they did not arrive he went to Castlehead. The banker was at business, and his wife from home. * Some days have no luck at all,' he said to the maid. She giggled at him, thinking he was preparing to flirt; but was disillusioned when he asked her if she could tell him where Mrs. Normanshire lived. She indicated the large wooden door. He was shown into a room by a sharp-voiced, sharp-featured, red-haired woman. Mrs. Normanshire rose and came forward to him with outstretched hand : ' I am glad you have come.' Barnacles' face lit up. BARNACLES 223 ' It is astonishing,' he burst out, ' how things happen. A few days ago I was all alone in Paisley. The walls looked down at me, and the doors were all shut, and every one was in a hurry. Now you are glad to see me. Is it not wonderful ? Doors are opening every- where. Men can't help it. They can't keep these doors closed. We need each other.' She had meant to add that she was glad hi order to know to what address she might send the boots and jacket ; but his strange words made her ashamed to say this now. ' I hope, Mr. Brocklehurst, that no matter what doors open you won't forget Mr. Gilfillan's and mine. He has a very great respect for you.' ' I could never do that,' he said fervently ; * you have a great influence on my life. I am poor. I am not clever. You cannot understand what it means to me to be in your house. I see that to the truly great there are no ignorant persons, no poor men. You teach me every tune I see you.' She was distressed at this personal note, and anxious to change the conversation. * Mr. Gilfillan has told me that you play the violin.' ' Yes, in Cotton Street ; that is where I live. I get sad at what I see there. Then I make the violin cry. It lifts me away ; but I feel afterwards it is cowardly. Skelly stands it without any violin.' ' I think you get saddened too easily,' she said in grave tones ; ' you are too sensitive.' The blue eyes shone full of light. ' I have done nothing to deserve that you should think of me at all. It is a great honour that I should be hi your mind as one that is sensitive.' 224 BARNACLES She was puzzled. ' Surely I may think that.' ' I have only been in my father's mind hi anger ; and other people, when I ask them for work, look at me as if I were a thief and jest at me. You think of me as sensitive. It warms my being.' His words were opening new vistas to her ; but she was still puzzled. * You are sensitive too much,' she insisted. ' It doesn't matter ; no, it doesn't matter ; so long as I am in your thought that way that is everything. I did not expect it. But I am not sensitive. I just get into a rage when I see children barefooted and begging, or when the funerals of the poor go by. They have not died for anything. They have not given up music and books and paintings and fine houses. Nothing fades from their eyes when they die but hunger and cold, blows and weariness. They just pass away like a mist. There 's no one even lift- ing his hands to God for them. They die like Skelly's pony. Their coffin goes from an empty house and carries away an empty life. Some day they will perhaps die hard when they leave something fine behind. It is the only way to die hard. I get angry when I see their desolate coffins. Do you not think they are desolate because the world is facing the wrong way and is only walking to heartache ? ' He searched her face with mute expectation. She shook her head. ' I don't know ; we are forced to go.' A slight shudder ran through her body. ' Some to heartache, some to joy.' ' If some great one came and told us so that we saw BARNACLES 225 clearly, we would all turn and face another way and everything would begin to get better. But men are blind and cruel, they hurt one another because they can't see.' ' Yes, we hurt one another dreadfully,' she said, with a catch in her voice. Her face had become deadly white. ' But men do not mean it,' his voice rang out clearly ; ' they mean well ; they are doing their best ; we are facing the wrong way that is all, leaving blood in our tracks. If a voice would only cry from the heavens in the stillness of some night, and all the world were to hear and waken and turn right about ' he jumped to his feet, his body all trembling, and lifted up his hands ' we would be redeemed.' She saw that he was suffering intense agony. ' Mr. Brocklehurst,' she said soothingly, ' won't you let me hear you play your violin ? I am very fond of music. Some evening when Mr. and Mrs. Gilfillan are here.' ' No ! no ! I could not play before you. I can only play to simple people to children and old men.' ' Am I not simple ? * He turned eyes of wonder upon her. 4 You you,' he stammered, ' you are like a multitude to me, a whole city. When I look at other people I see in their face what I expect ; when I look at you ' he made a gesture expressing his impotence. His words were perilous but rare. She could not help herself. ' At me ? ' she asked in a low voice. * You are always new to me,' he answered joyfully, * as the stars are new every night ; as the music of my p 226 BARNACLES violin is new.' His face was full of rapture and she was listening with half -parted lips. ' You will never grow old. I am not worthy that you should think of me.' Slowly a tide of crimson rose over her face. She covered her burning cheeks with her hands, and spoke between them. ' You must not say these things.' He was dumbfounded, his face became like a scared child's. * Have I hurt you ? ' he stooped towards her. ' No, no sit down please sit down ; you do not understand ; we are facing the wrong way ' It cost her a great effort to say this. He obeyed her, and leaning towards her spoke as one is used in teaching a child. ' How can I be facing the wrong way ? 1 am facing Life ; I am finding Life. I had to leave my father's home, a wanderer ; but now I am not an outcast any more ; you are like a city to me.' ' Please, please do not speak that way ' ; her voice was full of distress. ' You must not ; you do not know what you say ; speak about something else. What made you leave your father's home ? ' She looked as if she was about to flee from him. He felt he had alarmed her. ' I will go away,' he said ; ' I am very stupid. I do not know how to speak to a lady. My mother is dead long ago.' Tears came into her eyes. ' Don't go ; you are not stupid. Tell me why you left home.' He sighed deeply. ' I took one of my father's sheep, BARNACLES 227 and sold it to buy a violin. He is very hard. He quarrelled with me, and I became homeless.' The tempest in her bosom was subsiding. She dared not let her eyes rest on his face. ' That was wrong of you,' she said. His face flushed. ' It is hard for me to give reasons to you,' his lips were quivering, ' but I must tell you that I worked without pay.' ' But still you were wrong if only you knew how wrong. It is not worth while quarrelling with your father for the sake of a violin or a thousand violins. If your father died you would understand. You would come to hate the violin.' This was a terrible revelation to him. ' I withstood him I had a poker in my hand,' he burst out miserably. ' Have you seen him since ? ' Barnacles did not hear the question. He was conscious that she was saving him from a great sin. He wanted to go down on his knees to her. * Why ! why did I not know you long ago ? ' he groaned. 1 Never mind that,' her voice breathed out tenderness. ' Is it right that you have never gone back to him ? Think of the thousands who have no father no father and would give the world to have one.' Barnacles looked at her with sorrowing eyes. ' Your father is dead,' he said. She bowed her head. ' God forgive me,' he cried, ' I only thought of the violin. I will go to my father. He is old and grey.' She detained him with her hand on his sleeve. 228 BARNACLES * Go only with justice when you can repay for the sheep.' * Yes, you are right, right ; it will be the proof of my conscience ; I must get work. I will play on the street, anything. He might die to-night.' She smiled up at him. ' Did you not come to Mr. Gilfillan about work ? ' He looked round about him as if he expected to see the banker. That evening when he went to Mr. Gilfillan's came back to his mind. ' 1 forgot. " The old man must have a coat," I was saying to myself as I came. The twilight was coming. It was like a mist all round me, the twilight, and the past weeks came out of the mist with all my wanderings and misfortunes. I think it was because there was a mist when the sheep and I left my father's home. I thought I would never be able to get the boots for the boy and the pilot jacket. I am sorry for the old sailor. He lives in a corner. He is afraid of offending his son. He is very sensitive, and his son loves him all the time. It is so sad sometimes. I could run away.' His words wrung her heart. He was like a lost child, and she dared not comfort him. * Are you not forgetting again about your work, and that you have to pay for the sheep ? ' He gazed at her hi wonder. ' I think Heaven sent me here for you to teach me and you are not ashamed I feel it you are not ashamed to speak to me.' ' Why should I be ashamed ? ' ' I am a thief.' He covered his face with his hands. ' If only Skelly had told me or some one else ; not you, not you.' BARNACLES 229 Her heart filled with pity. * You 're not a thief : you were simply putting a violin before your father,' she answered in fierce defence ; and rising, added, ' Go on Friday evening and see Mr. Gilfillan. He has got work for you. Do not go away till you know what it is.' ' Will I see you there again ? ' he gulped, at the same time rising. She remained silent with down- cast eyes. A struggle was going on in her mind. At length she raised her eyes and gave him a fleeting look. * If you will bring your violin I will hear you play.' Her cheeks went on fire again. She was conscious that for her own sake she had spoken. With a swift movement he seized one of her hands. ' Then you are not ashamed of me ? ' he cried. ' No ! I am not ashamed.' He did not seem to know what to do with her hand. He made a movement as if to carry it to his lips, but checked himself, put his other hand on the back of hers, and so held it a moment within his two. She made no effort to withdraw her hand. In this way they parted. When he was gone she remained rooted to the spot, staring in front of her, her eyes charged with sorrow. She was hearing again and again his words, ' I am not an outcast any more.' When Barnacles reached the wooden door in the wall and was about to open it, he turned his face towards the house and cried : ' May the hand of God be the roof over her head ! ' 230 BARNACLES III As soon as Barnacles arrived on Friday at the house of Mr. Gilfillan he asked for Mrs. Normanshire. ' She 's not here ; she 's got a headache, my son,' the banker answered. Barnacles looked as if he had been struck a blow. ' 1 think you have got work for me,' he said. * It 's not much of a job, but you '11 earn an honest living.' ' Is it true ? ' he asked. ' What ? ' ' An honest living ? ' ' True, of course ; I 'm not going to ask you to steal.' Barnacles smiled at the banker. * It is terrible to ask for this honest work. They beat you down. I feel I am being bought and sold. Is it not a new slavery ? ' ' Nonsense,' said the banker; 'a price is put on what you can do, that 's all. What 's the use of bothering more about it.' ' I don't feel that way. I see a fierceness among men over this honest work. It is red with blood. The slaves are tethered to it. You can hear their chains rattling in the cities.' ' Hut-tut ; you mean you can hear the chink of money on pay-day.' ' I see them come out of the engineering shops and the mills ' his eyes were blazing ' miles of men and girls, and no light in their faces, no laughter ; all hurrying, I hear their boots on the pavements. It is BARNACLES 231 like the noise of battle. No, no/ he was wringing his hands with nervous excitement, ' I am wrong. It is not battle. Men go to battle with a glow on their souls. The faces of that tide are as sad and hopeless as ghosts. I shall be one of them. It makes me glad ; it gives me courage.' ' Humph ! ' said the banker, ' they don't feel like that ; they 're glad of the work.' ' They go out in the fog and frost at six hi the morn- ing. I saw them when I was burying a pony. Their white faces were sadder than death.' ' Somebody has to do it.' ' No,' he said earnestly : ' look at this room : you don't need the half of all this. The world is full of luxuries. It is because of them that half the human race doesn't get enough rest. We are not simple enough. A woman next door to me died for want of rest.' The banker burst out laughing. * Are we all to lie in bed in the morning ? I think we '11 return you a member for Parliament.' ' You are laughing at me. I know I am very ignorant.' ' Pardon me,' said the banker, wiping his eyes with a coloured handkerchief. Barnacles fixed his eyes on the banker's face with an unwavering gaze. ' You ought to laugh instead at your gold chain,' he said. ' Eh ! ' ejaculated the banker, with sober face and voice. ' It is a useless thing. Some one has to rise early to make it.' ' My good fellow, I don't take that personally ; 232 BARNACLES but all the same I wouldn't air these views if I were you. You '11 get into trouble.' ' But I meant it to be personal.' For a moment they looked at one another in silence. A gleam came into Mr. Gilfillan's eyes, and he coloured. ' Mr. Brocklehurst,' he said, in an angry tone, ' it 's plain that we are friends.' Barnacles' face became radiant. * I am glad you didn't get angry. You would have been sorry for yourself when I went away. That would have grieved me.' ' Oh ! damn it all,' cried the banker, stamping his foot, ' let 's have no more of this socialism or whatever it is. You said you would be glad to be among the folk that go out in the morning. Well, you won't. I 've got a job for you in the Town Clerk's office. It 's an honest living,' there was heat in the banker's voice ; ' you 're not bought and sold. Be at the office at eight sharp.' ' Where is the office, please ? ' The banker took his pipe from his mouth, and made a curve in the air. ' Beside the jyle ; see and don't mistake the door.' The banker's laughter cleared the air. Barnacles' eyes twinkled. ' I was nearly there once,' he said, ' over the sheep.' All at once his face became grave. ' That reminds me that I came to see you about something important to-night. Will you forgive me if I ask for it ? ' Mr. Gilfillan was tremendously pleased at the request, and the frank way it was made. ' Hope you don't want a rise already,' he laughed. ' I wish you to give me a photograph of Mrs. Norman- shire.' BARNACLES 233 Mr. Gilfillan's face puckered into a whistle of amaze- ment. * What do you want that for ? ' * She told me I must restore a sheep to my father. I didn't think I was doing wrong. I have felt since she told me that I should like to do something for her.' These simple words took the banker's breath away. ' By Jiminy ! I believe she would appreciate it, Mr. Brocklehurst. It is she who is usually doing things for other people. Stay here till I come back.' He was gone a considerable time, and returned stepping softly. ' Here you are, my fellow conspirator. This is purloined. When the day comes that it is missed, I'll leave you to explain to my wife.' The banker was washing his hands with a solemn air. Barnacles was holding up the photograph of the girl near his nose. ' There is nothing here,' he said, ' but gladness and wonder ; the eyes are radiant. Surely her face is changed.' He looked over the photograph at the banker. ' Put it away and don't tell any one you have got it. I put you on your honour.' ' I have no need to tell,' answered Barnacles. He put the photograph in his pocket. ' I shall now bid you good-night.' ' Got everything you want ? ' the banker's eyes were dancing in his head. ' Yes, except that I should like you to tell me what I can do for her.' ' Give her a wee dog with a blue ribbon round its neck,' and laughing hilariously the banker took Barnacles by the arm and led him to the front door. 234 BARNACLES ' See and don't forget to turn up at eight in the morning next door to the jyle.' As soon as Barnacles passed out of the gate, he walked across the road to a street lamp, took out the photograph, and gazed at it. A man who was passing saw him press it to his lips. IV Barnacles discovered that employment leads to many side-issues, and that work is not a self-centred thing, but has an extraordinary leaven in it begetting problems, dilemmas, and confusions. There was, for instance, Skelly's attitude suddenly sprung on him, when he was advised to find more becoming lodgings. Barnacles opened blue eyes of astonishment on his friend. ' What is this for ? ' ' It '11 no' dae very weel to bide here.' ' But I do not wish to go to other houses or among other people. I am happy here. This house is as if I had found a home and a brother and a father. Kitchener is my little son.' ' Please yersel,' said Skelly gruffly. ' They '11 mak a fule o' ye in the office when they fin' oot ye 're bidin' hi Cotton Street.' ' I cannot leave you and the boy,' answered Barnacles quite stubbornly. ' Weel,' answered Skelly sternly, ' ye 're no' to be spendin' money on him. Ye 're nane that weel put on. Ye '11 hae to look braw an' smert in the office. Gather up for a new suit o' claes.' BARNACLES 235 These words started a new train of thought in Barnacles' mind. ' I am needing money, Skelly, to buy a sheep. Do you know where I can get one the same as the one I sold to you ? ' Skelly was brushing his boots. He laid the boot on a chair and stood brush in hand regarding Barnacles. ' The same,' a quizzical look came into his face, ' same eyes, same feet, same whiskers ? Man, Barnacles, ye mak me forget whiles I 'm wearit.' ' Yes ! the same size, I mean.' Skelly pondered. ' I forgot to tak her measure,' he said. ' I intend to return the animal to my father. I do not wish him to suffer. It must not be a smaller sheep.' * Are ye daft, man ? ' ' I had no right to take the sheep.' ' Did ye no' work for her ? Ye telt me sae ? ' ' You do not understand, Skelly ; I was putting a violin higher than my father. There are many violins. There is only one father. Neither you nor I saw this, Skelly.' ' Did we no' ? ' Skelly' s face was wrinkled with sarcasm. ' Maybe it wasna worth seein'. An auld fiddle 's better nor many a blaiggard that 's goin' aboot in shoe leather.' ' I cannot put it to you properly, Skelly. Mrs. Normanshire opened my eyes. I felt like a criminal she was not ashamed of me because I am a thief.' ' Wha said ye wir a thief ? ' snarled Skelly. ' No one, no one.' Barnacles was becoming excited, and began walking up and down the room. ' She showed 236 BARNACLES me great kindness and respect. No woman was ever kind to me before I wanted to kiss her hand ' Skelly's face betrayed signs of many emotions. ' See here, Barnacles,' he said, his eyes darkening, ' you 're only a wean ; don't you go kissin' the hand o' a mairrit wumman.' ' She 's not married, but it does not matter. My heart was full of gratitude I wanted to kiss her feet, her shoes I do not deserve her trust I felt as if the people in the street were looking at me to-day. I wonder what they would have said if they had known how gracious she has been to me.' He ceased tramping about and put his hands on his face. ' 1 am ugly, Skelly I am poor I have no friend but you but she was not ashamed she is so gentle and longsuffering her smile is full of patience, her eyes are deep with sorrow she used to be nothing but radiance I know.' * See here, my son,' said Skelly, ' what did ye ca' her?' ' Mrs. Normanshire.' ' An' she 's no' mairrit ? ' 'No.' Skelly gave a prolonged whistle. * Look out, Barnacles ; a weeda 's the deevil an' a'. Is she young ? ' ' I do not know her age ; she is kind and very wise. She showed me how wrongly I treated my father. If you please, Skelly, can you get me the proper sort of sheep ? I will have no peace till I restore it.' * A' richt,' answered Skelly. He picked up the boot. ' I like when thae weedas begin' advisin' young fellas aboot their conduck. I '11 get the sheep ; we '11 ca' it the weeda's sheep, Barnacles.' BARNACLES 287 ' I beg your pardon, Skelly.' ' I was sayin',' Skelly held the brush in mid-air, ' that thon sheep 's gaun to lead ye a bonnie dance ' he gave Barnacles a most prodigious wink. ' Dae as she tells ye. Ye did wrang to your faither, I 'm dootin' ; but tak my advice an' dinna clype to him aboot her ; he '11 maybe win hi ahead o' ye ; it 's no' the first time such a thing has happened.' ' Don't, Skelly ; it hurts me.' ' Holy sailor ! ' cried Skelly, in amazement, ' are ye fond o' her, man ? ' ' Who could help being fond of her ? ' A beautiful smile broke over his face : .it shone on wet eyelashes like the sun glinting on raindrops. ' If you only saw her and listened to her, you would worship her, Skelly.' ' Then by damn ! ' and Skelly brought down the back of the brush on his boot, ' I see fine you an' her 'ill mak a match o't. Ye 're a pair.' Barnacles' eyes contracted as if a blow from Skelly's hand were imminent. His face was defenceless as a child's and as feeble. * You frighten me,' he whispered. His face had suddenly become parched. It looked as if the blow had fallen. There was also a side-issue hi the flamboyant person of the widow Bcezle. An umbrella and black cotton gloves were laid on the polished counter of the outer office of the Town Clerk of Paisley, and two bright eyes looked around. The place being empty, she knocked 238 BARNACLES sharply with the umbrella. A young man appeared, leaned his elbows on the counter, and knitted his hands. There was an air of sleepiness about him. He conde- scended on a dry official cough. ' This place might have been robbed,' the lady opened fire. ' What can I do for you ? ' came the brusque counter. The lady's lip curled and her nostrils curled. ' Remove the cats ; I smell them.' ' And the rats ; see the joke ! ' She bridled. ' Get traps ; cats are filthy ; they carry disease.' She wiped the immaculate counter with a glove. ' This place is frowsy.' * It is not the hour of spring-cleaning. Do you wish to hi vest money in the Paisley Corporation ? ' this was a common traffic ' if not, state your business.' An arm shot out, and a finger levelled. ' Young man, ask your Maker to give you judgment. Do I look like a person with money ? I want a young man by the name of Barnacles.' ' This is not a lost relatives office ; I don't know any such person.' ' That is your misfortune.' The face, fierce and sharp as an arrow, seemed to the clerk to be bearing down upon him. He took a step back from the counter. ' Stop, young man ; I have worn red hair for fifty years, and am not going to be put off by a pancake. The voipe shrilled, ' Are you not a public servant ? I am the Public. I am seeking this young man Barnacles. When I got to know him, I said, " Dear God, I thank you for this fellowship." He is gentle, wise, and patient as BARNACLES 239 the dead in their graves. He is an example to the young men of Paisley.' ' If you have no other business, I must go away. The court is sitting. I am needed in the jail.' ' So you are ; so you are. Go, young man ; take the cats with you there, and send me your superior. Pray to your Maker for wisdom.' The clerk dived through a doorway. 4 There 's a woman in the front office wants to see you,' he said to his chief ; ' she 's out of a cage or a pantomime.' The chief appeared whistling softly. He had a genial grey eye. When it saw Mrs. Beezle he came forward courteously, and leaning over the counter thrust a solicitous face towards her. * Your servant, madame ; your pleasure.' ' My first pleasure is to ask you to chastise that young fool who was here a moment ago. What are young men coming to nowadays ? He needs to shave.' ' I often ask myself that question too. He shall be chastised, madame, with rigour.' Mrs. Beezle was mollified. ' I find it more agreeable to converse with people of some age,' and she beamed. ' You flatter me, madame.' ' I don't. Have you a young man of the name of Barnacles here ? ' She thrust her face in turn at the other's. ' No temptation ; no temptation.' ' Yes,' politely. ' No,' she snapped. ' No ! certainly not ; no temptation I assure you.' ' He is an excellent young man ; he is just like a baby to nurse on your knee ; no temptation.' 