I "ETUHN TO 1 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF '•Ma'» Crandell J A WINDOW IN THRUMS THE OUOK TO IU:MJKV'S COT. WliNDOW IN THRUMS BY J. M. BARRIE author of "when a man 's single," "little minister," etc. IWLM) illustrations bg CLIFTON JOHNSON NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1896 Copyright, 1896, By Dodd, Mead and Company. Sanibtrsttg ^rrss : John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. PR / 4074 89^ INTRODUCTION. " Thrums " is the name which Mr. Barrie has given to the town of Kirriemuir in Forfarshire, situated sixty-two miles north of Edinburgh. To American eyes the surrounding country looks rather bare and windswept, yet it is a land of pleasant sweeping hills and valleys with the out- U'ing ridges of the Grampians looming up along the northern horizon and stretching away to the west. In a hollow by a little stream that winds through the village arc two great stone mills, which furnish cmplo}'mcnt for most of the inhabitants of the town. The weaving now monopolized b\' the mills was once done in the homes, and one may still find houses whence tiie clack of the loom comes to the cars of the passer-by. Fifty years ag(j the rattle of tlic hand-loom would have been heard in every cottage. V 1496200 INTRODUCTION. Most of the village houses are built of red sand- stone, for the most part weather-darkened and battered, but some of the older dwellings arc white-washed. From the little square which is the town centre, the houses wind away along the val- leys and up the hillsides in the most charming fashion. I suppose this is because the village site itself is so uncertain and hammock}'. Whichever way you take, you cither go up-hill or down-hill, and the hill is likely to be steep. The streets are crooked with unexpected turns and little lanes, that have an odd way of jerking around corners and dodging under houses. By taking the road southward from the town square, ascending a short hill and crossing a heavy arched stone bridge, you at once commence to climb the stiff ascent of Mr. Barrie's famous " brae." Coming to the elbow of the brae, you will see before you Hendry's cot at the top of the hill. It is much like Mr. Barrie's description, — a one-story house with white-washed walls and a tiny window in the gable, that you feel sure must be Jess's window the moment it comes into view. This window looks easterly down the brae and over the town, and it is remarkable how as one vi INTRODUCTION. wanders about the \illaf;[c and over the surround- ing hillslopes, the cot at the top of the brae comes into \ic\v, and how the httle window preternatur- all}' follows your movements like an ever-watchful eye. . yfS«9' A PASSER ON THK BRAE. In front of the cottage is a garden which is separated from the street by a rough stone wall. The cottage roof in Mr. Barrie's description, is of thatch with ropes flung over it to protect it from the wind, but at present the roof is rudely slated. Thatch is out of date in Kirriemuir and is to be vii INTRODUCTION. found only on a single rusty row of cottages on a neighbouring hill. These have strips of boards fastened on the thatch to prevent its being torn off in a gale, but in farm-yards the stacks of hay and grain have their round caps of thatch netted over with ropes. Since "A Window in Thrums " became famous, Kirriemuir and Hendry's cot have been scenes of great interest. Many peo- ple visit the town and climb the brae just to see this humble little cottage. The present tenants of the cottage are plainly of a thrifty turn of mind, for a black sign-board hang- ing on the outside bears the inscription " TlIE Window in Thrums," and announces that " sou- venirs and lemonade are for sale within." There is not much to be seen inside the house, which consists of two small rooms with a small pas- sageway between. On the right hand is the kitchen with its fire-place, a bed, a table, and a viii Tifr •** THE LITTLE WINDOW. INTRODUCTION. few other primitive furnishings. On the left is " the room," which contains a second bed and a table on which rests an elaborate lamp, and books laid around the edge in regular order. The bare wooden rafters used to be seen in the ceiling of these rooms, but the}- have of late been sheathed from sight. Upstairs is an unfinished attic which is reached b\' a step-ladder through a trap-door, just as it was in the days when the school- master boarded with Hen- dry. The eaves are almost even with the floor, and one can hardly stand up- right under the ridgepole. There is not much save dust and rubbish in the attic now, but it is lighted by the little window that gives the book its name. For the sake of realism the window should be in the kitchen below, and some of the older inhabitants sa\' there was once a little window like tliis in the kitchen throu''h which one could look down the brae on THE OTHER WINDOW. IX INTRODUCTION. the town, but Mr. Barrie has never known of such an one, and there are no indications in the wall to show that it ever existed. Apparently the interest A REAR VIEW OF THE TENEMiiNTS. in the book has given an early start to myth- making. The first nine years of his life Mr. Barrie lived in an ancient row of dwellings known as " The Tenements," and it was during these early years that he acquired the intimate knowledge of the life and language of the poor, and the sympathetic X INTRODUCTION. fcclini^ for them which has given his book a pass- port to all hearts. He afterwards li\'ed in what is still the home of his father, a stone house just opposite the cottage commemorated in his "Win- dow in Thrums." Curiously enough, he, himself, has never been inside the cottage, but his readers TOl' (JF thk commontv. make up for his delinquency, and spare no pains to make it fit his description in every detail. Upon the whole, any one visiting Kirriemuir and h<)i:)ing to fmd in it the "Thrums" of Mr. Barrie's creation, will be very well satisfied. There is the cot with its little window, and the brae with its constant stream of people ascending and de- scending. There, near by, is the steep hillsitle of xi INTRODUCTION. the " commonty " with its bounehuy of hcdi^erovvs, and criss-crossed with neglected paths. Here the children play and the women still come to dry their washing. T'nowhead farm and its pig-pen are not far away ; the tenements where Tammas Haggart lived and the Auld Licht Manse are easily found ; while the " dulseman " with his barrow and slimy boxes is still a familiar figure. The greatest changes one feels are in the substitution of the big stone mills for the old hand-looms in the homes, and the disappearance of the Auld Licht Kirk. If one chooses he may walk to Forfar (Tillie- drum), by the road over which Jamie tramped so often when he was a barber's apprentice, and can easily trace the old farm-road, and the path across the fields which figure in the tragedy of the last chapter. Finally, there is Glen Ouharity where the Dominie lived. Glen Cova — - its real name — is a wide fissure opening back into the great heather- covered hills of the Highlands. The whole region is grandly picturesque and awesome in its solitude and vastness. The celebrated little schoolhouse stands on the hillside half-way up the Glen, and just beyond is Craigiebuckle farm, while the little river Esk meanders through the meadow bottom. xii INTRODUCTION. The peatstacks staml in the farni\'ards, and the deer graze on the high moors; the snowbanks ghsten white in the ia\ines of the cratjsfv mountains even in midsummer, and the peewits and the waterbirds scream at you as you walk about the fields. THE THRUMS HOME OF MK. BARKIE. Whether in the Glen or in Thrums itself Mr. Barrie's book stands the rare test of being only more endeared to the reader b)' familiarity with the scenes among which it is laid; it has the right atmosphere and )'ou feel its truth. To one who x i i 1 INTRODUCTION. loves the book, I could not commend a more fas- cinating literary pilgrimage than that to Kirriemuir and Glen Cova. The illustrations to this edition have been made with the aim to picture faithfully the cliaracter- istics and features of the life and the region which Mr. Barrie has described, and if possible to retain and enhance the local flavour and the undying beauty of the story. Mr. Barrie has warmly com- mended the pictures, and this edition is published with his hearty consent and approval. CLIFTON JOHNSON, Hadley, Mass., 1896. XIV CONTENTS. -♦- Chapter Page Introduction v I. The House on the Bkae ...... i II. Ox JHE Track of the Minister ... 15 III. Preparing to receive Company ... 26 IV'. Waiting for the Doctor 36 \'. A Humorist on his Calling .... 47 VI. Dead this Twenty Years 58 y\]. The Statement of Tii'.niE Birse ... 74 \ III. A Cloak with Beads 84 IX. The Power of Beauty , . 97 X. A I\1.u;num Opus .... .... 105 XI. The Ghost Cradle 114 XII. Tni; Tracjedy of a Wife 128 XIII. Making the Bes'i of it [37 XIV. Visitors at the Manse 147 XV CONTENTS. Chapter Page XV. How Gavin Birse put it to Mag Lownie 158 XVI. The Son from London XVII. A Home for Geniuses XVIII. Leeby and Jamie . XIX. A Tale of a Glove XX. The Last Night . XXI. Jess Left Alone . XXII. Jamie's Home-Coming 170 189 197 213 228 238 250 GLOSSARY 265 XVI LIST 01'' ILLUSTRATIONS. Page The Door to Hendr\-'s Cot Frontispiece A Passer on the Brae vii The Little Window viii The Otlier Window ix A Rear V'iew of the Tenements x Top of the Commonty xi The Tlirums Home of Mr. IJarrie xiii Hendry's Cot xvii The Cot at tlie Top of the Brae Facing i A Tied-on Roof 2 The Burn 5 Tlie Brig ■ 6 Visiting on the Brae 8 The Brae 9 (lame of Palauhiys . <, o 'i xvii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Pagr Spinning the Peerie 12 I dree, I dree, I droppit it . . 13 Playing at the Dambrod . . 16 On the Brae with a Barrow . , 19 After Milk 21 The Lawyer's House 23 At Work with a Besom .......... 27 A Woman in a White Mutch 28 The Bill-sticker 31 The Dulseman 37 The Square 43 At T'nowhead Pig-sty 48 On T'nowhead Farm 53 Going down the Brae 59 Thrums 63 The Loom 67 Tibbie Birse 77 Women on the Brae o . . . . 85 Firing Bannocks , , . . 90 T'nowhead Farmhouse , . 98 Jimsy Duthie .....,,... = ., 107 At the Top of the Commonty 112 In the Garden 115 The Farm at the Bog ........... iicj A Cruizey Lamp c , . . 122 Filling Pirns ... 131 The Auld Licht Kirk 135 Eating Porridge ............ 138 In the Old Burying Ground 144 The Manse 148 A Little Housey in Glen Ouharity . - ... 150 xviii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Page At tlie C^ate of the Commonty 153 The Garden Dyke 159 Craigiebuckle Farm 161 The Stonebreaker 164 Old Thatched Cottages 168 Tlie Post 175 The Road from TiUiedrum 180 A Path on the Commonty 183 A Heavy Farm Road 184 The Elbow of the Brae 185 In the Yard at T'nowhead 190 By the Bank of the Ouharity 199 TiUiedrum 207 The Schoolhouse in the Cilcn 211 The Dominie 215 The Attic 221 A Long Lidded Bed 234 The Commonty 239 The Poorhouse ... 240 An Old I'ump 244 The Tenements 247 Sugarelly Water 252 Zoar 253 Old Mill 254 The Gate to Hendry's Cot ......... 255 XIX < M W X O o a X H H < H O u w X H A WINDOW IN THRUMS. CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. Ox the bump of green round which the brae twists, at the top of the brae, and within cry of T'novvhead Farm, still stands a one-storey house, whose whitewashed walls, streaked with the dis- coloration that rain leav^es, look yellow when the snow comes. In the old days the stiff ascent left 'i'hrums behind, and where is now the mak- ing of a suburb was only a poor row of dwell- ings and a manse, with Hendry's cot to watch the brae. The house stood bare, without a shrub, in a garden whose paling ditl not go all the way round, the ])otato jiit being onl\' kept out of the road, that here sets off southw.u-tl, by a broken d)ke of stones and earth. ( )n I I A WINDOW Ix\ THRUMS. each side of the slate-coloured door was a win- dow of knotted glass. Ropes were flung over the thatch to keep the roof on in wind. Into this humble abode I would take any one who cares to accompany me. But you must not A TIED-ON ROOF. come in a contemptuous mood, thinking that the poor are but a stage removed from beasts of burden, as some cruel writers of these days say; nor will I have you turn over with your foot the shabby horse-hair chairs that Leeby kept so THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. spccklcss. and Mcndiy weaved for years to buy, and Jess so lo\cd to look upon. I speak of the chairs, but if \vc go together into the " room " they will not be visible to }ou. For a long time the house has been to let. Here, on the left of the doorway, as we enter, is the room, without a shred of furniture in it except the boards of two closed-in beds. The flooring is not steady, and here and there holes have been eaten into the planks. You can scarcely stand upright beneath the decay- ing ceiling. Worn boards and ragged walls, and the rusty ribs fallen from the fireplace, are all that meet your eyes, but I see a round, unsteady, waxcloth-cox'eretl table, with four books lying at eejual distances on it. There are six prim chairs, two of them not to be sat upon, backed against the walls, and between the window and the fireplace a chest of drawers, with a snowy ct)\'erlet. ( )n the drawers stands a boartl with coloured marbles for the game of solitaire, and I li;i\c onlv to open the drawer with the loose handle to luring out the dambrod. In the carved wood frame over the window hangs Jamie's por- trait; in the only other frame a picture of Daniel 3 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. in the den of lions, sewn by Leeby in wool. Over the chimney-piece with its shells, in which the roar of the sea can be heard, are strung three rows of birds' eggs. Once again we might be expecting company to tea. The passage is narrow. There is a square hole between the rafters, and a ladder leading up to it. You may climb and look into the attic, as Jess liked to hear me call my tiny gar- ret-room. I am stiffer now than in the days when I lodged with Jess during the summer holiday I am tr}-ing to bring back, and there is no need for me to ascend. Do not laugh at the newspapers with which Leeby papered the garret, nor at the yarn Hendry stuffed into the windy holes. He did it to warm the house for Jess. But the paper must have gone to pieces and the yarn rotted decades ago. I have kept the kitchen for the last, as Jamie did on the dire day of which I shall have to tell. It has a flooring of stone now, where there used only to be hard earth, and a broken pane in the window is indifferently stuffed with rags. But it is the other window I turn to, with a pain at my heart, and pride and fond- 4 THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. ness too, the square foot of glass where Jess sat in her chair and looked down the brae. Ah, that brae ! The history of tragic little Thrums is sunk into it like the stones it swal- lows in the winter. We have all found the brae »».*;> THE BURN. long and steep in the spring of life. Do you remember how the child j'ou once were sat at the foot of it and wondered if a new world began at the top? It climbs from a shallow burn, and we used to sit on the brig a long A WINDOW IN THRUMS. time before venturing to climb. As boys we ran up the brae. As men and women, young and in our prime, we almost forgot that it was there. But the autumn of life comes, and the brae grows steeper; then the winter, and once again we arc as the child pausing apprehen- sively on the brig. Yet are we no longer the child ; we look now for no new world at the top, only for a little gar- den and a tin>- house, and a hand-loom in the house. It is only a gar- den of kail and potatoes, but there may be a line of daisies, white and red, on each side of the nar- row footpath, and honeysuckle over the door. Life is not always hard, even after backs grow bent, and we know that all braes lead only to the grave. This is Jess's window. For more than twenty years she had not been able to go so far as 6 THE BRIG. THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. the door, and only once while I knew her was she ben in the room. With her husband, Hen- dry, or their only daughter, Leeby, to lean upon, and her hand clutching her staft", she took twice a da}', when she was strong, the journey be- tween her bed and the window where stood her chair. She did not lie there looking at the sparrows or at Leeby redding up the house, and I hardl}' ever heard her complain. All the sewing was done b\- her ; she often baked on a table pushed close to the window, and by lean- ing forwartl she could stir the porridge. Leeby was seldom off her feet, but I do not know that she did more than Jess, who liked to tell me, when she had a moment to spare, that she had a terrible lot to be thankful for. To those who dwell in great cities Thrums is onl}' a small place, but what a clatter of life it has for me when I come to it from my school- house in the glen. Had m\' lot been cast in a town I would no doulit have sought country parts during my September holiday; but the school-house is quiet, even when the summer takes brakes full of sportsmen and others past the top of m\' footpath, and I was alwa\-s light- 7 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. hearted when Craigiebuckle's cart bore me into the din of Thrums. I only once stayed during the whole of my holiday at the house on the brae, but I knew its inmates for many years, including Jamie, the son, who was a barber in London. Of their ancestry I never heard. With us it was only some of the articles of furniture. VISITING ON THE BRAE. or perhaps a snuff-mull, that had a genealogical tree. In the house on the brae was a great kettle, called the boiler, that was said to be fifty years old in the days of Hendry's grandfather, of whom nothinsf more is known. Jess's chair, which had carved arms and a seat stuffed with rags,, had been 8 THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. Snecky Hobart's father's before it was hers, and old Snecky bought it at a roup in the Tenements. Jess's rarest possession was, perhaps, the christen- ing robe, that even people at a distance came to borrow. Her mother could count up a hundred persons who had been baptized in it. THE BRAE. I'-very one of the hundred,! bclic\'c, is dead, and even I cannot now i)ick out Jess and Hendry's grave ; but I heard recent!)' that the christening robe is still in use. It is strange that T should still be left after so many changes, one of the three or A WINDOW IN THRUMS. four who can to-day stand on the brae and point out Jess's window. The httle window commands the incHnc to the point where the brae suddenl)' jerks out of sight in its chmb down into the town. The steep path up the commonty makes for this elbow of the brae, and thus, whichever wa}' the traveller takes, it is here that he comes first into sight of the window. Here, too, those who go to the town from the south gets their first glimpse of Thrums. Carts pass up and down the brae every few minutes, and there comes an occasional gig. Sel- dom is the brae empty, for many live beyond the top of it now, and men and women go by to their work, children to school or play. Not one of the children I see from the window to-day is known to me, and most of the men and women I only recognize by their likeness to their parents. That sweet-faced old woman with the shawl on her shoulders may be one of the girls who was playing at the game of palaulays when Jamie stole into Thrums for the last time; the man who is leaning on the commonty gate gathering breath for the last quarter of the brae may, as a barefooted callant, have been one of those who chased Cree Oueery lO THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. past the poor-house. I cannot sa}' ; but this I know, that the grandparents of most of these boys and girls were once }'oung with me. If I see the sons and daughters of my friends grown old, I also GAMK OF PAI.AULAYS. see the grandchildren spinning the peerie and hunkering at I-dree-I-dree — I-droppit-it — as we did so long ago. The world remains as young as ever. The lovers that met on the commonty in the II A WINDOW IN THRUMS. gloaming are gone, but there are other lovers to take their place, and still the commonty is here. The sun had sunk on a fine day in June, early in the century, when Hendry and Jess, newly married, SPINNING THE PEERIE. he in a rich moleskin waistcoat, she in a white net cap, walked to the house on the brae that was to be their home. So Jess has told me. Here again has been just such a day, and somewhere in 12 THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. Thrums there may be just such a couple, setting out for their home behind a horse with white ears instead of walking, but with the same hopes and fears, and the same love-light in their eyes. The .'J^S!fM I DREE, I DREE, 1 DKOI'I'IT IT. world tloes not age. The hearse passes over the brae and uj) the straight burying-ground road, but still there is a cry for the christening robe. Jess's window was a beacon Ijy night to travellers in the dark, and it will be so in the futnn- when 13 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. there are none to remember Jess. There are many such windows still, with loving faces behind them. From them we watch for the friends and relatives who are coming back, and some, alas ! watch in vain. Not every one returns who takes the elbow of the brae bravely, or waves his handkerchief to those who watch from the window with wet eyes, and some return too late. To jess, at her window- always vv'hen she was not in bed, things happy and mournful and terrible came into view. At this window she sat for twenty years or more looking at the world as through a telescope ; and here an awful ordeal was o;one through after her sweet untarnished soul had been given back to God. 14 CHAPTER IT. ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. On the afternoon of the Saturday tliat carted me and ni}' two boxes to Thrums, I was ben in the room phuing Hendry at tlie dambrod. I had one of the room chairs, but Leeby brought a chair from the kitchen for her father. Our door stood open, and as Hendry often pondered for two minutes with his hand on a " man," I could have joined in the gossip that was going on but the house. "Ay, weel, then, Leeby," said Jess, suddenly, " 1 '11 warrant the minister '11 no be preachin' the morn." This took Leeb}' to the window. " Yea, yea," she said (and I knew she was nodding her head sagaciousl\-) ; I looked out at the room window, but all I coulil see was a man wheeling an empty barrow down the brae. "That's Robbie Tosh," continued Leeby; "an' there 's nae doot 'at he 's makkin R)r the minister's, 15 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. for he has on his black coat. He '11 be to row the minister's luggage to the post-cart. Ay, an' that 's Davit Lu nan's barrow I ken it bv the shaft's bein' spliced wi' yarn. Davit broke the shaft at the saw- mi 11." PLAYING AT THE DAMBROD. " He '11 be gaen awa for a curran (number of) days," said Jess, " or he w^ould juist hae taen his bag. Ay, he '11 be awa to Edinbory, to see the la.ss." " I wonder wha '11 be to preach the morn — tod, i6 ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. it'll likely be Mr. Skinner, frae Dundee; him an' the minister 's chief, }-e ken." " Ve niicht y,ang up to the attic, Leeby, an' see if the spare bedroom vent (chinine\) at the manse is gaen. We're sure, if it's I\Ir. Skinner, he'll come \vi' the post frae Tilliedrum the nicht, an' sleep at the manse." " Weel, I assure ye," said Leeby, descending from the attic, " it '11 no be Mr. Skinner, for no only is the spare bedroom vent no gaen, but the blind 's drawn doon frae tap to fut, so they 're no even airin' the room. Na, it canna be him; an' what's mair, it'll be naebody 'at 's to bide a' nicht at the manse." "I wouldna say that ; na, na. It may only be a student; an' Marget Dundas " (the minister's mother and housekeeper) " michtna think it neces- sary to put on a fire for him." '* Tod. I '11 tell ye wha it '11 be. I wonder I didna think o' 'im sooner. It'll be the lad Wilkie ; him 'at's mither mairit on Sam'l Duthie's wife's brither. They bide in Cupar, an' I mind 'at when the son was here twa or three year syne he was juist gaen to begin the divecnity classes in Glesca." " If that's so, Leeby, he would be sure to bide 2 17 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. \vi' Sam'l. Hendry, hac ye heard 'at Sam'l Duthie 's expeckin' a stranger the nicht?" " Hand yer tongue," rephed Hendry, who was having the worst of the game. " Ay, but I ken he is," said Leeby triumphantly to her mother, " for ye mind when I was in at Johnny Watt's (the draper's) Chirsty (Sam'l's wife) was buyin' twa yards o' chintz, an' I couldna think what she woukl be w^antin' 't for ! " " I thocht Johnny said to y<,' 'at it was for a present to Chirsty's auntie?" "Ay, but he juist guessed that; for, though he tried to get oot o' Chirsty what she wanted the chintz for, she wouldna tell 'im. But I see noo what she was after. The lad Wilkie '11 be to bide wi' them, and Chirsty had bocht the chintz to cover the airm-chair wi'. It's ane o' thae hair- bottomed chairs, but terrible torn, so she '11 hae covered it for him to sit on." " I wouldna wonder but ye 're richt, Leeby ; for Chirsty would be in an oncommon fluster if she thocht the lad's mither was likely to hear 'at her best chair was torn. Ay, ay, bein' a man, he wouldna think to tak aff the chintz an' hae a look at the chair withoot it." i8 ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. Here Hendr\-, who had paid no attention to the conversation, broke in — " Was ye speirin' had I seen Sam'l Duthie? I ON THE KKAE WITH A P.AKKOW. saw 'im yesterday bu)'in' a fender at W'ill'uin Crook's roup." " A fender ! Ay, a\', that settles the queistion," said Leeby. " I '11 warrant the fender was for Chirsty's parlour. It's preyed on Chirsty's mind, 19 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. they say, this fower-and-thirty year 'at she doesna hac a richt parlour fender." " Leeby, look ! That 's Robbie Tosh wi' the barrow. He has a michty load o' luggage. Am thinkin' the minister 's bound for Tilliedrum." " Na, he's no; he's gaen to Edinbory, as ye micht ken by the bandbox. That '11 be his mither's bonnet he 's takkin' back to get altered. Ye '11 mind she was never pleased wi' the set o' the flowers." " Weel, weel, here comes the minister himsel, an' very snod he is. Ay, Marget 's been puttin' new braid on his coat, an' he 's carryin' the sma' black bag he bocht in Dundee last year: he'll hae 's nicht-shirt an' a comb in 't, I dinna doot. Ye micht rin to the corner, Leeby, an' see if he cries in at Jess McTaggart's in passin'. " "It's my opeenion," said Leeby, returning ex- citedly from the corner, " 'at the lad Wilkie 's no to be preachin' the morn, after a'. When I gangs to the corner, at ony rate, what think ye 's the first thine I see but the minister an' Sam'l Duthie meetin' face to face? Ay, weel, it's gospel am tellin' ye when I say as Sam'l flung back his head an' walkit richt by the minister ! " 20 ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. " Losh keep's a', Leeby ; ye say that? They maun hae haen a quarrel." " I'm thinkin' we '11 hae Mr. Skinner i' the poopit the morn after a'." " It may be. it may be. Ay, ay, look, Leeby ; AFTER MILK, whatna bit kimmer 's that wi' the twa juqs in her hand? " "Eh? On, it'll be Lawyer Ogilvy's servant lassieky gacn to the farm o' T'nowhead for the milk. She gangs ilka Saturday nicht. l^ut what 21 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. did ye say — twa jugs? Tod, let 's see! Ay, she has so, a big jug an' a little aue. The little ane'U be for cream ; an', sal, the big ane 's bigger na usual." "There maun be something gaen on at the lawyer's if they 're buyin' cream, Leeby. Their reg'lar thing 's twopence worth o' milk." " Ay, but I assure ye that sma' jug 's for cream, an' I dinna doot mysel but 'at there 's to be fower- pence worth o' milk this nicht." " There's to be a puddin' made the morn, Leeby. Ou, ay, a' thing points to that; an' we're very sure there's nae puddins at the lawyer's on the Sabbath onless they hae company." " I dinna ken wha they can hae, if it be na that brither o' the wife's 'at bides oot by Aberdeen." " Na, it's no him, Leeb}' ; na, na. He's no weel to do, an' they wouldna be buyin' cream for 'im." "I '11 run up to the attic again, an' see if there's ony stir at the law)'er's hoose." By and b\' Leeby returned in triumph. " Ou, ay," she said, "they're expcctin' veesitors at the lawyer's, for I could see twa o' the bairns dressed up to the nines, an' Mistress Ogilvy doesna dress at them in that wy for naething." 