240 BARNACLES ' None, madame, none.' * Just what I told my mistress a baby to nurse. I thank God for him. * * And did your mistress ah ! pardon me take your advice ? ' Mrs. Beezle's face was convulsed. Her arm shot out. ' My mistress, sir, is married.' ' A thousand pardons. In this matter of knees, I took it that your mistress is single, young and beautiful,' the chief said, in urbane tones. ' You waste my time. She is young and beautiful. Produce the young man Barnacles.' The chief coughed. ' I have all the mind in the world to oblige you. It is possible the man you want may be here. I do not imagine you would make a mistake ; but he is not known by that name.' ' The young man,' she corrected. ' They are all young except me,' his eyes looked roguish. . She gave him a sudden jab on the shoulder. ' You are not bald or blind. You are fresh-looking. You have a firm step.' ' Thank you, madame,' he made a deep bow, ' your kind words are elixir to me. Will you be so good as to describe the young man Barnacles also. We shall perhaps arrive at him in this way.' Mrs. Beezle threw up her hands. * He is as tall as a tree, straight, blue-eyed ; he always looks at you as if he was expecting you to bless him.' ' Has he got er blotches on his face ? ' ' I never saw them.' BARNACLES 241 ' Nevertheless, I think I know who you mean. I will send him to you. May I ask, if you are his friend, to hint that he pay just a little more attention to his work ? He appears to indulge in dreams and reverie.' ' Ach ! ' she snorted, ' machines can attend to work. Let him dream. It will be good for this place. Every- thing is frowsy and smells of cats.' The chief moved away. ' Speaking by the nose, I believe you are correct ; but cats must live as well as those that dream.' ' And rats,' she echoed the clerk. The chief, disappearing, said over his shoulder, ' They die out of time.' As soon as Barnacles' tall form came in sight, she threw up her two hands. ' my dear, my dear, what a nasty place you pass your time in ! ' He stooped over her and took her two hands in his. ' You are from Mrs. Normanshire. Is she well and happy ? ' ' Dear God,' Mrs. Beezle withdrew her hands from the warm clasp, and raised them as a suppliant, ' I thank thee I have found him. I have a message for you.' ' This is good fortune,' he said, his face all radiant, ' a message from her. It is great news, Mrs. Beezle.' ' It is no news. It is just about a jacket.' ' It doesn't matter what it is about. It is the message. Yesterday my life lay like a straight line between here and Cotton Street. Nothing called me off that Line. I was just like Skelly's pony when I left my work. I walked straight on without going to Q 242 BARNACLES right or left. There was no one I could nod to hi the street. We were not meant to be like that like flies walking across a string.' He was looking at her as seriously as a schoolmaster looks at a pupil. ' Now it is different. I have a sheep to get, and this is another message. Life is a triangle now here, Cotton Street, Castlehead. And she asked me to bring my violin. Dear Mrs. Beezle, blossoms are coming out hi my life. I owe it all to her.' ' I thank thee, dear God, for the wise things he teaches me. Do help me to make him blossom and put on foliage.' She opened her eyes. ' You did not leave the measurements of the jacket. My mistress wants them. We want the jacket to be a perfect fit.' ' What measurements ? ' * Measurements ; measurements ; measurements,' as she spoke she leaned forward and made play of measuring Barnacles' arms and round his shoulders. ' Were you never at a tailor ? You are to send them.' Barnacles pondered. ' That is a pity ; I didn't want the old man to know. Surprise is one of God's gifts. I see it sometimes in wee Kitchener's eyes.' ' Well, well, measure the jacket when he is sleeping.' ' Oh yes, I see ; so I will ; so I will. Please tell Mrs. Normanshire I am arranging about the sheep. I have decided not to pay my father the money. I will bring a sheep to him of the same size as the one I took away.' ' Did you take a sheep ? ' ' It was a lapse, dear Mrs. Beezle.' ' What made you do it ? ' she asked severely. ' I wanted a violin ; he refused me wages.' BARNACLES 243 ' Is he a nigger ? ' ' He is not generous.' ' Dear God, I thank you the lad is honest.' She opened her eyes, began pulling on the black gloves, and said with acerbity, ' Send him a goat. How are you getting on here ? ' ' Excellently.' ' What do you do ? ' Barnacles took off his spectacles, and began scratch- ing his head with them. ' It is work about water, roads, gas, public health, licensing.' ' Licensing what ? ' ' Things we are not at liberty to have public -houses, brokers' shops, drivers of motor-cars, hackney carriages, stores for petroleum, explosives, common lodging- houses, ice-cream shops, dairies ' ' Dogs ! ' she ejaculated. ' Dogs ; 1 am not sure.' ' All the trash pawnbrokers and Italians. What was the young rascal who was here a little ago going to do in the jail ? ' ' Somebody would be drunk, perhaps,' answered Barnacles. ' I see ! I see ! they give licences here for selling whisky, and then when fools drink it they take fines off them. It would make a monkey laugh.' She pointed her umbrella at him. ' You are in droll com- pany. Take care of yourself. Don't dream ; and send the measurements. Good-bye.' As a result of this visit, Barnacles became a subject of jest in the office, where he was already the scapegoat. 244 BARNACLES The clerk who had first encountered Mrs. Beezle was wounded in his dignity. He had once been mis- taken for the Town Clerk by an old gentleman of consequence in the county, who shook him warmly by the hand and conversed familiarly with him, until ft chance remark revealed the mistake. The clerk never forgot the occurrence. The memory of having tasted the sweets of authority for a dizzy moment remained with him a perpetual wine of the spirit. He sneered at his equals, and wore better clothes now than formerly. He carried an air of importance and fussiness even into the street, where he never sauntered. ' To think that that red-headed parrot came to invest money,' he said to Barnacles. ' It was a foolish thought,' answered Barnacles ; * neither she nor I possess any.' The clerk's eyes gleamed. ' Ask for it,' he snapped. ' From whom, please ? ' ' The boss ; you '11 never get anything here without asking for it. We 're not cabbages.' ' What do you mean ? ' ' I mean,' answered the clerk irritably, * that all the pay we get would hardly buy a bag of cabbages.' ' Do you think I would get an advance ? ' ' Am I not telling you, you simpleton : public officials are as stingy as house-factors or money-lenders. They '11 keep your nose to the ledger all your life for the same pay.' ' I '11 be very glad to do so then,' answered Barnacles. ' I wish money to buy a sheep.' The clerk held up a small, white, fat hand, on one of whose fingers was a cheap ring. BARNACLES 245 ' I don't want to know about your domestic affairs.' Barnacles blinked at him. ' You are only interested in pay and papers here.' The clerk, unable to make any rejoinder, put on a grimace, and into his little soul hatred entered. But Barnacles meeting his chief said : ' Will you give me more pay, please ? ' The chief stopped as if he were shot. ' Eh ! what 's that ? ' ' I should like to get more money.' A pair of quizzical eyes roved over Barnacles' face. ' Going in for frivolity ? ' ' No ! I wish to purchase a sheep.' The chief roared with laughter. ' There 's worse than a leg of mutton.' Nevertheless he had cause to remember that sheep. When Barnacles' pay was handed to him, he counted it carefully. ' Is this all ? ' he asked the cashier. ' That 's right, isn't it ? ' was the testy answer. ' I expected more.' ' You did ; how much now ? ' ' I am not familiar an increase.' ' Ay, and who told you ? ' ' I spoke to the Town Clerk.' ' And what did he say ? ' A smile was breaking on the cashier's face. ' He said there 's worse than a leg of mutton.' The cashier rocked in his chair with laughter. ' So there is so there is,' he spluttered. ' Why are you laughing ? ' The cashier, sobered, pondered the lantern-jawed face before him. 246 BARNACLES * Who put it into your head to ask a rise ? ' ' Mr. Moffat.' ' Oh ! indeed.' The mirth suddenly went out of the eyes of the cashier, who put his hand on Barnacles' shoulder. ' You don't get a rise here under a year.' ' Then why did Mr. Moffat advise me ? ' asked Bar- nacles hi a grave voice. His face flushed deeply. ' He deserves to be damn well kicked,' grunted the cashier. Barnacles looked puzzled. A frown gathered over the blue eyes. ' Am I not worthy of respect here ? ' he asked. ' You are ; you 're a better man than the wasp who advised you to ask for a rise. Look here, Mr. Brockle- hurst, you are too simple. Don't believe everything you are told.' ' Thank you : I shall try and profit by your advice. I have always trusted men.' And Barnacles went to Mr. Moffat, and amazed him by asking him to fight. ' Do you want to be put in jail ? ' said the clerk, his face becoming pale. ' I am indifferent,' answered Barnacles. ' You are a coward. It was not a jest ; it was an outrage on humanity. ' VI Barnacles borrowed a measuring-tape from the undertaker who lived in the close, and advanced to the old seaman, who was bent over the fire dreaming of his past on the deck of labouring ships. Barnacles, without BARNACLES 247 touching any part of his clothing, measured the old man as adroitly as he was able. Then he composed the following when the dishes were washed and Skelly was snoring : ' DEAR MBS. NORMANSHIRE, The tailor will require to make allowance for the fact that I measured the venerable sailor when he was crouching over the coals. Also he is naturally bent with age. From the nape of his neck to where he sat on the stool is twenty-eight inches ; from shoulder to shoulder fourteen inches. I notice that his neck is very thin and bloodless. A warm woollen muffler would be better than a silk one. I cannot say how much is the width of the sleeve, or how much he is round the chest ; but if the tailor knows that he is past seventy, and much shrunken, I presume he will be able to guess the number of inches required. ' May I suggest that as the old man is weak and near- sighted, large brass buttons should be sewn on. Also a deep pocket to hold a telescope, for I must tell you that sometimes he imagines he is a ship's captain ; and with a telescope in the jacket he will esteem him- self an admiral of the stormiest seas. He is only a poor nestling of a man, but is full of fine dreams. For instance, he thinks, because he has an old age pension, that he can buy the world. Nothing will put it out of his head but that he has bought the jacket. He will go mad with joy over it. Heaven gave uniforms to other men when he was young, and I do not think he murmured. Now that he is getting one himself, he will take rank at last. It will make him live greatly. It is very touching. He is such a child, and so defence- less and near to heaven. 248 BARNACLES ' It will be a great matter if your gifts to him could arrive in the evening, when we shall all be present to behold his joy. ' I am very grateful to him because I am permitted to write to you. Your friendship will never perish in my soul. * P.S. You will rejoice to know I am taking means of purchasing the sheep. I have not ceased to bless you since you spoke to me of this. Perhaps my father and I shall become friends again. The thought of it keeps me from sleeping.' The following day Barnacles approached the cashier and said, ' Will you advise me what sort of gift to send a lady ? ' ' Is she a particular friend ? ' ' Yes,' answered Barnacles, ' the greatest friend I have in the world.' ' Send her your love,' said the cashier promptly. ' I dare not ' Barnacles blushed. The cashier meditated. * Try a bottle of scent,' he hazarded ; 'girls like that.' During his lunch hour Barnacles bought the scent. As he was walking down the High Street, a florist's window caught his eye. He went into the shop. ' Please give me some flowers,' he asked rather timidly. Barnacles received a bunch of roses. These and the bottle of scent he put in a box and laid the letter on the top. The same evening he said to Skelly, ' Do you know where I could purchase a small dog suitable for a lady ? ' BARNACLES 249 Skelly was sitting on his father's stool in his shirt sleeves and stocking soles, half asleep with his back against the wall. He lifted an unwashed face. ' Sheep an' dugs. Is 't a bloomin' meanagerie ye 're gaun in for, or whit ? ' ' Mr. Gilfillan told me I might give her a dog.' Barnacles produced a blue ribbon from his pocket, ' I bought this to-day for its neck.' He went to the clock on the brace, opened its door, and put the blue ribbon inside beneath the pendulum. ' Ye better get a parrot the morn,' said Skelly. ' Skelly, my heart is set on this dog.' * A' richt, a' richt.' Skelly flung up his arms and yawned. ' I '11 no argue. I 'm too wearit. Man ! Barnacles, it 's a killin' job, this. I 'm frichted whiles when I think o' wee Kitchener if onything cam ower me. My he'rt fills when I luk at him playin' on the floor.' * Don't concern yourself, Skelly,' answered Barnacles ; ' I '11 be a father to him as long as I live.' Skelly rose and stretched himself. ' God only kens ; I wish I had my powny back. Thon furnace fires are burnin' me oot.' He shook himself. * I 'm for bed. I could sleep till the Day o' Judgment.' Skelly tumbled in as he stood, hi his clothes. Presently he was asleep. The door opened inch by inch, and a white, worn face looked in. The nose was red with the cold ; the old man's teeth were chattering. He put his head round the door, and peered at the bed. Then he entered quietly, closed the door as if he was a burglar, and tip-toed across the floor, with long intervals between each step, like an acrobat balancing on a tight rope. 250 BARNACLES ' Is he ower ? ' he whispered in a wheezy voice to Barnacles. ' Yes,' answered Barnacles sadly. The old man directed himself towards the stool on which his son had been sitting, picked it up and carried it to the front of the fire. He sat down, took off his boots, and spread his shaking hands to the blaze. ' What day is this, Barnacles ? ' he whispered. ' Tuesday.' He knew it was Tuesday, but he trembled lest he had made a mistake, and it was only Monday. ' Twa days yet till Friday,' he said, returning once more to the fire. He lived for Friday. On that day he walked with gallant bearing to the post-office to claim his pension. It took him a whole afternoon to accomplish this, and he lingered over the delicious task in the most ingenious ways. Only at the last moment when his mind had exhausted the pleasure would he dive into the post- office, where he was as well known to the officials as a stamp. ' The morn's nicht an' it '11 just be ae day,' he was saying to the glowing coals, when a hand was laid on bis shoulder. He looked up. Barnacles was on his knees beside him, his face near his own. The spirits of the old man had risen wonderfully hi the heat of the fire. ' What tricks are ye up to, my customer ? ' he chirped. Barnacles nodded to the bed. ' We have got to help Skelly,' he said. A sudden change came over the old man's face, which grew full of alarm. His body began to tremble. BARNACLES 251 ' Whit 's wrang wi' SkeUy ? ' ' Nothing,' answered Barnacles, in a low, soothing voice, ' but he doesn't care for the work he is at.' 4 Man ! man ! what a fricht ye gied me. Ye sent a caul' grue through me.' ' You and me will have to save up do you know what for ? ' ' It 's no' for a pilot reefer jaicket, is it ? ' The light of hope suffused the old man's face. Barnacles, hard put to it to conceal his knowledge of the jacket, said : ' We '11 get your jacket by and by ; just now it 's something else.' 4 Ay ! ay ! whit is it ? ' ' A pony for Skelly.' The old man began to tremble again. ' Ay, ay ! I micht hae jaloosed ; puir Skelly 'ill be wantin' the powny the wy I 'm wantin' the jaicket.' ' Will you give something of your pension every week, and I '11 give part of my wages ? We '11 not tell Skelly till we give him the pony.' The old man's face was flushed on the cheek bones, and his eyes were very bright. Hitherto they had been talking in whispers. He forgot himself and cried out : ' I wish a' the Fridays were rowed into ane, an' we could get the powny the morn ' Skelly turned uneasily and muttered in his sleep. The old man's bright eyes were fastened with rapture on Barnacles' face. ' Will I get gein' it to him ? ' he whispered. ' No one else but you,' answered Barnacles, and rose to his feet. The old man was again muttering to the fire, joyously 252 BARNACLES making feeble calculations of days and weeks and moneys. Barnacles was watching him and thinking when he gets his jacket his life will not be robbed of dreams. He will yet have the pony. As for Mr. Gilfillan, he had heard from his friend, the Town Clerk, of Barnacles' application for an increase of salary in order to buy a sheep. Laughing heartily he passed the news to Mrs. Normanshire. She also laughed gaily. But when she left the banker's house the gaiety left her face. And when she reached her own home she saw there a parcel addressed to her. She opened it and read the letter. For a long time, with the letter in her hand, she gazed at the scent bottle and the roses. Her garden was full of flowers. The house was full of flowers. But never before on any flowers of hers had tears fallen from Mrs. Norman- shire's eyes. VIII On Saturdays Skelly ' knocked off ' at one o'clock an hour after the other men had gone. When he had eaten, washed, and dressed he left his home, and within an hour returned with a black Pomeranian dog. He left it in charge of wee Kitchener, and again left home. Towards the tea hour he locked a black-faced sheep in the draughty home that was once the pony's. And these things he told to Barnacles over their boiled egg and toast. When the stars came out and began to cross the heavens, Barnacles was mounting the steep hill to BARNACLES 253 Castlehead with a little black dog in his oxter, round whose neck was a blue ribbon. The door was opened by a maid who, when she saw Barnacles, began to laugh ; and in the midst, without being asked said, ' Mrs. Normanshire is not at home. Professor Yuille has taken her out for the evening.' Barnacles' face fell. For two minutes he said nothing. Then he thrust the little dog into the hands of the maid. ' Please give this to your mistress,' he said, and walked away with rapid strides. The maid, who was looking after him, had a silent convulsion of laughter. ' He was that big an' the dog that wee I couldna keep from laughin',' she said to Mrs. Beezle, as she put down the dog on the kitchen floor. It began to bark so loudly that Mrs. Beezle's severe reprimand was lost on the foolish maid. ' Professor Yuille has taken her out for the evening.' These words echoed and re-echoed in Barnacles' brain, and he could not understand his heartache. He went on and on walking blindly anywhere. It was natural that professors should take her out. The wonder is that the princes of the realm did not come to see her. He had been presumptuous. He thought with agony of his poor little dog such a quivering bundle to give to her, whining in his arms all the time. ' I must go away ; I must go away,' he cried aloud to the stars above the Renfrew road, ' or I shall die.' He saw the great velvet eyes in the dark, the noble calm of her expression ; and the head superbly wreathed in white. He could hardly believe that this being had been kind to him, or had even looked at him at 254 BARNACLES all. When he had told her of his wanderings in Paisley, her eyes had looked at him through tears. He buried his face in his hands. Everything from the ghostly corn to the far-off stars seemed to be listening to the wild beating of his heart. ' I will go away ; I am not fit to speak to her ; I have no right to bring tears to her eyes. flower of heaven, you wept for me ! . . .' His heart was bursting in his breast. He sat down at the roadside and began to sob. . . . The hour was late when he reached Cotton Street. Wee Kitchener and his grandfather were asleep. The floor was wet. Every Saturday night Skelly washed it, and dusted the china dogs and the hen which lined the shelf above the fireplace like a row of penguins. As soon as Barnacles sat down, Skelly placed on the table a jug with milk, part of a loaf, and some butter. Barnacles stared in front of him, and did not eat or speak. ' Tak your supper, Barnacles.' ' No food, thanks, Skelly.' Skelly looked at him suspiciously. ' Ye 're hungry ; I see 't by your face ; I ken thon caul' sweet oozin' oot o' the hunger.' Those words of sympathy caused the pent-up anguish of the solitary hours beneath the stars to burst from him in a cry. ' Skelly ! Skelly ! there is a music in her face marches over my soul she is a noble woman. If my mother came out of the grave this night she could not be more precious.' ' Is she that bonnie ? ' asked Skelly in a wondrously soft voice. BARNACLES 255 ' I feel exalted when I look at her ; she is like one that comes from far away in the years where there is no suffering or cold.' ' Ye 're tellin' that to the wrang ane,' said Skelly, just a little dryly ; ' tak my advice an' tell her.' ' I cannot ; I cannot ; I am not worthy ' ' Weel ! weel ! send her a bit note. Ye 're handy wi' the pen. It 's a peety ye canna put some o' your fiddle music in the letter. I '11 go bound ye it wad saften her he'rt.' ' It 's not proper ; no, no, I won't do it.' ' Hoo is it no' proper ? Are ye fond o' the wumman ? ' She is beautiful as the memory of my mother,' said Barnacles, with tears in his eyes. ' I wish to God she was here the noo an' h'ard ye say that ; there would be nae need o' ony letter.' * Skelly ! Skelly ! can I write to the stars and ask them to give me part of their glory and wonder ? ' * Stars be flummoxed ! I 'm no' sayin' but that ye 'd speed better if ye askit her when she was on the crook o' your airm ; but it appears that 's oot o' the question ; so tak the pen. There 's a wheen o' folk get a wife wi' advertisements in the newspapers.' ' Don't, please, don't, Skelly ; I can't endure you to talk like that.' The suffering in his face and voice filled Skelly's heart with pity. ' Man, Barnacles, wull ye no' just gang an' tell her a' ye telt me the nicht, an' if she 's got the he'rt an' flesh o' other weemin' ye '11 hae her marchin' ower your soul every day o' the year.' The hunger of hope was in Barnacles' face. ' If I could dare,' he whispered ; ' it 's terrible ; it 's 256 BARNACLES terrible ! She '11 perhaps laugh at me ; I 'm ugly ; I 've only one eye - ' ' Ay, an' ae tongue. If she '11 laugh at ye, then Eve wasna her granny. Hach ! ' Skelly pulled off his jacket, ' I 'm gaun to bed. If it was me, I 'd mend it or end it before I 'd fash myseP like you. You an' your Those tonic words had the effect they were intended to produce. A wavering look came over Barnacles' face. ' I think perhaps you are right, Skelly she goes out with would she come out with me for the evening - ' ' I was never at college like you,' answered Skelly, yawning, ' ye '11 ken best yourseP ; there was never a lassie born that wadna gang oot for the evenin' that 's the wy I luk at it.' Skelly was rapidly undressing as he talked. ' Come to your bed ; it 's Sunday morn ; it '11 dae nae good gantin' at the grate.' Barnacles rose, took off his jacket, and stood with it in his hand, looking at the back of the head on the pillow. He opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking, and sat down. A noise of wrangling and oaths began in the court- yard below. This was a common occurrence on Saturday nights. Feet were shuffling round the yard. There was a thud of blows ; a scream of rage ; oaths ; the sound of a body falling ; a groan, followed by silence. It was broken by a snore from Skelly. This snore aroused Barnacles. He put out his hand and turned down the wick of the lamp. A golden moon nearly full hung hi the sky. A mighty tideless silence lay upon Paisley, under which the town was with- drawn from the fever of the day ; the moon was laving BARNACLES 257 in its coolness and purity the stains of sin, and hushing into oblivion the thud of sickening blows. Barnacles sank on his knees at the window, his soul quietened in the tideless ocean. Over the roofs, beyond the haze of gold in the moonlit skies, Love sat on a white throne beside God. ' Richer than the stars and above them,' he said, looking up steadfastly, ' O peerless eyes ! ' He suddenly shivered. ' Thank God,' he said, in a fervid voice, ' I 'm not blind.' He thought of the man who lived beside him, with the tin plate on his breast, and realised the full calamity of blindness. This man had never seen his mother. He would never see the eyes of love. The tap-tapping of his stick was like blood dripping from a heart veiled in constant night. ' I might never have seen her. I shall always see her now. Nothing can rob me of that ' : at the thought his soul was filled with peace. ' Wha 's that speakin' ? ' came a voice from the bed, and Skelly moved in the blankets. ' It 's me,' answered Barnacles, rising from his knees, ' I 'm coming to bed.' IX All through the blessed rest of Sunday Skelly cogi- tated, and came to the determination that the woman in Castlehead must be written to. He went out to one of those pitiable little shops with a bell over the door, that are forced to keep open on Sundays, and bought paper, pen, and ink. For the remainder of the Sunday he further cogitated on a scribe. R 258 BARNACLES ' I 'm flummoxed ; I 'm flummoxed ; I 'm flum- moxed.' Again and again he said this, for he could not think of the pen of a ready writer. His mind was full of the problem all the next day, and as he went home to dinner he brooded on the art of penmanship, and came to the wild resolve of seeking help from wee Kitchener's teacher. Such a delicate task, Skelly thought, could only be entrusted to a lady. And the kindly fates were even then preparing the way for a lady, in the person of Mrs. Normanshire. She was ill at ease. Gifts, including an expensive dog, were pouring in upon her. She realised the pain he would suffer when she would tell him that they must cease ; and tell him without delay, for she feared that his shallow purse would be drained. At first she thought of sending Mrs. Beezle ; but that would only increase his