22 ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. " It fair beats me though, Leeby, to guess wha 's coniin' to them. A\-, but stop a meenutc, I wouldna wonder, no. reallx' I would not wonder but what it'll be " "The very thing 'at was passin' through my head, mother." THE lawyer's house. " Ye mean 'at the lad Wilkie '11 be to bide wi' the law)er i'stead o' wi' Sam'l Duthie? Sal, am thinkin' that 's it. Ye ken Sam'l an' the law}er married on cousins; but Mistress Ogilvy a)'e lookit on Chirsty as dirt aneath her feet. She would be 23 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. glad to get a minister, though, to the hoose, an' so I warrant the lad Wilkie '11 be to bide a' nicht at the lawyer's." " But what would Chirsty be doin' gettin' the chintz an' the fender in that case?" " Ou, she'd been expeckin' the lad, of course. Sal, she '11 be in a michty tantrum aboot this. I wouldna wonder though she gets Sam'l to gang ower to the U. P.'s." Leeby went once more to the attic. " Ye 're wrang, mother," she cried out. " Wha- ever 's to preach the morn is to bide at the manse, for the minister's servant 's been at Baker Duff's buyin' short-bread — half a lippy, nae doot." " Are ye sure o' that, Leeby? " " Oh, am certain. The servant gaed in to Duff's the noo, an', as ye ken fine, the manse fowk doesna deal wi' him, except they're wantin' short-bread. He's Auld Kirk." Leeby returned to the kitchen, and Jess sat for a time ruminatimr. " The lad Wilkie," she said at last, triumphantly, " '11 be to bide at Lawyer Ogilvy's ; but he '11 be gaen to the manse the morn for a tea-dinner." 24 ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. " But what," asked Leeby, " aboot the milk an' the cream for the lawyer's?" " Ou, they '11 be haen a puddin' for the supper the nicht. That 's a michty genteel thing, I 've heard." It turned out that Jess was right in every particular. CHAPTER in. PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. Leeby was at the fire brandering a quarter of steak on the tongs, when the house was flung into consternation by Hendry's casual remark that he had seen Tibbie Mealmaker in the town with her man. " The Lord preserve 's ! " cried Leeby. Jess looked quickly at the clock. " Half fower ! " she said excitedly. " Then it canna be dune," said Leeby, falling despairingly into a chair, " for they may be here ony meenute." "It's most michty," said Jess, turning on her husband, " 'at ye should tak a pleasure m bringin' this hoose to disgrace. Hoo did ye no tell 's suner? " "I fair forgot," Hendry answ^ered, "but what's a' yer steer? " 26 PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. Jess looked at me (she often did this) in a way that meant, " What a man is this I 'm tied to ! " "Steer!" she exclaimed. " Is 't no time we AT WORK WITH A P.ESOM. was makkin a steer? Thc\' '11 be in for their tea ony meennte, an' the room no sae mnckle as sweepit. Ay, an' mc lookin' like a sweep; an' 27 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. Tibbie Mealmakcr 'at 's sac partiklcr genteel seein' you sic a sicht as ye are ! " Jess shook Hendry out of his chair, while Leeby began to sweep with the one hand, and agitatedly to unbutton her wrapper with the other. " She didna see me," said Hendry, sitting down forlornly on the table. " Get aft' that table ! " cried Jess. " See hand o' the besom," she said to Leeby. " For mercy's sake, mother," said Leeby, " gie yer face a dicht, an' put on a clean mutch." " I '11 open the door if they come afore you A WOMAN IN A WHITE MUTCH. 're ready," said Hendry, as Leeby pushed him against the dresser. " Ye daur to speak aboot openin' the door, an' you sic a mess ! " cried Jess, with pins in her mouth. "Havers!" retorted Hendry. "A man canna be aye washin' at 'imsel." 28 PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. Seeing that Hendrx' was as much in the \va)' as myself, I invited him upstairs to the attic, whence we heard Jess and Leeby upbraiding each other shrill)". 1 was aware that the room was speckless ; but tor all that, Lecb}' was turning it upside down. "She's aye taen like that," Hendry said to me, referring to his wife, " when she 's expectin" com- pany. Ay, it 's a peety she canna tak things cannier." " Tibbie Mealmaker must be some one of im- portance?" I asked. " Ou, she 's naething by the ord'nar' ; but ye see she was mairit to a Tillicdrum man no king syne, an' they 're said to hae a michty grand establish- ment. Ay, they 've a wardrobe spleet new ; an' what think ye Tibbie wears ilka day?" I shook my head. " It w^as Chirsty Miller 'at put it through the toon," Ilcndr)- continued. " Chirsty was in Tillic- drum last Teisday or Wednesday, an' Tibbie gae her a cup o' tea. Ay, wcel, Tibbie telt Chirsty 'at .'^he wears hose ilka day." *' Wears hose? " " Ay. It 's some michty grand kind o' stockin'. 29 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. I never heard o't in this toon. Na, there 's naebody in Thrums 'at wears hose." "And who did Tibbie get?" I asked; for in Thrums they say, " Wha did she get? " and " Wha did he tak?" " His name 's Davit Curly. Ou, a crittur fu' o' maggots, an' nae great match, for he 's juist the TiUiedrum bill-sticker." At this moment Jess shouted from her chair (she was burnishing the society teapot as she spoke), " Mind, Hendry McOumpha, 'at upon nae condition arc ye to mention the bill-stickin' afore Tibbie ! " " Tibbie," Hendry explained to me, " is a terrible vain tid, an' doesna think the bill-stickin' tjentecl. Ay, they say 'at if she meets Davit in the street wi' his paste-pot an' the brush in his hands she pretends no to ken 'im." Every time Jess paused to think she cried up orders, such as — " Dinna call her Tibbie, mind ye. Always address her as Mistress Curly." " Shak hands wi' baith o' them, an' say ye hope they 're in the enjoyment o' guid health." " Dinna put yer feet on the table." 30 TllK JULL-STICKER. PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANV. "Mind, \-ou 're no to mention ';it }-e kent they were in tlie toon." " When onybody passes ye yer tea, say 'Thank ye. " Dinna stir \-er tea as if ye was churnin' butter, nor let on 'at the scones is no our ain bakin'." " If Tibbie says onything aboot the china yer no to say 'at we dinna use it ilka da)'." "Dinna lean back in the big chair, for it's broken, an' Leeby 's gien it a lick o' ghie this meenute." " When Leeby gies ye a kick aneath the table, that '11 be a sign to }'e to say grace." Hendry looked at me apologetically while these instructions came up. " I winna di\'e mv head wi' sic nonsense," he said ; " it 's no for a man bod\' to be sae crammed fu' o' manners." " Come awa doon," Jess shouted to him, " an' put on a clean dickey." " I '11 better do 't to please her," said Hendry, " though for my ain part 1 dinna like the feel o' a dickey on week-days. Na, they mak 's think it 's the Sabbath." Ten minutes afterwards I went downstairs to J 3o A WINDOW IN THRUMS. see how the preparations were progressing. Fresh musHn curtains had been put up in the room. The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, was so placed that Tibbie could not help seeing it ; and a fine cambric handkerchief, of which Jess was very proud, was hanging out of a drawer as if bv accident. An antimacassar lying carelessly on the seat of a chair concealed a rent in the horse-hair, and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece were so placed that they looked whole. Leeby's black merino was hanging near the window in a good light, and Jess's Sabbath bonnet, which was never worn, occupied a nail beside it. The tea-things stood on a tra\' in the kitchen bed, whence they could be quickly brought into the room, just as if they were always ready to be used daily. Leeby, as yet in deshabille, was shaving her father at a tremendous rate, and Jess, looking as fresh as a daisy, was ready to receive the visitors. She was peering through the tiny window-blind looking for them. " Be cautious, Leeby," Hendry was saying, when Jess shook her hand at him. " Wheesht," she whispered ; " the\' 're comin'." Hendry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, and then came a tap at the door, a very genteel tap. 34 PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. Jess nodded to Leeb\', who softly shov^ed Hendry into the room. The tap was repeated, but Lecb\' pushed her father intt) a chair and thrust Barrow's Sermons open into his hand. Then she stole but the house, and swiftly buttoned her wrapper, speaking to Jess b\' nods the while. There was a third knock, whereupon Jess said, in a loud, Englishy voice — " Was not that a chap at the cioor? " Hendr}^ was about to repl\', but she shook her fist at him. Next moment Lceby opened the door. I was upstairs, but I lieard Jess sa)' - — "Dear me, if it's not Mrs. Curly — and Mr. Curl)'! And hoo are ye? Come in, by. Weel, this is, indeed, a pleasant surprise ! " 35 CHAPTER IV. WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR, Jess had gone early to rest, and the door of her bed in the kitchen was pulled to. From her window I saw Hendry binding dulse. Now and again the dulseman wheeled his slimy boxes to the top of the brae, and sat there stolidly on the shafts of his barrow. Many passed him by, but occasionally some one came to rest by his side. Unless the customer was loquacious, there was no band}ing of words, and Hendry merely unbuttomed his east-trouser pocket, giving his body the angle at which the pocket could be most easily filled b_\^ the dulseman. He then deposited his halfpenny, and moved on. Neither had spoken ; yet in the country they would have roared their predictions about to-morrow to a ploughman half a field away. Dulse is roasted by twisting it round the tongs fired to a red-heat, and the house was soon heavy 36 WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. Willi the smell of burning sea-weed. Leeb)' was at the tlresser niunchinL;' it froni a br()th-[)late, while Heiuh-)-, on his knees at the fireplace, gin- gerl\- tore off the blades of dulse that were stick- ing to the tongs, and licked his singed fingers. ..'^I^^P THE DULSEMAN. " W'haur 's }-cr mother?" he asked Leeby. " Ou," said Leeb}', " whaur would she be but in her bed? " Hcndrx' ti)ok' the tongs to the door, and woukl have clrant'd tinin himself, had not Leeb\' (who 37 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. often talked his interfering ways over with her mother) torn them from his hands. " Leeby ! " cried Jess at that moment. " Ay," answered Leeby, leisurely, not noticing, as I happened to do, that Jess spoke in an agi- tated voice. "What is't?" asked Hendr)-, who liked to be told things. He opened the door of the bed. " Yer mother's no weel," he said to Leeby. Leeby ran to the bed, and I went ben the house. In another two minutes we were a group of four in the kitchen, staring vacantly. Death could not have startled us more, tapping thrice that quiet night on the window-pane. " It 's diphtheria ! " said Jess, her hands trem- bling as she buttoned her wrapper. She looked at me, and Leeby looked at me. " It 's no, it 's no," cried Leeb}', and her voice was as a fist shaken at ni)- face. She blamed me for hesitating in my reply. But ever since this malady left me a lonel\' dominie for life, diphtheria has been a knockdown word for me. Jess had discovered a great white spot on her throat. I knew the symptoms. 38 WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. " Is 't dangerous?" asked Hendrx', who once had a headache }'ears before, and could still refer to it as a reminiscence. " Them 'at has 't never recovers," said Jess, sitting; down ver\- quieth'. A stick fell from the fire, and she bent forward to replace it. "They do recover," cried Leeby, again turning angry e}'es on me. I could not face her; I had known so many who did not recover. She put her hand on her mother's shoulder. " Mebbe you would be better in }-er bed," suggested Hendry. No one spoke. "When I had the headache," said Hendr}', "I was better in m\- bed." Leeb}- had taken Jess's hand — a worn old liand that had many a time gone out in love and kindness when )-ounger hands were cold. Poets have sung and fighting men have done great deeds for hands that never had such a record. " If )'e could eat something," said Hcndr}', " I would gae to the fiesher's for 't. I mind when I had the headache, hoo a small steak — " 39 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Gac awa for the doctor, rayther," broke in Lccby. Jess started, for sufferers think there is less hope for them after the doctor has been called in to pronounce sentence. " I winna hae the doctor," she said anxiously. In answer to Leeby's nods, Hendry slowly pulled out his boots from beneath the table, and sat looking at them, preparatory to putting them on. He was beginning at last to be a little scared, though his face did not show it. " I winna hae ye," cried Jess, getting to her feet, " gacn to the doctor's sic a sicht. Yer coat 's a' yarn." " Havers," said Hendry, but Jess became frantic. I offered to go for the doctor, but while I was upstairs looking for my bonnet I heard the door slam. Leeby had become impatient, and darted off herself, buttoning her jacket probably as she ran. When I returned to the kitchen, Jess and Hendry were still by the fire. Hendry was beat- ing a charred stick into sparks, and liis wife sat with her hands in her lap. I saw Hendry look at her once or twice, but he could think of noth- ing to say. His terms of endearment had died 40 WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. out thii't_\'-nine \-ears before with his courtship. He had forgotten the words. For his hfe he could not have crossed over to Jess and i)ut his arm round her. Yet he was uneasy. His eyes wandered round the poorl\- ht room. "Will \-e hae a drink o' watter? " he asked. There was a sound of footsteps outside. "That'll be him," said Hendry in a whisper. Jess started to her feet, and told Hendry to help her ben the house. The steps died awa)', but I fancied that Jess, now highly strung, had gone into hiding, and I went after her. I was mistaken. She had lit the room lamp, turning the crack in the globe to the wall. The sheepskin hearthrug, which was gen- erall}' carefully packed a\\a\' beneath the bed, had been spread out before the empty fireplace, and Jess was on the arm-chair hurriedh' put- ting on her grand black mutch with the pink- flowers. " I was juist makkin mysel respectable," she said, but without WW- in her voice. This was the only time I ever saw her in the room. Leeby returned i)anting to say that the doctor 41 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. might be expected in an hour. He was away among the hills. The hour passed reluctantly. Leeby lit a fire ben the house, and then put on her Sabbath dress. She sat with her mother in the room. Ne\'er before had I seen Jess sit so quieth', for her way was to work until, as she said herself, she was ready " to fall into her bed." Hendry wandered between the two rooms, always in the way when Leeby ran to the win- dow to see if that was the doctor at last. He would stand gaping in the middle of the room for five minutes, then slowl)- withdraw to stand as drearily but the house. His face lengthened. At last he sat down by the kitchen fire, a Bible in his hand. It lay open on his knee, but he did not read much. He sat there with his legs outstretched, looking straight before him. I be- lieve he saw Jess young again. His face was very solemn, and his mouth twitched. The fire sank into ashes unheeded. I sat alone at my attic window for hours, wait- ing for the doctor. From the attic I could see nearly all Thrums, but, until ver}- late, the night was dark, and the brae, except immediately be- 42 WAiriXG FOR THE DOCTOR. fore the door, was blurred and dim. A sheet of light canopied the square as long as a cheap Jack paraded his goods there. It was gone i J 1 P^ J THE SQUARE. before the moon came out. T^igures tramped, tramped up the brae, passed the house in shadow and stole silently on. A man or boy whistling seemed to fill the \\alley. The moon arri\'cd too late to be of service to an}' ua\-farcr. h!ver\-- bod\- in Til rums was asleep but ourselves, and the doctor who never came. ♦ 43 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. About midnight Hendry climbed the attic stair and joined me at the window. His hand was shaking as he pulled back the blind. I began to realize that his heart could still overflow. " She 's waur," he whispered, like one who had lost his voice. For a long time he sat silentl}-, his hand on the blind. He was so different from the Hendry I had known, that I felt myself in the presence of a strange man. His eyes were glazed with star- ing at the turn of the brae where the doctor must first come into sight. His breathing be- came heavier, till it was a gasp. Ihen I put my hand on his shoulder, and he stared at me. " Nine-and-thirty years come June," he said, speaking to himself. For this length of time, I knew, he and Jess had been married. He repeated the words at intervals. " I mind — " he began, and stopped. He was thinking of the spring-time of Jess's life. The night ended as we watched ; then came the terrible moment that precedes the day — the moment known to shuddering watchers by sick 44 WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. beds, when a chill wind cnts through the house, and the world without seems cold in death. It is as if the heart of the earth did not mean to continue beating. " This is a fearsome nicht," Hendry said, hoarseh'. He turned to grope his way to the stairs, but suddenly went down on his knees to pray. . . . There was a quick step outside. I arose in time to see the doctor on the brae. He tried the latch, but Leeby was there to show him in. The door of the room closed on him. From the top of the stair I could see into the dark passage, and make out Hendry shaking at the door. I could hear the doctor's voice, but not the words he said. There was a painful silence, and then Leeby laughed joyously. " It 's gone," cried Jess ; " the white spot 's gone! Ye juist touched it, an' it's gone! Tell Hendry." Rut Hendry did not need to be told. As Jess spoke I heard him sa\' huskily: "Thank God!" and tlun he tottered back to the kitchen. When the doctor left, Hendry was still on Jess's arm- chair, trembling like a man with the palsy. Ten 45 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. minutes afterwards I was preparing for bed, when he cried up the stair — " Come awa doon." I joined the family party in the room : Hendry was sitting close to Jess. "Let us read," he said firmly, "in the four- teenth of John." 46 CHAPTER V. A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. AF"rER the eight o'clock bell had rung, Hendry occasionallv crossed over to the farm of T'nowhead and sat on the pig-sty. If no one joined him he scratched the pig, and returned home graduall)'. Here what was almost a club held informal meet- ings, at which two or four, or even half a dozen assembled to debate, when there was any one to start them. The meetings were only memorable when Tammas Haggart was in fettle, to pronounce judgments in his well-known sarcastic wa}'. Some- times we had got off the pig-sty to separate before Tammas was properly yoked. There we might remain a long time, planted round him like trees, for he was a mesmerizing talker. There was a ])ail belonging to the pig-sty which some one would turn bottom upwards and sit upon if the attendance was unusuallx' numerous. Tammas liked, however, to put a foot on it now 47 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. and ay;ain in the full swing of a harangue, and when he paused for a sarcasm I have seen the pail kicked toward him. He had the wave of the arm that is so conxincing in argument, and such a natural way of asking questions, that an AT T'XOWHEAD PIG-STY. audience not used to public speaking might have thought he wanted them to reply. It is an un- doubted fact, that when he went on the platform, at the time of the election, to heckle the Colonel, he paused in the middle of his questions to take a 48 A HUMORISr ON HIS CALLING. drink out of the tumbler of water whieh stood on the table. As soon as they saw what he was up to. the spectators raised a riuL^iny; cheer. On concludini^- his perorations, Tammas sent his snutt-nuiU round, but we had our own wa\- of passing him a vote of thanks. One of the com- pany would express amazement at his gift of words, and the others would add, " Man, man," or, "Ye cow, Tammas," or, "What a crittur ye are! " all which ejaculations meant the same thing. A new subject being thus ingeniously introduced, Tammas again put his foot on the pail. " I tak no creedit," he said, modestly, on the evening, I remember, of Willie Pyatt's funeral, " in bein' able to speak wi' a sort o' faceelity on topics 'at I 've made my ain." *' Ay," said T'nowhcad, " but it 's no the faceelity o' speakin' 'at taks me. There 's Davit Lunan 'at can speak like as if he had learned it aff a paper, an' yet I canna thole 'im." " Davit," said Hendr\-, " doesna speak in a wy 'at a body can follow 'im. He doesna gae even on. Jess says he 's juist like a man aye at the cross-roads, an' no sure o' his w\-. But the stock has words, an' no ilka body has that." 4 49 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " If I was bidden to put Tammas's gift in a word," said T'nowhead, " I would say 'at he had a wy. That 's what I would say." "Weel, I suppose I have," Tammas admitted, " but wy or no wy, I couldna put a point on my words if it wasna for my sense o' humour. Lads, humour 's what gies the nip to speakin'." "It's what maks ye a sarcesticist, Tammas," said Hendr}- ; " but what I wonder at is yer sayin' the humorous things sae aisy like. Some says ye mak them up aforehand, but I ken that 's no true." " No only is 't no true," said Tammas, " but it couldna be true. Them 'at says sic things, an', weel I ken you 're meanin' Davit Lunan, hasna nae idea o' what humour is. It's a thing 'at spouts oot o' its ain accord. Some o' the maist humorous things I 've ever said cam oot, as a body may say, by thcmsels." "I suppose that's the case," said T'nowhead, "an' yet it maun be you 'at brings them up?" "There's no nae doubt aboot its bein' the case," said Tammas, " for I 've watched mysel often. There was a vara guid instance occurred sune after I married Easie, The Earl's son met me one day, 50 A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. aboot that time, i' the Tenements, an' he didna ken 'at Chirst}- was deid. an' I W married aL;ain. ' Well, Haesrart,' he sa\s, in iiis frank \v\-, ' and how is your wife? ' ' She's \ara weel, sir,' I maks answer, * but she 's no the ane }'ou mean.' " " Na, he meant Chirst)'," said Hendr\'. " Is that a' the story? " asked T'nowhead. Tammas had been looking at us queerly. "There's no nane o' ye lauehin'," he said, "but I can assure ye the Earl's son gaed east the toon lauehin' like on\'thing." " But what was't he lauched at? " " Ou," said Tammas, " a humorist doesna tell whaur the humour comes in." "No. but when you said that, did ye mean it to be humorous? " " Am no savin' I did. but as I 've been tellin' ye humour spouts oot b\' itsel." " A\-, but do ye ken noo what the Earl's son gaed awa lauehin' at? " Tammas hesitateil. " I dinna e.\actl>- see 't," he confessed, " but that 's no an oncommon thing. A humorist would often no ken 'at he was ane if it wasna b\- the \\y he maks other fowk lauch. A body canna be ex- 51 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. pcckit baith to niak the joke an' to see 't. Na, that woukl be doin' twa fowks' wark." " Week that 's reasonable enough, but I 've often seen ye lauchin'," said Hendr}-, " lang afore other fowk lauched." " Nae doubt," Tammas expkiineck " an' that 's because humour has twa sides, juist hke a penny piece. When I sa}' a humorous thing mysel, I 'm dependent on other fowk to tak note o' the humour o't, bein' niyscl taen up \vi' the makkin o't. A}', but there 's things I see an' hear 'at maks me lauch, an' that 's the other side o' Iiumour." " I ne\'er heard it put sae pkiin afore," said T'nowhead, " an', sak am no nane sure but what am a humorist too." " Na, na, no you, T'nowhead," said Tammas, hotly. " Week" continued the farmer, " I never set up for bein' a humorist, but I can juist assure ye 'at I lauch at queer things too. No lang s}-ne I woke up i' m\' bed lauchin' like on\'thing, an' Lisbcth thocht I wasna week It was something I dreamed 'at made me lauch, I couldna think what it was, but I lauched richt. Was that no fell like a huinorist?" 52 A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. " That was neither here nor there," said Tammas. " Xa. dreams dinna coont, for we 're no responsible for them. A\', an' what 's mair, the mere huichin 's no the important side o' hnmour, even thous4ii ye hinna to be teh to huieh. The important side's the other side, the sayin' the humorous things. ox T'NOWHKAD FARM. I'll tell ve what: the humorist's like a man firin' at a target — he docsna ken whether he hits or no till them at the target tells 'im." " I would be of ojieenion," said Hendry, who was one of Tammas's most staunch admirers, " 'at another mark >>' the rale humorist was his seein' humour in all thiuiis? 53 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. Tammas shook his head — a way he had when Hendry advanced theories. " I dinna hand wi' that ava," he said. " I ken fine 'at Davit Lunan gaes aboot sayin' he sees humour in everything, but there 's nae surer sign 'at he's no a genuine humorist. Na, the rale humorist kens vara weel 'at there 's subjects with- oot a spark o' humour in them. When a sub- ject rises to the subhme it shoukl be regairded philosophically, an' no humorously. Davit would lauch 'at the grandest thochts, whaur they only fill the true humorist wi' awe. I 've found it necessary to rebuke 'im at times whaur his lauchin' was oot o' place. He pretended aince on this vara spot to see humour i' the origin o' cock-fightin'." "Did he, man?" said Hendry; " I wasna here. But what is the origin o' cock-fechtin'? " " It was a' i' the Cheap Maga.oiue," said T'now- head. "Was I sayin' it wasna?" demanded Tammas. " It was through me readin' the account oot o' the Cheap Magazine 'at the discussion arose." " Rut what said the CJieapy was the origin o' cock-fechtin'? " 54 A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. "T'nowhead '11 tell \-e," answered Tammas; " he says I dinna ken." " I nexer said naething o" the kind," returned T'nowhead, indignantly; "I mind o' ye readin't oot fine." " Ay, weel," said Tammas, " that 's a' richt. Ou, the origin o' cock-fightin' gangs back to the time o' the Greek wars, a thoosand or twa years syne, mair or less. There was ane, Miltiades by name, 'at was the captain o' the Greek arm\', an' one day he led them doon the mountains to attack the biggest army 'at w^as ever gathered thegither." " The\- were Persians," interposed T'nowhead. " Are you tellin' the story, or am I ? " asked Tammas. " I kent fine 'at they were Persians. Weel, Miltiades had the matter o' tw^enty thoosand men wi' 'im, and when they got to the foot o' the mountain, behold there was two cocks fechtin'." " Alan, man," said Hendry, " an' was there cocks m thae da}-s? " " Ondoubtedl}'," said Tammas, " or hoo coultl thae twa hac been fechtin'?" " ^\' have me there, Tammas," admitted Hendry. " Ye 're perfectly richt." 55 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Ay, then," continued the stone-breaker, " when Miltiades saw the cocks at it wi' all their micht, he stopped the arm}' and addressed it. ' Behold ! he cried, at the top o' his voice, ' these cocks do not fight for their household gods, nor for the monuments of their ancestors, nor for glor}', nor for libert)'. nor for their children, but onl\' because the one will not gi\'e way unto the other.' " " It was nobly said," declared Hendry ; " na, cocks wouldna hae sae muckle understandin' as to fecht for thae things. I wouldna wonder but what it was some laddies 'at set them at ane another." " Hendry doesna see what Miltydes was after," said T'nowhead. " Ye 've tacn 't up wrang, Hendry," Tammas explained. "What Miltiades meant was 'at if cocks could fecht sae weel oot o' mere deviltr\-, surely the Greeks would fecht terrible for their gods an' their bairns an' the other things." " I see, I see ; but what was the monuments o' their ancestors? " " Ou, that was the gravestanes they put up i' their kirkyards." " I wonder the other billies would want to tak them awa. They would be a michty wecht." 56 A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. " A\-, but they wanted them, an' nat'rally the Greeks stuck to the stanes they paid for." " So, so, an' did Da\it Lunan mak oot 'at there was humour in that? " " He do so. He said it was a humorous tiling to think o' a hale arm\' lookin' on at twa cocks fechtin'. I assure \'e I tclt "im 'at I saw nae humour in 't. It was ane o' the most impressive sichts ever seen b)- man, an' the Greeks was sae inspired by what Miltiades said 'at they sweepit the Persians oot o' their country." We all agreed that Tammas's was the genuine humour. " An' an enviable possession it is," said Hendry. " In a wy," admitted Tammas, " but no in a' J) wys. He hesitated, and then added in a low voice — " As sure as death, Hendry, it sometimes taks grip o' me i' the kirk itsel, an' I can hardly keep frae lauchin'." .S7 CHAPTER VL DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. In the lustiness of youth there are many who cannot feel that they, too, will die. The first fear stops the heart. Even then they would keep death at arm's len<7th bv^ makino; believe to dis- own him. Eoved ones are taken away, and the boy, the girl, will not speak of them, as if that made the conqueror's triumph the less. In time the fire in the breast burns low, and then in the last glow of the embers, it is sweeter to hold to what has been than to think of what ma\- be. Twenty years had passed since Joey ran down the brae to play. Jess, his mother, shook her staff fondh' at him. A cart rumbled by, the driver nodding on the shaft. It rounded the corner and stopped suddenly, and then a woman screamed. A handful of men carried Joey's dead body to his mother, and that was the tratjedx' of Jess's life. 58 DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. T\vcnt\- years a<7o, and still Toss sat at the wiiulow. antl still she heard that woman scream. Ever}' otlK'r li\in!^ beinsj; had forgotten Joey; isif c;()iN(i j)i)\v.\ iiii: i!RAE. even to Hendry lie was now scarcely a name, but tlnre were times when Jess's face cjuixered and her old arms went out for her dead boy. 59 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " God's will be done," she said, " but oh, I grudged Him my bairn terrible sair. I dinna want him back noo, an' ilka day is takkin me nearer to him, but for mony a lang year I grudged him sair, sair. He was juist five minutes gone, an' they brocht him back deid, my Joey." On the Sabbath day Jess could not go to church, and it was then, I think, that she was with Joey most. There was often a blessed serenity on her face when we returned, that onl}' comes to those who have risen from their knees with their prayers answered. Then she was very close to the boy who died. Long ago she could not look out from her window upon the brae, but now it was her seat in church. There on the Sabbath even- ings she sometimes talked to me of Joey. "It's been a fine day," she would say, "juist like that day. I thank the Lord for the sunshine noo, but oh, I thocht at the time I couldna look at the sun shinin' again." " In all Thrums," she has told me. and I know it to be true, " there 's no a better man than Hendry. There 's them 'at 's cleverer in the wys o' the world, but my man, Hendry McQumpha, never did naething in all his life 'at wasna weel 60 DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. intended, an' thouL^h his words is common, it's to the Lord he looks. I canna tliink but wliat Hcndr}- 's pleasin' to God. (^h, I thnna ken what to sa}' wi' thankfiihiess to Him when I mind hoc euid He 's been to me. There 's Leeb\' 'at I couldna hae done withoot, me bein' sae silly (weak bodily), an' a}'e Leeby 's stuck by me an' gien up her life, as ye micht say, for me. Jamie — " But then Jess sometimes broke down. " He 's so far awa." she said, after a time, " an' a\'e when he gangs back to London after his holi- da\'s he has a fear he '11 never see me again, but he 's terrified to mention it, an' I juist ken b\- the wy he taks hand o' me, an' comes runnin' back to tak hand o' me again. I ken fine what he 's thinkin', but I daurna s]")eak. "Guid is no word for what Jamie has been to me, but he wasna born till after Joe\' died. When we got Jamie, Hendr}- took to whistlin' again at the loom, an' Jamie juist filled Joey's place to him. A)', but naebody could fill Joe\-'s place to me. It 's different to a man. A bairn's no the same to him, but a fell bit o' me was buried in my ladtlie's grave. "Jamie an' Joey was never nane the same 6r A WINDOW IN THRUMS. nature. It was aye something in a shop, Jamie wanted to be, an' he never cared niuckle for his books, but J()e\- hankered after being a minister, young as he was, an' a minister Hendry an' me would hae done our best to mak him. Mony, mony a time after he came in frae the kirk on the Sabbath he would stanil up at this very window and wave his hands in a reverent way, juist like the minister. His first text was to be, ' Thou God seest me.' " Ye '11 wonder at me, but I 've sat here in the lang fore-nichts dreamin' 'at Joey was a grown man noo, an' 'at I was initlin' on m\' bonnet to come to the kirk to hear him preach. Even as far back as twenty years an' mair I wasna able to gang aboot, but Joey would say to me, ' We '11 get a carriage to ye, mother, so 'at ye can come and hear me preach on " Thou God seest me."' He would say to me, ' It doesna do, mother, for the minister in the pulpit to nod to ony o' the fowk, but I '11 gie ye a look an' ye '11 ken it's me.' Oh, Joey, I would hae gien you a look too, an' ye would hae kcnt what I was thinkin'. He often said, ' Ye '11 be proud o' me, will ye no, mother, when ye see me comin' sailin' alang to the pulpit 62 THRUMS. DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. in ni}' gown?' So I would hac been proud o* him, an' I was proud to hear him speakin' o't. 'The other fowk,' he said, 'will be sittin' in their seats wonderin' what ni}- text 's to be, but nou '11 ken, mother, an' you'll turn up to "Thou God seest me," afore I gie oot the chapter.' A\-, but that da}- he was coffined, for all the minister prayed, I found it hard to sa}', ' Thou God seest me.' It's the text I like best noo, though, an' when Hendry an' Leeby is at the kirk, I turn 't up often, often in the Bible. I read frae the beginnin' o' the chapter, but when I come to ' Thou God seest me,' I stop. Na, it 's no 'at there 's ony rebellion to the Lord in m\' heart noo, for I ken He was lookin' doon when the cart gaed ower Joey, an' He wanted to tak my laddie to Himsel. lint juist when I come to ' Thou God seest me,' I let the Book lie in my lap, for aince a body's sure o' that they 're sure o' all. A}% ye '11 laugh, but I think, mcbbc juist because I was his mother, 'at though Joey ncv^cr lived to preach in a kirk, he 's preached frae ' Thou God seest me ' to me. I dinna ken 'at I would ever hae been sac sure o' that if it hadna been for him, an' so I think I see 'im sailin' doon to the pulj)it juist 5 65 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. as he said he would do. I seen him gicn me the look he spoke o' — ay, he looks my wy first, an' I ken it 's him. Naebody sees him but me, but I see him gien me the look he promised. He 's so terrible near me, an' him dead, 'at when my time comes I '11 be rale willin' to go. I dinna say that to Jamie, because he all trembles; but I'm auld noo, an' I 'm no nane loth to gang." Jess's staff probably had a history before it became hers, for, as known to me, it was always old and black. If we studied them sufficiently we might discover that staves age perceptibly just as the hair turns grey. At the risk of being thought fanciful I dare to say that in inanimate objects, as in ourselves, there is honourable and shameful old age, and that to me Jess's staff was a symbol of the good, the true. It rested against her in the window, and she was so helpless without it when on her feet, that to those who saw much of her it was part of herself The staff was very short, nearly a foot having been cut, as I think she once told me herself, from the original, of which to make a porridge thieval, and in moving Jess leant heavily on it. Had she stood erect it would not have touched the floor. This was the staff that Jess 66 H X w r o o DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. shook so jo}-rull\- at her bo)- the forenoon in May when he ran out to his death. Joc\', however, was associated in Jess's memory with her staff in less painful wa}'s. When she spoke of him she took the dw arf of a staff in her hands and looked at it softly. " It 's hard to me," she would say, " to believe 'at twa an' twenty )'cars hae come and gone since the nicht Joe)- hod (hid) my staff. Ay, but Hendry was straucht in thae da\-s b\' what he is noo, an' Jamie wasna born. Twa an' twenty years come the back end o' the )-ear, an' it wasna thocht 'at I could li\'e through the winter. ' Ye '11 no last mair than anither month, Jess,' was what my sister Bell said, when she came to see me, and yet here I am ave sittin' at m\' window, an' Bell's been i' the kirk}'ard this dozen years. " Leeb\- was saxteen month }-ounger than Joey, an' mair quiet like. Her heart was juist set on helpin' aboot the hoose, an' though she was but fower \-car auld she could kindle the fire an' red up (clean up) the room. Leeby's been ni}' savin' ever since she was fower year auld. A}-, hut it was Joey 'at hung aboot me maist, an' he took notice 'at I wasna gaen out as I used to do. Since sune 69 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. after my marriage I 've needed the stick, but there was days 'at I could gang across the road an' sit on a stane. Joey kent there was something wrang when I had to gie that up, an' syne he noticed 'at I could na even gang to the window unless Hendry kind o' carried me. Na, ye wouldna think 'at there could hae been days when Hendry did that, but he did. He was a sort o' ashamed if ony o' the neighbours saw him so affectionate like, but he was terrible taen up aboot me. His loom was doon at T'nowhead's Bell's father's, an' often he cam awa up to see if I w^as ony better. He didna lat on to the other weavers 'at he was comin' to see what like I was. Na, he juist said he 'd forgotten a pirn, or his cruizey lamp, or onything. Ah, but he didna mak nae pretence o' no carin' for me aince he was inside the hoose. He came crawlin' to the bed no to wauken me if I was sleepin', an' mony a time I made belief 'at I was, juist to please him. It was an awfu' business on him to hae a young wife sae helpless, but he wasna the man to cast that at me. I mind o' sayin' to him one day in my bed, ' Ye made a poor bargain, Hendry, when ye took me.' But he says, ' Not one soul in Thrums '11 daur say that 70 DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. to me but yersel, Jess. Na, na, ni}' dawty, you 're the wunian o' ni\- choice; there 's juist one wiunan i' tlie warld to nie, an' that 's }-ou, my ain Jess.' Twa an' twent)" }-ears s\'ne. Ay, Hendry called me fond like names, thae no everyday names. What a straucht man he was ! "The doctor had said he could do no more for me, an' Hendry was the only ane 'at didna gie me up. The bairns, of course, didna understan', and Joey would come into the bed an' play on the top o' me. Hendry would hae taen him awa, but I liked to hae 'im. Ye see, we was lang married afore we had a bairn, an' thouL^h I couldna bear ony other weight on me, Joey didna hurt me, somehoo. I liked to hae 'im so close to me. " It was through that 'at he came to bur\- my staff. I couldna help often thinkin' o' what like the hoose would be when I was gone, an' aboot Leeb}' an' Joey left so }'oung. So, when I could say it without greetin', I said to Joey 'at I was goin' far awa, an' would he be a terrible guid laddie t(j his father and Leeby when I was gone? He aye juist said, ' Dinna gang, mother, dinna gang; ' but one day Hendry came in frae his loom, and sa\'s Joey, ' Father, whaur 's my mother gaen 71 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. to, awa frae lis? ' I '11 never forget Hendry's face. His niootb juist opened an' shut twa or three times, an' he walked quick ben to the room. I cried oot to him to come back, but he didna come, so I sent Joey for him. Joey came runnin' back to me sayin', ' Mother, mother, am awfu' field, for my father's greetin' sair.' " A' thae things took a baud o' Joe}', an' he ended in gien us a fleg. I was sleepin' ill at the time, an' Hendr\' was ben sleepin' in the room wi' Lecb}', Joey bein' wi' me. A}', weel, one nicht I woke up in the dark an' put oot ni}' hand to 'im, an' he wasna there. I sat up wi' a terrible start, an' s}'ne I kent by the cauld 'at the door maun be open. I cried oot quick to Hendr}-, but he was a soond sleeper, an' he didna hear me. A)-, I dinna ken hoo I did it, but I got ben to the room an' shook him up. I was near daft wi' fear when I saw Leeb}' wasna there either. Hendry couldna tak it in a' at aince, but sune he had his trousers on, an' he made me lie down on his bed. He said he wouldna move till I did it, or I wouldna hae dune it. As sune as he was oot o' the hoose crying their names I sat up ui my bed listcnin'. Sune I heard speakin', an' in a minute Leeby comes runnin' in to mc, 72 DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. roarin' an' grcctin'. She was barefeeted, and liad juist her nichtgown on, an' her teeth was chatterin'. I took her into the bed, but it was an hour afore she could tell nie on)'thing, she was in sic a state. " Sune after Hendry came in carryin' Joey. Joe\' was as naked as Leeb}', and as cauld as lead, but he wasna greetin'. Instead o' that he was awfu' satisfied like, and for all Hendry threatened to lick him he wouldna tell what he an' Leeby had been doin'. He says, though, says he, ' Ye '11 no gang awa noo, mother; no, ye '11 bide noo.' My bonny laddie, I didna fathom him at the time. "It was Leeby 'at I got it frae. Ye see, Joey had never seen me gaen ony gait withoot my staff, an' he thocht if he hod it I wouldna be able to gang awa. A}-, he planned it all oot, though he was but a bairn, an' lay watchin' me in m)' bed till I fell asleep. Syne he creepit oot o' the bed, an' got the staff, and gaed ben for Leeby. She was fleid, but he said it was the onl\' wy to mak me 'at I couldna gang awa. It was juist ower there whaur thae cabbages is 'at he dug the hole wi' a spade, an' buried the staff. Hendr)' dug it up next mornin'." 73 CHAPTER VII. THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. On a Thursday Pete Lownie was buried, and when Hendry returned from the funeral Jess asked if Davit Lunan had been there. " Na," said Hendry, who was shut up in the closet-bed, taking off his blacks, " I heard tell he wasna bidden." " Yea, yea," said Jess, nodding to me signifi- cantly. "Ay, weel," she added, "we'll be haen Tibbie owcr here on Saturday to deve 's (weary us) to death aboot it." Tibbie, Davit's wife, was sister to Marget, Pete's widow, and she generally did visit Jess on Saturday night to talk about Marget, who was fast becoming one of the most fashionable persons in Thrums, Tibbie was hopelessly plebeian. She was none of your proud kind, and if I entered the kitchen when she was there she pretended not to see me, so that, if I chose, I might escape without speaking to the 74 THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. like of her. I always grabbed her hand, however, in a frank wa\'. On Saturday Tibbie made her appearance. From the rapidity of her walk, and the way she was sucking in her mouth, I knew that she had strange things to unfold. She had pinned a grey shawl about her shoulders, and wore a black mutch over her dangling grey curls. " It 's you, Tibbie," I heard Jess say, as the door opened. Tibbie did not knock, not considering herself grand enough for ceremony, and indeed Jess would have resented her knocking. On the other hand, when Leeby visited Tibbie, she knocked as politely as if she were collecting for the precentor's present. All this showed that we were superior socially to Tibbie. " Ay, hoo are ye, Jess? " Tibbie said. " Muckle aboot it," answered Jess; " juist aff an' on; ay, an' hoo hae ye been yersel? " " Ou," said Tibbie. T wish I could write " ou " as Tibbie said it. With her it was usually a sentence in itself Sometimes it was a mere bark, again it expressed indignation, surprise, rapture ; it might be a check 75 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. upon emotion or a way of leading up to it, and often it lasted for half a minute. In this instance it was, I should say, an intimation that if Jess was ready Tibbie would begin. " So Pete Lownie 's gone," said Jess, whom I could not see from ben the house. I had a good glimpse of Tibbie, however, through the open doorways. She had the arm-chair on tlie south side, as she would have said, of the fireplace. " He 's awa," assented Tibbie, primly. I heard the lid of the kettle dancing, and then came a prolonged " ou." Tibbie bent forward to whisper, and if she had anything terrible to tell I was glad of that, for when she whispered I heard her best. For a time onl\' a murmur of words reached me, distant music with an " ou " now and again that fired Tibbie as the beating of his drum may rouse the martial spirit of a drmnmer. At last our visitor broke into an agitated whisper, and it was only when she stopped whispering, as she did now and again, that I ceased to hear her. Jess evidently put a question at times, but so politely (for she had on her best wrapper) that I did not catch a word. " Though I should be struck deid this nicht," 76 TI15HIIi lURSE. THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSPl Tibbie whispered, and the sibihints hissed between her few rcniainiiiL;- teeth, " I wasna sae muckle as speired to the la}in' oot. There was Mysy Cruick- shanks there, an' Kitt}' W'obster 'at was nae friends to the corpse to speak o', but Marget passed by me, me 'at is her ain flesh an' blood, though it mayna be for tlie hke o' me to say it. It 's gospel truth, Jess, I tell ye, when I say 'at, for all I ken officially, as ye micht say, Pete Lownie may be weel and hearty this day. If I was to meet Marget in the face I couldna say he was deid, though I ken 'at the wricht coffined him ; na, an' what's mair, I wouldna gie Marget the satisfac- tion o' hearin' me say it. No, Jess, I tell ye, I dinna pertend to be on an equalty wi' Marget, but equalty or no equalty, a body has her feelings, an' lat on 'at I ken Pete 's gone I will not. Eh? Ou, weel. . . . " Na faags a ; na, na. I ken my place better than to gang near Marget. I dinna deny 'at she 's grand by me, an' her keeps a bakchoose o' her ain, an' glad am I ti) see her doin' sae weel, but let me tell }'e this, Jess, ' Pride goeth before a fall.' Yes, it does, it's Scripture; ay, it's nae mak-up o' mine, it 's Scripture. And this I will say, though 79 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. kennin' my place, 'at Davit Lunaii is as dainty a man as is in Thrums, an' there 's no one 'at 's better behaved at a bural, being particularly wise-like in 's blacks, an' them spleet new. Na, na, Jess, Davit may hae his faults an' tak a dram at times like anither, but he would shame naebody at a bural, an' Marget deleeberately insulted him, no speirin' him to Pete's. What 's mair, when the minister cried in to see me yesterday, an' me on the floor washin', says he, ' So Marget 's lost her man,' an' I said, ' Say ye so, na? ' for let on 'at I kent, an' neither me at the layin' oot nor Davit Lunan at the funeral, I would not. " ' David should hae gone to the funeral,' says /\ the minister, ' for I doubt not he was only omitted \ in the invitations by a mistake.' \ "Ay, it was weel meant, but says I, Jess, says I, V, ' As lang as am livin' to tak chairge o' 'im. Davit Lunan gangs to nae burals 'at he 's no bidden to. An' I tell ye,' I says to the minister, ' if there was one body 'at had a richt to be at the bural o' Pete Lownie, it was Davit Lunan, him bein' my man an' Marget my ain sister. Yes,' says I, ' though am no o' the boastin' kind, Davit had maist richt to be there next to Pete 'imsel.' Ou, Jess. . , . 80 THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. " This is no a niaiter I like to speak aboot ; na, I dinna care to mention it, but the neighbours is nat'rall}' tacn up aboot it, and Chirsty Tosh was sa}in' what I would wager 'at ]\Iarget hadna sent the minister to hint 'at Davit's bein' over-lookit in the invitations was juist an accident? Losh, losh, Jess, to think 'at a woman could hae the michty assur- ance to mak a tool o' the very minister ! But, sal, as far as that gangs, Marget would do it, an' gae twice to the kirk next Sabbath, too; but if she thinks she 's to get ow^er me like that, she taks me for a bigger fule than I tak her for. Na, na, Marget, ye dinna draw my leg. Ou, no. . . . " Mind ye, Jess, I hae no desire to be friends wi' Marget. Naething could be farrer frae my wish than to hae helpit in the layin' oot o' Pete Lownie, an', I assure ye, Davit wasna keen to gang to the bural. ' If they dinna want me to their burals,' Davit says, ' they hae nae mair to do than to say sac. But I warn }'e, Tibbie,' he says, ' if there 's a bural frae this hoosc, be it your bural, or be it my l)ural, not one o' the family o' Lownies casts their shadows u[)on the corp.' Thae was the very words Da\it said to me as we watched the hearse frae the sky-licht. Ay, he bore up wonderfu', but he felt 6 8i A WINDOW IN THRUMS. it, Jess — he felt it, as I could tell by his takkin to drink again that very nicht. Jess, Jess. . . . " Marget 's getting waur an' waur? Ay, ye may say so, though I '11 say naething agin her mysel. Of coorse am no on equalty wi' her, especially since she had the bell put up in her hoose. Ou, I hinna seen it mysel, na, I never gang near the hoose, an', as mony a body can tell ye, when I do hae to gang that wy I mak my feet my friend. Ay, but as I was sayin', Marget 's sae grand noo 'at she has a bell in the hoose. As I understan', there's a rope in the wast room, an' when ye pu' it a bell rings in the east room. Weel, when Marget has com- pany at their tea in the wast room, an' they need mair watter or scones or onything, she rises an' rings the bell. Syne Jean, the auldest lassie, gets up frae the table an' lifts the jug or the plates an' gaes awa ben to the east room for what's wanted. Ay, it's a wy o' doin' 'at 's juist like the gentry, but I '11 tell ye, Jess, Pete juist fair hated the soond o' that bell, an' there 's them 'at says it was the death o' 'im. To think o' Marget haen sic an establishment ! . . . " Na, I hinna seen the mournin', I 've heard o't. 82 THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. Na, if IVIarget doesna tell me naething, am no the kind to spcir naething, an' though I 'U be at the kirk the morn, I winna turn my hcid to look at the mournin'. But it's fac as death I ken frae Janet McOuhatty 'at the bonnet 's a' crape, an' three yairds o' crape on the dress, the wliich Marget calls a costume. . . . Ay, I wouldna won- der but what it was hale watter the morn, for it looks micht\" like rain, an' if it is it'll serve Marget richt, an' mebbe bring doon her pride a wee. No 'at I want to see her humbled, for, in coorse, she 's grand by the like o' mc. Ou, but . . ." 