pain. She must go herself. Her cheeks flamed as she set off to the office of the Town Clerk, which she entered in a breathless state. She was strangely re- lieved to find that Barnacles was not there. ' Hasn't been here all day ' : could not understand why. She was alarmed. Where did he live ? In Cotton Street. Skelly was at dinner with his father when a knock came to the door ; and when the person who had knocked entered on his invitation, Skelly was so flum- moxed indeed, that he rose, sat down again, and dropped the knife with which he was eating. A feeble way surely, Skelly, to meet one of those ' swells ' of Castlehead whom you despise. She was advancing towards him with outstretched hand, and with such a smile, and from such eyes as Skelly had never seen. Could such a smile of comrade- ship come out of Castlehead ? It reached the depths BARNACLES 259 of Skelly's soul. He came to himself, and set to rubbing his hand on the hip of his trousers. ' Ye canna tak my haun', mem ; it 's a' dirty.' Nevertheless this angelic creature, who remembered in that moment that she had seen Skelly bury a baby, took his hand, and said : ' It 's a kindly hand.' And you behold Skelly completely flummoxed, and wishing his hand were off, and stammering so much so that this radiant being, as if she spoke of kindly hands every day of her life, and thought nothing of it, asked : ' Is Mr. Brocklehurst at home ? ' and Skelly, mightily relieved to have attention diverted from his hand, answered : ' No, mem ; he 's gaun awa wi' a sheep to his faither up the Braes.' ' Ought he not to be at the office ? ' Skelly smiled, and took the first look at those deep soft eyes. Encountering in them his own smile of understanding, he said : ' Barnacles 'ill mind o' that aifter. Did ye want to see him partic'ler ; maybe I could tell him.' Skelly was finding it easier to speak now. Her smile, and something indefinable in her that was gracious, con- siderate, womanly, had won his heart. A bold idea even was taking form in his mind as she answered him. ' Thank you very much ; it is something you cannot tell him ; I will send a message in the morning.' The bold idea was formed. ' Faither, will ye step doon to the close ? I 'm wantin' to ax this leddy aboot something.' For the first time in his life the old man was dis- missed. He skipped about, all doubled up, looking 260 BARNACLES for his seaman's cap, and crying, ' I was just goin' oot before she came in ; I '11 no' be in your way, Skelly ; I was goin' for a daunner aifter my dinner.' When he was gone, Skelly, with many signs of nervousness, said : ' Ye '11 excuse me, mem, for axin' ye to wait a meenut ; I hae to clype it to some ane. Barnacles is fair heid ower heels in love wi' a lassie up Castleheid wy,' Mrs. Normanshire's face went on fire, but her eyes remained steadfast on Skelly's face, ' it 's just teirin' the he'rt oot o' him ; an' he '11 no' tell her, an' he '11 no' write to her. Sae I made up my mind to let her ken mysel, only 1 'm flummoxed if I can write ae scrape. I 'm no' heedin' aboot axin' a man to dae 't.' Mrs. Normanshire drew a deep sigh of relief ; and Skelly never heard such a silvery laugh of youth, joyous and full of a glad content, as came from her. ' Do you wish me to write the letter ? ' ' If I micht be so bold, mem ; he '11 fa' into a decline, as shair's death.' ' Very well.' She sat down on the chair vacated by the old man, and took off her gloves. Skelly soon cleared a space for her, and put before her a brand-new pen, ink, and paper. ' There ye are,' he said, and stealing a side-glance at her glowing face, ' ye '11 ken brawly what to say.' She looked up. ' What makes you think that ? ' And before Skelly knew what he was saying ' Ye 're that bonnie.' There was a long silence. Skelly could have bitten out his tongue. He was afraid to look at her he who BARNACLES 261 so boldly advised Barnacles to take his love in his arms. He was waiting for a thunderbolt to fall, and burst out in wretched contrition : ' I didna mean that, mem.' No thunderbolt fell. Instead this divine creature put her chin on her hand and a little sigh escaped her. ' It is too bad ; after saying such a nice thing, to say now you didn't mean it.' Skelly was more and more flummoxed. ' Ay ! I mean it,' he cried in a tone which even the dullest could not mistake ; ' but my heid 's a' upside doon ; ye 're as bonnie as bonnie ; but I got frichted when it cam oot o' me.' ' I think,' answered the lady, dabbing the pen point into the paper, ' it will be dangerous for Mr. Brockle- hurst if you become his teacher.' ' Ach, puir sowl, he doesna need ony teacher. His he'rt 's as big as the sea, but he 's as shy as a squirrel. Whiles I dinna ken whether to laugh or to greet ower him. God kens what '11 become o' him. He 's just a wannert wean.' ' Is he happy here ? ' asked the lady. ' Happy ? ay. He 'd be happy onywhere. I askit him to leave here when he got a job in the Town Clerk's office. It 's no' the thing, ye ken, bidin' in Cotton Street an' him workin' as a clerk.' ' And what did he say ? ' ' He got fair bleezin' mad, an' askit what wad become o' my wee boy an' my auld faither gin he went awa. He plays the fiddle to them an' reads stories oot o' a book.' ' What is the name of the book ? ' Skelly dared to look with a full eye of suspicion at 262 BARNACLES the lady. She appeared to be taking more interest in Barnacles than in the letter. The notepaper was alarmingly virgin. ' If ye '11 excuse me saying it, mem, will ye write the bit note noo ? ' he said anxiously ; ' I dinna mind the name o' the book.' She sat straight up and said crisply : * I '11 write no love-letter ; you must tell me yourself what to say.' ' WeU, I 'm fl ' SkeUy checked himself, picked up the knife he had dropped, and with it began to scratch his head. ' Hoo is it ye begin ? ' he asked beseechingly. * What is the lady's name ? ' The pen was dipped in the ink. * It 's ane o' thae droll names ; I 'm flummoxed if I can mind. Can ye no' dae withoot ony name ? ' ' Yes ; you might begin with " dear madame," or " dear sweetheart," or " my dearest," or " darling." * Put doon darlinY said Skelly, ' I like that the best.' Again the pen was dipped and there was written ' Darling.' ' Well,' urged the lady. Skelly was busy scratching his head. ' I enclose these few lines to let ye know I am no scholar, and this is not me that writes but a lady that is a friend of Barnacles.' ' Do you think I should put that in ? ' Skelly, already beginning to enjoy a mild triumph, asked vaingloriously : ' Whit for no' ? ' ' It might make the other lady jealous.' BARNACLES 263 ' Holy sailor, ye 're richt ! we '11 hae to be canny. Just scratch that oot.' As the pen was about to perform this office, Skelly put out his hand and gripped the point of it. ' Let it bide,' he said warily ; ' it '11 maybe dae her good to leave her jealous.' ' Very well,' said a grave voice, ' you know best ; go on ; what next ? ' Scratch ! scratch ! not the pen, but the knife on Skelly 's hair. ' I 'm no scholar.' ' You have already said that.' ' Did I ? ' answered Skelly ; ' I don't mind wan haet o' what Barnacles said aboot her. I 'm as empty inside as a church on Monday.' Scratch ! scratch ! ' Put this doon : " Barnacles is as shy as a pee wee o' her nest o' eggs when ye 're aboot " ; that ought to hae some effec'.' ' Anything more ? ' asked the lady. 'This is to let ye ken,' went on Skelly, 'that Barnacles is fair daft aboot ye, an' if ye hae ony gumption ye '11 tak him. He 's that saft that it 's you will be weirin' the breeks, though I doot ye 're no' a' thegither blin' to this fac' yersel.' Skelly ceased, and the pen stopped. ' Do you think that is fair ? ' asked the lovely scribe. ' A's fair hi love,' said Skelly severely ; ' I 'm makin' the best o't for Barnacles. Ony wumman wad think twice before refusing a man like Barnacles. He 's just a big wean.' ' Am I to put that down ? ' ' Na, na,' answered Skelly, ' she micht think he was looney ; he 's no' that. He 's just fair daft for ye ' 264 BARNACLES Skelly forgot he was dictating ' clean daft, I tell ye. He canna sleep at nights rowlin' his een up to the stars, an' aye blab, blabbin' awa aboot ye being music marchin' ower his soul. I canna mind the hauf ay, that ye 're as bonnie as his ain mither. If ye 'd seen his face when he said it it was a' in a lowe. An' that ye were the kindest craitur in a' the warld for tellin' him to send the sheep back to thon soor deevil, his faither. Hae ye ta'en leave o' your senses to put such nonsense intae his heid ? He 's gettin' thin ower ye. He '11 no' play his fiddle or do aucht. Just sits an' glowers like a cat watchin' at a moose-hole. If ye dinna tak peety on the man an' marry him, ye '11 hae his life on your sowl. Just gie him a wee bit o' encouragement if ye see him tongue- tackit. It 's wonnerfu' hoo he comes oot o' his shell then.' Skelly came to a sudden stop. ' Is that all, my good friend ? ' asked the lady. Skelly could not see her face. He judged by her voice that she was laughing. ' It fair bates me to tell ye a' he says. Stop noo ; I mind he said he could no more ax ye to be his wife than he could ax the stars to gie him their bonnie ' ' Bonnie what ? ' urged the scribe. ' I 'm bate,' said Skelly ; ' but gie her my best respecs, an' hoping she is in good health as this leaves me the same at present.' ' It is done,' answered the scribe. Skelly pondered. * Just put in that Barnacles has a college eddication, an' his faither has a big farm an' is rotten wi' money.' BARNACLES 265 The lady rose and handed the composition to Skelly. He took it, and as he put it inside the door of the clock he said : ' 1 '11 send ye a bit o' the bridescake.' ' I shall be delighted ' ; she was pulling on a glove. ' No' a word o' this to Barnacles, mind ye.' ' Not for aU the world.' ' Bicht,' answered Skelly, ' an' on the weddin' day I '11 no' forget to tell him he has more than ae freend at Castleheid.' ' Do,' she answered. In her eyes lurked a smile ; about the lips the shadow of drooping. . . . When she was gone a delicate perfume lingered in the air. Skelly sniffed, and delivered himself to the china dogs : ' Ye should never speak o' things ye ken nowt o'.' But in this sentiment Skelly was merely re-echoing Barnacles, as Barnacles was echoing the wisdom of mankind. Nevertheless Skelly discovered in himself a new respect for Barnacles, not only in that he associated with such graceful beings, but that he had had the courage to defend them. ' I 'm only an ignorant big blaw,' said Skelly to the china dogs ; and his face wrinkled up. 'I don't ken whaur Barnacles' eyes is. It 's a peety it 's no' HER he 's aifter. But he was aye hauf-blin'.' He considered the matter and shook his head. ' Puir Barnacles, he wad never hae the nerve ; she 's a fair clinker.' He returned to the moulding shop more than an hour late, and found another man tending those 266 BARNACLES greedy fires which cannot wait on the correspondence by proxy of lovers. He was sitting looking at the door of the clock when Barnacles entered. ' You are surely home early,' said Barnacles. ' I am,' answered Skelly with a snap, ' I 've got the sack.' ' I also am discharged,' said Barnacles, hi the tone of one who has just received a legacy. And for these reasons. Crossing Paisley Square at his lunch hour, he saw a little bundle of fur dabbled with blood, and heard a boy yell, ' It was run ower wi' a motor-caur,' and then a woman's cry, ' O my doggie, my wee doggie ! it was Archie's dog ' ; and before this little woman, deeply dressed in black, could see the blood, Barnacles had whipped off his jacket and wrapped up the mutilated body. It was no use telling the chief he had been burying Archie's dog, and that Archie had only died last week. Barnacles received a severe wigging for being absent from duty a whole afternoon without leave. This transgression, and divers clerical offences, cul- minated in a dereliction of duty which ended the vagrancies of Barnacles hi the Town Clerk's office. On Monday he remembered the sheep. As he set off, his head was so full of what Skelly had been saying to him on Saturday night about Mrs. Normanshire, that the sheep was almost choked. It trotted, bleat- BARNACLES 267 ing feebly, at the heels of a deaf man, who was also very frightened because of what Skelly had said. Would the very birds of the air not carry Skelly's daring words to her ? Would she not read them in his own face the next tune they met ? He came to a sudden halt hi the midst of Paisley Square. Perhaps they would meet no more. Would he ever see her again ? He might go to her house for ever and ever, and find her gone out for the evening with professors and princes. Skelly was mad to talk as he had done. He was standing on the same spot where once he had listened to the Sabbath bells. It was here he first met her ; here he had walked with her to the Abbey. What were bells now ? what was anything ? why was he here ? And he remembered the sheep. He looked behind, before, and at the hand which had held the rope. ' Dear me,' said Barnacles, taking off his spectacles and gazing at the shops, ' the sheep is gone.' He scrutinised the Square. At that hour of breakfast it was almost deserted. A cab was jogging through it. A girl with a list was carrying a basket. Two officials connected with the tramways were hi conversation at the edge of the south pavement. Barnacles approached them. ' Did you see a sheep passing here ? ' ' No,' said one of them ; ' are you going to the market ? ' * What market ? ' asked Barnacles. He took off his hat and began wiping his brow. ' This is market day,' said the tramway man. As if to emphasise his words, a young dark-a-vised man passed along leading a cow. ' The day when I needed the market there was none,' 268 BARNACLES said Barnacles, ' and now there is one when I don't need it. I have lost my sheep/ He turned away sorrowfully, but soon began to quicken his steps in the direction from which he had come. Almost at a run he reached the old stable. It was empty. Somehow he thought the sheep would go back there. ^ He returned to the Square. ' My poor creature,' he said, gazing around, ' where have you wandered to ? ' As much as the sheep was Barnacles lost in the rain- blurred Square. He was examining his surroundings as if he had never seen them before, when his eye fell on the Police Station. For the second time in his life Barnacles entered there. It is cheek by jowl with the Town Clerk's office, and Barnacles and something of his reputation were known in the purlieus of crime. The officer, who had seldom cause to smile, showed a grin. ' The police of the town are excellent, I know, at looking after sheep,' said Barnacles ; ' mine has strayed. It was a blunder. If it is found I shall be at the Town Clerk's office. I have a post there. The sheep has a rope round its neck.' * You ought to have a dog,' said the officer jocularly. This summoned up a poignant memory. ' I had one,' said Barnacles sadly. ' I gave it to a lady ; and I buried another.' ' What was wrong with it ? ' ' Death,' answered Barnacles ; and the officer, who was preparing his wits further to jest, was mortified. ' Ten to one you '11 never see your sheep again ; go and hunt for it,' he said brusquely. BARNACLES 269 ' I have been doing that.' ' Well, do it again ; we do not hunt big game here.' ' If it turns up will you let me know, please ? ' ' In the soup, yes ; I '11 let you know.' Barnacles smiled. ' I hope,' he said, ' no one will mock at you the first time you are in a dilemma.' And he left the office, and walking across the Square came face to face with his father. Mr. Brocklehurst, who had been at the market, stopped dead in his tracks, and an angry gleam came into his eyes. Before this gleam found vent in words, Barnacles said : ' I have got something to say to you.' ' Hae ye noo ? ' ' Yes ; I have a sheep for you.' Mr. Brocklehurst thought he was being publicly insulted. His face swelled with rage. ' Whaur did ye steal't ? ' ' I bought it.' ' Man, ye 're gettin' on, an' you lookin' sae mouldy.' ' Have patience, father. I own I did wrong in taking one of your sheep. I was on my way to Battlemains with another.' ' An' whaur is 't ? ' ' I don't know ; it escaped me.' ' You damn looney,' sneered Mr. Brocklehurst. ' I fear I am.' This confession set Mr. Brocklehurst on fresh rage. ' What sort o' fule are ye to ca' yersel a looney ? ' ' But I am ; I lost the sheep.' ' God peety ye ; the fleas 'ill eat ye yet. Whaur hae 270 BARNACLES ye been stravaigin' to since ye left the ferm ? ye 're as thin as the coulter o' a pleugh.' ' Father,' said Barnacles, in an earnest voice, ' your heart is softening to me,' and held out his hand. Mr. Brocklehurst shot a keen glance round Paisley Square. * Tak in your haun,' he said, ' the folk's lookin' at us.' He thrust his own in his trouser pockets and loudly jingled the coins there. ' I 'm gaun to hae a bite in Gibson's. C'awa in oot the rain an' hae a bit chack.' ' Thank you, father ; but I must go and look for the sheep.' Mr. Brocklehurst pulled his stiff grey beard, leaned forward, and said in a low, fierce voice : ' To hell wi' the sheep ! c'awa.' Barnacles' heart leapt with joy at the rugged oath of affection. They set off together, the tall form of the son stooping to the little alert grey man. ' What are ye daein' for a leevin' ? ' he was asked snappishly. ' I 'm a clerk.' ' What pey are ye makin' ? ' ' It 's not very much yet.' * I doot no,' interrupted Mr. Brocklehurst ; ' man, ye look as sterved as an auld grey gull howkin' for worms at the tail-en' o' a pleugh. C'awa back to the ferm an' get some beef on your ribs.' Barnacles' eyes filled with tears. He stopped at the threshold of the restaurant. ' father, father, you have forgiven me ! ' Mr. Brocklehurst swore, stamped into the restaurant, and shouted to a girl who was passing : BARNACLES 271 ' See 's some guid Scotch broth for twa, miss.' Clients began to flock in, and Mr. Brocklehurst refused to carry on any further conversation with his son. He was afraid of what he might say or do. In silence they left the restaurant, and Barnacles walked with his father to Castle Street, whence the latter broke off to ascend to Battlemains among the Braes. As they were about to part Barnacles said : ' I '11 not try to find the sheep any more.' * As weel 's no/ grunted Mr. Brocklehurst ; ' tak a walk oot on Sunday and see the ferm.' And again refusing to shake hands with his son hi the public street, Mr. Brocklehurst abruptly went on his way. Barnacles looked after him as long as the close-knit sturdy figure was in sight. ' God bless the poor lost sheep and all it has done for me,' he said. His father loved him, and he would never have known it except for her. The very earth was full of gladness. Though he were a thousand miles away, her spirit would illumine him in every darkness, inspire him in all combats. He loved even the town which she in- habited. She walked for ever beneath a snow of apple- blossom, and the light of the sky and the smiles of earth poured down and sprang up and met at her feet. As he walked along he peered through his spectacles, and thought that every far-off woman was her coming along the street in radiancy. He lived in these moments on a serene height, with a guest harboured in his breast more beautiful than youth, and stronger than the cruelties of life. , 272 BARNACLES But it was not she whom his eye met as he walked, but the glittering window of a musicseller's shop. ' Dear me,' he said, and putting his hands in his pockets, he hurried into the shop. A middle-aged woman with a cloud of short curly hair was standing behind the counter. ' I think it was the sheep that recalled the debt to my mind,' said Barnacles. ' What debt ? ' ' I bought a violin here a good while ago. It cost one pound, and I paid nineteen and ninepence. There is threepence to pay.' ' I follow your arithmetic,' answered the lady, in a prim, precise voice, ' but I don't remember the violin.' ' It was a man I bought it from.' ' Oh ! indeed ; he was a rogue ; this shop has changed hands. Several customers have been inquiring about him. He ran away with their violins and other instru- ments left for repair.' Barnacles was nonplussed. * That is strange,' he said. ' Very,' she answered sourly. ' I mean that a man would do that and allow me to be in his debt.' ' That is the way of rogues,' she answered tartly. Barnacles knitted his brows so much that his spec- tacles declined awry on his nose. ' I did him wrong,' he said reflectively ; ' I find I am doing a good deal of wrong.' ' I don't misdoubt you,' she answered dryly. Barnacles pondered her face. ' Would it not do to send my threepence to some one whom he has defrauded ? ' BARNACLES 273 ' Well,' she answered, less acidly, ' it will make up a little ; I will show you their names.' She took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and laid it before Barnacles. There were some nine or a dozen names written down, and one was that of Mrs. Normanshire. Barnacles was suddenly en- raged. ' Did she lose ? ' he pointed to the name. ' Paid twenty-four shillings for music which she never received.' Barnacles laid three pennies on the counter. ' These are for her,' he said, and hurriedly left the shop. At every turn he was meeting her or her shadow. An exaltation seized him anew. ' I 'm redding up my life,' he thought, as he hurried along. Perhaps he meant that he had tried to restore the sheep and had paid his debt. XI The Town Clerk of Paisley took another view of this ' redding-up.' Barnacles was almost at the entrance to the office when he heard some one shouting his name, and turning saw a policeman beckoning to him most lazily, as if he were drawing Barnacles to him by means of a rope. Barnacles followed him into the office, where he saw a sheep tethered. ' Is this your sheep ? ' said the officer in charge. Barnacles came round the bar and went up to the sheep. ' It seems to be her,' he said. ' Remove your property, then.' s 274 BARNACLES ' I have no need for her now.' The officer got angry. ' Look here ; I 've had enough of this bloomin' beast and the mess she made. This is not a cattle-show. Shift her.' ' But what am I to do with her ? ' ' Go and drown her in the Cart.' The officer, as he spoke, untied the rope and thrust it into Barnacles' hand. The sheep got up on its knees and made a sudden bound towards the entrance. Head down it careered along a stone corridor and dived into a cell. Barnacles got a glimpse of a broad sloping board lying on the floor of the cell the only furniture there. The sheep careered round the cell, and as if the instinct for freedom was aroused in its breast by its maleficent environment, it scurried out, darted along another corridor, and trooped, to the astonishment of Barnacles, past the bar. He just caught sight of the red furious face of the officer when he found himself in Paisley Square. The sheep, as if dazed by the sudden light of broad day after the gloom of the malefactor's house, came to a halt with its nose on the causey-stones. These it followed along, sniffing like a dog. Barnacles tugged the rope. ' Come, black-faced one,' and then he added, ' but where ? ' They were drifting across the Square, when suddenly the sheep tried to dart between the legs of a man walking hurriedly in their direction. Only by his nimbleness was he saved the ignominy of a public fall. As it was his hat fell and rolled over the wet stones. He uttered an angry exclamation as he picked it up. Then his eye met the blue orb of Barnacles ; and the BARNACLES 275 Town Clerk of Paisley was really angered to hear a mild voice say : ' I did not expect to meet you here.' ' And what, pray, are you doing here ? ' He spoke with excessive politeness, and rubbed his hat with a handkerchief. ' I am trying to dispose of this sheep.' ' May I inquire when you left the office ? ' The Town Clerk glanced at the public clock in the Square. It was half-past two o'clock. ' I am afraid I have not been there at all to-day.' The cup of Barnacles' misadventures and mistakes was full. 