83 CHAPTER VIII. A CLOAK WITH BEADS. On weekdays the women who passed the win- dow were meagrely dressed ; mothers in draggled winsey gowns, carrying infants that were armfuls of grandeur. The Sabbath clothed every one in her best, and then the women went by with their hands spread out. When I was with Hendry cloaks with beads were the fashion, and Jess sighed as she looked at them. They were known in Thrums as the Eleven and a Bits (threepenny bits), that being their price at Kyowowy's in the square. Kyowowy means finicky, and applied to the draper by general consent. No doubt it was very characteristic to call the cloaks by their market value. In the glen ni}' scholars still talk of their school-books as the tupenn\', the fower- penny, the saxpenny. They finish their educa- tion with the tenpenny. 84 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. Jess's oppoitunit)' for handling the garments that others of her sex could finger in shops was when she had guests to tea. Persons who merely dropped in and remained to tea got their meal, as a rule, in the kitchen. They had nothing on that Jess could not easily take in as she talked WOMEN ON THE BRAE. to them. But when they came by special invita- tion, the meal was served in the room, the guests' things being left on the kitchen bed. Jess not being able to go ben the house, had to be left with the things. When the tim-e to go arrived, these were found on the bed, just as they had been placed there, but Jess could now tell Lecby 85 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. whether they were imitation, why Bell Elshioner's feather went far round the bonnet, and Chirsty Lownie's reason for always holding her left arm fast against her side when she went abroad in the black jacket. Ever since My Hobart's eleven and a bit was left on the kitchen bed Jess had hungered for a cloak with beads. My's was the very marrows of the one T'nowhead's wife got in Dundee for ten-and-sixpence ; indeed, we would have thought that 'Lisbeth's also came from Kyowowy's had not Sanders Elshioner's sister seen her go into the Dundee shop with T'now- head (who was loth), and hung about to discover what she was after. Hendry was not quick at reading faces like Tammas Haggart, but the wistful look on Jess's face when there was talk of eleven and a bits had its meaning for him. "They're grand to look at, no doubt," I have heard him say to Jess, "but they're richt an- noyin'. That new w^ife o' Peter Dickie's had ane on in the kirk last Sabbath, an' wi' her sittin' juist afore us I couldna listen to the sermon for tryin' to count the beads." Hendry made his way into these gossips unin- 86 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. vited, for his opinions on dress were considered contemptible, though he was worth consulting on material. Jess and Leeby discussed man)- things in his presence, confident that his ears were not doing their work ; but every now and then it was discovered that he had been hearkening greedily. If the subject was dress, he might then become a little irritating. " Oh, they're grand," Jess admitted; " they set a body aff oncommon." "They would be no use to you," said Hendry, " for ye canna wear them except ootside." " A body doesna buy cloaks to be wcarin' at them steady," retorted Jess. " No, no, but you could never wear yours though ye had ane." "I dinna want ane. They're far ower grand for the like o' me." " They 're nae sic thing. Am thinkin' ye 're juist as fit to wear an eleven and a bit as My Hobart." "Weel, mebbc I am. but it's oot o' the queis- tion gettin' ane, they 're sic a price." " Ay, an' though we had the siller, it would surely be an awfu' like thing to buy a cloak 'at ye could never wear? " 87 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Ou, but I dinna want ane." Jess spoke so mournfully that Hendry became enraged. " It 's most michty," he said, " 'at ye would gang an' set yer heart on sic a completely use- less thing." " I hinna set my heart on 't." " Dinna blether. Ye 've been speakin' aboot thae eleven and a bits to Leeby, afif an' on, for twa month." ■ Then Hendry hobbled off to his loom, and Jess gave me a look which meant that men are tr}'ing at the best, once you are tied to them. The cloaks continued to turn up in conversa- tion, and Hendry poured scorn upon Jess's weak- ness, telling her she would be better employed mending his trousers than brooding over an eleven and a bit that would have to spend its life in a drawer. An outsider would have thought that Hendry was positively cruel to Jess. He seemed to take a delight in finding that she had neglected to sew a button on his waistcoat. His real joy, however, was the knowledge that she sewed as no other woman in Thrums could sew. Jess had a genius for making new garments out of old 88 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. ones, and Hendi')- never tired of gloating over her cleverness so long as she was not present. He was alwaj's athirst for fresh proofs of it, and these were forthcoming every day. Sparing were his words of praise to herself, but in the evening he general!}' had a smoke with me in the attic, and then the thought of Jess made him chuckle till his pipe went out. Wlicn he smoked he grunted as if in pain, though this really added to the enjoyment. " It doesna matter," he would say to me, " what Jess turns her hand to, she can mak ony mortal thing. She doesna need nae teachin' ; na, juist gie her a guid look at onything, be it clothes, or furniture, or in the bakin' line, it 's all the same to her. She '11 mak another exactly like it. Ye canna beat her. Her bannocks is so superior 'at a Tilliedrum woman took to her bed after tastin' them, an' when the lawyer has company his wife gets Jess to make some bannocks for her an' syne pretends they 're her ain bakin'. Ay, there 's a story aboot that. One day the auld doctor, him 'at 's deid, was at his tea at the lawyer's, an' says the guidwife, 'Try the cakes, Mr. Riach ; they're my own bakin'.' W'eel, he was a fearsomely out- 89 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. spoken man, the doctor, an' nae suner had he the bannock atween his teeth, for he didna stop to swallow 't, than he says, ' Mistress Geddie,' says he, ' I wasna born on a Sabbath. Na, na, you 're FIRING BANNOCKS. no the first grand leddy 'at has gien me bannocks as their ain bakin' 'at was baked and fired by Jess Logan, her 'at's Hendry McQumpha's wife.' Ay, they say the lawyer's wife didna ken which wy to 90 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. look, she was that mortified. It 's juist the same \vi' sewin'. There 's wys o' ornamentin' christ- enin' robes an' the Hke 'at 's kent to naebody but hersel ; an' as for stockin's, vveel, though I 've seen her mak sae mony, she amazes me yet. I mind o' a furry waistcoat I aince had. Weel, when it was fell dune, do you think she gae it awa to some gaen aboot body (vagrant)? Na, she made it into a richt neat coat to Jamie, wha was a bit laddie at the time. When he grew out o' it, she made a slipbody o't for hersel. Ay, I dinna ken a' the different things it became, but the last time I saw it was ben in the room, whaur she 'd covered a footstool wi't. Yes, Jess is the cleverest crittur I ever saw. Leeby 's handy, but she 's no a patch on her mother." I sometimes repeated these panegyrics to Jess. She merely smiled, and said that men haver most terrible when they are not at their work. Hendry tried Jess sorely over the cloaks, and a time came when, only by exasperating her, could he get her to reply to his sallies. " Wha wants an eleven an' a bit?" she retorted now and again. "It's you 'at wants it," said Hendry, promptly. 9' A WIN]30\V IN THRUMS. " Did I ever say I wanted ane ? What use could I hae for 't? " "That's the qucistion," said Hendry. "Ye canna gang the length o' the door, so ye would never be able to wear 't." " Ay, weel," replied Jess, " I '11 never hae the chance o' no bein' able to wear 't, for, hooever muckle I wanted it, I couldna get it." Jess's infatuation had in time the effect of making Hendry uncomfortable. In the attic he delivered himself of such sentiments as these : " There 's nae understandin' a woman. There 's Jess 'at hasna her equal for cleverness in Thrums, man or woman, an' yet she 's fair skeered about thae cloaks. Aince a women sets her mind on something to wear, she 's mair onreasonable than the stupidest man. Ay, it micht mak them hum- ble to see hoo foolish they are syne. No, but it doesna do 't. " If it was a thing to be useful noo, I wouldna think the same o't, but she could never wear 't. She kens she could never wear 't, an' yet she 's juist as keen to hae 't. " I dinna like to see her so wantin' a thing, an' 92 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. no able to get it. lUit it 's an awiu' sum, eleven an' a bit." He tried to argue with her tlirther. " If ye had eleven an' a bit to fling awa," he said, " ye dinna mean to tell me 'at yc would bu}' a cloak instead o' cloth for a gown, or flan- nel for petticoats, or some useful thing?" " As sure as death," said Jess, u ith unwonted \ehcmence, " if a cloak I could get, a cloak I would buy." Hendry came up to tell me what Jess had said. "It's a michty infatooation," he said, "but it shows hoo her heart 's set on thae cloaks." "Aincc ye had it," he argued with her, "ye would juist hae to lock it awa in the drawers. Ye would never even be seein't." "Ay, would I," said Jess. "I would often tak it oot an' look at it. A>', an' I would a}-e ken it was there." " But naebody would ken ye had it but yersel," said Hendr\', who had a vague notion that this was a telling objection. "Would they no?" answered Jess. "It would be a' through tlie toon afore nicht." 93 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Weel, all I can say," said Hendry, " is 'at ye 're terrible foolish to tak the want o' sic a use- less thing to heart." " Am no takkin 't to heart," retorted Jess, as usual. Jess needed many things in her days that pov- erty kept from her to the end, and the cloak was merely a luxury. She would soon have let it slip by as something unattainable had not Hendry encouraged it to rankle in her mind. I cannot say when he first determined that Jess should have a cloak, come the money as it liked, for he was too ashamed of his weakness to admit his project to me. I remember, however, his saying to Jess one day : " I '11 warrant ye could mak a cloak yersel the marrows o' thae eleven and a bits, at half the price?" " It would cost," said Jess, " sax an' saxpence, exactly. The cloth would be five shillins, an' the beads a shillin'. I have some braid 'at would do fine for the front, but the buttons would be saxpence." "Ye 're sure o' that?" " I ken fine, for I got Leeby to price the things in the shop." 94 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. "Ay, but it maun be ill to shape the cloaks richt. There was a queer cut aboot that ane Peter Dickie's new wife had on." " Queer cut or no queer cut," said Jess, " I took the shape o' My Hobart's ane the day she was here at her tea, an' I could mak the identical o't for sax an' sax." " I dinna believe 't," said Hendr}', but when he and I were alone he told me, " There 's no a doubt she could niak it. Ye heard her say she had taen the shape? Ay, that shows she's rale set on a cloak." Had Jess known that Hendry had been saving up for months to buy her material for a cloak, she would not have let him do it. She could not know, however, for all the time he was scrap- ing together his pence, he kept up a ring-ding- dang about her folly. Hendry gave Jess all the wages he weaved, except threepence weekly, most of which went in tobacco and snuff. The dulse- man had perhaps a halfpenn\- from him in the fortnight. I noticed that for a long time Hendry neither smoked nor snuffed, and I knew that for years he had carried a shilling in his snuff-mull. The remainder of the nionc}- he must have made 95 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. by extra work at his loom, by working harder, for he cotdd scarcely have worked longer. It was one day shortly before Jamie's return to Thrums that Jess saw Hendry pass the house and go down the brae when he ought to have come in to his brose. She sat at the window watching for him, and by and by he reappeared, carrying a parcel. " Whaur on earth hae ye been?" she asked, " an' what 's that you 're carryin' ? " " Did ye think it was an eleven an' a bit? " said Hendry. " No, I didna," answered Jess, indignantly. Then Hendry slowly undid the knots of the string with which the parcel was tied. He took off the brown paper. "There's yer cloth," he said, "an' here's one an' saxpence for the beads an' the buttons." While Jess still stared he followed me ben the house. " It 's a terrible haver," he said apologetically, " but she had set her heart on 't." 96 CHAPTER IX. THE POWER OF BEAUTY. One eveninfT there was such a crathcrinfr at the pig-sty that Hendr\- and I could not get a board to la\' our backs against. Circumstances had pushed Pete Elshioner into the place of honour that belonged by right of mental powers to Tammas Haggart, and Tammas was sitting rather sullenly on the bucket, boring a hole in the pig with his sarcastic e\'e. Pete was passing round a card, and in time it reached me. "With Mr. and Mrs. David Alexander's compliments," was printed on it, and Pete leered triumphantly at us as it went the round. "Weel, what think ye?" he asked, with a pre- tence at modesty. "On," said T'nowhcad, looking at the others like one who asked a question, " ou, I tliink; ay, ay." 7 97 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. The others seemed to agree with him, all but Tammas, who did not care to tie himself down to an opinion. " Ou a\'," T'nowhcad continued, more confidently, " it is so, deceededly." £li.-i'.\^^\'l..- t'nowhead farmhouse. " Ye '11 no ken," said Pete, chuckling, " what it means? " " Na," the farmer admitted, " na, I canna say I exac'ly ken that." " 1 ken, though," said Tammas, in his keen way. 98 THE POWER OF BEAUTY. "Weel, then, what is 't? " demanded Pete, who had never propcrlx- come under Tammas's spell. " I ken," said Tammas. " Oot wi't then." "I dinna sa)' it's i)"in' on ni}' tongue," Tammas replied, in a tone of reproof, " but if ye '11 juist speak awa aboot some other thing for a meenute or twa, I '11 tell ye s}'ne.'' Hendr\' said that this was only reasonable, but we could think of no subject at the moment, so we only stared at Tammas, and waited. " I fathomed it," he said at last, " as sune as my een lichted on 't. It's one o' the bit cards 'at grand fowk slip 'aneath doors when they mak calls, an' their friends is no in. Ay, that 's what it IS. "I dinna say v'e're wrang," Pete answered, a little annoyed. " A\', weel, lads, of course David Alexander's oor Dite as we called 'im, Dite Elshioner, an' that 's his wy o' signifyin' to us 'at he's married." "I assure ye," said Hendry, " Dite 's doin' the thing in st\-le." " A\', we said lliat when the card arrivetl," Pete admitted. 99 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " I kent," said Tammas, " 'at that was the wy grand fowk did when they got married. I 've kent it a lang time. It 's no nae surprise to me. " He 's been lang in marryin'," Hookey Crewe said. " He was thirty at Martinmas," said Pete. "Thirty, was he?" said Hookey. "Man, I'd buried twa wives by the time I was that age, an' was castin' aboot for a third." " I mind o' them," Hendry interposed. "Ay," Hookey said, " the first twa was angels." There he paused. " An' so 's the third," he added, " in many respects." "But wha 's the woman Dite 's taen?" T'now- head or some one of the more silent members of the company asked of Pete. " Ou, we dinna ken wha she is," answered Pete; " but she '11 be some Glasca lassie, for he 's there noo. Look, lads, look at this. He sent this at the same time; it's her picture." Pete produced the silhouette of a young lady, and handed it round. " What do ye think? " he asked. " I assure ye ! " said Hookey. lOO THE POWER OF BEAUTY. " Sal," said Hendry, even more charmed, " Dite 's done weel." " Lat's see her in a better Hcht," said Tanmias. He stood up and examined the photograph narrowh', while Pete fidgeted with his legs. "Fairish," said Tanimas at last. " Ou, ay; no what I would selec' m)'sel, but a dainty bit stocky ! Ou, a tast\- crittur\- ! a)', an' she 's weel in order. Lads, she 's a fine stoot kimmer." " 1 conseeder her a beauty," said Pete, aggres- sivel}'. " She 's a' that," said Hendry. " A' I can sa}%" said Hookey, " is 'at she taks me most micht)'." " She 's no a beauty," Tammas maintained ; " na, she doesna juist come u[) to that; but I dinna deny but what she 's weel faurcd." "What faut do ye find wi' her, Tammas?" asked Hendry. " Conseedered criticall\'," said Tammas, holding the photf)graph at aim's lengtli, " 1 would sa}' 'at she — let s see noo ; a\', I would say 'at she 's defeecient in genteelity." " Havers ! " said Pete. " Na," said Tammas, " no when conseedered lOI A WINDOW IN THRUMS. critically. Ye see she 's drawn lauchin' ; an' the genteel thing's no to lauch, but juist to put on a bit smirk. Ay, that 's the genteel thing." " A smile, they ca' it," interposed T'nowhead. " I said a smile," continued Tammas. " Then there's her waist. I sa)' naething agin her waist, speakin' in the ord'nar' meanin' ; but, conseedered critically, there's a \\'ant o' suppleness, as ye micht say, aboot it. Ay, it docsna compare wi' the waist o' " (Here Tammas mentioned a }'oung lady who had recently married into a local county family.) " That was a prett}^ tiddy," said Hookey. " Ou, losh, ay ! it made me a kind o' queery to look at her." "Ye 're ower k}'owowy, Tammas," said Pete. " I may be, Pete," Tammas admitted ; " but I maun sa\' I 'm fond o' a bonny-looken wmnan, an' no ais}' to please: na, I'm nat'rally ane o' the critical kind." " It 's extror'nar'," said T'nowhead, " what a poo'er beaut)' has. I mind when I was a callant readin' aboot Mary (Jueen o' Scots till I was fair mad, lads; yes, I was fair matl at her bein' deid. Ou, I could hardly sleep at nichts for thinking o' her." I02 THE POWER OE BEAUTY. " Man' was spunk\' as wccl as a beaut}'," said Hookc}', " an' that 's the kind 1 like. Lads, what a persuasix'c tid she was ! " " She got roond the men," said Hendn', " a\', she turned them roond her finger. That 's tlie warst o' thae beauties." "I dinna gainsay," said T'nowliead, "but what there was a Httlc o' the deexil in Mary, the crittur." Here T'nowhead chuckled, and then looked scared. "What AIar\- needed," said Tammas, "was a strong man to manage her." " A\', man, but it's ill to manage thae beauties. They gie }-e a glint o' their een, an' s}'ne whaur are ye?" " Ah, they can be managed," said Tammas, complacent!)'. " There 's naebod\- nat'rallx' safter wi' a prett}' stock}' o' a liit wuman}- than m}'sel ; but for a' that, if T had been AIar}-'s man I would hae stood nanc o' her tantrums. ' Xa, Mar}-, ni}' lass,' I would hae said, 'this winna do; na, na, ye 're a bonn}' bod}', l)ut }"e maun mind 'at man's the superior; a}', man's the lord o' creation, an' so ye maun juist sing sma'.' That's hoo I would 103 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. hae managed Mary, the speerity crittur 'at she was. " Ye would hae haen yer wark cut oot for ye, Tammas." " Ilka mornin'," pursued Tammas, " I would hae said to her, ' Mary,' I would hae said, ' wha 's to wear thae breeks the day, you or me? ' A}', syne I would hae ordered her to kindle the fire, or if I had been the king, of coorsc I would hae telt her instead to ring the bell an' hae the cloth laid for the breakfast. Ay, that 's the wy to mak the like o' Mary respec ye." Pete and I left them talking. He had written a letter to David Alexander, and wanted me to " back " it. 104 CHArTER X. A MAGNUM OPUS. Two Bibles, a volume of sermons b}' the learned Dr. Isaac Barrow, a few numbers of the Cheap Magazine that had strayed from Dunfermline, and a Pilgrim's Progress, were the works that lay conspicuous ben in the room. Hendry had also a copy of Burns, whom he always quoted in the complete i)oem, and a collection of legends in song and prose, that Leeby kept out of sight in a drawer. The weight of m\' box of books was a subject Hendr\- was ver}- willing to shake his head over, but he nex'cr showed any desire to take off the lid. Jess, howex'cr, was more curious ; indeed, she would have been an omnivorous dex'ourer of books had it not been for her conx'iction that reading was idling. Until I found lur out she never allowed to me that Leeby brought her m\- books one at a time. Some of them were novels, and Jt'ss tooK about ten 105 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. minutes to each. She confessed that what she read was only the last chapter, owing to a con- suming curiosity to know whether " she got him." She read all the London part, however, of The Heart of Midlothian, because London was where Jamie lived, and she and I had a discussion about it which ended in her remembering that Thrums once had an author of its own. "Bring oot the book," she said to Leeby ; " it was put awa i' the bottom drawer ben i' the room sax year syne, an' I sepad it's there yet." Leeby came but with a faded little book, the title already rubbed from its shabby brown covers. I opened it, and then all at once I saw before me again the man who wrote and printed it and died. He came hobbling up the brae, so bent that his body was almost at right angles to his legs, and his broken silk hat was carefully brushed as in the days when Janet, his sister, lived. There he stood at the top of the brae, panting. I was but a boy when Jimsy Duthie turned the corner of the brae for the last time, with a score of mourners behind him. While I knew him there was no Janet to run to the door to see if he was coming. So occupied was Jimsy with the great 1 06 c c A MAGNUM OPUS. atlair of his life, which was brewinijj for thirty years, that his neighbours saw how he missed his sister better than he reahzed it himself. Only his hat was no longer carefulh' brushed, and his coat hung awr\-. and there was sometimes little reason wh\' he should go home to dinner. It is for the sake of Janet who adored him that we should remember Jims}- in the da\-s before she died. Jims)' was a poet, and for the space of thirty \^ears he li\ed in a great epic on the Millennium. This is the book presented to me by Jess, that lies so quietl}' on m\' topmost shelf now. Open it, howexer, and }'Ou will find that the work is entitled " The Millennium : an Epic Poem, in Twelve Books : b\' James Duthie." In the little hole in his wall where Jimsy kept his books there was, I have no doubt, — for his effects were rouped before I knew him exce})t b\' name, — a well-read copy of Para- disc Lost. Some people would smile, perhaps, if they read the two epics side by side, and others might sigh, for there is a great deal in " The Millennium " that ATilton could take credit for. Jims}' had educated himst'lf after the idea of writing something that the world would not willingly let die came to him, and he began his 109 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. book before his education was complete. So far as I know, he never wrote a line that had nut to do with "The Millennium." He was ever a man sparing of his plural tenses, and " The Millennium " says " has " for " have " ; a vain word, indeed, which Thrums would only have permitted as a poetical license. The one original character in the poem is the devil, of whom Jimsy gives a picture that is startling and graphic, and received the approval of the Auld Licht minister. By trade Jimsy was a printer, a master-printer with no one under him, and he printed and bound his book ten copies in all, as well as wrote it. To print the poem took him, I dare say, nearly as long as to write it, and he set up the pages as the)' were written, one by one. The book is only printed on one side of the leaf, and each page was produced separatcl}' like a little hand bill. Those who may pick up the book — but who will care to do so? — will think that the author or his printer could not spell — but they would not do Jimsy that injustice if they knew the circumstances in which it was pro- duced. He had but a small stock of type, and on many occasions he ran out of a letter. The letter e tried him sorely. Those who knew him best say I lO A MAGNUM OPUS. that he tried to think of words without an <■ in then'?, but when he was baffled he hatl to use a little a or an c instead. He could print correctly, but in the book there are a ijjood many caj)ital letters in the middle of words, and sometimes there is a note of interrogation alter " Alas " or " Woes me," because all the notes of exclamation had been used up. Jimsy ne\'er cared to speak about his i^reat poem e\'en to his closest friends, but Janet told how he read it out to her, and that his whole bod)- trembled with excitement while he raised his e\-es to heaven as if asking for inspiration that would enable his \'oice to do justice to his writing. So grand it was, said Janet, that her stocking would slip from her fingers as he read — and Janet's stockings, that she was alwa\-s knitting when not otherwise en- gaged, did not slip from her hands readily. After her death he was heard by his neighbours reciting the poem to himself, generalh- with his door locked. He is said to have declaimed part of it one still evening from the top of the commont\- like one addressing a multitude, and the idlers who had crept up to jeer at him fell back when the)- saw his face. He walked through them, they told, with his old body straight once more, and a queer light 1 1 1 A WINDOW IN TFIRUiMS. pla^'ins:^^ on his face. His lips arc nioxinsj^ as I see him turninL;- the corner of the brae. So he passed from }'outh to old age, and all his life seemed a dream, except that part of it in which he was AT THE TOP OF THE COMMONTY. writing, or printing, or stitching, or binding " The Millennium." At last the work was completed. " It is finished," he printed at the end of the last book. " The task of thirty years is over." 112 A MAGNUM OPUS. It is indeed over. No one ever read " The jVIillenniuni."' I ;ini not going to sentimentalize over my cop}', for how nuich of it have I read? l^ut neither shaU I say that it was written to no end. V(ui ma\- care to l •-3 H n e c c THE GHOST CRADLE. the ghost cradle, they were juist puttin' the new steadin' up. There was sax or mair masons at it, wi' the lads on the farm helpin', an' as they were all sleepin' at the farm, there was great stir aboot the place. I couldna tell ye hoo the story aboot the farm's bein' haunted rose, to begin wi', but I mind fine hoo fleid I was; ay, an' no only me, but every man-body an' woman-body on the farm. It was aye late 'at the soond began, an' we never saw naething, we juist heard it. The masons said they wouldna hae been sae fleid if they could hae seen 't, but it never was seen. It had the soond o' a cradle rockin', an' when we lay in our beds hearkcnin', it grew louder an' louder till it wasna to be borne, an' the women-folk fair skirled wi' fear. The mester was intimate wi' a' the stories aboot ghosts an' water-kelpies an' sic like, an' we couldna help listenin' to them. But he aye said 'at ghosts "at was juist heard an' no seen was the maist fearsome an' wicked. For all there was sic fear ower the hale farm-toon 'at naebod}' would gang ower the door alane after the gloamin' cam. the mester said he wasna fleid to sU-ep i' the kitchen by 'imsel. We thocht it richt brave o' 'im, for ye see he was as helpless as a bairn. 