'You need not return then, except for the salary due to you.' ' Are you dismissing me because your hat fell ? ' asked Barnacles. The Town Clerk's face grew dark. ' You are insolent, sir,' he said angrily. ' I did not mean to be,' Barnacles answered with genuine humility. ' I only wish to know, for I would be sorry if such a little accident were to make us strangers for ever.' There was something wistful in the pale face which, in spite of himself, appealed to the Town Clerk. ' Why in heaven's name are you wandering about with a sheep when you ought to be at your desk ? ' ' The sheep, sir, was more important. If you knew all you would understand. I took it from my father, and had to restore it. He might die at any time, and my guilt would be on me for ever.' A smile crept into the eyes of the Town Clerk. ' I am not a theologian,' he said. 276 BARNACLES Barnacles' next words astonished him. ' Then I am a free man.' ' If you look at it that way, yes ; free as the birds. I am sorry ; but 1 never go back on my word.' Barnacles held out his hand. ' Do not be sorry, sir. I am very happy to-day. My father and I are friends. And I have gained my freedom. I was incompetent. I would only vex you more and more if I stayed on at the office. This is the best thing that could have happened. We do not part in anger.' ' No, we do not,' said the Town Clerk very heartily. And as he walked towards the office he experienced an unaccustomed twinge of heartache. Barnacles went towards the sheep. ' Woolly one,' he said, ' in God's name let us go on.' And so they reached Cotton Street, and the sheep was housed in little grey grandmother's empty home. As soon as Barnacles announced that he was ' dis- charged,' he put his arm along Skelly's shoulder. ' Rejoice with me,' he cried ; ' my father and I are friends.' ' I 'm no' a wumman,' grunted Skelly, and shook off the half -embracing arm. The look of disappointment on Barnacles' face at this rebuff made Skelly add : ' I 'm no' mysel the day, Barnacles ; I hae got the dirty sack.' ' Then you are free too,' said Barnacles. ' Ay, gey free,' said Skelly bitterly. The two friends looked at one another in silence. ' Don't be cast down, Skelly ; the work was killing you.' BARNACLES 277 ' Ay ; but nae work 'ill kill me waur.' ' Courage, Skelly, your old work is coming back.' ' Whatna work ? ' ' With the pony. I have the sheep in the stable ; my father won't take it. We '11 sell it and lay past the money for a pony. My father will advise us and help us.' As he said this, the door opened and the old seaman came hi all bent. He walked across the floor, gripping his long white beard, as if to support his crazy steps, until he stood in front of Barnacles. ' There was a braw lady here the day speirin' for ye.' Skelly uttered a bountiful soldier's oath. Barnacles caught the old man's arm. ' Who was it ? ' he cried excitedly. ' I dinna ken,' wheezed the old man, ' ax Skelly ; him and her were chief.' Barnacles turned to Skelly. ' Was it her ? had she white hair ? ' Skelly was petrified with astonishment. ' Ay ! white hair,' he gasped out. ' What did she want ? ' * You.' A feeling of alarm was taking possession of Skelly. ' What did she say ? ' pleaded Barnacles. ' Nowt,' answered Skelly; ' she said she 'd let ye ken hersel.' Barnacles came forward and gripped Skelly's arm. ' Is she not an angel, Skelly ? ' ' Ay ; I 'm no' surprised at ye, Barnacles ; she 's an angel that gaes a lang way roond,' answered Skelly truthfully. He released his arm from Barnacles' grip, and turn- 278 BARNACLES ing his back extracted the love-letter from the clock and put it in the fire. He stood over it till it was burned. When the task was completed Barnacles was gone. The father's eyes were fixed on the son. They were red, and the beard he was hanging on to was a little wet. There was fear in the old man's face. * Are ye angry wi' me, Skelly ? ' ' Whit fur, faither ? ' ' For clypin' aboot the lady ? ' ' No, not angry.' The old man gave a deep sigh, and let go his hold on his beard. ' Skelly,' he said, taking a little staggering run towards his son, ' I 'm no' thinkin' ava o' a pilot reefer jaicket ; I 'm no' wantin' ane. I was only lettin' on. Barnacles an' me is goin' to buy a powny for ye wi' my pension. Ye 're no' angry wi' me ? ' And the hardened campaigner of South Africa almost broke down before the face of his aged parent. He was forced to turn away, making a choking sound in his throat. ' A' richt, faither ; I '11 be braw an' gled o' a powny.' * It 's me that will be prood, prood, Skelly.' Skelly heard a gurgling sound which signified that the old man was laughing a little hysterically. XII Barnacles followed the maid blindly, scarcely more than conscious that this was a larger room than the one he had been in before. She rose to meet him, an open book in her hand. It was his own, The Apology BARNACLES 279 of Socrates. She put the book behind her back and looked at him with such strange imploring eyes as he had never seen. There was a wound in them of dark, dumb sorrow. He could not speak for a moment. She wellnigh breathed for him. He seemed to feel the movements of her heart as his own. ' God has made you marvellously/ he burst out. * I cannot tell it ' he made a gesture of impotence ' but that is nothing, nothing. Were I to tell you all the admiration I feel, the gratitude all the happiness of my life has come from you ' He had had no food for many hours ; his wet clothes had dried upon him ; he was swaying on his feet ; his face was of unusual pallor. ' What is it ? are you ill ? ' Her eyes had now a startled look. * No, I am not ill ; I have come to you,' broke with a sob from his breast ; ' my father and I are friends. You have been to where I live you went to that poor house I heard it it is how the angels go.' Mrs. Normanshire seemed turned to stone. ' I never dreamt of such an honour there is no end to the wonder of your heart.' Mrs. Normanshire turned her face away more and more. The sight of Barnacles was unbearable. She seemed scarcely to breathe through her half-parted lips. Despair was in her face. Barnacles was gazing at her with blind worship, was waiting to hear her speak or make a sign ; but she remained silent and still. ' I have offended you, I will go away I wanted to tell you, or my heart would burst.' 280 BARNACLES ' I am not offended.' Her voice was so low that it was almost inaudible. A quiver passed through her frame. ' Oh ! what have I done ; are you weeping ? ' The voice of Barnacles was charged with agony. He was forced to press his hand over the pang in his heart. ' You must go away leave me now.' She spoke slowly, in a whisper, with great effort. And still she kept her face from him. ' Go I will tell you again give me your hand.' She stretched out her own behind her. Barnacles dropped on his knees and took her hand. * flower ! flower of heaven ! ' he sobbed over it. For a minute they remained thus, her face averted, her eyes closed, the despair in her face vanishing hi the light of bliss. . . . She stood on the same spot as if she were a pillar of stone, her hand hanging at her side, his kiss warm and tingling on her palm. When she heard him leave the house, she sank on the sofa and covered her face in the curve of her left arm. The hand that was kissed hung at her side as if it were dead. XIII What a box ! It seemed to be a mine of things a pair of boots, three pairs of stockings, and a complete suit for wee Kitchener. In five minutes everything was on iim save the two extra pair of stockings. He nearly leapt to the ceiling when he put his hand in the brand-new pocket of the trousers and pulled out a shining knife. Skelly was walking round the box and his son as if he were mesmerised. Barnacles whispered BARNACLES 281 to him twice, ' It 's from HER ; she sent it all,' before he understood. But all that was nothing. Below wee Kitchener's suit lay a waistcoat. Barnacles picked it up and opened its folds. It was lined with red flannel. ' Take off your jacket and vest,' he said to the old man, who in dumb amazement put on the waistcoat and smoothed down its front with his wrinkled hands. ' It's as warm as a pie,' he cried. ' Ay, ay, Mr. Mate, I '11 stand the dog-watch now.' He began flinging his arms about as he revelled in the soft warmth. 4 It 's like fat on the bones, Skelly ; I 'm as cosy as a cat.' At this moment Barnacles held up the jacket. The lamp-light glittered on the blue glossiness of the velvet collar, and flashed on the large brass buttons. The old man's eyes shone, and having stared open- mouthed for a minute, he threw up his arms and began to jump about the room, laughing incessantly. Now and again he would stop, look at the jacket, and begin his capers again. ' God save us ! ' cried Skelly, ' he 's ta'en leave o' his senses.' The old man was now dancing in front of the jacket as a savage leaps before his fetish. ' Is it mine, Barnacles, mine ? God keep us a' ! to think my pension would get the likes o' that.' He made a sudden pounce at the coat. The depth and softness of the pile amazed him. His trembling fingers were feeling all over it. He buried his face in it. ' I never thocht there was the like o' that in a' the wide warld.' 282 BARNACLES ' Put it on,' said Barnacles. ' Wull I ? ' he asked, as if it were sacred. Barnacles held it out. ' Wull I no' better trim my whisker ? ' ' Never mind your whisker, you can dae that the morn, faither,' said Skelly, with tears of laughter on his cheeks. The old man's hands were trembling so violently that Skelly had to guide them into the sleeves. Immediately the jacket was on, the seaman's laughter and chatter ceased. He allowed Barnacles to button it and to tie the black silk scarf round his neck. His knees were shaking so that they almost gave way beneath him. He presented a comical appearance with his ragged trousers and broken boots appearing beneath the jacket. He continued staring down its length in silence. ' Barnacles,' he whispered, his voice shaken out of him, ' I 'm frichtened.' ' So weel ye micht, faither,' Skelly laughed ; * ye look like a brass foondry.' ' Skelly is only joking,' soothed Barnacles ; ' you 're magnificent ; you 're just like the finest captain ever was.' The old man's face grew full of alarm. ' No ! no ! I 'm no' a captain ; I 'm a done auld man ; I canna set a coorse ; I was never oot o' the fo'c'sle a' my life. Let me bide.' He was trying desperately to unbutton the jacket as he spoke, but his palsied fingers were unequal to the task. He gazed about him with a hunted look. ' Gie me my auld jaicket ' : there were tears in his voice. BARNACLES 283 Skelly's eye caught sight of a telescope in the box. He picked it up. ' Here ye are, skipper,' and he thrust the instrument into the old man's hands. * There noo ; ye 're complete ; spy-gless an' a'.' The old man's alarm gave way to terror. ' Ye '11 send me to my grave,' he sobbed. ' I '11 be in the asylum. I 'm no' a captain at a'. I was only lettin' on. I don't ken the wy to spy at the sun.' He looked as if the jacket were the famous poison shirt of classical myth draining his life away. ' I 'm wantin' my auld jacket ; I '11 be fair affrontit ' he walked up to Barnacles with tears in his eyes 1 tak it off, Barnacles, before I drap doon deid.' Barnacles took off the pilot reefer jacket. The old man hardly slept. In the deep of the night he was devoured with a desire to rise and look into the box, and lay trembling, restrained only by the thought of what Skelly would say if he was discovered. In the darkness the jacket burned with blue and gold before his eyes. XIV In the morning he narrowly watched Barnacles and Skelly until they had left the house in order to sell the sheep. Never since mirrors were made were such preparations. Snip ! snip ! ! snip ! ! ! the long white beard with the yellow stain down its middle was certainly being trimmed. And shortened ! And shaped torpedo- wise ! He was beginning to change even in the eyes of wee Kitchener, who, already apparelled in the glory of 284 BARNACLES his own new clothes, shouted, ' Grandfaither, ye don't look like a nanny-goat noo.' But grandfaither was deaf. What contortions of the features, what diverse expressions he made before the mirror, capturing the face of a hundred captains in all their moods of com- mand. He was haughty, he was dignified ; aloof, important, impatient, ironical. ' Are ye daft, grandfaither ? ' came a small voice half of fear. ' Dinna ye gang to schule the day. This is a day in port,' was the pert answer. After his face, he washed his feet, and began to dress. As he hitched his braces he cried in a loud voice, ' Man the lee braces.' Wee Kitchener, who had forgotten his own clothes in watching the antics of his grandsire, answered : ' Your galluses is a' richt, grandfaither.' ' You an' your galluses ; dae ye no' ken what the lee braces is ? ' ' Ay, grandfaither, your galluses.' The old man had by now put on the waistcoat. He took another look in the mirror, pulled his pointed and somewhat ragged beard, and approached the jacket. As he did so he kept rising and falling from toe to heel a habit of a captain with whom he had sailed. He let his eye rest on the soft pile, its rich collar, its stupendous buttons. It became a thing remote from life to this ancient child, the heritor of a resplendent and terrible sea. The jacket gathered up the glories of the deep, the magic of ships, the wonders of a thousand harbours. He lifted it ; and there was wafted from it a whiff of violet, that was transformed for him into tropical odours. He laid the jacket on BARNACLES 285 the bed, backed away from it, approached mincing, tip-toeing. His eye fell on the silk scarf. He picked up the gleaming fabric ; and its softness and sheen sent a thrill through his body. He tied it about his scraggy neck, and as if the touch had fired him, he seized the jacket and put it on. His heart swelled ; his body appeared to expand. He began pacing up and down the quarter-deck. At the end of one turn he snatched up the telescope, and without opening it out or taking off the brass cap, clapped it to his eye. Puzzled at the darkness, he put it under his arm, and once more started pacing the quarter-deck. Suddenly he stopped, raised himself on his toes, and cried in a shrill voice : ' Swarm aloft there.' Wee Kitchener ran to his grandfather's side just when he stamped on the floor, and said : ' Is that a puddin', grandfaither ? ' and put out a timorous finger to the telescope. His grandfather, tremendously excited, had his attention drawn to the boy. ' Kitchener ! what is your grandfaither like ? ' The boy solemnly eyed his ancestor. ' The bobby in the Square,' he squealed. ' Are ye blin', wean ; tak a guid look,' and wheeling screamed in his cracked voice, ' helm down ; hard down ; ease her.' As he spoke he stepped to the stronger light at the window, followed by Kitchener, who surmised there was a secret in the wonderful jacket. It was soon revealed. ' Is that a' the eddication ye get in schule nooadays ? Did ye never see a captain ? ' ' No,' answered wee Kitchener, hi awe. 280 BARNACLES ' Weel, tak a guid look ; ye 're seein' ane noo.' The hands were thrust deep in the pockets, the tele- scope was gripped hi the oxter. ' Man the top-gallants.' ' What 's that, grandfaither ? ' ' Up aloft wi' ye, if ye dinna want the rope's-end.' ' I canna sclim up there, grandfaither ' ; the tremu- lous voice broke in a sob of fear. ' Cryin' for a puff o' win', Kitchener.' The old man's face was burning with hectic spots ; his eyes had a feverish glitter. ' I 've seen when it was dark, ay, dark, an' the air fou o' water, an' the win' mad, Kitchener, fair mad ; life-lines rigged. She could hardly clear her decks ; smashed doon wi' every sea, Kitchener. Thon 's where ye see God. Men hae no call to be feart o' God in Paisla'. Glass as low as your boots, Kitchener ; wanted to push up the mercury wi' your fingers. Men hae no' call to fear the Almighty in a public-hoose in Paisla'. That 's the wy they booze an' sweir. It 's terrific wi' the wee stars in the black sky lookin' doon at ye, an' you oot on the yaird- airm, an' the black seas movin' on ye like Ben Lomon' mountains. Ye don't feel caul' or wet, Kitchener ; ye just listen to the roar oot hi the blackness an' ye feel empty a' inside ye, an' ye fear God, Kitchener, ye fear God, an' ye look up at the wee stars the size o' your eye for the last tune. Ye 're no' drooned oot yonder. Ye 're just drooned in burns an' lochs an' nairrow waters. Ye 're whipped awa intae eternity wi' the warld tummlin' on your heid. Ye see thon hill o' water wi' a white line on the top runnin' up to meet the ship, the wy clouds run ower the sky, an' ye just shut your eyes, an' then it 's on deck like a hammer o' BARNACLES 287 thunder frae the Lord, an' the ship she just stops deid. Another o' them an' we 're gone, Mr. Mate. Ye just feel seeck, Kitchener, seeck. Dae ye ken what the fear o' God is ? it 's no in the Paisla' folk boozin' in the pubs.' ' No, I don't ken, grandfaither.' Wee Kitchener had passed from sobs to fear. His grandfather was acting and talking in an alarming manner. ' Ye dinna ken what the fear o' God is ? It 's a thing that maks ye keep your mooth shut. It maks ye feel like a worm, an' emptiness in your belly, an' a' the while ye 're kennin' it 's gran', an' naebody could scoop thon glens o' seas but the Almighty. Ye can see His haun movin' on the water. It 's fearsome an' awesome, Kitchener, an' it 's gran'. It 's yonder ye ken wha God is, wi' the lee-rail white ' The seaman, all out of breath, discovered that he was alone. XV ' Ring the bell, second mate, and let us go below, Look away to wind'ard and see it 's goin' to blow.' At the end of the second line the door opened and blin' Ned came in, stick in hand, and his ' tin ticket ' hanging on his breast. ' Ye 're cheery the day, Hector,' he said. ' Auld but he'rty, Ned, thank God. It's keepin' blae like an' caul' wi' this east wind ; but I 'm feelin' gran', my customer : I 've a new pilot reefer jaicket,' his eyes sparkled with joy ; ' is it no' a strange thing, Ned, that we 're scrapin' an' scartin' an' clawin' ane anither a' oor life for money, an' the big shippin' companies an' 288 BARNACLES the skippers, aifter they get their hauns on the maist o't, just get the braid o' their back in the en', an' here's me withoot a drap o' sweet on my broo gettin' a' I want in the hinder en' wi' my pension. No' that I ever ate the breid o' idle-set a' my days : but I had the fear o' God in me, an' He 's been mercifu' to me in my auld age.' Blin' Ned was impatient of this discursiveness. ' I cam in to ax ye if the placaird 's on the richt wy ? ' Sometimes the printing on the tin was turned inward. ' The richt wy ; bring the wind on starboard, Mr. Mate. Hold her off two points. It 's going to be dirty weather.' ' That 's a peety,' said the blind man. ' Can't you see ? Look away there to windward ; a breeze is coming.' He thrust the telescope into the hands of the blind man. ' What big caul' thing is this, Hector ? ' ' It 's a spy-gless, Ned ; ye can see up to the moon wi't.' * Can ye,' said the blind man eagerly. His hands shook as he put the telescope to his eye. ' I see naethin',' he said, in tones of disappointment. The seaman pondered. He hated to betray the fact that he was ignorant of the way of arranging the instrument. ' Just you wait, Ned ; Barnacles is that daft he maun hae ta'en awa a bit o' the spy-gless. He '11 sort it when he comes.' ' Wull ye let me look at it when it 's sorted ? ' ' Ay wull I, Ned ; ye '11 see the moon.' BARNACLES 289 ' Whaur did ye get it ? ' The blind man, his face lit with hope, was turning the brass cylinder round and round in his hand. ' I got it wi' my pension.' ' Wull ye get ane for me ? ' The pitying look on the seaman's face was lost on Ned. ' Man,' he said, ' ye haena the money ; it 's only the captains o' big ships that cairry them. It taks a heap o' money to buy them.' The blind man's mouth drooped. ' That 's a peety,' he said ; ' I wish ye hadna told me at a'.' ' Never mind, Ned ; I '11 let ye try on my waistcoat. I got it as weel, an' a pilot reefer wi' brass buttons. I hae them on me ee noo, Ned. I 'm as warm as the oven.' The blind man put out one of his hands. ' I feel the buttons,' he said. ' They 're braw, braw, Ned.' The seaman peered in at his companion's face. ' Wad ye like to try on the waistcoat ? ' 'Ay! wad I no'?' They began to strip, Ned ridding himself of placard and stick as well. Presently he had on the waistcoat. ' Ay ! it 's just like an oven. I wish I had this on thae caul' aifternoons on my stance.' ' There ! there ! ye 're a deep-water man noo, Ned ; staun up on your taes an' gae doon on your heels.' The old man took Ned by the arm-pits, lifted him up, and allowed him to sink down. ' That 's the wy ; are ye at me noo, Ned ? Cry oot, cry oot, " Ease her, ease her when she pitches, you damn sojer ! " T 290 BARNACLES ' Ease her ! ' shouted Ned, who had a sonorous voice. The old man skipped about. ' Ay, ay, sir ! ' * " Keep handy the watch to shorten sail " ; cry it oot, Ned.' * Wull I can see through the spy-gless when Barnacles sorts it ? ' the blind man replied. The seaman got angry. * You for a captain ! Ye 're only fit to staun an' beg at the corners. Look out for yoursel ; there 's a sea comin' ; are ye no' seein' it, Ned ? she '11 no' stand up to it ; she '11 go this time.' He was reeling about the floor. ' Is my writin' to the front, Hector ? ' ' She 's clearing hersel. Steady the fore-yards there. Man the lee braces.' ' Is the writing on the placard to the front, Hector ? ' * Try the well, carpenter ; get the man on the pumps. Keep her going, Mr. Mate.' Blin' Ned, conceiving that Hector had taken leave of his senses, groped his way to the door. As he went along the lobby he heard an excited voice behind him : ' Tally on, men ; haul out ; make fast ; to the main topsail ! ' Blin' Ned reached the street wearing warm against his body a waistcoat of the softest of red flannel. ' God ! ' he said to himself, ' I could lie doon an' sleep in this.' By and by the old man, who had grown accustomed to the jacket, followed into the lobby, crept down the stairs, and came to the mouth of the close where he stood with his cheek buried in the velvet collar. He BARNACLES 291 was debating with himself what ' airt ' he would go when a woman, who was passing with a basket on her arm and a key in her hand, stopped at the close-mouth to take a fresh grip with her teeth of the shawl which she wore over her head. At sight of the old man she spat out the shawl. ' Sirce the day ! whaur did ye steal the jaicket ? ' The old man recoiled as if he had been struck, vainly trying to conceal from the woman's prying eye the splendour of the buttons. As he crept away without answering some one was running into the close. It was wee Kitchener home at ' the dinner hour.' The old man divested himself of the garment. ' Are ye gaun to bed ? ' said the boy. The old man shook his head. * I canna weir 't, Kitchener ; the buttons is too braw.' * Bobbies hae braw buttons, grandfaither.' ' Ay ! chape metal, Kitchener, that '11 turn black wi' a shooer o' rain ; they 're no brass. They 're ower braw, mines. I canna thole the sicht. The folk will glower at me. " Whaur did auld Hector steal the jaicket ? " that 's what they '11 say. Is it no' terrible the envy in some folk's he'rt ? They blin' me, Kitchener ; they blin' me hi the braid licht, thae buttons.' He put on his old ragged coat with a hole hi the left elbow. XVI Blin' Ned, wondering if Barnacles had sorted the thing you can see with up to the moon, rose betimes and knocked at Skelly's door. Getting no answer he entered, saying : 292 BARNACLES * It 's a fine morninV And again, ' Are ye in, Hector ? ' He began groping around. The seaman was absent. As soon as wee Kitchener had left for school, and Skelly and Barnacles for Battlemains to consult Mr. Brocklehurst about a pony, he took out the jacket. For an hour a terrible battle raged in his mind. It was impossible to wear the jacket with its brass buttons, and his one desire in life was to show it in the High Street of Paisley, and among his cronies who sit blinking in Dunn Square. ' If I don't tak aff the buttons there '11 be naethin' left but to wen* it in the hoose,' he concluded. This prospect was so mournful that, laying the jacket on the bed, he went out to indulge in a rare pleasure. He was going to examine the windows of Paisley in order to buy black buttons. . . . Soon his red nose was glued to the window panes of the shops, and his feeble eyes were sparkling. . . . ' Are ye no' up yet, Hector ? ' said blin' Ned. Convinced now that the room was empty, he began feverishly to search for the thing that can mak ye see richt up to the moon. He knocked against the box ; felt in it ; went from chair to chair ; tried the dresser and the table and the back of the door. He was despairing when his hands fell and sank in the depths of something soft and warm on the bed. It was the jacket. Over the bed the hands wandered for the telescope ; over and over in vain. It might be below the jacket. He lifted it. It was wondrous heavy ; and there bulging in it was the wonderful spy-glass. At once blin' Ned retreated to his own home, and presently the telescope, buried away in a deep pocket BARNACLES 298 on the inside of this wonderful jacket, was in his trembling hands. One end and the other end he put to his eye. Darkness ! He rolled it round and round in his hands, shook it, hammered it with his fist. Still blank darkness ! A thought had come to him. He would keep it until his brother came home. He was ' learning engineerin',' and would make it all right. He hid the telescope underneath the mattress. But the old seaman would miss the jacket. If he came and found it here, he would search for his spy-glass till he found it. There was only one thing to do. He put off his own jacket, put on the famous pilot reefer, and with agile movement, surprising in a blind man, whipped out the spy-glass and conveyed it, after a good deal of fumbling, to the inside pocket. Then he put on ' the tin ticket ' which concealed the first row of buttons, and leaving his door standing open in his flight he set off for his first stance on the Abbey Bridge, where the Cart runs black and foul and stained with chemicals from the mills of Paisley. The passers-by stopped and looked and even dis- cussed the sight : and he received in his tin that morn- ing a coin from many a one who before had never noticed him. Blin' Ned's brain was busy with plans for the pro- curing of such a wonderful jacket for himself. In the midst of these pleasing thoughts he heard a woman's voice say, 'Where did ye fa' heir to the jaicket ? ' He did not know what to answer. Questions of this import became quite frequent on the lips of the passers-by and blin' Ned became uneasy, 294 BARNACLES and at last wished he was at home. Only the pennies were dropping like rain into his tin. He could feel their weight in the pocket of the jacket. Street boys kicking a tin can reached him that sort of ruffians of some twenty years who spend their time gambling, drinking, and prowling about at night. The blind man dreaded them, for they had picked his pocket more than once. There were three of them, and immediately they caught sight of him they left the tin can and ran jeer- ing and pointing at the jacket, saying he had robbed a corpse. This terrified the blind man. Perhaps Hector was dead ; where could he be at this tune in the morning ? why had he not answered if he were alive ? The hooligans attracted the attention of the police. Blin' Ned, afraid he was going to be robbed, turned up his blank eyes and quavered, ' I 'm scart to daith o' thae blaiggarts,' when having heard the shout, ' Here 's the cops,' he heard also a heavy footstep at his side. ' Where did you get this jacket ? ' said a gruff voice. ' It 's no' mine,' he whispered through dry lips. ' No doubt of that ; where did you get it ? ' Blin' Ned saw that he was a thief. It was a terrible thing to rob a dead man of his jacket. He picked up his stick, which was leaning against the wall, and took a step away. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. ' Stop,' said the voice very sternly. Blin' Ned began to tremble. ' Let me go 1 I 'm no' a vaigabond.' ' Did you steal this jacket ? ' ' I canna see to steal : I just took a lend o't.' BARNACLES 295 A hand was laid on the bulge of the telescope. ' What have you got here ? ' ' It 's naethin' but a spy-gless.' ' Take it out.' Blin' Ned slowly unbuttoned the coat and took out the telescope. ' What are you doing with this ? ' came the voice. ' I was wantin' to see the moon.' ' Don't try that on. Where did you take it from ? ' 1 A freend.' ' What friend ? ' ' I canna tell ye ; p'r'aps he 's deid.' The grip on his shoulder tightened. ' Come along with me.' After a long time he felt that he was in a room standing at a fire. Another voice bade him take off the jacket. ' Gie me the bawbees in the pooch ; they 're mine.' c Where did you get them ? ' ' On the Aibbey Brig wi' my tin can ; I 'm blinV ' Are you ? ' said another voice out of the darkness. And blin' Ned redeemed that hour of the humilia- tion of man by his brother man by blurting out : * Ye 'd better ax the Almighty ! ' Again he was cross-examined, and answered dourly : ' Ye can question me till ye 're tongue-tired ; I ken na wha gied ye the richt to lift me aff the street ; but I winna tell ye mair. I just took a len' o' the jaicket.' ' Where do you live ? ' ' Number six Cotton Street, up the stair ; the first door.' A policeman was sent there. Blin' Ned was allowed 296 BARNACLES to sit down until his return. The policeman came back with the blind man's jacket in a bundle. ' Is this your jacket ? ' he was asked. Blin' Ned felt over it. ' Ay ; that 's mine.' ' When did you wear it ? ' ' The day.' ' And when did you get the jacket with the brass buttons ? ' ' The day.' ' Where ? ' And blin' Ned, taken unawares, nearly fell into the trap. ' I '11 tell ye nocht mair,' he said. ' I told ye already I canna see to steal.' He heard voices hi consultation, ' No evidence ; he would hardly wear it in public.' Then a voice addressed him : 'You can go; we'll keep the jacket; there will likely be a complaint lodged ; mind you, we know where to find you when we discover about your theft.' 4 Gie me my bawbees,' said blin' Ned, his teeth chattering. ' You '11 have to prove the money belongs to you.' And another voice said, ' Let the poor devil have the money. He 's blind right enough.' He was detained until his name, address, age, and description were entered into a ledger ; then, over- whelmed with shame, he crept home, carrying the tin placard in his hand. As stealthily as though he were a thief he stole into the house, shutting the door behind him as quietly as BARNACLES 297 he could. He hirpled to the bed, climbed in, and turned his face to the wall. He had not cried when his mother was found dead. But now ! It is a pitiable thing to see blistering tears in the sightless eyes of one whose face is turned towards the wall. The seaman, who had enjoyed himself hugely as he passed from window to window like a bee going from flower to flower, at length returned home with eight big black buttons. He knew where Skelly kept the thread, the needles, the thimble. He would sew on the buttons and be ready to go out in the afternoon. He was thinking of these things when he reached the house. The door was ajar. He pushed in and at once went to the nearest bed. He could not believe his eyes. Ah ! it must be on Skelly's bed. He went there, near the fireplace. It too was empty. He turned over the clothes ; he went back to his own bed and pulled down its clothes. He ran to the box ; got down on his knees under each bed. Amazement gave way to stupefaction. As he rose to his feet the buttons dribbled out of his hand and rolled on the floor. Ghastly pale he was staring at the bed. The room began to swim about him and to get dark. He knew what was coming ; tried to put his hands up to his head ; but before he could do this he fell on the floor. . . . Blin' Ned, who had come home so softly, did not disturb him. The restrained sounds of his weeping from the room through the wall did not waken Hector. The blind was calling to the deaf. 298 BARNACLES XVII On this day of grace when the seaman lay with his trimmed beard on the coverlet ' seriously ill ' and his face peaked and drawn, the first instalment of the money that was to have been laid past in order to purchase a pony went to buy * port wine and brandy, beef tea,' and the bottle of the prescription those things which the medical practitioner with unconscious irony orders for the poor. The old man lay breathing, and no more. Barnacles, to help the straitened household, went to collect the arrears of pay due to him. On his way he posted a letter to one, Jacobina Dollington, of the village of Brieston in the West Highlands. The reader will perhaps remember that Barnacles, early in the course of these annals of Cotton Street, had seen in the columns of the Glasgow Herald an advertisement for an amanuensis. He had applied for the post and received a remarkable letter from this Jacobina Dollington, asking him if he thought and did like every one else ; if he was fond of money ; if he ever let his mind dwell on the present state of the human race in Scotland ; and many other questions of a like tenor which it baffled him to answer. Barnacles, having posted a meagre reply in which he said that the present state of the human race in Scotland, being due to the collective wisdom and evil of that race, must be as it was and no other, went on the office of the Town Clerk. And there along with his pay he received another letter. It was from Mr. Gilfillan, and saying that he regretted to hear that Mr. BARNACLES 299 Brocklehurst was once more in search of a job, and would he call at the banker's house on Friday evening ' to receive a doing for your carelessness and to dis- cuss with you another sort of job.' In the evening Barnacles burst hi on the banker in the billiard-room, saying that there had been no carelessness, and explaining that the state of his own conscience, and the uncertainty of his father's life, admitted of no delay. ' Well, well,' said the banker, { the milk 's spilt ; let it lie. I want to talk to you seriously about coming into the bank where I can have my eye on you.' ' If I can do anything to help you, I '11 be glad.' The banker smiled. ' I understand ; but this time it is the other way about. I wish to help you. All you need is a little discipline and you will turn out first rate.' ' I will be amenable,' answered Barnacles. * The pay is poor for a beginner ; but I have arranged with er others about that. If you attempt to break bounds hi the bank with sheep, dogs, or giraffes, you will be locked up hi a big steel safe.' ' I believe, sir, I am finished with sheep.' ' I hope so,' the banker shot out fervently. The door of the billiard-room was ajar. At that moment they heard a piano being played hi another room. It began with a dirge as of a requiem- wind on the tree-tops of a forest ; it made silences like the falling of snow ; and grew on the ear like the gathering of a tempest from the horizon of the deep. The effect on Barnacles was remarkable. Every expression, cadence, and swell of the music found an answering emotion on his face. At first the banker 300 BARNACLES went on explaining Barnacles' position and work in the bank ; but he soon recognised he was talking to a deaf man. Barnacles' head held high was moving about with the slow stately motion of a tall bird ; his body was swaying to the rhythm of the music ; now and again this movement would cease and Barnacles would lean forward, his lips parted, as if he were athirst. All at once he gripped the banker by the arm, and laid his mouth to the banker's ear. ' Who is it ? ' he whispered fiercely. ' Mrs. Normanshire ; didn't know she had come in.' Barnacles let go his hold of the banker and dragged himself to the door, which he opened as widely as possible. His face was like that of a sinner, getting glimpses of heaven which he is not allowed to enter. He came back to the banker, his face transfigured. ' It is a gift,' he said. The banker nodded approvingly. * Yes ; she 's got a decided gift ; her father had it.' Barnacles made a gesture as if he were in a rage. ' I don't mean that. It is a gift to me and you one with the great unsought gifts the dawn, the song of birds. I am poor and feeble. I am not worthy of this.' He held up his head to hearken as the music burst from the piano hi a storm of tears. ' Blessed are the fingers that are loading me with benefits,' he cried out in a loud voice. ' I have asked for nothing ; I am getting all all To the banker, now amazed, Barnacles appeared to be in high indignation. ' I have not shed one tear on her behalf ; her hands have laboured, her fingers have toiled to learn, and she is pouring it out on me full and beautiful and free.' BARNACLES 301 The banker had never thought of Mrs. Normanshire's exquisite playing in this striking way. ' She has paid for her learning,' he said, and his voice and his eyes were sad. ' Ah ! my God ! ' cried Barnacles, ' she is regal. What light she makes hi the world ! ' The music lingered, died, its echo hanging on the air like the dissipating scent of flowers. A cart rattled past on the road ; a late bee twanged across the garden, floating within its pleasant drone. Barnacles was listening to the enveloping silence, in whose heart slumbered the golden music, like a jewel within a crystal box sending out silent gleams of light. ' Is it finished ? ' he said, his mouth hanging open like a child watching the last of a mighty sunset, and asking its mother if the light would not return to the hill-tops. The banker shook himself like an old lion ; but before he could speak the music began once more. At the first notes Barnacles left the billiard-room with long soft strides ; and when the banker entered the drawing-room he discovered Barnacles standing hi the middle of the floor with his eyes fastened on Mrs. Normanshire. Mrs. Gilfillan was sitting at the other end of the room, a book open on her lap, staring at the tall apparition in the midst of the floor. On Mr. Gilfillan's entrance Mrs. Normanshire turned her head. Immediately her face crimsoned. ' Oh ! ' she gasped. Melodies unspeakable and unheard were thrilling the soul of Barnacles. He pointed at the piano. ' It is a sea of light and beauty ; I am a crass man ; I am unclean and halt and lame ' 802 BARNACLES She rose with burning face. ' I did not know you were listening,' she said. To Barnacles, she had an air of nobleness that was everlasting. He went straight up to her. * I was listening I had no right to come here.' The words poured out of him. ' I I wish to thank you I shall go away at once and remember always.' He felt in her presence a child of the dust. * Forgive me I am only a clod of earth ; I am ashamed ; I could not help myself some day I shall try to thank you.' He broke off with sobs in his voice. For a moment she gazed at his face, and then turned with quivering lips, and went straight to Mrs. Gilfillan. Barnacles stood trembling. His face was almost ugly, his appearance lank and ragged ; but there was in him an indescribable pathos, an unnameable sim- plicity and natural dignity, which touched the heart of Mrs. Gilfillan. ' Won't you play to him again or sing, my dear ? he 's in raptures over it.' Unable to speak, she shook her head. The banker flicked invisible sweat with his forefinger. ' Come on, Martha ! I haven't heard you sing for an age.' She looked at him mutely, beseechingly. ' I never hear music except in a theatre ; you paj r for it there ; a wee lilt, Martha. Barnacles says it is a gift from you to us ; isn't that so, Barnacles ? ' Each word of the invitation was piercing her heart. She looked around like a creature ready to fly, and saw Barnacles. He was trying to master his sobs. She spread out her hands, rose, and walked past him, almost touching him. BARNACLES 803 As soon as she sat down to the piano the banker put his hands in his pockets, sank back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Suddenly her voice broke out full and sweet as a flute: ' The winds from the West bring the clouds from the sea.' The song brought back all his wanderings, his home- lessness, and the secret pain of his love to the heart of Barnacles. The music of her voice was an earnest of a magnificence of wealth which she had something unattainable and secure from the sorrow of the world ; peace and hushed security ; an air of home. It burst into passionate longing ; swelled with beauty ; melted away like an evening fading into the depths of night, and came back from the odorous darkness laden with incense of things holy and mysterious. The sorrows that have no end sobbed through it. The air of the room was vibrating with angels' wings. The head of this woman was the white throne of angels. Barnacles was suddenly aware of a silence. The song had ceased. He stretched out his hands. ' This is a holy place,' he cried ; ' there are angels here it is lofty and terrible ' As he spoke he advanced towards her with the eyes of a man in a trance. She stood up to meet him, making a gesture with her hands as if to push him back ; but he came on until their eyes met one another's soul searching for soul. ' I did not know you were like this,' he said, with a shaking voice. He was groping for her hand. ' I feel as if you were calling to me.' Her parted lips, her face, her eyes drank hi his words. 304 BARNACLES Still they gazed, each viewing what is imperishable in the eyes of the other. ' Eh ! Barnacles, that was twenty-four carat ; your violin could not do that.' As if released from a spell Mrs. Normanshire took her eyes off his face and looked across the room as if she was lost. She began to move slowly towards Mrs. GilfiUan. * I think I will go,' she said in a fault voice ; ' I do not feel well.' The banker jumped. She smiled wanly and held out her hand to him. Mrs. Gilfillan, who had cast a swift glance at her face, took her by the arm. ' Come away, dear, you ought not to sing that song.' ' Come and see me,' she said to Barnacles as she bade him good-night ; ' there is something I must tell you.' There was a look of unspeakable suffering in her face. Barnacles was walking up and down, his emotion uncontrollable. ' I am sorry ; terribly sorry,' he was muttering to himself . ' I am not worthy ' * The heat of the room,' said the banker ; ' she takes headaches.' Barnacles was moving about as if there was no one in the room but himself. His eyelashes were wet. . . . When he left the house he raised his eyes to the sky. ' Pure and beautiful stars shine upon me, for I love you,' he said ; ' she is God's angel and God is kind to me.' BARNACLES 305 XVIII She was sitting on the seat in the garden, her knees crossed, her right arm resting on the seat and supporting her head. She had been reading when the twilight came, and the book lay idly on her lap. Upon its page was a flower one of the roses which Barnacles had sent her. The moonlight was falling upon her and she was gazing towards the moon, watching the flight of a bird a strange visitant in the silent heavens, per- haps making for another land. All was still. The shadows of the trees were at rest on the white earth like fairy children asleep in an ivory nursery. So clear was the atmosphere that in the north the mountains lifted their dark bulk on the sky like islands in a sea of white fire. Around their peaks the heavens were marshalling the armies of the stars ; and the lights in the Clyde valley beneath were like the reflection of the heavenly host. The mountains standing up and the stars looking down seemed to hang in a breathless silence in the midst of the stillness of the night. As she gazed into the dim spaces beyond the moon towards which the vagrant bird had vanished, on her face was enshadowed a tracery mingled of the trees and the stars. As Barnacles continued to watch she began crooning a little song. It was like the echo of the beating pinions of the lost bird. Barnacles, as if his eyes were directed by her, also looked beyond the ghostly moun- tains and the moon, and the music of her voice fell upon him upon his heart, upon his very face and u 306 BARNACLES hands, like the tears of a cry for what lay beyond the moon-mist and the arch of the night and the ocean of the stars. As he listened and gazed in rapture hi the line of her sight he saw a bridge many-hued spanning the hollow of the skies. It hung airy and shimmering, swaying to the rhythm of the music. Across it all in white a woman was walking. She was going to Gades of heart's desire on the rainbow road. As she stepped over the curve of the translucent path and was going down towards the moon, she turned her face and smiled at him. Then she went down the pearly road into the mists of the moon ; and the heavens were empty and a rain of tears was falling upon him in soft music. . . . He started forward with a cry and stretched out his arms. ' Not yet, Martha, not yet ; stay, stay a moment ; there is no other joy on earth ! ' Mrs. Normanshire heard the cry, and saw his hands stretched out to her. She could not rise from her seat. ' My God ! how forlorn/ he sobbed. ' I thought you were gone away for ever.' His face was working convulsively. ' It is better for me to go away for this to be over,' she said faintly. ' Shall I not come any more, any more ? ' His face had a dazed expression. ' There is no help for it I am ' She could not say more. He drew a deep breath. ' I shall obey,' he said. ' I am not worthy to be your guest ; I thank you for having permitted me to come and see you. I shall always have the remembrance of you in my heart. We cannot part there.' BARNACLES 307 He spoke as one taking a mournful farewell. Her face was in her hands. He gazed from her hidden face to the house. ' This place has been a home. I did not think mortal man could be so happy.' The terrible simplicity of these words was more fatal to her than the pleading of the most eloquent tongues. ' Oh ! stop, stop ! ' she moaned. ' I would not disturb you if I might come. I would be content to stand outside your window when you sing.' ' Stop, stop ; you don't know what you are saying ; it hurts, hurts terribly. I have no peace.' He was down on his knees, sobbing. ' I would not hurt you I would rather put my hand in the fire.' ' It is not the pain it is the danger.' Her voice was almost inaudible. The sight of the agony in her face aroused hi his soul a storm of yearning to protect her, he knew not from what. He put his hands about her feet. ' I am your slave,' he groaned. She was almost beaten. ' If you do not leave me now for ever you must take me away ' He stood up, his face full of joy. ' Let us go,' he cried, ' wherever you wish. I am ready.' He held out his arms. Death or life hung on her next word. She had only to stretch out her hand to bridge the narrow space between them, which deep as hell was also as high as heaven. She swayed towards him like a wind-beaten lily, and for the first time looked at him. His eyes full of light overwhelmed her. 308 BARNACLES ' wretched, wretched me ! ' she burst out, * my heart, my heart ' and clutching at her bosom as if a fire was there she burst into tears. Again he was on his knees. ' Why are you crying ? ' His voice broke. * Because the shame I cannot go it would break your heart.' Her tears were dripping fast. He held his palms to them, as a man in a desert perishing of thirst catches the rain. He was gazing at her as if she had just died. * I will give my life for you,' he cried. She lay as if petrified, hardly breathing. ' Don't, don't ; I have not the strength.' A great light was shining on his face. ' I shall go anywhere I will follow you ' She turned her face away from him. ' I am married.' These words came from her like a cry of despair. He was puzzled. ' Yes ; I know.' He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ' He is alive.' As she spoke she turned her head wearily and looked at him with eyes full of unutterable agony. She was trying to smile ; but her lips twitched, as if she were about to cry. Barnacles was filled with pity ; she was suffering before his eyes ; his impotence increased her misery. ' Let us part, Barnacles there is no peace on earth.' ' Is it because he is alive ? am I doing wrong ? am I harming any one ? I shall go away I shall do anything.' She looked at him wonderingly. BARNACLES 809 ' Do you not understand ? ' she whispered. Her words, and the yearning in her eyes, in the depths of which was a misty light he had never seen there before, thrilled his being. He hung upon her look, breathless. ' Is it Martha that ? * He could scarcely speak. ' God do you not see ? I love you ' There was something terrible in the despair of her voice and look as her cry melted away into the silence. The moon stood still ; the stars of heaven watched with a million eyes ; those two gazed dumbly at one another with a look deeper than words can reveal. In that gaze they lived a lifetime of agony and of bliss. 