121 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Richt queer stories rose aboot the cradle, an' travelled to the ither farms. The wife didna like them ava, for it was said 'at there maun hae been some awful murder o' an infant on the farm, or we wouldna be haunted by a cradle. Syne folk began to mind 'at there had been nae bairns born on the farm as far back as onybody kent, an' it was said 'at some lang syne crime had made the Bog cursed. "Dinna think 'at we juist lay in our beds or sat round the fire shakkin wi' fear. Everything 'at could be dune was dune. In the daytime, when naething was heard, the masons explored a' place i' the farm, in the hope o' findin' oot 'at the sound was caused by sic a thing as the wind pla\'in' on the wood in the garret. Even at nichts, when they couldna sleep wi' the soond, I 've kent them rise in a body an' gang all ower the house wi' lichts. I 've seen them climbin' on A CRUIZEY LAMP. 122 THE GHOST CRADLE. the new stcadin', crawliii' alang the rafters haudin' their cruize\' lamps afore them, an' us women- bodies shi\erin' wi' fear at the door. It was on ane o' thae nichts 'at a mast)n iell off the rafters an' broke his leg. W'eel, sic a state was the men in to find oot what it was 'at was terr\'f\in' them sae muckle, 'at the rest o' them climbed up at aince to the place he 'd fallen frae, thinkin' there was something there 'at had fleid 'im. Ikit though they crawled back an' forrit there was naething ava. " The rockin' was louder, we thocht, after that nicht, an' syne the men said it would go on till somebod}' was killed. That idea took a richt haud o' them, an' twa ran awa back to Tilliedrum, whaur the\- had come frae. They gaed thegithcr i' the middle o' the nicht, an' it was thocht next mornin' 'at the ghost had spirited them awa. " Ye couldna conceive hoo low-spirited we all were after the masons had gien up hope o' findin' a nat'ral cause for the soond. At ord'nar' times there 's no on\- mair lichtsome place than a farm after the men hae come in to their supper, but at the Bog we sat dour an' sullen ; an' there wasna a mason or a farm-servant 'at wt)uld gang b)' 'imsel 123 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. as far as the end o' the hoose whaiir the peats was keepit. The mistress maun hae saved some siller that spring through the Egyptians keepin' awa, for the farm nad got sic an ill name, 'at nae tinkler would come near 't at nicht. The tailor- man an' his laddie, 'at should hae bidden wi' us to sew things for the men, walkit off fair skeered one mornin', an' settled doon at the farm o' Cragie- buckle fower mile awa, whaur our lads had to gae to them. Ay, I mind the tailor's sendin' the laddie for the money owin' him ; he hadna the speerit to venture again within soond o' the cra- dle 'imsel. The men on the farm, though, couldna blame 'im for that. They were juist as flichtered themsels, an' mony a time I saw them hittin' the dogs for whinin' at the soond. The wy the dogs took on was fearsome in itsel, for they seemed to ken, aye when nicht cam on, 'at the rockin' would sune begin, an' if they werena chained they cam runnin' to the hoose. I hae heard the hale glen fu', as ye micht say, wi' the whinin' o' dogs, for the dogs on the other farms took up the cry, an' in a glen ye can hear soonds terrible far away at nicht, "As lang as we sat i' the kitchen, listenin' to 124 THE GHOST CRADLE. what the mcstcr had to say aboot the ghosts in his }'oung da}-s, the cradle would be still, but we were nae suner awa speeritless to our beds than it began, an' sometimes it lasted till mornin'. We lookit upon the mester almost wi' awe, sittin' there sac helpless in his chair, an' no fleid to be left alane. He had lang white hair, an' a saft bonn}' face 'at would hae made 'im respeckit b\^ on}'body, an' a}'e when we speired if he wasna fleid to be left alane, lie said, 'Them 'at has a clear conscience has naething to fear frae ghosts.' " There was some 'at said the curse would never leave the farm till the house was razed to the ground, an' it 's the truth I 'm tellin' )'e when I say there was talk among the men aboot setlin't on fire. The mester was richt stern when he heard o' that, tiuotin' frae Scripture in a solenm wy 'at abashed the masons, but he said 'at in his opeenion there was a bairn buried on the farm, an' till it was found the cradle would go on rockin'. .After that the masons dug in a lot o' places lookin' for the bod\', an' they found some queer things, too, but never nae sign o' a mur- dered litlin'. Ay, I dinna ken what would hae happened if the commotion had gaen on muckle 125 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. langer. One thing I 'm sure o' is 'at the mistress would hac gacn daft, she took it a' sae terrible to heart. " I lauch at it noo, but I tell ye I used to tak ni}' heart to m\' bed in ni\' mooth. If )'e hinna heard the story, I dinna think }'e '11 be able to guess what the ghost cradle was." I said I had been tr)'ing to think what the tray had to do with it. " It had everything to do wi't," said Jess; " an' if the masons had kent hoo that cradle was rockit, I think they would hae killed the mestcr. It was Eppie 'at found oot, an' she telt naebody but me, though mony a ane kens noo. I see ye canna mak it oot yet, so I '11 tell ye what the cradle was. The tray was keepit against the kitchen wall near the mestcr, an' he played on 't wi' his foot. He made it gang bump bump, an' the soond was juist like a cradle rockin'. Ye could hardly believe sic a thing would hae made that din, but it did, an' ye see we lay in our beds hearkenin' for 't. Ay, when Eppie telt me, I could scarce believe 'at that guid devout-lookin' man could hae been sae wicked. Ye see, when he found hoo terrified we a' were, he keepit it up. 126 THE GHOST CRADLE. The \vy Eppie ftnind out i' the tail o' the day was b\' woiulerin' at 'iin sleepin' sae muckle in the da}-time. He did that so as to be fresh for his sport at nieht. What a fine releegious man we thocht 'ini too ! " Eppie couldna bear the very sicht o' the tray after that, an' she telt mc to break it up; but I keepit it ye see. The hnnp i' the middle 's the mark, as ye may say, o' the auld man's foot." 127 CHAPTER XII. THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. Were Jess still alive to tell the life-story of Sam'l Fletcher and his wife, you could not hear it and sit still. The ghost cradle is but a page from the black history of a woman who married, to be blotted out from that hour. One case of the kind I myself have known, of a woman so good, mated to a man so selfish, that I cannot think of her even now with a steady mouth. Hers was the tragedy of living on, more mournful than the tragedy that kills. In Thrums the weavers spoke of "lousing" from their looms, removing the chains, and there is something woeful in that. But pity poor Nanny Coutts, who took her chains to bed with her. Nanny was buried a month or more before I came to the house on the brae, and even in Thrums the dead are seldom remembered for so 128 THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. long a time as that. But it was only after Sanders was left alone that we learned what a w'oman she had been, and how basely we had wroni^ed her. She was an anfjeh .Sanders went about whininc^ when he had no Ioniser a woman to ill-treat. He had this sentimental wa}' with him, but it lost its effect after we knew the man. " A deev'il couldna hae deserx'ed waur treat- ment," Tammas Ilagijart said to him, " L;ani^ oot o' my sicht, man." " I '11 blame nu'sel till I die," Jess said, with tears in her eyes, " for no understandin' ]iuir Nann\- better." So Nanny got s\-mpathy at last, but not until her forgiving soul had left her tortured body. There was man}' a kindl\' heart in Thrums that woulil ha\'e gone out to her in her lifetime, but we could not ha\-e loved her without upbraiding him, and >he woidd not bu\' sympathx' at the price. What a little stor\' it is, and how few words are retpiired to tell it! Me was a bad husband to her, and she ke])t it secret. That is Nanny's life summed up. It is all that was left behind when her coffm went down the brae. 1 )id she love him to the entl, or was she onl\' doing what she thought 9 129 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. her duty? It is not for mc even to guess. A good woman who suffers is altogether beyond man's reckoning. To such heights of self-sacrifice we cannot rise. It crushes us; it ought to crush us on to our knees. For us who saw Nanny, infirm, shrunken, and so weary, yet a type of the noblest womanhood, suffering for years, and misunderstood her to the end, what expiation can there be? I do not want to storm at the man who made her life so burdensome. Too many years have passed for that, nor would Nanny take it kindly if I called her man names. Sanders worked little after his marriage. He had a sore back, he said, which became a torture if he leant forward at his loom. What truth there was in this I cannot sa}', but not every weaver in Thrums could " louse " when his back "rew sore. Nanny went to the loom in his place, filling as well as weaving, and he walked about, dressed better than the common, and with cheerful words for those who had time to listen. Nanny got no approval even for doing his work as well as her own, for they were understood to have money, and Sanders let us think her merely greedy. We drifted into his opinions. 130 THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. Had Jess been one oi those who could t^o about, she would, I think, have read Nanny better than the rest of us, for her intellect was brit^ht, and always led her straii;iit to her neii^hbours' hearts. But Nann\- \isited no one, and so Jess onl\- knew FILLING IMKNS. her by hearsay. Nanny's stand-offishness, as it was called, was not a i)ii|)ular virtue, and she was blamed still more for trying to keep her husband out of other people's houses. lie was so frank 131 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. and full of gossip, and she was so reserv^ed. He would go everywhere, and she nowhere. He had been known to ask neighbours to tea, and she had shown that she wanted them away, or even begged them not to come. We were not accustomed to go behind the face of a thing, and so we set down Nanny's inhospitality to churlishness or greed. Only after her death, when other women had to attend him, did we get to know what a tyrant Sanders was at his own hearth. The ambition of Nanny's life was that we should nexer know it. that we should continue extolling him, and sa)' what we chose about herself. She knew that if we went much about the house and saw how he treated her, Sanders would cease to be a respected man in Thrums. So neat in his dress was Sanders, that he was seldom seen abroad in corduroys. His blue bonnet for cxeryday wear was such as even well-to-do farmers only wore at fair-time, and it was said that he had a handkerchief for every day in the week. Jess often held him up to Hendry as a model of courtesy and polite manners. " Him an' Nanny 's no weel matched," she used to say, " for he has grand ideas, an' she 's o' the 132 THF. TRACxEDV OF A WIFE. commonest. It maun be a richt trial to a man \vi' his fine tastes to hae a wife 'at's wiajiper 's ne\er even on, an' uha doesna wash her mutch aince in a month." It is true that Xann)- was a slattern, but only because she married into sla\-er}-. She was kept so busy washing and ironing for Sanders that she ceased to care how she looked herself. What did it matter whether her mutch was clean? Weaving and washing and cooking, doing the work of a breadwinner as well as of a housewife, hers was soon a bod\' prematurel\' old, on which no wrapper would sit becomingly. Before her face, Sanders would hint that her slo\'enly wa)-s and dress tried him sorel}', and in compan\- at least she onl)- Ijowetl her head. We were given to respecting those who worked hard, but Xann\'. we thought, was a woman of means, and Sanders let us call her a miser. I le was always anxious, he said, to be generous, but \ann\' would not let him assist a starxing child. The}- had reall\- not a peim\- bex'oud what Nanny earned at the loom, and now we know how Sanders shook her if she did not earn enough. His x-anity was responsible for the st<»r}' about lu-r wealth, and she would not ha\e us think him \ain. ^33 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. Because she did so much, we said that she was as strong as a cart-horse. The doctor who attended her during the last week of her hfe discovered that she had never been well. Yet we had often wondered at her letting Sanders \nt his own potatoes when he was so unable. "Them 'at 's strong, ye see," Sanders explained, " doesna ken what illness is, an' so it 's nat'ral they shouldna sympathize wi' onweel fowk. Ay, I 'm rale thankfu' 'at Nanny keeps her health. I often envy her." These were considered creditable sentiments, and so they might ha\'e been had Nanny uttered them. Thus easily Sanders built up a reputation for never complaining. I know now that he was a hard and cruel man, who should have married a shrew ; but while Nanny lived I thought he had a beautiful nature. Many a time I have spoken with him at Hendry's gate, and felt the better of his heartiness. " I mauna complain," he always said ; " na, we maun juist fecht awa." Little, indeed, had he to complain of, and little did he fight away. Sanders went twice to church every Sabbath, 134 THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. and thrice when he got the chance. There was no man who joined so histil\' in the singing" or looked straighter at the minister during the [)ra}'er. I ha\e heard the minister sa\' that Sanders's con- stant attendance was an encouragement and a help to him. Nann}' had been a great church-goer THE AULD LIGHT KIRK. when she was a maiden, but after her marriage she onl\^ went in the afternoons, and a time came when she ceased altogether to attend. The minister admonished her man\' times, telling her, among other things, that her irreligious ways were a 135 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. distress to her husband. She never rephed that she could not c;o to church in the forenoon because Sanders insisted on a hot meal being waiting him when the service ended. But it was true that Sanders, for appearances' sake, would have had her go to church in the afternoons. It is now believed that on this point alone did she refuse to do as she was bidden. Nanny was very far from perfect, and the reason she forsook the kirk utterly was because she had no Sabbath clothes. She died as she had lived, sa)'ing not a word when the minister, thinking it his dut\', drew a cruel comparison between her life and her husband's. " I got my first glimpse into the real state of affairs in that house," the doctor told me one night on the brae, " the day before she died. 'You 're sure there 's no hope for me?' she asked wistfull}', and when I had to tell the truth she sank back on the pilh^w with a look of joy." Nanny died with a lie on her lips. " A\'," she said, " Sanders has been a guid man to me." 136 CHAPTER XIII. MAKING THE BEST OF IT. Hexdrv had a way of resuming a con\'crsation where he had left (^H the niglit before. He would revolve a topic in his mind, too, and then be^in ah^ud, " He's a queer ane," o\\ " Sa\')'e so? " which was at times perplexing;'. With the whole da)' before them, none of the fainil}' was inclined to waste strenorth in talk; but one niornintr when he was blowini^^ the steam off his porridge, Hendry said suddenl}' — " He 's hame again." The women-folk ga\'e him time to sa\' to wlv)m he was referring, which he occasionall\- did as an after-thought. But he began to sup his porridge, making eyes as it went steaming down his throat. " I dinna ken wha yc mean," Jess said ; while Lccby, who was on hei' knees rubbing the lu'arth- stone a bright blue, paused to catch her father's answer. 1.37 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Jeamcs Geogchan," replied Hendry, with the horn spoon in his mouth. Leeby turned to Jess for enhghtenmcnt. EATlNf; POKRHJGE. " Geogehan," repeated Jess; "what, no httle Jeames 'at ran awa?" " Ay, ay, but he 's a muckle stoot man noo, an' gey grey." " Ou, I dinna wonder at that. It 's a guid forty year since he ran off." 138 MAKING THE BEST OF IT. '* I waurant ye couldna say exact hoo lang syne it is?" HciKli'}' asked this ciuestion because Jess was notorious for her niemor}', and he i^loried in put- ting it to tile test. "Let's see," she said. "But wha is he?" asked Leeb}'. " I never kent nae Geogelians in llirums." " Weel, it 's fort)'-one years s}'ne come Michael- mas," said Jess. " Hoo do ye ken? " " I ken fine. Yc mind his father had been lickin' 'im, an' lie ran awa in a passion, cr\'in' oot 'at he would ne\'er come back? Ay, then, he had a pair o' boots on at the time, an' his father ran after 'im an' tc^ok tliL-m aff 'im. The boots was the last 'at Davie Mearns made, an' it 's full\' ane- an-forty )'ears since Davie fell ower the quarry on the da\- o' the hill-market. That settles 't. A\', an' Jeames '11 be turned fift\' noo, for he was comin' on for ten \-car auld at that lime. Ay, ay, an' he 's come back. W hat a state Eppie '11 be in! " "Tell 's wha he; is, mother." "()(1, he's ICppie Guthrie's son. Her man was 139 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. William Geogehan, but he died afore you was born, an' as Jeames was their only bairn, the name o' Geogehan 's been a kind o' lost sicht o'. Hae ye seen him, Hendry? Is't true 'at he made a fortune in thae far-awa countries? Eppie '11 be blawin' aboot him richt?" "There's nae doubt aboot the siller," said Hendr)% " for he drove in a carriage frae Tillie- drum, an' they say he needs a closet to hing his claes in, there 's sic a heap o' them. Ay, but that 's no a' he 's brocht, na, far frae a'." " Dinna gang awa till )'e 've telt 's a' aboot 'im. What mair has he brocht? " " He 's brocht a wife," said Hendrv^ twisting his face curiously. " There 's naething surprisin' in that." " Ay, but there is, though. Ye see, Eppie had a letter frae 'im no mony weeks syne, sa}'in' 'at he wasna deid, an' he was comin' hame wi' a fortune. He said, too, 'at he was a single man, an' she 's been boastin' aboot that, so ye ma}' think 'at she got a surprise when he hands a wuman oot o' the carriage." " An' no a pleasant ane," said Jess. " Had he been leein'? " 140 MAKING THE BEST OF IT. " Na, he was single wlien he wrote, an' single when he got the length o' Tilliedrum. Ye see, he fell in \\i' the lassie there, an juist gaed clean aff his held aboot her. After managin' to withstand the women o' foreign lands for a' thae years, he gaed fair skeer aboot this stock)- at Tilliedrum. She 's juist seventeen }-ear auld, an' the auld fule sits wi' his airm round her in hippie's hoose, though they've been mairit this fortnicht." " The doited fule," said Jess. Jeames Geogehan and his bride became the talk of Thrums, and Jess saw them from her win- dow several times. The first time she had only eyes for the jacket with fur round it worn b\' Mrs. Geogehan, but subsequently she took in Jeames. " He 's tr\in' to carry 't aff wi' his heid in the air," she said, " but I can see he 's fell shamefaced, an' nae wonder. Ay, I sepad he 's mair ashamed o't in his heart than she is. It's an awful like thing o' a lassie to marry an auld man. She had dune 't for the siller. Ay, there 's pounds' worth o' fur aboot that jacket." " They say she had siller liersel," said Tibbie l>irse. " Dinna tell me," said Jess. " I ken b\' her wy J41 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. o' carryin' hersel 'at she never had a jacket like that afore." Eppie was not the onl}' person in Thrums whom this marriage enraged. Stories had long been alive of Jeames's fortune, which his cousins' children were some day to divide among them- selves, and as a consequence these \'oung men and women looked on Mrs. Geogehan as a thief. " Dinna bring the wife to our hoose, Jeames," one of them told him, " for we would be fair ashamed to hae her. We used to hae a respect for yer name, so we couldna look her i' the ace. " She's mair like yer dochter than yer wife," said ant)ther. " Na," said a third, " naebody could mistak her for )X'r dochter. She 's ower young-like for that." " \Vi' the siller you '11 leave her, Jeames," Tammas Haggart told him, " she '11 get a younger man for her second venture." All this was very trying to the newl}'-married man, who was thirsting for symj^athy. Hendry was the person whom he took into his confidence. " It ma\^ hae been foolish at ni)' time o' life," Hendry reported him to have said, " but I couldna 142 MAKING THE BEST OF IT. help it. If lhc\- juist kcnt her bettor they couldna but see 'at siie 's a terrible takkiii erittur." Jeanies was generous; indeed, he had come home with the intention of scattering largess. A beggar met him one da\- i^n the brae, and got a shilling from him. She was wa\ing her arms triumphantl}' as she passed Hendry's house, and Leeb\' got the stor\- from her. " Eh, he's a fine man that, an' a saft ane," the woman said. " I juist speired at im hoo his bonn}' wife was, an' he oot wi' a shillin' ! " Leeb\' did imt keej) this news to herself, and soon it was through the town. Jeames's face began to brighten. "They're comin' round to a mair sensible wy o' lookin' at things," he told Hendry. " I was walkin' wi' the w ife i' the bur}'in' ground yesterday, an' we met Kitt\' McQueen. She was ane o' the vvarst agin me at first, but she telt me i' the bur\in' ground 'at when a man mairit he should please 'imsel. Oh, the\' 're comin' round." What Kitt\- told Jess was — " I minded o' the tinkler wuman 'at he gac a slfillin' to, so T thocht I would butter up at the auld fule too. W'eel, I assure w, T had nae suner 143 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. said 'at he was rale wise to niarr)- wlia lie likit tlian he sHps a pound note into m\' hand Ou, Jess, we 've taen the wrans^ w\' wi' Jeames. I 've telt a' m\' bairns 'at if they meet him they 're to praise IN THE OLD BURYING GROUND the wife terrible, an' I 'm far mistaen if that doesna mean five sliillins to ilka ane o' them." Jean Whamontl L;'ot a j^ound note for saying that Jeames's wife had an uncommon prctt\' voice, and Davit Lunan had ten shilliuL^s for a judicious word about her attractive manners. Tibbie Birse 144 MAKING THE BEST OF IT. iinitctl the nc\vl_\--man'ied couple to tea (one pouiul). " The>' 're takkin to her, tlie}' 're takkin to her," Jeanies said gleefull)'. " I kent the}' would come round in time. A}", even m\' mother, "at was sae mad at first, sits for hours noo aside her, haudin' her hand. The}' 're juist inseparable." The time came when we had IMr. and Mrs. Geogehan and h^j^ipie to tea. " It 's true enough," Leeb\' ran ben to tell Jess, " at Eppie an' the wife 's fond o' ane another. I W(Tuldna hae believed it o' Eppie if I hadna seen it, but I assure ye they sat even at the tea-table haudin' ane another's hands. I waurant they're doin't this meenute." " I wasna born on a Sabbath," retorted Jess. " Na, na, dinna tell me Eppie 's f(^ntl o" her. Tell l'.pi)ie to come but to the kitchen when the tea 's ower. " Jess and Eppie had half an hour's conversation alone, and then our guests left. "It's a richt guid thing," said Hendry, '''at lCp])ie has taen sic a notion o' the wife." " ( )u, a_\'," said Jess. Then llendr)- hobbled out of the house. 10 ,45 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. "What said P2ppie to ye?" Lecby asked her mother. " Juist what I expeckit," Jess answered. " Ye see she 's dependent on Jeames, so she has to butter up at 'im." "Did she say onything aboot haudin' the wife's hand sae fond-lilce? " " Ay, she said it was an awfu' trial to lier, an' 'at it sickened her to see Jeames an' the wife baith behevin' 'at she likit to do 't." 146 CHAPTER XIV. VISITORS AT 'II IE MANSE. On bringinij^ home his bride, the minister showed her to us, and we thouL;"ht she would do when she rcahzed that she was not the minister. She was a i^rand lad\- h-om Edinburgh, though very frank, and we simple folk amused her a good deal, especially when we were sitting cowed in the manse parlour drinking a dish of tea with her, as happened to Eeeb_\'. her father, and me, three days before Jamie came home. Leeby had refused to be drawn into conversa- tion, like one who knew her place, yet all her actions were genteel and her monos)'llabic replies in the Englishy tongue, as of one who was, after all, a little abo\'e the common. When the minis- ter's wife asked her whether she took sugar and cream, she said politel\% " If you please" (though shr did not take sugar), a repl\' that contrasted with Ilendr)^'s cquall\- well-intendetl answer to the 147 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. same question. " I 'm no partikler," was what Hendry said. Hendi'}' liad left home ghimly, declarin<:^ that the white coHar Jess had put on him would throt- tle him ; but her feikieness ended in his sm'render, THE MANSE. anil he was looking; unusuall}' perjink. Had not his daughter been present he would have been the most at ease of the company; but her man- ners were too fine not to make an impression upon one who knew her on her everyday behaviour, and she had also wa)'s of bringing Hendry to 148 VISITORS AT THE MANSE. himself b}' a touch beneath the table. It was in church that Leeb}^ brous^ht to perfection her man- ner of looking;" after her father. When he hatl conficlence in the preacher's st)uiKlness, he woukl sometimes have slept in his pew if Leeby had not had a watchful foot. She wakened him in an instant, while still lookiuL^ m<^destl\- at the pulpit; howe\er re\'erentl\' he mis^ht tr}' to tall over, Leeby's foot went out. She was such an artist that I ne\'er caus^ht her in the act. All I knew for certain was that now and then Hendr}' sud- denl}' sat up. The ordeal was over when Leeb\' went upstairs to put on her things. After tea Hendr\' had become bolder in talk, his subject being minis- terial. He liad an extraordinar\- knowlcilge, got no one knew where, of the matrimonial affairs of all the ministers in these parts, and his stories about them ended frequently with a chuckle. He always took it for granted that a minister's mar- riage was w (imanhood's great tiium|)h, and that the particular wouian who got him must be very clever. Some of his tales were even more curious than In- thought them, such as the one Leeby tried to interrupt by saying we must be g't>iii^- 149 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " There 's Mr. Pennycuick, noo," said Hendry, shaking liis head in wonder at what he had to teh ; " him 'at 's minister at Tilhedrum. W'eel, when he was a probationer he was michty poor, an' one day he was walkin' into Thrums frae Glen A LITTLE HOUSEY IN GLEN QUHARITY. Ouliarity, an' he taks a rest at a h'ttlc housey on the road. The fowk dichia ken liini ava. but they saw he was a minister, an' the Lassie was sorry to see him wi' sic an auld hat. What tliink ye she did? " 150 VISITORS AT THK MANSE. " Conic aw ay, fatlicr," said Lecby, re-entering the parlour; but Hendry was now in full pursuit of his stor}-. " I '11 tell \'e what she did," he continued. " She juist took his hat awa an' put her father's new ane in its place, an' Mr. Penn\cuick never kent the differ till he landed in Thrums. It was terrible kind o' her. A}', but the auld man would be in a micht\- rai^e when he found she had swappit the hats." " Come awa}-," said Leeb\-. still politel}', though she was burning to tell her mother how Hendry had disgraced them. " The minister," said Hendr\-, turning his back on Leeb}', " didna forget the lassie. Na ; as sune as he got a kirk, he inarried her. A}', she got her re- ward. He married her. It was rale noble o' 'im." I do not know what Leeby said to Hendry when she got him be}-ond the manse gate, for I sta\'ed behind to talk to the minister. As it turned out, the minister's wife did most of the talk- ing, smiling good-humouredU- at country gawki- ncss the while. " Yes," she said, " I am sure T shall like Thrums, thdugh those teas to the congregation are a \\ii\r A WINDOW IN THRUMS. tr}'ing. Do you know, Thrums is the only place I was ever in where it struck me that the men are cleverer than the women." She told us wh\'. " Well, to-night affords a case in point. Mr. McOumpha was quite brilliant, was he not, in com- parison with his daughter? RealK', she seemed so put out at being at the manse that she could not raise her eyes. I question if she would know me again, and I am sure she sat in the room as one blindfolded. 1 left her in the bedroom a minute, and I assure you, when I returned she was still standing on the same spot in the centre of the floor." I pointed out that Lecb}' had been awestruck. " I suppose so," she said ; ' but it is a pity she cannot make use of her eyes, if not of her tongue. Ah, the Thrums women are good, I believe, but their wits are sadl\' in need of sharp- ening. I dare say it comes of living in so small a place." I overtook Leeby on the brae, aware, as I saw her alone, that it had been her father whom I passed talking to Tammas Haggart in the Square. Hendry stopped to have what he called a tove 152 VISITORS AT THE MANSE. with ail}' likely person he encountered, and, in- deed. thouL;"h he and I often took a walk on Sat- urda\-s. I ^enerall)- lost him before we were clear of the town. AT THE GATE OF THE COMMONTY. In a few moments Leeby and I were at home to give Jess the news. "Whaur's yer father?" asked Jess, as if Hen- dry's way of dropping behind was still unknown t(j her. 153 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Ou, I left him spcakin' to Gavin Birsc," said Leeby. " I daursay he 's awa to some hoose." " It 's no ver}' silvend}' his comin' ower the brae by himsel," said Jess, adding" in a bitter tone of conviction, " but he '11 gang in to no hoose as lang as he's so weel dressed. Na, he would think it boastfu'." I sat down to a book by the kitchen fire; but, as Leeby became communicative, I read less and less. While she spoke she was baking bannocks with all the might of her, and Jess, leaning for- ward in her chair, was arranging them in a semi- circle round the fire. " Na," was the first remark of Leeby's that came between me and my book, " it is no new furniture." " But there was three cart-loads o't, Leeby, sent on frae I^dinbor)-. Tibbie Birse helj^it to lift it in, and she said the parlour furniture beat a'." " Ou, it 's substantial, but it is no new. I sepad it had been bocht cheap second-hand, for the chair I had was terrible scratched like, an', what's mair, the airm-chair was a heap shinnier than the rest. " Ay, ay, I wager it had been new stuffed. Tibbie said the carpet cowed for grandeur ! 154 VISITORS AT THE MANSE. "Oh, I ilinna deny it's a Gjuid carpet; but if it's been turned cmce it's been turned half a dozen times, so it 's far frae new. A\-, an' forb\-, it was rale threadbare aneath the table, so )'e may be sure they've been cuttin' 't an' puttin' the worn pairt whaur it would be least seen." " The}' sa\- 'at there 's twa grand gas brackets i' the parlour, an' a wondcrfu' gasolier\- i' the dinin'-room? " " We wasna i' the dinin'-room, so I ken nae- thinsf aboot the gasolier\- ; but I '11 tell ve what the gas brackets is. I recognized them imme- ditl>-. Yc mind the auld gasolier\' i' the dinin'- room had twa lichts? A}-, then, the parlour brackets is made oot o' the auld gasoliery." " Weel, Leeb)% as sure as ye 're standin' there, that passed through nu" head as sune as Tibbie mentioned them ! "There's nae doot about it. Ay, I was in ane o' the bedrooms, too ! " It would be grand? " " I wouldna sa}' 'at it was partikler grand, but there was a great mask o' things in 't, an' near everything was covered wi' cretonne. Kut the chairs dinna match. There was a ver)' bonn\'- 155 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. painted cloth alang the chimlcy — what they call a mantelpiece border, I warrant." "Sal, I 've often wondered what they was." "Weel, I assure ye they winna be ill to niak. for the border was juist nailed upon a board laid on the chimlcy. There 's naething to ben- der 's makin' ane for the room." " Ay, we could sew something on the border instead o' paintin't. The room lookit weel, 3'e say?" " Yes, but it was economically furnished. There was nae carpet below the wax-cloth ; na, there was nane below the bed either." " Was 't a grand bed ? " " It had a fell lot o' brass aboot it, but there was juist one pair o' blankets. I thocht it was gey shabby, haen the ewer a different pattern frae the basin ; ay, an' there was juist a poker in the fireplace, there was nae tangs." " Yea, yea ; they '11 hae but one set o' bed- room fire-irons. The tangs '11 be in anither room. Tod, that's no sae michty grand for Edinbory. What like was she hersel?" " Ou, very ladylike and saft spoken. She 's a canty body an' frank. She wears her hair low on VISITORS AT THE MANSE. the left side to hod a scar, an' there 's twa warts on her richt hand." " There hadna been a fire i' the parlour? " " No, but it was read}' to licht. There was sticks and paper in 't. The paper was oot o' a dressmaker's journal." "Ye say so? She'll mak her ain frocks, I sepad." When Hcndr\' entered to take ofi" his collar and coat before sitting down to his evening meal of hot water, porter, and bread mixed in a bowl, Jess sent mc oft" to the attic. As I climbed the stairs 1 remembered that the minister's wife thought Leeb)' in need of sharpening. ^57 CHAPTER XV. HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. In a wet day the rain gathered in blobs on the road that [passed our garden. Then it crawled into the cart-tracks until the road was streaked with water. Lastl}', the water gathered in heavy yellow pools. If the on-ding still continued, clods of earth toppled h'om the garden dyke into the ditch. On such a dav, when even the dulseman had gone into shelter, and the women scudded by with their wrappers over their heads, came Gavin Birse to our door. Gavin, who was the Glen Ouharit)' post, was still young, but had never been quite the same man since some amateurs in the glen ironed his back for rheumatism. I thought he had called to have a crack with me. He sent his compli- ments up to the attic, however, by Leeby, and would I come and be a witness? HOW GAVIN PUT IT TO MA(; LOWNIE. Gavin came up and explained. He had taken ofif his scarf and thrust it into his pocket, lest the rain should take the colour out of it. His boots cheeped, and his shoulders had risen to his ears. He stood steaming before my fire. ^ :i'd <\ THK OARDEN DYKE. " If it's no ower mucklc to ask ye," he said, " I would like ye for a witness." " i\ witness! Hut for what do you need .1 witness, Gavin? " 159 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " I want ye," he said, " to come \vi' mc to Mag's, and be a witness." Gavin and Mag Birse had been engaged for a year or more. Mag was the daughter of Janet Ogilvy, who was best remembered as the body that took the hill (that is, wandered about it) for tweh'e hours on the day Mr. Dishart, the Auld Licht minister, accepted a call to another church. " You don't mean to tell me, Gavin," I asked, " that your marriage is to take place to-day? " By the twist of his mouth I saw that he was only deferring a smile. " Far frae that," he said. " Ah, then, you have quarrel'-xl, and I am to speak up for you ? " " Na, na," he said, " I dinna want ye to do that above all things. It would be a favour if ye could gie me a bad character." This beat me, and I dare say my face showed it. " I "m no' juist what ye would call anxious to marry Mag noo," said Gavin without a tremor. I told him to go on. " There 's a lassie oot at Craigiebucklc," he explained, " workin' on the farm, — Jeanie Luke by name. Ye may hae seen her?" i6o HOW GAVIX PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. "What of licr?" I asked severely. "Weel," said Gavin, still unabashed, "I'm thinkin' noo 'at I would rather hac her." Then he stated his case more full}-. " A\', I thocht I liked Mag oncommon till I saw CKAIGIKBUCKI.E FARM. Jeanie, an' I like her fine yet, but T prefer the other ane. That state o' matters canna gang on for ever, so I came into Thrums the day to settle 't one wy or another." "And how," T asked, "do }-ou pi'opose going about it? It is a somewhat delicatr business." 'I i6i A WINDOW IN THRUMS. "On, I see nae great difficult}' in 't. I '11 speir at Mag, blunt oot, if she '11 let me aff. Yes, I '11 put it to her plain." " You 're sure Jeanie would take )'ou ? " " Ay; oh. there 's nae fear o' that." " But if Mag keeps }-ou to your bargain? " " Weel, in that case there's nae harm done." " You are in a great hurry, Gavin? " "Ye may sa\' that; but I want to be married. The wifie I lodge wi' canna last lang, an' I would like to settle doon in some place." " So you are on your way to Mag's now? " " Av, we '11 get her in atwecn twal' and ane." " Oh, }'es ; but why do you w^ant me to go with you ? " I want ye for a witness. If she winna let me aff, weel and guid ; and if she will, it 's better to hae a witness in case she should go back on her word." Gavin made his proposal briskl}', and as coolly as if he were onl\' asking me to go fishing; but I did not accompany him to Mag's. He left the house to look for another witness, and about an hour afterwards Jess saw him pass with Tammas Haggart. Tammas cried in during the evening to tell us how the mission prospered. 162 HOW GAVIN PUT 11' ^1"0 MAG LOWNIE. " Miiul }-c," said Tammas, a drop of water hangiiiL^ to the point of his nose, " I disclaim all responsibilit}' in the business. I ken Mag weel for a thrift}', respectable woman, as her mither was afore her, and so I said to Gavin when he came to speir me." " Ay, mony a pirn has 'Lisbeth filled to me," said Hendr}^ settling down to a reminiscence. "No to be owcr hard on Gax'in," continued Tammas, forestalling Hendry, " he took what I said in guid part; but aye when I stopped speakin' to draw breath, he says, ' llie qucistion is, will }'e come wi' me?' lie was micht}^ made up in 's muul. "Weel, 3'e went wi' him," suggested Jess, who wanted to bring Tammas to the point. " Ay," said the stonebreaker, " but no in sic a hurrv as that." He worketl his mouth round and round to clear the course, as it were, for a sarcasm. " ]'^)wk ofirn say," he continued, " 'at 'am qm'ck bcN'ond the ordinar' in seein' the humorous side o things. Here Tammas j^aused, and looked at us. "So yc are, Tammas," said ]lendr\-. " Losh, 163 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. ye mind hoo ye saw the humorous side o' me wearin' a pair o' boots 'at wisna marrows ! No, the ane had a toe-piece on, an' the other hadna." THE STONEBKEAKER. " Ye juist wore them sometimes when ye was delvin'," broke in Jess; "ye have as guid a pair o' boots as on\^ in Thrums." " Ay, but I had worn them," said Hendry, " at 164 HOW GAVIN PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. odd times for niair iIkui a \car, an' I had never seen the humorous side o' them. Weel, as fac as death (here he addressed me), Tammas had juist seen them twa or three times when he saw the humorous side o' them. S\'ne I saw their humor- ous side, too, but no till Tammas pointed it oot." "That was naething," said Tammas, " naething ava to some things I 've done." " But what aboot Mag?" said Leeby. "We wasna that length, was we? " said Tammas. " Na, we was speakin' aboot the humorous side. A\', wait a wee, I didna mention the humorous side for naething." He paused to reflect. " Oh, yes," he said at last, brightening up, " I was sa\'in' to \-e hoo quick I was to see the humorous side o' on}'thing. Ay, then, wliat made me sa\' that was 'at in a clink I saw the humorous side o' Ga\in's position." "Man, man," said Hendry, admiringly, "and what is 't? " " Oh, it 's this, there's something humorous in speirin' a woman to let \-e aff so as ve can be married to another woman." " I daursax' there is," said Ilendi)-, doubtfully. '65 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " Did she let him aff? " asked Jess, taking the words out of Leeby's mouth. " I 'm comin' to that," said Tammas. " Gavin proposes to me after I had haen my laugh — " " Yes," cried Hendry, banging the table with his fist, " it has a humorous side. Ye 're richt again, Tammas." " I wish ye wadna blatter the table," said Jess, and then Tammas proceeded. " Gavin wanted me to tak paper an' ink an' a pen wi' me, to write the proceedin's doon, but I said, ' Na, na, I '11 tak paper, but no nae ink nor nae pen, for there '11 be ink an' a pen there.' That was what I said." " An' did she let him aff? " asked Leeby. " Weel," said Tammas, " aff we goes to Mag's hoose, an' sure enough Mag was in. She was alane, too; so Gavin, no to waste time, juist sat doon for politeness' sake, an' syne rises up again ; an' says he, ' Margct Lownie, I hae a solemn question to speir at )'e, namely this. Will you, Marget Lownie, let me, Gax'in Birse, aff? " Mag would start at that? " " Sal, she was braw an' cool. I thocht she maun hae got wind o' his intentions aforehand, for she i66 HOW GAVIN PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. juist replies, quiet-like, ' Hoo do ye want aff, Ga\in? ' " ' Because,' says he. like a book, ' my affections has undcrLyone a change.' " ' Ye mean Jean Luke,' says Mag. "'That is wlia I mean,' says Gavin, very straitforrard." " But she didna let him aff, did she? " " Na, she wasna the kind. Says she, ' I wonder to hear ye, Gavin, but 'am no goin' to agree to naething o' that sort.' " ' Think it ower,' says Gavin. " ' Na, my mind 's made up,' said she. " ' Ye \\ould sune get anither man,' he says earnestly. " ' Hoo do I ken that? ' she speirs, rale sensibly, I thocht, for men 's no sae easy to get. " ' 'Am sure o't,' Gavin says, wi' micht\' convic- tion in his voice, ' for ye 're bonny to look at, an' weel-kent for bein' a guid body.' " ' Ay,' says Mag, ' I 'm glad ye like me, Gavin, for \-e have to tal'C me.' " " That put a clincher t)n him," interrupted 1 lendr\'. "He was loth to gie in," replied Tammas, " so 167 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. he says, ' Yc think 'am a fine character, Marge! Lownic, but ye 're very far mistaen. I wouldna wonder but what I was lossin' my place some o' thae days, an' syne whaur would ye be? — Marget Lownie,' he goes on, ' 'am nat'rally lazy an' fond o' the drink. As sure as yc stand there, 'am a reg'lar deevil ! ' " OLD THATCHED COTTAGliS. " That was strong language," said Hendry, " but he would be wantin' to flcg her? " " Juist so ; but he didna manage 't, for Mag says, ' We a' hae oor faults, Gavin, an' deevil or no deevil, ye 're the man for me ! ' 1 68 HOW GAVIN PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. "Gavin thocht a bit," continued Tammas, "an* syne he tries her on a new tack. ' Marget Lownie,' he sa\'s, ' ye're father 's an .luld man noo, an' lie has nacbody but \'ersel to look after him. I 'm thinkin' it would be kind o' cruel o' me to tak ye awa frae him? "Mag wouldna be taen in wi' that; she wasna born on a Sawbath," said Jess, using one of her favourite sayings. " She wasna," answered Tammas. " Says she, ' Hae nae fear on that score, Ga\in ; m\' father 's fine w illin' to spare me ! ' " "An that ended it? " " Ay, that ended it." " Did ye tak it doon in writin'? " asked Hendry. " There was nae need," said Tammas, handing round his snuff-mull. " No, I never touched paper. When I saw the thing was settled. I left them to their coortin'. They 're to tak a look at Snecky Hobart's auld hoose the nicht. It 's to let." 169 CHAPTER XVI. THE SON FROM LONDON. In the spring of the year there used to come to Thrums a painter from nature whom Hendry spoke of as the drawer. He lodged with Jess in my attic, and when the weaxers met him they said, " Weel, drawer," and then passed on, grinning. Tammas Haggart was the first to sav this. Hie drawer was held a poor man because he straggled about the countr\' looking for subjects for his draws, and Jess, as was her way, gave him many comforts for which she would not charge. That, I dare say. was why lie painted for her a little portrait of Jamie. When the drawer came back to Thrums he always found the painting in a frame in the room. Here I must make a con- fession abiiut Jess. She did not in her secret mind think the portrait quite the thing, and as soon as the drawer departed it was removed from the frame to make way for a calendar. The de- 170 THE SON FROM LONDON. ccption was \ery innocent, Jess being anxious not to hurt the donor's feeHngs, To those who have the artist's eye, the picture, which hangs in my school-house now, does not show a liandsome lad, Jamie being short and dapper, with straw-coloured hair and a chin that ran away into his neck. That is how I once re- garded him, but I ha\'e little heart for criticism of those I like, and, despite his madness for a season, of which, alas, I shall have to tell, I am always Jamie's friend. Even to hear an)' one disparaging the a[)i)earance of Jess's son is to me a pain. All Jess's acquaintances knew that in the be- ginning of every month a registered letter reached her from London. To her it was not a matter to keep secret. She was jiroud that the help she and llcndr}' needed in the gloaming of their li\es should come from her beloved son, and the neigh- bours esteemed Jamie because he was good to his mother. Jess had more humour than any other woman I have known, while Leeby was but sparingly endowed ; yet, as the month neared its close, it was the daughter who put on the humorist, Jess thinking money too serit)us a thing to jest about. Then if Leeby had a moment for 171 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. gossip, as when ironing a dickey for Hendry, and the iron was a trifle too hot, she would look archly at me before addressing her mother in these words: "Will he send, think ye?" Jess, who had a conviction that he would send, afitccted surprise at the question. "Will Jamie send this month, do ye mean? Na, oh, losh no ! it 's no to be expeckit. Na, he couldna cio 't this time." " That 's what ye aye say, but he aye sends. Yes, an' vara weel ye ken 'at he will send." " Na, na, Leeby ; dinna let me ever think o' sic a thing this month." " As if ye wasna thinkin' o't day an' nicht ! " " He 's terrible mindfu', Leeby, but he doesna hae 't. Na, no this month ; mebbe next month." " Do you mean to tell me, mother, 'at ye '11 no be up oot o' yer bed on Monunday an hour afore yer usual time, lookin' for the post?" " Na, no this time. I may be up, an' tak a look for 'im, but no expeckin' a registerdy ; na, na, that wouldna be reasonable." " Reasonable here, reasonable there, up you '11 be, keekin' through the blind to see if the post 's comin' ; ay, an' what 's mair, the post will come, and 172 THE SON FROM LONDON. a rcgisterd}' in his hand wi' fifteen shilhngs in "t at the least." " Dinna sa\- fifteen, Leeb\' ; I would never think o' sic a sum. Alebbe five — " *' Five ! I wonder to hear }'e. Vera weel \'ou ken 'at since he had twentv-twa shillings in the week he 's ne\-er sent less than half a sovereign." " No, but we canna expeck — " " Expeck ! No, but it's no expeck, it 's get." On the Monday morning when I came down- stairs, Jess was in her chair b\- the window, beam- ing, a piece of paper in her hand. I did not require to be told about it, but I was told. Jess had been up before Leeby could get the fire lit, with great difficult}' reaching the window in her bare feet, and man\' a time had she said that the post must be b}'. " Hax'ers," said Leeb}', " he winna be for an hour yet. Come awa back to }'our bed." " Na, he maun be by," Jess would say in a few minutes; " on, we couldna expeck this month." So it went on until Jess's hand shook the blind. "lie's comin', Leeby, he's comin'. He'll no hae naething, na, I couldna e.xpeck — He's by ! " 173 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " T dinna believe it," cried Leeby, running to the window; "he's juist at his tricks again." This was in reference to a way our saturnine post had of pretending that he brouglit no letters and passing the door. Then he turned back. " Mistress McOumpha," he cried, and whistled. " Run, Leeby, run," said Jess, excitedly. Leeby hastened to the door, and came back with a registered letter. " Registerdy," she cried in triumph, and Jess, with fond hands, opened the letter. By the time I came down the money was hid away in a box beneath the bed, where not even Leeby could fmd it, and Jess was on her chair hugging the letter. She preserved all her registered envelopes. This was the first time I had been in Thrums when Jamie was expected for his ten days' holiday, and for a week we discussed little else. Though he had written saying when he would sail for Dundee, there was quite a possibilit)^ of his ap- pearing on the brae at any moment, for he liked to take Jess and Leeby by surprise. Hendry there was no surprising, unless he was in the mood for it. and the coolness of him was one of Jess's grievances. Just two years earlier Jamie 174 THI': I'OST. THE SON FROM LONDON. came north a week before his time, and his father saw him from the window. Instead of cr\-imj out in amazement or hacking- his face, for he was shaving at the time, Hendry cahnl)- wiped his razor on the window-sill, and said — "Ay, there's Jamie." Jamie was a little disappointed at being seen in this wa\', for he had been looking forward for four and fort\- hours to repeating the sensation of the year before. On that occasion he had got to the door unnoticed, where he stopped to listen. I dare say he checked his breath, the better to catch his mother's voice, for Jess being an invalid, Jamie thoufjht of her first. He had Leebv sworn to write the truth about her, but man}' an anxious hour he had on hearing that she was "complaining fell (considcrabl)') about lier back the da\'," Leeb\', as he knew, being frightened to alarm liim. Jamie, too, had given his promise to tell cxactl}- how he was keeping, but often he wrote that he was " fine " when Jess had lier doubts. When Hendry wrote he spread himself over the table, and said that Jess was "juist about it," or " aff and on," which does not tell much. So Jamie hearkened painfull)' at tlie door, and by 12 177 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. and by heard his mother say to Lccby that she was sure the teapot was runnini,^ out. Perhaps that voice was as sweet to him as the music of a maiden to her lover, but Jamie did not rush into his mother's arms. Jess has told me with a beaming face how craftily he behaved. The old man, of lungs that shook Thrums by night, who went from door to door selling firewood, had a way of shoving doors rudel\- open and cr\ing — " Ony ro/xtty roots?" and him Jamie imitated. "Juist think," Jess said, as she recalled the incident, " what a startle we got ! As we think, Pete kicks open the door and cries oot, ' Ony rozetty roots?' and Leeby says 'No,' and gangs to shut the door. Next minute she screeches, ' What, what, what ! ' and in walks Jamie ! " Jess was never able to decide whether it was more delightful to be taken aback in this way or to prepare for Jamie. Sudden excitement was bad for her according to Hendr>', who got his medical knowledge second-hand from persons under treatment; but with Jamie's appearance on the threshold Jess's health bc^an to imi)rove. This time he kept to the appointed day, and the house was turned ui)side down in his honour. 17S THE SON FROM LONDON. Such, a polish did Lccb>' put on the flagons which hung on the kitchen wall, that, passing between them and the window, I thought once I had been struck b\- lightning. On the morning of the day that was to bring him, Leeby was up at two o'clock, and eight hours before he could possibly arrive Jess had a night-shirt warming for him at the fire. I was no longer anybody, except as a person who could give Jamie advice. Jess told me what I was to say. The only thing he and his mother quarrelled about was the un- derclothing she would swaddle him in, and Jess asked me to back her up in her entreaties. " There 's no a doubt," she said, " but what it's a hantle caulder here than in London, an' it would be a terrible business if he was to tak the cauld." Jamie was to sail from London to Dundee, and come on to Thrums from Tilliedruni in the post-cart. The road at that time, however, avoided the brae, and at a certain point Jamie's custom was to alight, and take the short cut home, along a farm road and up the commonty. I Lre, too. Hookey Crewe, the ])ost, (le])osite(l his passenger's box, which llendry wheeled home in 179 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. a barrow. Long before the cart had lost sight of Tilliedriim, Jess was at her window. "Tell her Hookey 's often late on Monundays," Lceby whispered to me, " for she '11 gang oot o' her mind if she thinks there's onything wrang." THE KOAD FKOAI TILLIEDRUM. Soon Jess was painfully excited, though she sat as still as salt. " It maun be yer time," she said, looking at both Leeby and me, for in Thrums we went out and met our friends. i8o THE SON FROM LONDON. " Hoots," retorted Lccby, tr\-in^' to be hard}'. " Hookc\- canna be oot o' Tilliedruin \-et." " lie iiiaiiii hae starlit laiiL;' s\"iie." " I wonder at \'e, mother, puttiii' yersel in sic a state. Ye 'II be ill when becomes." " Na, 'am no in nae state, Lecby, but there '11 no be nae accident, will there?" " It's most provokin' 'at }'e will think 'at every time Jamie steps into a machine there '11 be an accident. 