'You love me me' he repeated the incredible words ' you that are noble and wonderful my soul cannot endure that.' He threw up his hands. ' O flower of heaven ! let me walk with you for ever.' She put out her two hands like a blind person seek- ing to push away a menace. ' No, no ! it would be sin he would kill you he is terrible.' A wave of anger swept over Barnacles. ' Where is he ? ' His blue eyes flashed. ' I will go to him he shall not live to make you afraid.' Dissolved hi tears she clung to him like a child. * I cannot tell you he made my life a living death he would murder you.' ' My heart's blood is yours,' he burst out in passionate tenderness ; ' your fingers on me they make me your defence I only ask to be your shield.' The struggle for her was becoming too unequal. She felt she must yield, and lie on his breast, and be sheltered for ever. 310 BARNACLES ' Oh ! pity me ! pity me ! Barnacles,' she moaned. ' I want you ; but pity me my heart is frail. ' This cry opened his understanding at last. They looked at each other in speechless misery, in tenderest despairing love. * This is death/ he whispered. ' I love you for ever and ever.' He had won the battle for her. Her being was flooded with sorrow for him. She rose with a face like marble. She was scarcely able to stand. * I have no strength say good-bye ; good-bye, Barnacles good-bye.' She was pouring out these blind adieux to defend herself before it was too late. He took her two hands hi his ; they were like ice. * angel heart, farewell ! ' A light was shining on his face. ' You, peerless soul that love me, farewell.' So they stood, their hands in one another's ; one heart slowly breaking ; the other filled with the rapture of love and renunciation. It was the woman who at length bowed her head, lower and lower till her tears and her kisses, and the despairing sigh of a heart overwhelmed, were hot on his hand. It was her farewell, the final offering of her love exhausting in that moment all its treasures upon him who had a joy which the world could not take away, and who sat upon an eternal throne. XIX ' Barnacles, hae ye lost your granny ? ' said Skelly. Barnacles raised his head. ' I am leaving Paisley to-morrow,' he answered. BARNACLES 311 ' Goin' hame ? ' ' No ; I answered the advertisement of one Jacobina for an amanuensis. I have got the post.' 1 A whit ? ' ' Writing things,' answered Barnacles sadly. A stone was on his heart. Skelly looked at him keenly. * Hoo 's a' up by in Castleheid ? ' ' I cannot tell you now some other time, my good friend.' ' Ay ! ay ! things maun be some wy,' and Skelly sighed deeply for his friend's misfortune. Since the heavenly visitant had appeared in his house Skelly doubted of Barnacles' success. Few words passed between them. The little black bag was packed and Barnacles stepped to the bed-side. ' Are you feeling better ? ' he asked the seaman, who looked more than usual shrunken. ' Ay,' quavered the old man ; ' this is a braw hame. I 'm no' feelin' the caul'. I feel there is a God no' the wy I used to feel in a gale in another wy ; my he'rt 's lifted up. Am I no' weel happit here ? ' Barnacles bent down. ' I 'm going away.' The old man's face became alarmed. ' Whaur are ye bound for ? ' ' I 'm going up to the Highlands ; I 've got work there.' The old man sighed deeply. ' Man, Barnacles, aince ye lift anchor, God only kens whaur ye '11 let it go again.' He turned round on the bed, put out a wasted hand on Barnacles' sleeve, and whispered in a low voice, ' If ye meet a man on your 312 BARNACLES traivels weirin' a pilot reefer like mine, will ye let me ken?' ' I will,' said Barnacles. * God bless ye,' ejaculated the old man fervently, and as they shook hands, ' I hope ye '11 mand the port an' get good holding ground.' Barnacles turned away with misty eyes. ' Kitchener,' he said, ' I Ve written a lady's name and address on a piece of paper and put it inside the clock ; if you need any help at any time you are to go to this lady. She lives in Castlehead.' ' Are ye gaun awa, Barnacles ? ' * Yes, Kitchener.' ' Whaur to ? ' * Away up to the Highlands.' ' Whatna place is that ? ' * It 's where the sun rises out of the big sea hi the morning and crosses over the mountains and the heather all day.' The boy turned his glowing face to the window and gazed out on the dingy street. He rubbed one bare foot against the calf of his other leg. * And rabbits ? ' he asked, finger in mouth. ' Yes, Kitchener.' ' An' wee boats in the burns tryin' races ? ' ' Wee boats too, Kitchener.' ' Am I gaun wi' ye, Barnacles ? ' And Barnacles saw he had made a mistake in exploiting the treasures of the land. ' No ; you must wait with your grandfather.' ' He 's his pension an' his jaicket.' ' You must go to school.' A silence. BARNACLES 313 ' Wull ye be back the morn's nicht ? ' ' No ; but some time, Kitchener.' Wee Kitchener was perilously near to tears. ' Ye 're gaun to leave me ? ' There was a world of despair in the tone, which lacerated the heart of Barnacles. * Kitchener,' he said, putting his hand on the boy's thin shoulders, ' you 're to be a wee man. It 's as bad for me going away.' ' Whit wy are ye gaun, then ? ' And Barnacles was speechless for a minute. * I 'm going for work, Kitchener,' he said at last. And Kitchener broke into a storm of sobs. * I hate awa up in the Hielans ; dinna go dinna leave me.' Tears were streaming on the face of Barnacles as he ran out of the house. But there are no tears so full and so salt as the tears of the young, for they think that men have the power of the keys and can help them if they will. Barnacles' heart was burning with rage against the unknown Mr. Ganson Normanshire. It was his in- fluence working with the strange ramifications of evil that had made the boy to weep. Extreme loneliness surrounded the boy. The whole world was going away. He felt himself small and lost. The sight of the street was one big ache. The light had gone out in Paradise. Rather Paradise was where Barnacles had gone beside the sea, the wee boats, and the rabbits. Stifling his last sobs he picked up his cap and crept out. Choking down the last tears in his dry throat he reached the street. At the far end of it he saw Barnacles 314 BARNACLES and his father. Barnacles was carrying the fiddle-box and his father a black bag. Snuffling, wiping his eyes, and his heart hammering on his ribs, wee Kitchener followed afar off through the Square ; turning and twisting till the houses became high and dark and strange. Fear mastered affection. He came to a halt and stood staring. Along the Renfrew road he watched the two men go ; soon they were figures ; soon wee Kitchener could not recognise the beloved form any more further off they went, blurred, growing smaller and smaller. Wee Kitchener stood with his knuckles in his eyes, trying to suppress a storm of sobs. . . . The old man was alone with his broken heart. For three days he had concealed the loss of the beloved jacket. Sometimes his mind wandered, and he talked with old shipmates whom he accused of stealing the garment. On the second day in which he was in bed he said to Skelly : * Hoo was tred the day ? ' * I think ye 're gettin' doited, farther,' answered his son. ' I doot I am ' he passed his hand across his brow ' but did ye no' sell ony f ush the day ? ' * I 'm no' hawkin' noo, farther.' The old man trembled at what he was going to say. * I ken, I ken ; I was only jokin', thinkin' maybe if ye were traivellin' wi' the powny ye micht run across a man weirin' a pilot reefer jaicket wi' brass buttons.' ' Ay ! farther ; Paisley 's choke-fou o' men oot o' the Navy ; the High Street 's burstin' wi' brass buttons. BARNACLES 815 Ye ought to put your ain on an' gae oot amang them. It wad dae ye mair good nor doctor's bottles.' ' I wadna daur, Skelly ; they 'd only mak a mock o' me, an' ax me whaur I stealt it ; me a done auld man to be rigged up like a skipper. No no, I '11 just keep the jaicket in the kist.' ' A' richt, faither ; it '11 dae there brawly till ye get better.' The old man sighed. ' If ye ever see onybody in Paisley weirin' ane will ye let me ken, Skelly ? ' ' Hoots, faither, you an' your brass buttons ; dinna fash your heid wi' them.' Skelly was surely angry. The old man spoke no more to his son about the vanished jacket. He ate out his heart in silence. Barnacles' departure was the final blow. He was alone now, and his head was on fire. He babbled of ships ; he cried for his mother, whom he told concern- ing the jacket. When wee Kitchener after many wanderings reached home he was ignorant that his grandfather was dying. The delirium was passing away, and the old man lay prostrate with weakness, unable to speak, and scarcely breathing. He grew a little stronger towards the afternoon, and frequently asked for cold water, complaining of a burn- ing in his body. His eyes, which were grown very big, seemed to have devoured his sunken cheeks. His thirst became intolerable. ' Ye 're awfu' thirsty, grandfaither.' Wee Kitchener handed him the bowl and stood beside the bed. 316 BARNACLES ' Ay ! I could drink the hale Pacific. I 'm no weel, Kitchener/ he panted ; ' no' weel.' The water spilled down the white beard on to the bed-clothes. ' Can ye say the Lord's Prayer, Kitchener ? Dae they teach ye in the school ? ' ' Ay, grandfaither.' ' Say 't, then ; I 'm no' feelin' very weel.' The boy began to repeat the Lord's Prayer. ' Wur father which arch in heaven, hallood be Thy Name ; Thy kingdom come ' Suddenly the old man cried in a loud voice : ' Port-watch, square the yards ; let go the anchor ! ' The boy ceased. The tireless fingers on the coverlet were still. The words of command heard by no earthly crew struck on the ears of the Ancient Captain, who came and commanded that the anchor be lifted instead, and the last voyage of the wanderer be made into the immortal sea. Wee Kitchener was looking at his grandfather, expecting him to speak again ; but he was strangely quiet. ' Wull I say 't, grandfaither ? " Wur faither which arch hi heaven." ' Again he waited, but there was no answer. Wee Kitchener became afraid of the grey face, and stole away, leaving the empty bowl lying careened on the breast of the still form. He met blin' Ned in the close. Since his misadventure blin' Ned lived in a state of constant dread, fearing both the police and his old companion. So when wee Kitchener said : ' Wull ye come an' see grandfaither ? ' he asked suspiciously, ' What 's he wantin' ? ' BARNACLES 317 ' He wis wantin' the Lord's Prayer ; but he '11 no' wauken.' ' Is he no' weel ? ' ' He 's awfu' thirsty ; he drank three hale bow's fou o' watter.' Blin' Ned, with the curiosity of a criminal, had often wished to speak to the seaman again, in order to learn if he suspected in what way the jacket had disappeared. He followed the boy up the stair, and came into the room, feeling with his stick to the bed. He remem- bered the last time he had touched this bed, and his conscience rebuked him. ' Hector, are ye no' feelin' weel ? ' There was no answer. The blind man put out his hand. It touched a face. ' Hector ' his voice trembled ' it 's me, Ned ' silence ' Do you mind when the Dutchman fell off the top gallants at the Horn, as wat a night as ever fell ? Tell me again, Hector.' The blind man waited one moment, two. Then he leaned forward and whispered : ' Wauken, man ; I ken whaur your jaicket is wi' the braw buttons.' The blind man hung for a minute over the bed, hold- ing his breath. Then he turned to wee Kitchener and said, ' Your grandfaither an' me 'ill no' foregaither at the close-mooth ony mair.' ' WuU ye no', Ned ? ' ' Your grandfaither canna see ony mair nor blin' Ned 1100.' ' Whit 's wrang wi' him ? * ' He 's deid, like my mither.' 318 BARNACLES Wee Kitchener held up his white face full of awe to the blind man. * Is that the wy grandfaither 'ill no' wauken ? ' ' Your grandfaither 'ill no' wauken ony mair, or speak to ye ony mair. He 's awa to the Happy Land.' Wee Kitchener began to cry. * Whaur 's your faither ? ' * He 's awa up to the Hielans wi' Barnacles.' The silence of the death-chamber settled down on the room, broken only by the sobbing of the boy : ' They 've ta'en awa the fiddle whit wy is every one gaun awa an' an' leavin' me ? ' ' Did your grandfaither complean o' lossin' his jaicket ? ' ' Ay ! he was aye talkin' aboot it ' The sobs were fewer and deeper. ' Whaur is the Happy Land ? ' * It 's whaur blin' Ned 'ill see an' your grandfaither 'ill hae a braw new jaicket.' ' An wee boats in the burn, an' rabbits ? ' asked the boy. * No, nor boats, nor rabbits ; are ye daft, Kitchener ? ' Kitchener began to sob afresh. His grief roused the blind man to the necessity of the moment. ' Dinna tell the poliss,' he said ; ' they ''11 maybe say we killed your grandfaither.' 'No! I '11 no' tell.' ' We '11 tell the undertaker doon in the close. He '11 put your grandfaither in a coffin an' bury him.' ' Like the powny ? ' * Ay ! like the powny.' This frightened wee Kitchener, for the pony had never come back. He mistrusted the undertaker. BARNACLES 319 ' I 'd raither tell the wife that gied me the new pair o' buits an' the new suit.' ' Whatna wife is that ? ' ' I don't ken her name. It 's on a paper Barnacles gied me. I 'd rather go to her as to the undertaker.' ' An' whaur 's the paper ? ' ' It 's inside the nock.' And thus wee Kitchener came also to Castlehead, taken to Mrs. Normanshire's door by a message-boy, and to Mrs. Normanshire by a red-headed woman. He stood in the midst of the floor, bare-footed, cap in hand, and said : ' I 'm the wee boy ye gied the buits tae ; Barnacles telt me to come ; he 's awa up to the Hielans wi' my faither ; an' blin' Ned telt me my grandfaither's awa to the Happy Land.' For the first time in his life wee Kitchener was gathered to a woman's breast. . . . Skelly walked down to the edge of the Clyde at Renfrew ferry along with Barnacles. They stood in silence watching the ferry-boat cross that was to carry Barnacles over the river on the beginning of his tramp through Dumbarton to Arrochar and into Argyll. The chain of the boat creaked and groaned with the strain ; the tawny Clyde lapped at their feet from the surge of a passing liner. Barnacles' lips were quivering as he held out his hand. ' I will come back as soon as I can,' he said. ' Paisley is in my heart.' ' May ye never be nae waur nor I wish ye,' answered Skelly in his gruff voice, and wringing Barnacles' hand he turned and walked swiftly up the slip ; nor never once looked back. 320 BARNACLES It was a long walk to Paisley, but Skelly all the way hardly slackened his step. In this way he fought down his emotion. When he reached his home he found a red-haired woman on her knees in prayer and blin' Ned standing, cap in hand, in the midst of the floor. Skelly looked round about for his son. His - eye fell on the grey face on the pillow. XX Patrick Normanshire and Barnacles met in a hay- shed during a thunderstorm on the shores of Loch Fyne and slept together. When Patrick awoke in the morning he found his companion already up. Barnacles' jacket was almost splitting across his shoulders. ' We 'd better change,' he said. ' Change what ? ' asked Barnacles, on whose shoulders a jacket was hanging as limply as if it hung on a line. ' Our locality,' and Patrick burst out laughing. ' Yes ! let us move on in God's name, for I am hungry. Hunger is like rust. It eats.' ' Where are you going to get your breakfast ? ' asked Patrick. ' I 'm going to play my violin in the streets of the first town.' ' That is Inveraray, across the Loch ; but we '11 have to swim or walk round ; I ' ve got no money for the ferry.' ' I have a shilling left,' said Barnacles, and began searching the pockets of the clothes he wore. BARNACLES 321 ' You won't find a shilling there,' Patrick was laughing again, ' you Ve got on my clothes.' ' That is why I could not find my specs. You will find the case in the inside pocket of the jacket.' Barnacles received his spectacles and they took the road to the ferry. ' Look here ! you may get landed in jail in Inveraray.' ' What for ? ' * Playing in the streets ; for being a vagrant.' ' Nonsense,' said Barnacles ; ' I 've played in the streets of Paisley.' * Anyhow, you must come from somewhere and be going somewhere. Wandering men are arrested.' ' I 'm going to Brieston,' said Barnacles. Patrick stopped dead on the road. * Are you ? so am I.' ' Let us go together,' answered Barnacles; 'my name is Barnacles.' ' Barnacles ! Yes ; so you said last night ; and mine is Patrick.' ' 1 know another Irishman ; a cobbler ; he taught me to play the violin.' * Confound you, I 'm not an Irishman ; I 'm from Argyll here.' Patrick stamped on Argyllshire. * Are you going home, then ? ' 'Yes; lam.' ' I am leaving home,' answered Barnacles. Silence fell between them. Each was busy with his own thoughts. At high noon Barnacles unshipped his violin in Inveraray, and the first copper was got in a side street 322 BARNACLES near the Cross, from an old bent man who wore a round bonnet, and sea-boots beneath his trousers. They got more money ; they got bread and butter, herring and cheese. ' The world is full of kindly hearts,' said Barnacles, looking over the edge of his violin. * In memory of a policeman, I 'm going to sing,' answered Patrick ; and his beautiful tenor voice went soaring on the still air. ' The winds of the West bring the clouds from the sea, My passion as restless breeds nothing but fears ; The night brings the stars to the breast of the sky, My love is all barren with heartache and tears.' Barnacles had taken the violin from his chin, and stood gazing at the singer as if he had suddenly appeared beside him from the skies. - ' Where did you learn that song ? ' he asked. A woman flung open a window. A penny fell and rolled near their feet. A shudder went through the body of the singer. ' My God ! ' he said fiercely, ' what am I doing singing that song in the streets of Inveraray ? ' He gripped his companion by the arm, ' Let us go away from here ; there are people at those windows looking at me.' The waif and the wren left the street. A child darted from a door and picked up the penny. XXI They walked on all that day towards a wall of blue jagged mountain that marched down to the sea, and at full dusk, when birds become silent, they halted for BARNACLES 323 the night in the lee of a wood beside a little burn above the sea. ' How superbly He does it,' said Barnacles. 'Who.' ' The lighter of the stars. Hark ! ' The immemorial silence was around them. Patrick's eyes followed the blue smoke of his pipe upwards. * What an ocean ! ' said Barnacles, ' up there ; it declares the glory of God.' And taking up his violin he began to play softly. Tune after tune slipped into the air, till a melody pregnant with fate for these two cried from the fiddle to the crooning sea : ' The winds of the West bring the clouds from the sea.' Patrick, who had been silent nearly all day since they left Inveraray, was startled out of his brooding, and gazed at the face of the player. ' Where did you learn that air ? ' he asked, when the tune was finished. ' Is it not exquisite/ answered Barnacles, ' here in the open ? ' ' Where did you hear it ? ' Ah ! if only they knew how much depended on the answer ! The strained voice of the man at his side caused Barnacles to scan the white face that leaned towards him. Its dark eyes were glittering. ' I learned it from one who is all-precious to me.' ' Go on ; her name ? ' ' Martha Normanshire.' A weight of unpenetrable silence fell from the 324 BARNACLES heavens upon them. In the dark hills, on the gloom of the sea, every sound was hushed. Patrick's face was livid. He was staring at his companion, who was now lying with his hands beneath his head gazing up into the sky, the violin across his breast, and his face full of joy. Jealousy seized the starved soul of Patrick. This lantern- jawed fool was living in some happy memory. He gazed fascinated at the dreamer's happy face, greedily devouring it as if something of Martha was there. His heart went on fire. ' You sang that song to-day in Inveraray,' Barnacles said unexpectedly. He was still smiling at the sky. ' Is it any monopoly of yours ? ' Patrick put all the weight of his hatred into these words, as if he was driving home a dagger. ' No,' answered Barnacles mournfully ; ' I only wondered where you had heard it.' ' From her ; from her,' burst out Patrick ; ' by God, you were smiling ! ' Barnacles stretched out his hand and touched him. ' You are suffering,' he said. Patrick shook off the hand with a feeling of loathing. ' Am I ? What are you questioning me about ? ' 'Do you love her too? ' said Barnacles, in a tender voice. His words maddened Patrick. ' Away, you and your cursed smile ! I never want to see you again.' Barnacles once more stretched out his hand. ' Brother ! ' he said. There was such a look of yearning in the blue eyes that it drove Patrick to frenzy. ' Damn you, baby face ! what are you looking at me BARNACLES 325 like that for ? What do you know of her ? ' he jumped to his feet and swung his arm. Barnacles attempted no defence. He sat motionless, his head bowed. But the fist did not descend. The hand fell on the speaker's breast, and began clawing there, as if it would tear out the heart. ' I knew her,' he said fiercely ; ' she was tender and gentle. When she was in the room in a white dress, a moonstone at her breast, pure as herself she would turn round her head at the piano and smile for me, do you hear smile for me ; we understood each other what do you know ? ' He made a threatening gesture over the bent figure, and walked hurriedly away. Barnacles did not raise his head or make any move- ment. After a long time he came crashing out of the wood, and a good way off stopped and watched the dim form of Barnacles ; then he walked up softly, as if afraid of disturbing him. Barnacles was lying with his face to the stars as if he were dead. Patrick stood over him, his eyes glittering down, though they were in a fixed stare. His chest was rising and falling with a slow deep move- ment like the waves of the sea after a gale. ' Did you ever kiss each other ? ' His voice had the hissing sound of his brother's. 'No.' ' Did you take her in your arms ? ' 'No.' ' What have you got of hers, then, that you smiled ? ' ' Everything.' The face brooding over Barnacles filled with black blood. It was singularly like the artist's. 826 BARNACLES * Everything ; what is everything ? ' ' Love,' answered Barnacles. ' Did you touch her person ? ' ' Yes ; her hand.' Patrick's body collapsed on the heather. Barnacles turned upon him eyes full of pity. ' Your heart is bleeding, my brother.' Patrick rolled over and buried his face in the heather, and lay perfectly still. Barnacles touched him on the shoulder. ' Patrick.' No answer. ' Patrick.' ' What do you want ? ' in a choked voice. ' I suffer too.' ' Is it eating the heart out of you ? ' 4 It can never do that ; love is greater than pain, and stronger than misery.' And the madness of Patrick's jealousy was gone. He knew he had wronged this man. He lifted a haggard face. ' I wanted to murder you ; I fought it down in the wood,' he said. There was no answer. Barnacles' face was no longer turned to the skies, but lay sidewise on the heather, pale as snow. Patrick sprang to him. ' Are you going to fault ? ' he cried. A smile was struggling on Barnacles' face. ' Some water please,' he gasped. The burn was close at hand. Patrick burst through its fringe of rowan and birch and filled his cap. Barnacles' eyes were closed. He looked as if he BARNACLES 327 were dead. Patrick, choking with fear, kneeled beside him and bathed his temples and moistened his lips, allowing the water to trickle between them. Sigh after sigh came from Barnacles' breast like weary birds escaping from a cage deep rending sighs ; and the eyelids fluttered like the wings of a wounded butterfly. ' Are you feeling better ? ' c Don't be alarmed, it 's passing away ; I 'm not hardened to tramping want of food.' Presently he gave another deep sigh and said, ' Poor old man, is this how you felt ? I haven't been compassionate enough.' ' What are you talking about ? ' asked Patrick anxiously. ' An old gentleman I know in Paisley ; he takes faults.' Patrick pondered his face. ' You have been speaking all day of Paisley ; did you live there ? ' ' Yes.' ' Was it there you met her ? ' he asked in a low voice. ' Yes.' Patrick's face was bewildered. ' Do they live there now ? ' His voice broke on a note of anxiety. ' Only her.' Barnacles' companion had been sitting quietly plucking the heather. As soon as Barnacles spoke, he lifted his head swiftly, and a light leapt into his eyes revivifying his face. He leaned towards Barnacles till their faces nearly touched. 