'Am sure if \'c would tak mair after my father, it would be a blessin '. Look hoo cool he is." "Whaur is he, Leeby?" " Oh, I dinna ken. The hcnmost time I saw him he was layin' doon the law aboot somethiuL;" to T'nowhead." " It 's an awfu' \\y that he has o' L;aen oot withoot a word. I wouldna wonder 'at he's no bein' in time to meet Jamie, an' that would be a prett}' business." " Od, \'e 're sure he '11 be in braw time." " Hut he hasna taen the barrow wi' him, an' hoo is Jamie's luggage to be brocht u]) withoot a barrow? " " Barrow! He took tlie barrow to the saw-mill iSi A WINDOW IN THRUMS. an hour s\-nc to pick it up at Rob Angus's on the wy." Several times Jess was sure she saw the cart in the distance, and implored us to be off. " I '11 tak no settle till ye 're awa," she said, her face now flushed and her hands working nervously. "We've time to gang and come twa or three times yet," remonstrated Lecby ; but Jess gave me so beseeching a look that I put on my hat. Then Hendry dandered in to change his coat de- liberately, and when the three of us set off, we left Jess with her eye on the door b\' which Jamie must enter. He was her only son now, and she had not seen him for a \'ear. On the way down the commonty, Leeby had the honour of being twice addressed as Miss McOumpha, but her father was Hendry to all, which shows that we make our social position for ourselves. Hendry looked forward to Jamie's annual appearance only a little less hungril\' than Jess, but his pulse still beat regularly. Leeby would have considered it almost wicked to talk of anything except Jamie now, but Hendr\' cried out comments on the tatties, yesterda}''s roup, the fall in jute, to everybody he encountered. When 182 THE SON FROM LONDON. he And a croii}' liad their sa\' and parted, it was thcii custom to continue the conversation in shouts until the\- were out of hearing. Only to Jess at her window was the cart late that afternoon. Jamie jumped frctm it in the A PATH ON THK COMMONTY. loner CTcat-coat that liad been new to Thrums the )X'ar before, and Hendry said calmly — '' Ay, Jamie." Leeby and Jamie made sii^ns tliat they recog- nized each other as brother and sister, but I was the only one with whom he shocik hands. lie was smart in his moNements and quite the gentle- man, but the Thrums ways took lu^ld of him 183 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. again at once. He even inquired for his mother in a tone that was meant to deceive me into think- ing he did not care how she was. Hcndr}' would have had a talk out of him on the spot, but was reminded of the luggage. We ■^-v A HEAVY FARM ROAD. took the heavy farm road, and soon we were at the saw-mill. I am naturally leisurely, but we climbed the commonty at a stride. Jamie pre- tended to be calm, but in a dark place I saw him take Leeby's hand, and after that he said not a 184 THE SON FROM LONDON. word. His eyes were fixed on the elbow of the brae, where he would come into slight of his mother's window. I\Ian\-, man\' a time, I know, that lad had pra\'ed to God for still another sight THK ICLIIOW OF THE BRAE. of the window with his mother at it. So we came to the corner where the stile is that Sam'l Dickie jumped in the race for T'nowhead's Bell, and before Jamie was the house of his childhood and his mother's window, antl the fond, anxious »85 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. face of his mother herself My eyes are dull, and I did not see her, but suddenly Jamie cried out, " My mother ! " and Leeby and I were left behind. When I reached the kitchen Jess was crying, and her son's arms were round her neck. I went away to my attic. There was only one other memorable event of that day. Jamie had finished his tea, and we all sat round him, listening to his adventures and opinions. He told us how the countr\- should be governed, too, and perhaps put on airs a little. Hendry asked the questions, and Jamie answered them as pat as if he and his father were going through the Shorter Catechism. When Jamie told anything marvellous, as how many towels were used at the shop in a da}', or that twopence was the charge for a single shave, his father screwed his mouth together as if preparing to whistle, and then instead made a curious clucking noise with his tongue, which was reserved for the expression of absolute amazement. As for Jess, who was given to making much of me, she ignored my re- marks, and laughed hilariously at jokes of Jamie's which had been received in silence from me a few minutes before. 1 86 THE SON FROM LONDON. SlowU' it came to nic that Leeb\' had soinethincj on her niiiul, and that Jamie was talking;- to her with his e\(.'S. I learned afterwards that they were plotting" how to get me out of the kitchen, but were too impatient to wait. Thus it was that the great event happened in m\' presence. Jamie rose and stood near Jess — I dare say he had planned the scene frequently. Then he j^rotluced frtmi his jjocket a purse, and coolK' opened it. Silence fell upon us as we saw that purse. From it he took a neatly-folded piece of paper, crumpled it into a ball, and flung it into Jess's lap. I cannot say whether Jess knew A\'hat it was. Her hand shook, and for a moment she let the ball of paper lie there. " Open 't up," cried Lceby, who was in the secret. " What is't?" asked Hendrx', drawing nearer. "It's Juist a bit paper Jamie flung at me," said Jess, and then she unfolded it. " It 's a five-pound note ! " cried Hendry. *' Na, na; oh, keep us, no," said Jess; but she knew it was. For a time she could not speak. "I ranna tak it, Jamie," she faltered at last. But Jamie waved his hand, meaning that it was 187 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. nothing, and then, lest he should burst, hurried out into the garden, where he walked up and down whistling. May God bless the lad, thought I. I do not know the history of that five-pound note, but well aware I am that it grew slowl)- out of pence and silver, and that Jamie denied his passions many things for this great hour. His sacrifices watered his young heart antl kept it fresh and tender. Let us no longer cheat our con- sciences by talking of filth}' lucre. Money may always be a beautiful thing. It is we who make it grimy. i88 CHAPTER XVII. A HOME FOR GENIUSES. From hints he liad let drop at odd times I knew that Tammas Haggart had a scheme for geniuses, but not until the evening after Jamie's arrival did I get it out of him. Hendry was with Jamie at the fishing, and it came about that Tammas and I had the pig-sty to ourselves. " Of course," he said, when we had got a grip of the subject, " I dount pretend as my ideas is to be followed withoot deeviation, but ondootedl}' some- thing should be done for geniuses, them bein' aboot the onh' class as we do naething for. ^'et they're fowk to be prood o', an' we shduldna let them o\erdo the thing, nor run into del)t ; na, na. There was Robbie Burns, noo, as real a genius as ever — " At the pig-sty, where we liked to have more than one topic, we had frequently to tempt Tammas away from Hums. 189 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. "Your scheme," 1 interposed, "is for living geniuses, of course?" " A\-," he said thouL,ditfully, "them 'at's gone canna be brocht back. Wecl, my idea is 'at a Home should be built for geniuses at the public IN THE YARD AT T'NOWHEAD. expense, whaur they could all live thegither, an' be decently looked after. Na, no in London; that 's no my plan, but I would hae 't within an hour's distance o' London, say five mile frae the market-place, an' standin' in a bit garden, whaur 190 A HOME FOR GENIUSES. the geniuses could walk aboot arni-in-arni, coni- posin' their minds." " You would ha\e the grounds walled in, 1 sup- pose, so that the public could not intrude?" "Weel, there's a dithcult)- there, because, ye '11 observe, as the public \\\>ukl support the insti- tootion, the}' would hae a kind o' richt to look in. How-some-ever, 1 daur sa\' we could arrange to fling the grounds open to the public once a week on condition 'at they didna speak to the geniuses. I 'ni thinkin' 'at if there was a small chairge for admissit)n the llonie could be made self-supportin', Losh ! to think 'at if there had been sic an insti- tootion in his time a man micht hae sat on the bit d\ke and watched Robbie Burns danderin' roond the — " "You would dix'idc the Home into suites of rooms, so that e\er)' inmate woukl ha\e his own apartments? " "Not by no means; na, na. The mair T read aboot geniuses the mair clearl}' 1 see as their wy o' li\'ing alaiie ower muckle is ane o' the things as breaks doon their health, and makes them mecse- rable. 1' tlu: llnnie the)' would hae a bedroom apiece, but the jjailour an' the other sittin'-rooms 191 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. would be for all, so as they could enjoy ane another's company. The management? Oh, that's aisy. The superintendent would be a medical man appointed by Parliament, and he would hae men- servants to do his biddin'." " Not all men-servants, surely? " " Every one o' them. Man, geniuses is no to be trusted wi' womenfolk. No' even Robbie Bu — " " So he did ; but would the inmates have to put themselves entirely in the superintendent's hands? " " Nae doubt; an' they would see it was the wisest thing they could do. He would be careful o' their health, an' send them early to bed as weel as hae them up at eight sharp. Geniuses' healths is always breakin' doon because of late hours, as in the case o' the lad wha used often to begin his immortal writins at twal' o'clock at nicht. a thing 'at would ruin ony constitootion. But the superintendent would see as they had a tasty supper at nine o'clock — something as agreed wi' them. Then for half an hour they would quiet their brains readin' oot aloud, time about, frae sic a book as the Pilgrim's Progress, an' the gas would be turned afif at ten precisely." 192 A HOME FOR GENIUSES. " When would you have them up in the morning? " " At sax in summer an' seven in winter. The superintendent would see as they were all prop- erl}- bathed e\er)- mornin', cleanliness bein' most important for the preservation o' health." " This sounds well ; but suppose a genius broke the rules — la}^ in bed, for instance, reading by the light of a candle after hours, or refused to take his bath in the morning?" " The superintendent would hae to punish him. The genius would be sent back to his bed, maybe. An' if he la}- lang i' the mornin' he would hae to gang withoot his breakfast." " That would be all \-er}' well where the inmate only broke the regulations once in a way; but suppose he were to refuse to take his bath day after da\' (and, }'ou know, geniuses arc said to be eccentric in that particular), what would be done? You could not starve him; geniuses are too scarce." " Na, na ; in a case like that he would hae to be reported to the public. The thing would hae to come afore the Hoose o' Commons. Ay, the superintendent would get a member o' the Oppo- '3 193 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. section to ask a queistion such as ' Can the hon- ourable gentleman, the' Sccretar}' of State for Home Affairs, inform the 1 loose whether it is a fac that Mr. Sic-a-one, the well-known genius, at present resident in the Home for Geniuses, has, contrairy to regulations, perseestentl}' and obsti- nately refused to change his linen; antl, if so, whether the Government proposes to take ony steps in the matter?' The newspapers would re- port the discussion next mornin', an' so it would be made public withoot onnecessary ootlay." " In a general way, however, }'ou would give the geniuses perfect freedom? They could work when they liked, and come and go when they liked?" " Not so. The superintendent would fix the hours o' wark, an' they would all write, or what- ever it was, thegither in one large room. Man, man, it would mak a grand draw for a painter- chield, that room, wi' all the geniuses working awa thegither." " But when the labours of the day were over the genius would be at libert)' to make calls by himself, or to run up, say, to London, for an hour or two?" 194 A HOME FOR OENIUSES. "Hoots no, that would spoil cvcrxthiiisj;. It's the drink, \'c sec, as does for a terrible k>t o' j^eniuses. I'Lven Rob — " " Alas ! yes. But would }'ou have them all teetotalers? " "What do ye tak nie (ov? Na, na ; the super- intendent W(nild allow theni one crlass o' toddv ever}' nicht, an' mix it hinisel; but he would never let the keys o' the press, whaur he kept the drink, oot o' his hands. They woukl never be allowed oot o' the gairden either, withoot a man to look after them ; an' I wouldna burthen them \\i' ower muckle pocket-mone\'. Saxpencc in the week would be suffeecient." " How about their clothes? " " They would get twa suits a }'ear, wi' the letter G sewed on the shoulders, so as if they were lost the\' could be recognized and l)rocht back." " Certainl}- it is a scheme def.erving considera- tion, and T ha\'e no doulit our geniuses would jump at it; but \'ou must renu'mber that some of them would ha\'e wives." " Ay, an' some o' them would hae husbands. I 'vc been thinkin' that oot, an' I daursay the best 195 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. plan would be to partition aff a pairt o' the Home for female geniuses." "Would Parliament elect the members? " " I wouldna trust them. The election would hae to be by competitive examination. Na, I canna say wha would draw up the queistions. The scheme 's juist growin' i' my mind, but the mair I think o't the better I like it." 196 CHAPTER XVIII. LEEBY AND JAMIE. By the bank of the Ouharity on a summer day I have seen a barefooted girl gaze at the running water until tears filled her eyes. That was the birth of romance. Whether this love be but a beautiful dream I cannot say, but this we see, that it comes to all, and colours the whole future life with gold. Leeby must have dreamt it, but I did not know her then. I have heard of a man who would have taken her far away into a coun- try where the corn is yellow when it is still green with us, but she would not leave her mother, nor was it him she saw in her dream. From her earliest days, when she was still a child stagger- ing round the garden with Jamie in her arms, her duty lay before her, straight as the bur)'ing- ground road. Jess had need of her in the little home at the top of the brae, where God, looking 197 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. down upon her as she scrubbed and gossiped and sat up all night with her ailing mother, and never missed the prayer-meeting, and adored the minister, did not perhaps think her the least of His handmaids. Iler years were less than thirty when He took her away, but she had few days that were altogether dark. Those who bring sun- shine to the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves. The love Leeby bore for Jamie was such that in their younger days it shamed him. Other laddies knew of it, and flung it at him until he dared Leeby to let on in public that he and she were related. " Hoo is your lass?" they used to cry to him, inventing a new game. " I saw Leeby lookin' for ye," they would say; "she's wearyin' for ye to gang an' play • > 1 u wi her. Then if they were not much bigger boys than himself, Jamie got them against the dyke and hit them hard until they publicly owned to know- ing that she was his sister, and that he was not fond of her. " It distressed him mair than ye could believe, 198 c G X LEEBY AND JAMIE. though," Jess has told mo ; " an, w hen he came hame he would street an' say 'at Leeb}' disgraced him." Leeby, of course, suffered for her too obvious affection. " I wonder 'at ye didna try to control yersel," Jamie would say to her, as he grew bigger. " 'Am sure," said Leeby, " I never gie ye a look if there 's onybody there." " A look ! You 're aye lookin' at me sae fond- like 'at I dinna ken \\hat wy to turn." " Weel, I canna help it," said Leeby, probably beginning to whimper. If Jamie was in a very bad temper he left her, after this, to her own reflections ; but he was naturally soft-hearted. " 'Am no tellin' ye no to care for me," he told her, " but juist to keep it mair to yersel. Naebody would ken frae me 'at 'am fond o' ye." " Mebbe yer no? " said Leeby. " Ay, am I, but I can keej) it secret. When we 're in the hoose am juist richt fond o' ye." " Do you love me, Jamie? " Jamie waggled his head in irritation. " Love," he said, " is an awful like word to 201 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. use Avhen fowk 's weel. Ye shouldna spcir bic annoyin' qucistions." " But if ye juist say ye love me I '11 never let on again afore fowk 'at yer onything to me ava. " Ay, ye often say that." "Do ye no believe my word?" " I believe fine ye mean what ye say, but ye forget yersel when the time comes." " Juist try me this time." "Weel, then, I do." " Do what? " asked the greedy Leeby. "What ye said." " I said love." "Weel," said Jamie, " I do 't." " What do ye do? Say the word." " Na," said Jamie, " I winna say the word. It 's no a word to say, but I do 't." That was all she could get out of liim, unless he was stricken with remorse, when he even went the length of saying the word. " Leeby kent perfectly weel," Jess has said, " 'at it was a trial to Jamie to tak her ony gait, an' I often used to say to her 'at I wondered at her want o' pride in priggin' wi' him. Ay, but if she 202 LEEDY AND JAMIE. could juist get a promise wrung oot o' him, she didna care hoo muckle she had to i^rig. S\'iie they quarrelled, an' ane or baith o' them grat afore they made it up. I mind when Jamie went to the fishin' Leeby was aye terrible keen to get wi' him, but ye see he wouldna be seen gaen through the toon wi' her. ' If ye let me gang,' she said to him, ' I '11 no seek to go through the toon wi' ye. Na, I '11 gang roond by the Roods an' you can tak the buryin'-ground road, so as we can meet on the hill.' Yes, Leeby was willin' to agree wi' a' that, juist to get gaen wi' him. I 've seen lassies makkin themselves sma' for lads often enough, but I never saw ane 'at prigged so muckle wi' her ain brother. Na, it 's other lassies' brothers they like as a rule." " But though Jamie was terrible reserved aboot it," said Leeby, " he was as fond o' me as ever I was o' him. Ye mind the time I had the measles, mother?" "'Am no likely to forget it, Leeby," saitl Jess, " an' you blind wi' them for three days. Ay, ay, Jamie was richt taen up aboot )'e. 1 mind he broke oprn his pirl)- (money-box), an' bocht a ha'])enny worth o' something to ye every day." 203 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " An' ye hinna forgotten the stick?'" " 'Deed no, I hinna. Ye see," Jess explained to me, " Lecby was lyin' ben the hoose, an' Jamie wasna allowed to gang near her for fear o' infection. Weel, he got a lang stick — it was a pea-stick — an' put it 'aneath the door an' waggled it. Ay, he did that a CLirran times every day, juist to let her see he was thinkin' o' her." " Mair than that," said Leeby, " he cried cot 'at he loved me." "Ay, but juist aince," Jess said ; " I dinna mind o't but aince. It was the time the doctor came late, an' Jamie, being waukened by him, thocht ye was deein'. I mind as if it was yesterday hoo he cam runnin' to the door an' cried oot, ' I do love ye, Leeby ; I love ye richt.' The doctor got a start when he heard the voice, but he laughed loud when he unerstood." " He had nae business, though," said Leeby, " to tell onybody." " He was a rale clever man, the doctor," Jess explained to me ; " ay, he kent me as weel as though he 'd gaen through me wi' a lichted candle. It got oot through him, an' the young billies took to sayin' to Jamie, ' Ye do love her, Jamie ; ay, ye 204 LEEBY AND JAMIE. love her richt,' The onl\- rctjlar fecht I ever kent Jamie hae was wi' a kul 'at cried that to liini. It was Bowlegs Chirst\''s laddie. A}-, but when she got better Jamie bhimed Leeby." " He no onl}- blamed me," said Leeby, "but he wanted me to pay him back a' the bawbees he had spent on me." " Ay, an' I sepad he got them too," said Jess. In time Jamie became a barber in Tilliedrum, trudging many heavy miles there and back twice a day that he might sleep at home, trudging bravely I was to say, but it was what he v\as born to, and there was hardly an alternative. This was the time I saw most of him, and he and Leeby were often in m\- thoughts. There is as terrible a bubble in the little kettle as on the cauldron of the world, and some of the scenes between Jamie and Leeb\' were great tragedies, comedies, what you will, until the kettle was taken off the fire. Hers was the more placid temper; indeed, only in one way could Jamie suddenly rouse her to fury. That was when he hinted that she had a large number of frocks. Leeby knew that there could never be more than a Sabbath frock and an everyday gown for her, both of her mother's 205 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. making', but Jamie's insinuations were more than she could bear. Then I have seen her seize and shake him. J know from Jess that Leeb)' cried herself hoarse the day Joey was buried, because her little black frock was not ready for wear. Until he went to Tillietlrum Jamie had been more a stay-at-h(^nie boy than most. The warmth of Jess's love had something to do with keeping his heart aglow, but more, I think, he owed to Lceby. TilUedrum was his introduction to the world, and f )r a little it took his head. I was in the house the Sabbath day that he refused to go to church. He went out in the forenoon to meet the TilUe- drum lads, who were to take him off for a holiday in a cart. Hendry was more wrathful than I re- member ever to have seen him, though I have heard how he did with the lodger who broke the Lord's Day. This lodger was a tourist who thought, in folly, surely, rather than in hardness of heart, to test the religious convictions of an Auld Licht by insisting on paying his bill on a Sabbath morning. He offered the money to Jess, with the warning that if she did not take it now she might never see it. Jess was so kind and good to her lodgers that he could not have known her long who troubled 206 Tir.LIKDRUM. LEEBY AND JAMIE. her with this i)oor trick. She was sorely in need at the time, and entreated the thoughtless man to have some pity on her. " Now or never," he said, holding out the money. " Put it on the dresser," said Jess at last, " an' I '11 get it the morn." The few shillings were laid on the dresser, where the}' remained unfingered until IIcndr\-, with Leeb>' and Jamie, came in from church. "What siller's that?" asked Hendry, and then Jess confessed what she had done. " I wonder at ye, woman," said Hendry, sternly; and lifting the money he climbed up to the attic with it- He pushed open the door, and confronted the lodger. " Take back yer siller," he said, laying it on the table, " an' leave my hoose. Man, you 're a pitiable crittur to tak the chance, when I was oot, o' pla>in' uj)on the poverty o' an onweel woman." It was with such unwonted sex'erit)' as this that Hendry called upon Jamie to follow him to church ; but the boy went off, and did not return till dusk. defiant and miserable. Jess had been so terrified 14 209 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. that she forgave him everything for sight of his face, and Hendry prayed for him at family wor- ship with too much unction. But Leeby cried as if her tender heart would break. For a long time Jamie refused to look at her, but at last he broke down. " If ye go on like that," he said, " I '11 gang awa oot an' droon mysel, or be a sojer." This was no uncommon threat of his, and some- times, when he went off, banging the door violently, she ran after him and brought him back. This time she only wept the more, and so both went to bed in misery. It was after midnight that Jamie rose and crept to Leeby's bedside. Leeby was shaking the bed in her agony. Jess heard what they said. " Leeby," said Jamie, " dinna greet, an' I '11 never do 't again." He put his arms round her, and she kissed him passionately. " Oh, Jamie," she said, " hae ye prayed to God to forgie ye? " Jamie did not speak. " If ye was to die this nicht," cried Leeby, " an' you no made it up wi' God, ye wouldna gang to 2IO LKEBV AND JAMIE. heaven. Jamie, I canna sleep till ye 've made it up \\i' God." But Jamie still hung back. Lecby slip[)ed from her bed, and went down on her knees. " O God, O dear God," she cried, " mak Jamie to pra}' to \'ou ! " THE SCHOOLHOUSE I.N THE GLEN. Then Jamie went down on his knees too, and the)- made it up with God together. This is a little thing for me to remember all these years, and }'et how fresh and sweet it keeps Lecby in my memory. 2 I I A WINDOW IN THRUMS. Away up in the glen, my lonely schoolhouse lying deep, as one might say, in a sea of snow, I had many hours in the years long by for thinking of my friends in Thrums and mapping out the future of Leeby and Jamie. I saw Hendry and Jess taken to the churchyard and Leeby left alone in the house. I saw Jamie fulfil his promise to his mother, and take Leeby, that stainless young woman, far away to London, where they had a home together. Ah, but these were only the idle dreams of a dominie. The Lord willed it other- wise. 212 CHAPTER XIX. A TALE OF A GLOVE. So lon[]j as Jamie was not the lad, Jess twinkled gleefully o\'er tales of sweetheart! ng. There was little Kitty Lamby who used to skip in of an evening, and, squatting on a stool near the window, unwind the roll of her enormities. A wheedling thing she was, with an ambition to drive men craz}', but ni}' presence killed the gossip on her tongue, though I liked to look at her. When I entered, the wag-at-the-wa' clock had again pos- session of the kitchen. I never heartl more than the end of a sentence : " An' did he really say he would fling himsel into the dam, Kitty ! " Or __ " True as death, Jess, he kissed mc." Then T \\andered away from the kitchen, where I was not wanted, and marvelled to know that Jess of the tender heart laughed most nu'rril)' when he reall>- did sa\' that he was going straight to the 213 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. . dam. As no body was found in the dam in those days, whoever he was he must have thought better of it. But let Kitty, or any other maid, cast a ghnting eye on Jamie, then Jess no longer smiled. If he returned the glance she sat silent in her chair till Leeby laughed awa}' her fears. "Jamie's no the kind, mother," Leeby would say. " Na, he 's quiet, but he sees through them. They dinna draw his leg." " Ye never can tell, Leeby. The laddies 'at's maist ill to get sometimes gangs up in a flame a' at aince, like a bit o' paper." "Ay, weel, at ony rate Jamie 's no on fire yet." Though clever beyond her neighbours, Jess lost all her sharpness if they spoke of a lassie for Jamie. " I warrant," Tibbie Birse said one day in my hearing, " 'at there 's some leddy in London he 's thinkin' o'. Ay, he 's been a guid laddie to ye, but i' the coorse o' nature he '11 be settlin' dime soon." Jess did not answer, but she was a [picture of woe. " Yer lettin' what Tibbie Birse said lie on yer mind," Leeby remarked, when Tibbie was gone. "What can it maitcr what she thinks?" 