328 BARNACLES * Is he dead ? ' he asked eagerly. ' No ; she has left him.' The face came nearer, slowly, more in front of him and above him, as if some mysterious power in Barnacles were drawing it. Barnacles saw above him teeth bared to the gums, and a face white and savage in the moonlight ; and into his ear dropped like molten lead the one word ' Divorced.' A shudder ran through Barnacles. He shrank back from the face breathing fire upon him. ' Not that,' he said ; ' she left him. She said he would murder me. Don't let us talk of it.' He covered his face with his hands as he heard the horrible grinding of his companion's teeth. * Tell me,' Barnacles' hand was gripped by the wrist, ' one thing more. Where in Paisley is she ? ' ' Castlehead,' answered Barnacles, who pulled his hand away, and rolled over and covered his head with his arms. These were the last words they ever spoke to one another. Barnacles heard his companion get up and go away towards the sea. Hour after hour passed. At last he returned, creeping silently to Barnacles' side. He got down on his knees and gazed at the weary face of the sleeping man, and the tear-stained cheeks. . . . Barnacles dreamt that he was cast, bound hand and foot, into a sea of fire among the heather, which burned from horizon to horizon. He leapt to his feet trembling, and found that the dawn was abroad. Bracken was clinging to his clothes ; at his feet was a pile of bracken. He had been covered with it during the night. BARNACLES 329 * God bless the man who did it,' he said, looking up to the sky. Barnacles walked on near the mountains beside the sea alone. The sea was intensely bright. The cry of sea-fowl was carried among the rocks. The wind blew the crows about the sky, and crackled in the heather. The mists whirled upward as though in flight with fear. . . . It was night when Barnacles stood high over the salt-bleached walls of an old sea-town, whose harbour rustled with a fishing fleet. Its lights twinkled all round the harbour. Its shore-street was full of boys playing. They directed him to the house of Jacobina. The house stood above the shore, and a light from a window streamed out upon Barnacles' face as he opened a rustic gate and stooped beneath a mass of honeysuckle which covered its arch. The door of the house was shut ; a window in the French style open. When Barnacles knocked at the door a voice said : ' Come in this way.' Barnacles entered by the window. He saw a plump little woman of some sixty years, with pale face and rather sad eyes, seated at a table, writing. A cat stood on the table watching her. * I am Mr. Brocklehurst,' he said, ' your amanuensis.' She laid down the pen at the feet of the cat. ' How did you come ? ' she asked. ' I walked.' ' That 's good ; I like you for that. Do you readily lose your temper ? ' ' I am not aware/ stammered Barnacles, taken by surprise. A ripple of laughter filled the room. 330 BARNACLES * I don't think so, or you might have lost it just now. I have unusual ideas. My amanuenses get mad and leave. If there is any sort of intolerant devil hi you, you might leave now.' ' I shall stay,' answered Barnacles ; ' I am footsore and hungry.' He laid down his violin-case and black bag. ' Very good,' answered the lady ; * I shall get water and mustard for your feet, and food for your hunger. I am glad that you walked.' ' I had no option ; I am penniless.' ' The mouth of the world is parched crying for money,' said this strange lady, as she hurried out of the room. Barnacles went to the open window. He had never looked at the sea from a house before. The moon was shining on the shore, on thatched roofs, and lay in a silver band across a loch. This silver band was full of little curling waves. There was a dreamy plash on the shore, whose music stirred the soul of Barnacles. He saw many little ships, the host of a fishing fleet, some with brown sails, moving hi the midst of the moonlit waters ; and some without sails, whose masts sloped up in the light with an aspect of great patience. Barnacles drew a deep breath. ' My God ! ' he said, ' I did not know the world was so lovely.' A quiet voice behind him said : ' Then you are not indifferent ? ' He turned swiftly. * It saddens me, madame ; it is full of pain ; I can hardly bear to look at it.' ' That is a new point of view. I am anxious for new ideas ; tell me what you mean.' BARNACLES 331 ' I cannot bear to share it alone. I have a child in Paisley. If he were here ' ' Then you are married ? ' A frown gathered on the lady's face. Barnacles reddened. * No ! no ! I am not married. It is a child I love dearly. It is not my own. His mother is dead. His father is poor and has lost his pony. If he were here it would be twice beautiful.' ' Are they clean, these poor people ? ' the lady asked eagerly. ' The father was a soldier. He has learned to wash. He mends the clothes and the boots. The house is as clean as yours,' and Barnacles looked round, and saw the cat chasing the pen across the table. ' Sit down,' she said, ' and eat. I am interested in a poor clean home. Tell me about them.' Thereupon Barnacles told the story of the house of Cotton Street. When he was finished, the little lady said : * I am rich ; but I give no money to the poor. It is a trap for them. It robs them of independence, and makes them lazy. But I will give a pony to your friend.' ' Thank you, madame,' said Barnacles, and rising took her hand. She manifested her surprise at this simple proof of emotion. ' I hate thanks,' she said. ' So do I,' answered Barnacles, * it makes me feel small.' ' And why have you thanked me ? ' ' I don't know ; I could not help it.' 332 BARNACLES Another laugh rippled. ' Wash your feet now,' she said ; ' I am going to like you,' and added, ' Don't ask me for the pony again ; I shall give it in my own time.' ' Very well, madame.' ' And you must go with it : I will not pay money for sending it. I am going to give the pony and no more.' ' I can walk,' answered Barnacles. ' By and by ; first of all you must write for me some pressing letters. Good-night ; breakfast 's at seven. I advise you to bathe hi the sea in the morning.' She came back to say, ' When you go with the pony, you can bring back the little boy.' . . . He was awakened in the morning by the sea, and thought it was the murmuring of Cotton Street. ' What an awakening by the horn of the waters,' he cried in glee, and leapt out of bed. But Cotton Street was hi his memory, and Castle- head. Again he heard a voice, fresh as the skies and breaking like the day over his soul, saying, ' I love you.' He was oblivious to his surroundings. He thought of the song that had brought his companion such misery last night. Whither had he gone ? He too loved her. Who could help loving her ? It was a natural thing. The heavy waves rolled in, measuring their plunge. In their sound he heard the glory of her voice. With shining eyes and face all luminous, he went down to meet this Jacobina. Whither had his companion gone ? He was startled out of his reverie by a voice asking him if he had bathed in the sea. BARNACLES 888 XXII His companion was in Paisley, inquiring the way to Castlehead. As he was going along the High Street he heard a voice : ' Young man, we meet again.' She wore a high narrow bonnet which made her lean face stand out like the prow of an ancient galley. Her red hair seemed to take on a deeper flame from her fierce tone. He stopped dead. * It is you,' he said, gazing heavily at her like a man in a stupor. ' I have put it before God again and again to find you, but He did not answer my prayer. It was not the Lord's fault or mine. I wanted you ; no temptation. Where have you been, young man ? you 're as thin as a hen's leg.' ' I am here now ; what is the matter ? ' She banged the point of the umbrella on the pavement. ' The matter is that you were a fool, and the devil is going up and down tearing his hair ; I mean like a raging lion ' she pushed his shoulder with the handle of the umbrella ' for the last week she 's frightened ; ever since that Barnacles went away ; a fine young man ; he ought to have been a minister.' ' I know him,' answered Patrick in a sombre tone. ' You do ; then take an example from him. Since he went away, all day and night she is frightened. Would you smile at my knees, young man ; no temptation ; they 're hard as calves' hoofs wrestling with God for her.' Patrick's face blanched. 334 BARNACLES ' Is danger threatening her ? ' * Don't shake ; don't shake,' she said severely ; ' bring me to a more private place and I will tell you. There are prying ears passing.' ' I don't know this town,' he laughed bitterly. ' Come with me,' she said. She led him to the place where Barnacles and his father had been, and ordered tea, warning the girl in a loud voice, ' No leavings now ; fresh tea, if you please,' and laid her black cotton gloves on the table, along with an umbrella which pointed like a gun at Patrick. She leaned forward, closing her left eye. ' He is cunning,' she said, ' cunning as a flea.' He knew, yet asked. * Who are you talking about ? * ' Who ? Satan, your brother.' She opened her eye and made a curving movement with her hand, the lean fingers spread out like talons, ' A hawk, Satan ; he has no horns.' ' What has he done ? ' She laughed out loudly. ' He made you dance to his tune ; he left you drunk ; he put you in jail,' she gave him a vicious jab with her forefinger ; ' but you are nothing ; just a fool ; it is her ; he married her ; he tormented her ; tears, poor lamb, she wept an ocean ; the cries I have heard, and the moans ; what has he done ; he filled the house with bawdy women ; may the devil bring him to hell. I have asked God to punish him. Where were your eyes, you proud high face. You should have seen through his tricks. Was she to know, the poor lamb. Young man, you have lost heaven.' ' My God ! ' he groaned. BARNACLES 335 ' Sit down ; sit down,' she pushed him back into his seat ; ' could you not smell Satan burning ? She 's frightened night and day for a week. Her eyes have melted away with tears. There 's nothing left of her but the angel.' ' What is she afraid of ? ' His voice was unnaturally calm, but his face was working convulsively. ' He may do murder. She does not sing now. She used to sing hi a little voice. I used to listen at the door on my knees.' He stood up, his frame as rigid as iron, and spread out his hands. ' Have I no hands ? ' he said, in a daze of pain. ' Good Mrs. Beezle, let us go.' There was something terrible in the intensity of his passion even to Mrs. Beezle. A shadow of fear came into her eyes. ' Tell him it must end,' she stammered ; ' he '11 get a thousand pounds if he '11 go away to America' she clutched his arm ' get him away, young man ; she 's dying with fright of something. She hasn't left the house for a week. She doesn't eat. I hear her crying through the door.' A smile hovered on his lips a terrible smile. 4 Good Mrs. Beezle,' he answered, ' it will end. Take me to your mistress.' He was shocked by the change in her appearance. She looked as if she had risen from a long and grave illness. He was awed by her white hair. ' You are changed,' he hardly knew what he was saying. His gaze rested on her head. She smiled pitiably and touched it with her hand. 336 BARNACLES ' I never thought, Patrick, I would see you again. I have prayed that you might come ' He checked her by a gesture. * It is me who ought to have prayed. I have heard all from Mrs. Beezle and from one who calls himself Barnacles.' A smile flickered across his face. A cry escaped her. ' Where did you see him ? is he safe ? ' The sight of her face and this cry from her heart revealed her secret to him. An intense hatred of Barnacles again took possession of him. He raised his bloodshot eyes. ' Yes, he is safe ; your husband's malice will not reach him.' A sigh fluttered from her breast. She walked up to him, her arms hanging loosely, a spent look on her face. ' Will you forgive me, Patrick ? dear God, I would die of shame if you despised me now.' She raised her eyes full of agony to his, and tears gushed from them. ' I will kneel to you,' she moaned, * if you will forgive me.' Her anguish tore his heart.. It was his folly that had left her hah* like snow, and was filling her even now with unspeakable fear. * I would forgive you willingly, Martha, if there was need ; but there is none ' he made a choking sound hi his throat. ' I was blind, blind ; I see it now ; the fault is mine ; but I am going to mend it. I owe you a service ' the blood was roaring in his ears and making a mist hi his eyes ; the same terrible smile was on his lips that Mrs. Beezle saw. ' I am going to send him away.' BARNACLES 337 ' No ! no ! ' she cried out in fear, ' do not go near him ; he is terrible ; he will murder you I ' Her fear for him revealing the deep fountain of her tenderness made his heart swell, and drove out the last shadow of jealousy. These words began to echo in his brain, ' He will die to-night.' With a supreme effort he restrained the sudden desire to fling his arms around her and crush her to his breast. He was forced to walk away from her and sit down beside the window overlooking the spot where Barnacles and Mrs. Normanshire had last met. She followed him and went down on her knees. ' Promise me, Patrick, you will not go near him ; he said such awful things about us.' He saw the crimson flooding her face. ' Ah ! my God ! ' he brought out, and put his arms blindly round her shoulders. She sank down at his feet and laid her brow against his knee, and began to sob. ' He is terrible ; his eyes I see them sometimes in the night.' ' TeU me,' he said, ' what did he do ? ' ' No ! no ! it is past.' ' Tell me ; tell me ' he put his hands on her hair as if the touch would heal. The caress broke her down. The horror which she had shared alone for a year burst from her, and the telling of it frightened her anew. ' He drew a razor across the throat of the picture ; he painted it like blood ; he said he would do something worse. He never shut his door ; he was always listen- ing and watching ; he walked about at night. I could hear his breathing outside my door ' the remembrance broke her down uncontrollablv. ' I had no friend in 338 BARNACLES the world except God and Mrs. Beezle.' These pitiable words made him writhe ; his being was filled with the despair of remorse. ' O ! ! ! ! ! ! he killed my poor mummy ; I was frightened to die ; I asked him to kill me.' As he felt the shuddering of her body, it seemed to him as if he was plunged in burning lava. In this woman, whose very word had thrilled him, and who had given to his life an incomparable exaltation, there was nothing left but unassuagable pain. Though fiendish hatred of his brother v/as burning in his breast, he marvelled yet at the heroism which made her support the shame and horror of that infamous house. True heart ! orphaned and broken ! He put her away gently from his knee and rose, drawing himself up to his full height. He sliowed no external trace of what he was feeling, except that his face was ghastly white, and that having lifted his hands and looked at them, he raised them clenched in a silent gesture towards the ceiling. She also rose and faced him. ' You, too have suffered ' ; she was still sobbing. ' That is all over,' he said. * The hour of my re- demption is come ; I am glad that I saw you again ; I am going away on a far journey.' She clung to his arm like a drowning child. ' Don't go ; don't ; I have so few friends.' He took her hands in his. * Have patience ; patience,' his voice broke ; ' your sufferings are at an end ; you will be happy yet.' He released her hands, put his own upon her head, and swiftly stooping, kissed her on the brow. The blood roared in hia ears, the mist was again before his eyes BARNACLES 339 as he ran from the room. When he reached the front door he saw a long sword with a basket handle hanging against the wall. He reached up, seized the sword beneath the handle, and wrenched out the nail. Mrs. Normanshire saw him. The sight turned her blood to water. ' Patrick ! Patrick ! ! ' her cry of horror rang through the house. The front door clanged to hi answer. She ran to the door and into the garden. It was already empty ; and the wooden door in the wall was slightly ajar. She gazed about her in a dazed way, as if expecting to see some one in the garden. One of her hands wandered up to her face, to her head, in the manner of one trying to recall something. A mavis was singing in the twilight on the highest branch of a beech, for it is there at his angelus this songster mounts to face the last light. She looked up at the bird and listened to the prodigal melody. ' birdie ! birdie,' she moaned, ' you will break my heart ! ' and sank on the seat where she had told Barnacles her love. The careless bird poured forth his rapture over her head. XXIII Ganson Normanshire had sought unweariedly for his wife high and low ; had inserted advertisements in the newspapers, and had employed detectives. His loneliness, his despair, and his evil courses had wrecked 340 BARNACLES his body, blighted his mind, and killed his soul. His one fixed idea had been to discover his wife, in order that he might observe her torment. Mingled with his hatred was jealousy. He tortured himself, imagining she was kissing other men. In those terrible hours she became dearer to him than life itself. Sometimes when he was in the midst of an orgy, she would appear before his burning eyeballs ; and he would follow this phantom thing through the house, entreating it, or firing at it with a revolver. The walls, the doors, the furniture were riddled with bullets. But the phantom gave him no rest. He went from silent room to silent room of the dread house, following those flower-like eyes and luminous face which for ever beckoned him on. Sometimes he screamed * Where is my brother ? ' and the smoke of the revolver curled up in a sea of silence. The face shining with an unearthly light, the body clothed in a garment of flame, ceased to recede and began to pursue him. When the echo of his screams rang through the empty rooms, he imagined they were the rattling of chains about to bind his limbs in order that the face would come and perch upon him like a bird of prey. The face was near him now. ' Patrick ! ' he screamed, ' take it away.' A profound stillness filled the room, as if the phantom had drenched the darkness with the silence and shadow of death. As he raised the revolver to fire, a knocking sounded on the outer door. He put down the revolver on the top of a bookcase, and was about to drag some furni- ture against the door, when the knocking rang once BARNACLES 841 more through the house ; and before he could stir the front door opened. * Patrick ! ' he screamed. ' I am here, Ganson,' a deep voice answered, and Patrick was in the room, standing over his trembling brother like an executioner, with the sword of the martyrs in his hand. As they looked at one another a church bell rang somewhere in the city. As they still gazed the bell, the voice of the twilight, ceased, and gloom descended on the house. Patrick, without speaking, walked near the fire, sat down, put the sword ready to his hand in the angle which the bookcase made with the wall. * Take a seat, my brother,' he pointed to a chair at the other side of the fireplace, ' and let us talk.' XXIV He was wearing ragged slippers; his clothes, badly stained, were half open ; his face, with its sunken eyes, was that of a ravaged debauchee. The room was filled with the smell of decay from dead flowers, perhaps used once at an orgy. Patrick, who was examining his brother and the room, which painfully reminded him of the old, gracious life, was startled by his brother's voice. ' This house is full of ghosts. They squeeze the blood out of my heart ! ' ' You are not looking well,' answered Patrick, in a quiet tone. 842 BARNACLES ' I 'm living in a grave ' ; his teeth began to chatter. ' I am going to Paris in the morning.' ' Where is your wife ? ' ' Gone.' A sneer came into his face. ' The company of an obscure artist was too rude.' ' Ah ! could you not see, my dear brother, how it would end ? She threw me over, then you ; ha ! ha ! ha ! and left you in a grave. I was not cunning enough. I ought to have married her in spite of all. I would not have starved in a hole in Glasgow then. I would have got money.' ' Curse her ! she 's gone, money and all ! ' ' I condole with you, my brother. What an escape I 've had.' The artist leaned forward, bared his teeth, and hissed : ' She despised my pictures ; she called me a monkey ; but she used to crouch like a dog when I passed her.' * Your very shadow made her tremble, did it not, my brother ? ' ' She angered me,' his voice shook with rage ; ' by heaven, you got your revenge.' ' Thanks, my brother, thanks ' : he put his hands in his trouser pockets to conceal their trembling. ' Is it not strange, though, how cruel we can be to the weak ; crueller, I mean, than we need be ? ' ' It 's like sticking a needle into a frog ' the artist began to lick his lips, ' the more it squirms the more you prick it. I remember when I was at school how I used to let the needle sink slowly in. I could feel it up my arm sinking into the softness.' ' So you could ; so you could ; frogs or women ' : a smile was playing round the lips of Patrick, BARNACLES 843 ' She angered me, I tell you, with her proud face. And chaste ; what a chaste wife you lost, Patrick. If I brought a lady friend into the house, she would not speak to me for two days.' Patrick jumped to his feet, and a sound of broken glass startled the artist. His brother, who was stand- ing with his back to him, had snapped a whisky glass hi his hand. Blood was spurting from it. Patrick faced his brother. ' It is stupid of me,' he said, holding out the frag- ments, ' breaking helpless things.' ' It is good sport sometimes,' said the artist ; ' is it a drink you 're after ? ' ' Devil ! ' ejaculated the younger brother, and threw the fragments of glass on the fire. ' What ? ' said the artist, starting up in his chair. ' Her ! her ! she jilted me, you know ; I am more than avenged ' : he drew his hand across his eyes and downwards. It left a red smear on the low part of his brow like a cross. The artist burst out laughing. ' Damn ! I could paint you now as a lost angel, dabbled with blood.' The younger brother began moving about the room, with a step like that of a caged tiger. ' Oh ! paint/ he said, ' that reminds me. I had the extreme pleasure once of seeing your work in the galleries, my brother. I would like to see it again, if you would be so kind. The portrait, you under- stand.' The artist jumped up, and went to a pair of curtains hanging from two brass rods which, fixed hi the wall, met, forming with the wall as base an isosceles triangle, 344 BARNACLES The artist drew the curtains and revealed the portrait standing on an easel. ' I keep it beside me for heart's ease,' he said. * Bring it out, my brother into the light.' The artist lifted out the easel, and beckoned on his brother, who stepped forward and stood beside him. Then* shoulders touched. Neither of them spoke nor moved. The silence hi the room was like the grave as they gazed at the portrait. It was horribly mutilated. The canvas was slashed across the throat, and the gash painted red. One eye was gouged out. The mouth, wide and slack, was set in a distorted grin. One hand had been hacked off at the wrist and left a bleeding stump. The Greek robe, once white, was scarlet. Over the left breast was painted an Ace of Hearts with a dagger sticking in the centre of the heart. Round about the feet were strewn the silken garments and ribbons of a woman ; and across one naked foot, from which the billowing silk had ebbed away, a snake was coiled. ' Behold Helen of Troy ; it 's a masterpiece.' The artist's voice rang with pride. The younger brother looked over his shoulder at the sword. ' It 's not finished, though ; I 'm going to mix arsenic with paint and put it there. He placed his forefinger on the Ace of Hearts. ' Shall I put a wreath of nettles on her head, think you, Patrick ; or is it too crude ? I thought of a horned little devil dancing naked before her, but there is no room on the canvas.' His voice was full of enthusiasm. ' Do you mean to kill her ? ' Patrick whispered in his brother's ear. BARNACLES 845 ' Yes, like that ' he indicated once more the Ace of Hearts ; ' I will put the knife in a little till it bleeds.' ' Like the toad, I think you said/ ' Exactly ; it goes in like that slowly.' Patrick was all at once aware of his bleeding hand. He raised it and looked at the blood as if it belonged to some one else. Shaking himself like a dog, he stepped forward, laid his bleeding hand on the throat, and allowed his blood to sink into the wound on the canvas. * Quite fantastic,' cried the artist hi glee, his eyes gleaming with malicious mirth. Still Patrick kept his hand there, and all the time gazed into the smiling eye of the canvas. He pressed his hand hard on the cut throat, and said : ' She smiles.' ' It was for you she smiled,' the artist answered with sudden rancour, lowering upon his brother. ' For me I think she was good and tender to every one see, my blood is weeping there like tears.' At this moment a sound was heard without the room one of those sounds which occur hi a still house as if the furniture in the dead of night came to life. The artist started back and threw up his head. ' Did you hear a step outside, Patrick ? ' Patrick took his hand from the canvas. ' Yes,' he said in a low voice, ' hell is moving, my brother.' The artist's face became white with fear. He ran to the door, turned the key, tore it out, hesitated un- certain what to do with it, and running back threw it in the fire. ' Ganson ! ' At the sound of his name the artist jumped back 846 BARNACLES from the fire. His brother was standing with one hand behind his back ; with the other he was pointing at the portrait. ' Ganson ! You have done that.' ' Curse her ! she made me ; her ghost comes prowling in here.' 1 You have broken her like that good sport, wasn't it?' ' I will put arsenic a snake nettles, by God ! ' he foamed. ' Ganson ! ' The name rang out, compelling attention. ' You congratulate yourself on your masterpiece is it not so, Satan ? ' The soul of hatred was concen- trated hi this last word as the sword swung round and was pointed dead and full at the breast of the artist. ' Down, dog ! down on your knees, and ask her pardon from the portrait.' ' Who are you, devil ? ' the artist screamed. ' I am the footsteps you hear in the house ; I am the ghost that waited in the dark and squeezed the blood out of your heart.' The eyes of the artist filled with terror. He cowered away from his brother. ' Down, you damned slave ! ' ' Will you go away,' he sobbed between his fingers, ' if I do ? ' The sword lunged forward and pricked him on the shoulder. ' Down, dog ! I give you a minute.' The artist grovelled on his knees. ' Tell her you are a lost soul out of hell no, no faltering, or I '11 stab you where you kneel a slave, BARNACLES 847 say it yes. Say, " Long-suffering soul, I ask your pardon ; woman with the soul of an angel, may you have many happy days on earth when I am in hell." These words roused all the jealousy in the artist's nature. He squirmed round, gnashing his teeth, and raising eyes fierce and red like a wolf's to his brother's. ' Happy with you ? ' he screamed, meeting the hard stare of his brother with unwinking eyes of fire. ' No, with another man ; his name is Barnacles ; she is madly in love with him. She is going to be happy. Do you hear, you beast ; happy, happy, happy ! ' The atmosphere had changed. The silence in which revenge and murder lurk filled the room. The artist looked from his eyelashes at the revolver resting on the top of the bookcase. ' Let me up,' he snarled. ' I have not told you all,' said Patrick, in a tone in which rage was swiftly gaining the mastery ; ' she lives in Paisley, at Castlehead. Do you hear Castlehead.' ' Castlehead ! Castlehead ! ' he repeated, fixing the name in his memory ; ' you know her boudoir were you with her to-day, you pale-faced fox ? ' ' You 've broken her, trampled on her body and soul ; she lives in terror that you '11 come.' ' Ay, by God I will ! I '11 drag her here.' Patrick paid no attention to him. ' You have not done all yet. Get up, dog ! there 's more to be done.' The artist jumped up, and began edging towards the fire and the bookcase. ' Stop ! get out your paints.' The artist bared his teeth to the gums, and began hissing at his brother, 848 BARNACLES At once the sword lunged out. ' It goes in like this, into the toad,' Patrick laughed. Blood oozed out, staining the artist's shirt. ' The paints, my brother,' and the red sword-point darted again. The artist gave a yell, got down on his knees, and pulled from beneath the curtain his painting materials. ' Paint out the portrait, my brother,' and Patrick advanced holding up the point of the sword. The work went on in absolute silence. A heavy step, maybe a policeman's, was heard without. The measured tread passed away. The brush made little harsh sounds on the canvas. As he was painting out the face a change came over the artist's own face. It became convulsed with madness. ' To hell ! ' he screamed, and snatching up the canvas he flung it on the fire. He watched it blaze for a moment ; then picking it up he leapt at his brother with the burning brand. The sword whistled through the air and slashed across the canvas, scattering flaming fragments across the room, and laying open the artist's cheek. With insane laughter he flung the stump of the canvas in the face of his brother, fell on the floor, scuttled past Patrick on his hands and knees, jumped up like a diver emerging from the water, and seized the revolver. As Patrick turned he heard the click and saw the flash and felt a prickling as of fire in his side. Again the click ; the hammer snapped ; but there was no report. With a snarl he flung the revolver as Patrick lunged and ran the sword through his brother's shoulder. The revolver crashed against the wall over the fireplace. Before Patrick could use BARNACLES 349 the sword again the artist had flung himself upon him. ' Cunning, bloody beast ! stole my wife damn spy make me kneel ! ' was panted in Patrick's face, as his brother's teeth clicked and snapped, trying to bite. A slight smell of singeing crept into the atmosphere. ' Say it, you slave,' whispered Patrick, ' once more before you die : " May she live many happy days." The artist was biting, screaming, blaspheming. The acrid smell gave way to a stench of burning. A thin blue smoke was filling the room. Patrick became aware of it, and fought silently, his mouth closed. A fierce burning pain was hi his side. The blood that soaked his brother's shirt smeared his cheek. At that moment an easy chair burst into fire. The artist began to cough. A flame shot up through the reek. Its glare lit up the blood upon them. The artist was conscious of it on his eyeballs. ' The room is on fire,' he panted, and tried to release himself from his brother's grip. ' Burn,' sobbed Patrick ; ' our mother is hiding her face in heaven ; burn, devil ! ' The artist, maddened with terror, put forth the strength of a demoniac, and bore his brother to the floor. Over and over they rolled in the midst of the smoke and flames. Their clothes took fire. They were fighting now, they knew not for what. Patrick, weakened by days and nights of hunger and weariness of the roads and loss of blood, relaxed his grip. A hot gimlet was boring into his eyeballs. The fire was in his throat. His legs were clothed in agonising pain. Something bright struck him on the face and poured a cataract of pain upon him. He put up his hands to 350 BARNACLES push it away. It fell on him again with a bright light that went through his head and made him scream. He heard a voice far away saying, ' The key ! key ! key ! ' He could not understand. Yes ; he remembered now. ' You flung key hi fire fire Ganson.' With a supreme effort he wrenched himself on to his feet to go for the key. He was wrapped hi flame he staggered forward, stumbled against something at his feet and pitched headlong over the body of his brother. The legs jerked spasmodically the face turned black one arm shot out, lay a moment on his brother's cheek ; he writhed, rolled over and lay still, his face beside his brother's. The night crept on. The sounds of Glasgow died away. A faint rumbling was heard far off. It grew into a roar. The fire brigade was coming. XXV Jacobina was carrying on ' a war of regeneration ' through the medium of the newspaper press. She would write a letter on some question of politics, economics, social reform or the like, and instruct Barnacles to make scores of copies of this letter, which he was to send to all the editors in Great Britain. She was a woman of fortune. Much money was left to her by a relative who had been engaged in the opium trade in China ; and she, having an exacting conscience, began her ' war of regeneration ' in order to wipe away the stain on this money got by a nefarious traffic. The ' war ' had become an obsession. BARNACLES 351 She owned a great deal of property, but seldom gave her tenants a chance if they were overdue with their rents. Yet it was common knowledge in the village that if any of these tenants became ill she would be the first to visit them with a basket of delicacies. She was especially charitable to women in child-bed. Everywhere on these visits she carried a cat in a basket. Barnacles, whom she liked so much that she intended to make him a plenipotentiary-missionary in her campaign, was nonplussed. ' You wish to send me among the people,' he said. ' Certainly ; I require a missionary. You shall not lack for money.' ' I am not thinking of money ' ; his face grew red. ' What are you thinking of, then ? ' ' You turn people out of their homes, and then preach to them when they are shivering in the streets. It is very cold in the streets or in a close-mouth,' said Barnacles sadly. ' Of course I turn them out,' she said crisply ; * they are lazy and asleep. I put them to the door to waken them up. If I was soft-hearted ' ' But you are.' ' Don't interrupt, or attempt to flatter. If I was soft-hearted, I repeat, I would have every house of mine full of loafers. Are you listening ? ' she said hi her soft voice, her sad eyes smiling at him. ' I am attentive, madame.' ' Very well. Scotland is full of loafers. Their bread comes too easy. God has never sent a famine on us. That 's what 's wrong with the country.' ' Surely God knows best,' said Barnacles mildly. 352 BARNACLES ' He is long-suffering, that 's what it is ; but I have no patience. There are no men of iron about. We 're all as soft as saps. We 're needing lightning among us to rouse us. The wives are so lazy they do not even wash their feet. Look at the sea. Only you and I bathe in it. Oh yes, it is true.' She had caught the smile on Barnacles' face. ' This doctor whom we have here told me only yesterday that a certain fine lady called on him to have her foot examined. It was as clean as a baby's. He asked her to take off the other shoe and she refused. He insisted, because he wanted to compare the injured foot with the other one. It took him half an hour to persuade her. And when the shoe came off there was a stocking full of holes and a foot as black as the kettle. What do you think of that, Mr. Brocklehurst ? ' * Circumstances are sometimes very oppressive,' answered Barnacles, his blue eyes twinkling ; ' I am sorry for this misguided woman. The doctor's zeal exceeded her expectations.' ' Sorry ! If I was the doctor, I would have painted the foot with iodine and put on a mustard blister. Do you laugh ? That 's why the back doors are cluttered with dirt while the front steps are clean. That 's why wives creep into bed when their husbands aren't looking, with their feet tucked in their nightdress. You can laugh. Why, I laugh too at their husbands. But there, we are all busy hiding something from one another. Aren't you hiding something from me ? ' Barnacles was startled by the unexpectedness of the question, and said ' Yes.' He was thinking of Mrs. Normanshire. ' Oh, you needn't get red in the face. I know it. BARNACLES 353 Most of us are hiding dirty feet the people generally. They 're only clean where they are forced to be, out of decency. I want them to be clean out of self-respect. They must be shamed out of laziness and idleness. Life in the land is a big No, not a Yes. People are busy backbiting when they ought to be busy living a big Yes. Am I making myself plain ? ' ' You are,' answered Barnacles. ' I '11 sketch out a letter for you on this topic for the papers something like this what twiddle-twiddle- twaddle there is ; words flying like snowflakes, and melting like them and leaving people cold progress, politics, evolution, social, liberal, fortune-telling ; we 're snowed under.' ' Is it not words, madame, you wish me also to use ? ' asked Barnacles. ' No, nor words. In every corner we have words. Young men repair to the universities and go through a routine. Everything is routine. It is killing us. We are not free nowadays. We are slaves to a million regulations. Then they leave the universities, and one settles down in a corner and another in another corner. They don't go about doing good. They don't go to the people. They make the people come to them. One doctor will not go to another doctor's patients unless he gets permission. Ministers, with their robes, won't teach outside a little wooden box, or go into the streets and the market-place. They are all officials and slaves ; and the skinflints and the roysterers and the bullies move about.' ' What will I do then ? ' asked Barnacles in a bewildered voice. ' You will move about from place to place. Fling a z 354 BARNACLES hatchet among the people. Go in to their homes. Drive out dirt. Make the lazy ashamed. Encourage the struggling and help those in straits. I will supply you with money.' She stopped a moment, out of breath, and shot a question at Barnacles, ' Where will you begin ? ' ' If you please/ answered Barnacles, * I will begin in Paisley.' ' Very good ; you will report to me once a month. And when I need you specially here you will come. You will start this evening.' ' This evening ! ' ' Perhaps you would like to wait till to-morrow and go by steamer, as all the world does. Is that the way to begin your work by falling into routine and accepted ways ? For shame, Mr. Brocklehurst ! remember you are a missionary.' Barnacles' face was lit up with joy. ' I don't care how I go,' he answered ; * it is a road that will not weary me.' Some hours later, when they had finished tea, Miss Jacobina turned her little round face and moist beseech- ing eyes to him : ' Rise now, Mr. Brocklehurst, and go to Paisley ; the evening is calm and clear.' And when Barnacles came out to the rustic gate, lo ! tethered to it was a pony, with a blanket on its back. ' This is the pony I promised for your friend ; the blanket is for you to sleep in; and this is for yourself for your needs and for the deserving poor.' She put a roll of notes in Barnacles' hand the first BARNACLES 355 money that passed between them since he came there five weeks ago. ' In the flaps of the saddle you will find food. I expect you back a month from now. Good-bye.' Barnacles, sitting the pony an ungainly figure leaned down, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. ' Is that how a missionary behaves ? ' she cried angrily. In the shadow of the honeysuckle Barnacles could not see the crimson mounting to her cheeks and brow. ' No,' he answered boldly ; ' nevertheless, you are soft-hearted and very kind, madame.' She made no answer. Her fingers were nervously teasing the pony's mane. Barnacles drew in the reins. ' Little horse, let us get on in God's riame.' Miss Jacobina was still at the gate in the shadow of the honeysuckle long after the sound of the hoofs had died away along the empty road. Her heart had been taken by surprise. So she excused herself over and over again, but with no great conviction. Barnacles was not thinking at that moment, any more than Miss Jacobina was, of reforming the world by taking it unawares at the market-place and the corners of the streets, and telling it to clean its feet. Paisley was shining before him as a fire to a wayfarer seen from afar burns on the edge of the night. The stars were lamps to illuminate the road ; and as through the night he walked alongside the pony and stroked its neck he said with a voice full of tenderness : ' Little horse ! we are going to Paisley.' The memory of that town was inviolable in his soul. 356 BARNACLES XXVI As he rode into Paisley light of the sunset met him from the shining town, and came up into his eyes from the glowing river. Doves were flying over against the golden sky across the Abbey roof. It was as if they had escaped from his breast. ' I wish I had a white horse,' he said, drinking hi the radiance. He checked the pony as he crossed the Cart, and sat with his long legs dangling, watching the river this water which, coming from the clouds and soiled on its passage through the world towards the cleansing sea, was nevertheless flooded with light, like a bright hope harboured even here in the foulest part of its course. Everything was mysterious, inscrutable, destined the splendour of the green and golden sky ; the moving of the burning waters ; the doves with glittering wings in the clear air all kindled in the radiance with hope of a greater glory. And Barnacles there in Paisley also with a mysterious light of hope in his breast. ' I wish I had a white horse,' he said once more ; then, gazing around at the peaceful town and the evening smoke going up, 'God bless the roofs that shelter their heads ! ' He rode on, a strange figure in the ill-fitting clothes of Patrick Normanshire, hooted and jeered at by urchins. When he reached the familiar close in Cotton Street, he saw with a pang that the window was dark. It made him think of the blind man. He led the pony BARNACLES 357 through the close, and tethering it to the railing went up the stair. The door was locked. ' Skelly,' he cried, with a trembling voice, ' are you in?' Silence like the grave reigned. In it Barnacles heard the beating of his own heart. He knew that the room was cold and deserted and full of darkness. The pony whinnied below. At the sound Barnacles was about to turn away, when the other door in the passage opened. ' Wha 's there ? ' came a suspicious voice. ' It 's me, Barnacles.' The. tap-tapping of the blind man's stick came nearer. ' Whaur are ye ? ' ' Here,' said Barnacles. * Are ye wantin' Skelly ? ' ' Yes ; where are they gone to ? ' * The auld man 's awa to the Happy Land.' Barnacles leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. ' I wish I had never gone away,' he whispered. Death had stolen a march on him. ' It 's a' ane,' answered the blind man, ' daith wadna be pit afiY ' Where is Skelly and wee Kitchener ? ' ' They Ve flitted.' ' Where ? ' asked Barnacles, his heart beating wildly. ' I don't ken ; up the toon.' ' Ned, Ned ! the door is shut and I can't get in ; the world is awful empty to-night,' was the sobbing cry, ' and I was so happy coming back me and the pony.' ' If ye like ye can bide here,' said blin' Ned. 358 BARNACLES ' Thank you, my friend ; if all else fails I '11 gladly come and make my bed with you.' ' Ye 're welcome, Barnacles.' And Barnacles felt the hand of the blind man steal out and touch him. As he was stumbling down the stairs, and choking back the swelling sobs, blin' Ned cried : ' The auld man's jaicket is in the poliss office.' The hurried stick tap-tapped along the lobby in flight, and a door was slammed. But Barnacles had not heard. He unloosed the pony, and set off for Castlehead. . . . He tethered it badly to the handle of the wooden door in the wall, for his hands were trembling violently. The next moment he stood, breathing rapidly, in the moon-flooded garden looking at the house. It had that solemn aspect of hewn stone which is inhabited, as if the beings behind its walls breathed into the dead stone something of the mystery of their own lives. There was a light in one of the lower windows, which was open a little at the top, breathing in the bland night. As Barnacles' footsteps crunched on the gravel, a shadow was thrown on the blind. It darkened the window a moment and disappeared. Barnacles watched the window, his heart full of crying. Perhaps she would sing to-night. Her voice would take the sting out of life. As he waited the door opened and he saw her white head and eyes full of alarm against the light which streamed from within. He stood petrified, drinking in her loveliness. It was like the sunset light which came up to him from the river and the windows of the town. Doves were about her headi BARNACLES 359 * Is any one there ? ' and as she spoke her eyes fell on the tall form. She said no more, but gathering up her skirt in her hand ran down the steps to where he was. Barnacles' soul melted away. Home was hi her presence ; love was hi her eyes. * Barnacles ! Barnacles ! ' It was like a maternal voice from the spheres of God. ' I could not help it,' he sobbed ; ' I had to come the house was empty my heart was breaking.' He fell on his knees with his forehead touching her skirt. For a moment she looked down at him, then put a hand lightly on his shoulder. He quivered at the touch. ' Rise,' she whispered. Barnacles caught her hand, and mingled his silent tears and kisses there. She left her hand with him, as if he were pouring balm upon it. ' Are you better now ? ' she asked in a low voice. ' Let me stay,' he said, ' a little time and I will be healed of all.' She bent over him. ' Do you not know ? ' she whispered hi a sad voice. A dull pain entered his breast for the sadness that was in her voice. ' What is it ? ' he groaned ; ' have you a fresh grief ? ' * He is dead.' A shudder passed through her body. ' Dead ? ' he echoed ; ' is he dead ? ' and he rose to his feet. She nodded, unable to speak. ' I did not come because of that ; I did not know ; I thought if I heard you sing, here, outside your window the world was so empty to-night.' 360 BARNACLES Her eyes, deep as the sea, were growing misty before his gaze. ' I have been waiting for you to come,' she said slowly. All at once something that was full of desolation and death burst inside him, and its intolerable weight vanished like mist. ' I have been in misery and in great joy God could not calm my heart it was kill- ing me.' His voice was shaking with tears. ' I wanted to bear your sorrow the pain of it would have saved me.' ' My sorrow is all gone,' she said. * You are the end of all my wandering.' He drew a deep breath. ' I have loved you long ago I loved you.' ' Love me, love me till you die,' she breathed. ' For ever all my life.' He took her hands in his. As she yielded them, on her face shone the effulgence of a soul whose holy desire is at last fulfilled. It was the face of one who was hearing that for which she had long been listening. It had the faint swooning aspect which comes but rarely, and only when the long secret dream of a woman's heart has blossomed into reality. The sight of her eyes shining with an ecstasy un- namable, and of the smile that was gathering, like love's harvester, all the fruit of dreams and hopes sown with tears in the past, struck a silence through the soul of Barnacles. Great clear drops began to roll down his cheeks. ' Those tears will not stay in my heart,' he sobbed. ' You are all precious for ever and ever.' ' For ever and ever,' she answered joyously. Her joy like a river full of golden light was pouring through BARNACLES 361 his being. He leaned nearer and nearer to those eyes of dark lustre nearer and nearer, gazing in at them, till he laid his mouth on her half-parted lips. At the kiss she drew her hands from his and flung them round his neck. Two hours later he knocked at a door in George Street. ' Come in/ said a well-known voice, ' if ye 're no' the factor.' Barnacles entered. Skelly, who was bending over a piece of mechanism, looked up, and when he saw Barnacles he dropped the piece of steel and jumped. ' Holy sailor, is this you ? Where have you come from ? ' * From the Highlands/ answered Barnacles. ' I brought a pony for you.' ' And whaur is 't ? ' ' I don't know. I tied it to Mrs. Normanshire's door, and when I came back it was gone. I 'm afraid I didn't tie the knot properly.' Skelly forgot to be sarcastic. ' Did ye see her ? ' he asked eagerly. ' I have come from there. She told me where to find you.' For since the funeral of his father Skelly was gardener and chauffeur to Mrs. Normanshire ; and wee Kitchener lived under the ample whig of Mrs. Beezle. Barnacles, to his great joy, had learned these things. ' Then ye ken/ said Skelly. ' What ? ' ' Aboot yon bully in Glesca ; naethin' left o' him 362 BARNACLES but a rickle o' banes. He burned the hoose ower his ain heid, an' burned his brither alang wi' him.' Barnacles shuddered. ' God give him peace,' he said. * It was the price o' him ; if ye only kent the ane hauf o' his deevilry. Burnin' was ower guid for the likes o' him. Ax Mrs. Beezle the history. It '11 gie ye the grue.' Barnacles was silent a moment. ' Don't let us speak of it, Skelly ; I saw wee Kitchener. He is happy with Mrs. Beezle.' * For a wee while,' answered Skelly, smiling shrewdly. * Are you taking him away ? ' ' No' just takin' him awa a'thegither. The wean 's needin' a mither.' Skelly bent and picked up the fitting of the motor-car which he had dropped. When he lifted his head his face was very red. * I don't understand,' said Barnacles ; the brows wrinkled over the spectacles in a puzzled look. ' Dae you think ye 're the only ane that 's gaun to get mairrit ? * ' I married.' Barnacles' face flushed. ' Oh ! it 's a' richt. I ken somebody that was hauf blin' lookin' for ye. Every day she was oot in the caur.' Barnacles laid a trembling arm along Skelly's shoulder, and said, ' Oh, Skelly ! Skelly ! her sorrows are all over.' The blue eyes filled. Skelly shook the arm. ' Ye '11 be kissin' me next,' he laughed. Barnacles looked steadfastly at him. ' Tell me,' he said, ' who are you going to marry ? ' ' Hersel, if ye want to ken Mrs. Beezle.' BARNACLES 363 Barnacles' face was radiant. * A good woman, Skelly ; you are happy.' * Ay ! just maybe ay ; I 'm having a daisy o' a time. I 'm up the richt him this time, Barnacles. She wadna gie up wee Kitchener ; sae I just telt her she 'd hae to tak me as weel ; that I couldna be daein' withoot the wean ra a joke, ye ken ; an', holy sailor ! afore I could draw another breath, was her airms no* roond my neck, an' her thankin' God, an' the caul' sweet breakin' oot on me. Ay ! I doot I 'm up the richt him.' ' God give you and wee Kitchener a rich blessing/ answered Barnacles. * Thank ye, Barnacles,' said Skelly ; ' we '11 maybe need it.' Nevertheless, his face was wrinkled with smiles. Barnacles and his wife had returned from the banker's, and were standing at the bay window in the dining-room, looking out on the star-lit garden. Barnacles was silent. He was thinking of the rainbow road in the skies, over which he had seen a woman in white pass. ' Barnacles ' her arms were around his neck ' I don't know what 's come over me. The house is full of voices to-night, wee voices. I heard them on the stair ; I heard them in our room. They were all crying to me to go and kiss you.' Barnacles put his arms around his wife. ' It 's not voices,' he said, ' it 's just your own heart broken up for joy and gladness into wee angels, and they 're flying all over the house. There ! I '11 catch one on your lips.' He stooped and kissed her ; and then he said : 364 BARNACLES ' I '11 tell you something that you won't understand.' ' Yes,' she whispered ; ' what is it ? ' ' These wee angels have come over a rainbow road from a place beyond the world and the moon.' ' No,' she pondered, ' I don't understand, except that it 's beautiful ' she was silent a moment ; he felt her drawing closer to him ' and I will tell you some- thing you don't understand.' ' Yes,' he echoed her ; ' what is it ? ' ' You are my knight. For a long time I saw you far away through the trees on a white horse ; but I could not escape ; the forest was between us.' He felt a shudder go through her. ' There was blood on the daisies ; but now I have reached you, my knight on the White Horse.' ' I am a sorry knight,' he answered, ' and you have not reached me. It is I who came to you on no white horse, but on a brown pony.' ' Say what you will, you are what I said. You do not understand, but I know I know.' Her dark eyes glowed upon him ; her arms tightened round his neck. So this forlorn Barnacles had a good violin and a loving wife. Every one present at the marriage had a wrong opinion of him, except Skelly and his own wife. Miss Jacobina was angry, because he had promised to be a crank and had failed. Mrs. Beezle adored him, because she thought he was a sage. The banker's wife called him one of God's innocents ; and the banker gave him for a wedding present a solid silver sheep. His father thought he needed looking after. Only the love of his wife knew, and the friendship of Skelly understood, the man Barnacles. He is a son BARNACLES 365 of to-morrow far away yet on the horizon of his country, and invisible behind the clouds of her smoke ; inaudible for the thundering of her anvils, the roar of her guns, the racketing of her bridges, the chinking of the coin of her tellers. Out of the far distances he comes slowly, with a savour of eternal youth on his countenance, and the freshness of Nature in his eyes guileless but indomit- able. He is sprung of a hardy folk who, once poor, and now growing rich, shall yet learn to place the soul above all else, and seek with their native genius the things that are lovely and of excellent report. I know not what travail this folk shall suffer first ; what trials they shall endure ; what manifold wander- ings of body and of spirit they shall be called on to undertake till they are born again. Yet this child of the future comes, his head in the winds, his ear given to bells and to music, with a careless strength, because the torch of righteousness is in his hand, and in his soul a divinity that will bind the Skellys of the land to his heart hi lasting friendship, and which will find joy not only in his beloved but in the consciousness that he is loving with a love that is stronger than death. THE END Printed by T. and A. 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