214 THE DOMINIK. A TALE OF A GLOVE. " I canna help it, Leeby," said Jess. " Na, an' I canna bear to think o' Jamie bein' maiiit. It would lay me low to loss my laddie. No yet, no yet." " But, mother," said Leeby, quoting from the minister at weddings, " ye wouldna be lossin' a son, but juist gainin' a dochter." " Dinna haver, Leeby," answered Jess, " I want nana o' thae dochters ; na, na." This talk took place while we were still awaiting Jamie's coming. He had only been with us one day when Jess made a terrible discovery. She was looking so mournful when I saw her, that I asked Leeby what was wrong. "She's brocht it on hcrsel," said Leeby. "Ye see she was up sunc i' the mornin' to begin to the darnin' o' Jamie's stockins an' to warm his sark at the fire afore he put it on. He woke up, an' cried to her 'at he wasna accustomed to haen his things warmed for him. A}', he cried it oot fell thrawn, so she took it into her head 'at there was something in his pouch he didna want her to see. She was even onaisy last nicht." I asked what had aroused Jess's suspicions last night. 21 7 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. "Ou, ye would notice 'at she sat devourin' him wi' her ecn, she was so hftcd up at haen 'm again. Weel, slie says noo 'at she saw 'im twa or three times put his hand in his pouch as if he was findin' to mak sure 'at something was safe. So when he fell asleep again this mornin' she got hand o' his jacket to see if there was onything in 't. I advised her no to do 't, but she couldna help hersel. She put in her hand, an' pu'd it oot. That's what's makkin her look sae ill." " But what was it she found? " "Did I no tell ye? I'm gaen dottle, I think. It was a glove, a woman's glove, in a bit paper. Ay, though she 's sittin' still she 's near frantic." I said I supposed Jess had put the glove back in Jamie's pocket. " Na," said Leeby, " deed no. She wanted to fling it on the back o' the fire, but I wouldna let her. That 's it she has aneath her apron." Later in the day I remarked to Leeby that Jamie was very dull. " He's missed it," she explained. " Has any one mentioned it to him," I asked, "or has he inquired about it? " " Na," says Leeby, " there hasna been a syllup 218 A TALE OF A GLOVE. aboot it. My mother 's llcid to mention 't, an' he doesna like to speak aboot it either." " Perhaps he thinks he has lost it? " " Nae fear o' him," Leeby said. " Na, he kens fine wha has 't." I never knew how Jamie came by the glove, nor whether it had originally belonged to her who made liim forget the window at the top of the brae. At the time I looked on as at play-acting, rejoicing in the happ)' ending. Alas ! in the real life how are we to know when we have reached an end ? But this glove, I say, may not have been that woman's, and if it was, she had not then bedevilled him. He was too sheepish to demand it back from his mother, and alread}' lie cared f^r it too much to laugh at Jess's theft with Leeb}\ So it was that a curious game at chess was played with the glove, the pla}'ers a silent pair. Jamie cared little to read books, but on the day following Jess's discovery, I found him on his knees in the attic, looking through mine. A little box without a lid held them all, but they seemed a great librar)' to him. "There 's readin' f )r a lifetime in them," he said. " I was juist takkin a look through them." 219 A WINDOW IN THRUiMS. His face was guilty, however, as if his hand had been caught in a money-bag, and I wondered what had enticed the lad to my books. I was still standing pondering when Lccby ran up the stair; she was so active that she generally ran, and she grudged the time lost in recovering her breath. '" I '11 put yer books richt," she said, making her word good as she spoke. " I kcnt Jamie had been ransackin' up here, though he cam up rale canny. Ay, ye would notice he was in his stockin' soles." I had not noticed this, but I remembered now his slipping from the room very softly. If he wanted a book, I told Leeby he could have got it without an)' display of cunning. " It 's no a book he 's lookin' for," she said, " na it 's his glove." The time of day was early for Leeby to gossip but I detained her for a moment. " My mother's hodded it," she explained, " an he winna spcir nac qucistions. But he's lookin for 't. He was ben in the room scarchin' the drawers when I was up i' the toon in the forenoon Ye see he pretends no to be carin' afore me, an though my mother's sittin' sac quiet-like at the 220 THE ATTIC. A TALE OF A GLOVE. window she 's hcarkenin' a' the time. Ay, an' he thocht I had iiod it up here." " But where," I asked, " was the glove hid." " I ken nae mair than }'ersel," said Leeby. " My mother 's gien to hoddin' things. She has a phice aneath the bed whaur she keeps the siller, an' she 's no speakin' aboot the glove to me noo, because she thinks Jamie an' me 's in comp. I speired at her whaur she had hod it, but she juist said, 'What would I be doin' hoddin 't? ' She'll never admit to me 'at she hods the siller cither." Next day Leeby came to me with the latest news. "He's found it," she said, "ay, he's got the glove again. Ye see, what put him on the wrang scent was a notion 'at I had put it some gait. He kent 'at if she 'd hod it, the kitchen maun be the place, but he thocht she'd gien it to me to hod. He cam upon 't by accident. It was aneath the paddin' o' her chair." Here, T thought, was the end of the glove incident, but I was mistaken. There were no presses or drawers with locks in the house, and Jess got hold of the glove again. I suppose she had reasoned out no line of action. She merely 223 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. hated the thought that Jamie should have a woman's glove in his possession. " She beats a' wi' 'cuteness," Leeby said to me. "Jamie didna put the glove back in his pouch. Na, he kens her ower weel by this time. She was up, though, lang afore he was wauken, an' she gaed almost strecht to the place w^haur he had hod it. I believe she lay waukin' a' nicht thinkin' oot whaur it would be. Ay, it was aneath the mattress. I saw her hodden 't i' the back o' the drawer, but I didna let on." I quite believed Leeby when she told me after- wards that she had watched Jamie feeling beneath the mattress. " He had a face," she said, " I assure ye, he had a face, when he discovered the glove was gone again." " He maun be terrible taen up aboot it," Jess said to Leeby, " or he wouldna keep it aneath the mattress." " Od," said Leeby, " it was yersel 'at drove him to t. Again Jamie recovered his property, and again Jess got hold of it. This time he looked in vain. I learnt the fate of the glove from Leeby. 224 A TALE OF A GLOVI<:. " Yc mind ';u she kcopit him at liamc frae the kirk on Sabbath, because he had a caukl? " Leeby said. " A\', me or m\' father woukl hae a t;"e\' ill cauld afore she would let 's bide at hame frac the kirk ; but Jamie 's difterent. Weel, mair tlian aince she 's been near speakin' to "im aboot the glox-e, but she t^rcw field aye. She was sae terrified there was something,' in 't. " On Sabbath, thouLjh, she had him to herscl, an' he wasna so bright as usual. She sat wi' the Bible on her lap, pretendin' to read, but a' the time she was takkin keeks at him. I dinna ken 'at he was brood in' owcr the glove, but she thocht he was, an' juist afore the kirk came oot she couldna stand it nae langer. She put her hand in her pouch, an' pu'd oot the glove, wi' the paper round it, juist as it had been when she came UlKUl t. " ' That 's yours, Jamie,' she saitl ; ' it was ill-tlune o' me to tak it, but I couldna help it.' "Jamie put oot his hand, an' s\'ne he drew't back. ' It's no a thing o' nae conseciuence, mother,' he said. " ' Wha is she, Jamie? ' m\' mother said. 15 225 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " He turned awa his held — so she telt mc. ' It 's a lassie in London,' he said, ' I dinna ken her muckle.' " 'Ye maun ken her weel,' my mother persisted, ' to be carryin' aboot her glove ; I 'm dootin' yer gey fond o' her, Jamie? ' " ' Na,' said Jamie, ' 'am no. There 's no naebody I care for like yersel, mother.' " ' Ye wouldna carry aboot onything o' mine, Jamie,' my mother said ; but he says, ' Oh, mother, I carry about yer face \vi' mc aye; an' sometimes at nicht I kind o' greet to think o' ye.' " Ay, after that I 'vc nae doot he was sittin' wi' his airms aboot her. She didna tell me that, but weel he kens it 's what she likes, an' she maks nae pretence o' its no bein'. But for a' he said an' did, she noticed him put the glove back in his inside pouch. "'It's wrang o' me, Jamie,' she said, 'but I canna bear to think o' ye carryin' that aboot sae carefu'. No, I canna help it.' " Weel, Jamie, the crittur, took it oot o' his pouch, an' kind o' hesitated. Syne he lays 't on the back o' the fire, an' they sat thegither glowerin' at it. 226 A TALE OF A GLOVE. " ' Noo, mother,' he says, ' you 're satisfied, are yc no?' "Ay," Leeby ended her story, "she said slic was satisfied. But she saw 'at he hiid it on the fire fell fond-like." 227 CHAPTER XX. THE LAST NIGHT. " JuiST another sax nichts, Jamie," Jess would say, sadly. " Juist fovver nichts noo, an' you '11 be awa." Even as she spoke seemed to come the last night. The last night ! Reserve slipped unheeded to the floor. Hendry wandered ben and but the house, and Jamie sat at the window holding his mother's hand. You must walk softly now if you would cross that humble threshold. I stop at the door. Then, as now, I was a lonely man, and when the last night came the attic was the place for me. This family affection, how good and beautiful it is. Men and maids love, and after many years they may rise to this. It is the grand proof of the goodness in human nature, for it means that the more we see of each other the more we find that 228 THE LAST NIGHT. is lovable. If you would cease to dislike a man, try to get nearer his heart. Leeby had no longer any excuse for bustling about. l*>verything was ready — too soon. I Iendr\' had been to the fish-cadger in the s([uare to get a bervie for Jamie's supper, and Jamie had eaten it, trying to look as if it made him happier. His little box was packed and strapped, and stood terribl)- conspicuous against the tlresser. Jess had packed it herself. "Ye manna trachle yersel, mother," Jamie said, when she had the empty box pulled toward her. Leeby was wiser. " Let her do 't," she wliispered, " it '11 keep her frae broodin'." Jess tied ends of \-arn round the stockings to keep them in a little bundle by themselves. So she did with all the other articles. "No 'at it's ony great affairs," she said, for on the last night they were all thirsting to do something for Jamie that would be a great affair to him. " Ay, ye would wonder, mother," Jamie said, " when I open my box an' find a thing tied up wi' strings sac carefii", it a' comes back to me wi' a 229 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. rush wha did it, an' 'am as fond o' thae strings as though they were a grand present. There 's the pocky ye gae me to keep sewin' things in. I get the wifie I lodge \vi' to sew to me, but often when I come upon the pocky I sit an' look at it." Two chairs were backed to the fire, with under- clothing hanging upside down on them. From the string over the fireplace dangled two pairs of much-darned stockings. " Ye '11 put on baith thae pair o' stockins, Jamie," said Jess, " juist to please me? " When he arrived he had rebelled against the extra clothing. "Ay, will I, mother?" he said now. Jess put her hand fondly through his ugly hair. How handsome she thought him. " Ye have a fine brow, Jamie," she said. " I mind the day ye was born sayin' to mysel 'at ye had a fine brow." " But ye thocht he was to be a lassie, mother," said Leeby. " Na, Leeby, I didna. I kept sayin' I thocht he would be a lassie because I was fleid he would be ; but a' the time I had a presentiment he would be a laddie. It was wi' Joey deein' sae 230 THE LAST NIGHT. sudden, an' I took on sac terrible aboot 'im 'at I thocht a' alang the Lord would gie me another laddie." " /V)-, 1 wanted 'im to be a laddie m\-sel,"" said Hendr}', " so as he could tak Joe\''s jilace-" Jess's head jerked back in\oluntaril\-, and Jamie ma)- have felt her hand shake, for he said in a voice out of llendr\''s hearing — " I never took Joe\-'s place wi' \-e, mother." Jess pressed his hand tightly in her two worn palms, but she did not speak. " Jamie was richt like Joey when he was a bairn," Hendry said. Again Jess's head moved, but still she was silent. ' They were sae like," continued Mendry, " 'at often I called JaniiL' hv Joey's name." Jess looked at her husband, and her mouth opened and shut. "I canna mind 'at ye ever did that?" IIendr\' said. She shook her head. " Na," said Ilc•ndr^^ "you never mixed them up. I dinna think ye ever missed Joey sae sair as I did." 231 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. Leeby went ben, and stood in the room in the dark; Jamie knew why. " I "11 juist '^div^ ben an' speak to Leeby for a meenute," he said to his mother; " I "11 no be king." " Ay, do that, Jamie," said Jess. " What Leeby 's been to me nae tongue can tell. Ye canna bear to liear me speak, I ken, o' the time when Hendry an' me '11 be awa, but, Jamie, when that time comes ye '11 no forget Leeby?" " I winna, mother, I winna," said Jamie. " There '11 never be a roof ower me 'at 's no hers too." He went ben and shut the door. I do not know what he and Leeby said. Many a time since their earliest youth had these two been closeted together, often to make up their little quarrels in each other's arms. They remained a long time in the room, the shabby room of which Jess and Leeby were so proud, and whatever might be their fears about their mother they were not anxious for themselves. Leeby was feeling lusty and well, and she could not know that Jamie required to be reminded of his duty to the folk at home. Jamie would have laughed at the notion. Yet that woman in London must have been waiting for him even then. Leeby, 232 THE LASl' NIGHT. who was about to die, aiul Jamie, who was to for- get his mother, came back to the kitchen with a hap[)y Hght on their faces. I lia\e with me stih the look of lo\e thc\' gave each other before Jamie crossed over to Jess. " Ye gang anowcr, noo, mother," Leeby said, meaning that it was Jess's bed-time. " No }'et, Leeby," Jess answered, " 1 '11 sit up till the read in 's ower. " " I think )-e should gang, mother," Jamie said, " an' I 11 come an' sit aside ye after ye 're i' }'er bed." " Ay, Jamie, I 11 no hae }'e to sit aside me the morn's nicht, an' hap me wi' the claes." " But ye '11 gang suner to yer betl, mother." " I ma\' gang, but I winna sleep. I '11 a\-e be thinkin' o' yc tossin' on tlie sea. I pray for }e a lang time ilka nicht, Jamie." " Ay, I ken." " An' I pictur ye ilka hour o' the day. Ye never gang hame through thae terrible streets at nicht but I 'm thinkin' o' ye." " I would tr}' no to be sae sad, mother," said Leeby. " We 've haen a richt fine time, have we no?" 233 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. " It 's been an awfu' happy time," said Jess. "We've haen a pleasantness in oor lives 'at comes to few. I ken naebody 'at 's haen sae muckle happiness one \vy or another." A LONG LIDDED BED. "It's because ye 're sae guid, mother," said Jamie. " Na, Jamie, 'am no guid ava. It 's because my fowk 's been sae guid, you an' Hendry an' Leeby an' Joey when he was livin'. I 've got a lot mair than my deserts." 234 THE LAST NIGHT. "We'll juist look to mcetin' next year again, mother. To think o' that keeps me up a' the winter." "Ay, if it's the Lord's will, Jamie, but 'am gey dune noo, an' Hendr\-'s fell worn too." Jamie, the bo}- that he was, said, " Dinna speak like that, mother," and Jess again put her hand on his head. "Fine I ken, Jamie," she said, " 'at all m\' days on this earth, be the}' short or lang, I 'v'e }'ou for a staft' to lean on." Ah, many years have gone since then, but if Jamie be living now he has still those words to swallow. By and by Leeby went ben for the Bible, and put it into Hendry's hands. He slowl\' turned over the leaves to his fax'ourite chapter, the four- teenth of John's Gospel. Always, on eventful occasions, did Hendry turn to the fourteenth of John. " Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in Me. "In My Father's house are many mansions ; if it were not so I would iiave told )'()u. I go to prepare a jjlace f )r )'()u." 235 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. As Hendry raised his voice to read there was a great stiUncss in the kitchen. I do not know that I have been able to show in the most imper- fect way what kind of man Hendry was. He was dense in many things, and the cleverness that was Jess's had been denied to him. He had less book-learning than most of those with whom he passed his days, and he had little skill in talk. I have not known a man more easily taken in by persons whose speech had two faces, l^ut a more simple, modest, upright man there never was in Thrums, and I shall always revere his memory. " And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto Myself; that where I am, there yc may be also." The voice may have been monotonous. I have always thought that Hendry's reading of the Bible was the most solemn and impressive I have ever heard. He exulted in the fourteenth of John, pouring it forth like one whom it intoxicated while he read. He emphasized ever}' other word ; it was so real and grand to him. We went upon our knees while ffendry prayed, all but Jess, who could not. Jamie buried his face in her lap. The words Hendry said were 236 THE LAST NIGHT. those he used even- night. Some, perhaps, would have smiled at his i)rayer to God that we be not putied up witli riches nor with the things of this workl. I lis liead shook with emotion while he prayed, and he brought us very near to the throne of grace. " Do thou, O our God," he said, in conclusion, " spread Thy guiding hand over him whom in Thy great mercy Thou hast brought to us again, and do Thou guard him through the perils which come unto those that go down to the sea in ships. Let not our hearts be trcv.ibled, neither let them be afraitl, for this is not our abiding home, and may we all meet in Th) house, where there are man}' mansions, and where there will be no last night. Amen." It was a silent kitchen after that, though the lam|) biu-ned long in Jess's window. ]W its meagre light \'ou may take a final glance at the little fam- ily ; )'ou will never see them together again. 237 CHAPTER XXI. JESS LEFT ALONE, There may be a few who care to know how the Hves of Jess and Hendry ended. Leeby died in the back-end of the year I have been speaking of, and as I was snowed up in the school-house at the time, I heard the news from Gavin Birse too late to attend her funeral. She got her death on the commonty one day of sudden rain, when she had run out to bring in her washing, for the terrible cold she woke with next morninsr carried her ofif very quickly. Leeby did not blame Jamie for not coming to her, nor did I, for I knew that even in the presence of death the poor must drag their chains. He never got Hendry's letter with the news, and we know now that he was already in the hands of her who played the devil with his life. Before the spring came he had been lost to Jess. 238 JESS LEFT ALONE. " Thcin 'at has L;"(^t sae niony blcssins iiiair than the gcnorahty," Ilcndry said to mo one day, when Craigiebuckle had given me a Hft into Thrunis, " has nae shame if they would pray aye for mair. The Lord has gien this hoose sac tnuckle, 'at to pra\' for mair looks like no bein' THK ( OMMONTY. tliankhr for what we 've got. Ay, but T canna help iirax'in' to Him 'at in His great mercy He'll tak Jess afore me. Noo 'at Lceby 's gone, an' Jamie ne\'er lets us hear frae him, 1 canna gulp doon the thocht o' Jess bcin' left alane." This was a prayer that Hendry may be par- 239 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. doned for having so often in liis heart, though God did not think fit to grant it. In Thrums, when a weaver died, his womenfolk had to take his seat at the loom, and those who, by reason of infirmities, could not do so, went to a place, the name of which, 1 thank God, I am not compelled 7"*«fc;:?>^c "-•'"■ TIIF. POORHOUSE. to write in this chapter. I could not, even at this day, have told any episodes in the life of Jess had it ended in the poorhouse. Hendry would probabh^ have recovered fi-om the fever had not this terrible dread darkened his intellect when he was still prostrate. He was lying in the kitchen when I saw him last in life, 240 JKSS LEFT ALONE. and liis [)artin;^ words must be sadder to the reader than thc\' were to me. " A}% richt \e are," he said, in a \(»ice th.it had become a child's; "I hae muckle, nuicklc, to be thanktu' for, an' no the least is 'at baith me an" Jess has aye belonged to a bural st>ciety. We hae nac cause to be anxious aboot a thing bein' dune respectable aince we're gone. It was Jess 'at insisted on oor joinin' : a' the w isest things I ev^er did I was put u[) to b}' her." I parted h'om I lendry, cheered by the doctor's report, but the old weaver died a few days after- wards. His end was mournful, \et I can recall it now as the not unworthy close of a good man's life. One night poor worn Jess had been helped ben into the room, Tibbie Birsc ha\ing under- taken to sit up with ilrndr). Jess slept fir the first time for man\- da\s, and as the night was dvine Tibbie fell asleep too. Hendrx' had been better than usual, l\ing c]uietly, Tibbie said, antl the fe\'er was gone. iMjout three o'clock 1 ibbie woke and rose to mend the hre. Then she saw that Ilendr)- was not in his be'd. Tibbie went ben the house in her stocking-soles, but Jess heard her. i6 241 A WINDOW IN 'I'HRUMS. " What is 't, Tibbie? " she asked, anxiously. " Oil, it's no naething," Tibbie said, " he's lyin' rale quiet." Then she went up to the attic. Hendry was not in the house. She opened the door gently and stole out. It was not snowing, but there had been a hea\'\' fall two days before, and the night was windy. A tearing gale had blown the upper part of the brae clear, and from T'nowhead's fields the snow was risinsj like smoke. Tibbie ran to the farm and woke up T'nowhead. For an ht)ur the)' loe^kcd in vain for Hendry. At last some one asked who was working in Elshioner's shop all night. This was the long earthen-floored room in which Hendry's loom stood with three others. " It '11 be Sanders W'hamond likely,'' T'nowhead said, and the other men nodded. But it happened that T'nowhead's Bell, who had flung on a wrapper, and hastened across to sit with Jess, heard of the light in h^lshioner's shop. "It's Hendry," she cried, and then every one moved toward the workshop. 242 JESS LEFT ALONE. The light at the diminutive, yarn-covered win- dow was pale and dim, but Bell, who was at tiic house first, could make the most of a cruizey's glimmer. "It's him," she said, and then, with swelling throat, she ran back to Jess. The door of the workshop was wide open, held against the wall b}- the wind. T'nowhead and the others went in. The cruizey stood on the lit- tle window. Hendr)^'s back was to the door, and he was leaning forward on the silent loom. He had been dead for some time, but his fellow- workers saw that he must have weaved for nearly an hour. So it came about that for the last few months of her pilgrimage Jess was left alone. Yet I may not say that she was alone. Jamie, who should have been with her, was undergoing his own or- deal far away; where, we did not now even know, iiut though the poorhouse stands in Thrums, where all may see it, the neighboms ilid not think onl)- of themselves. Than Tarnmas Ilaggart there can scarceh" ha\e been a poorer man, but Tammas was the first to come forward with offer of help. To the thi)' of 243 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. Jess's death he did not once fail to carry her water to her in the morning, and the kixurionsly hving men of Thrums in these present days of pumps at every corner can hardly realize what that meant. AN OLD PUMP. Often there were lines of people at the well by three o'clock in the morning, and each had to wait his turn. Tammas filled his own pitcher and pan, and then had to take his place at the end of the 244 JESS LEFT ALONE. line with Jess's pitcher and pan, to wait liis turn again. His own house was in the Tenements, far from the brae in winter time, jjut he alwa}s saitl to Jess it was " naelhing ava." Iu-er\- Saturthu- old Robbie Anfjus sent a ba' met him. "He sae me sic a look," a woman said, "'at I was fleid an' r.ui iianie," but she tlid not tell the 253 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. story until Jamie's home-coming had become a legend. There were many women hanging out their washing on the commonty that day, and none of them saw him. I think Jamie must have ap- OLD MILL. proached his old home by the fields, and probably he held back until gloaming. The young woman who was now mistress of the house at the top of the brae bx>th saw and spoke with Jamie. 254 JAMIE'S HOMK-COiMlNG. " Twa or three times," she said, " I had seen a man walk quick up the brae an' b\' the door. It was gettin' dark, but 1 noticed 'at he was short an' THI'. fiA 1 I 1<) nKNDKV'S COT. thin, an' I would hae said he wasna nane wee! if it iiadiia bec-n 'at he gat'd by at sic a steek. He didna look our u\' -at least no wlu'U he was close 255 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. up, an' I set 'im doon for some gaen aboot body. Na, I saw naething aboot 'itn to be flcid at. " The aucht o'clock bell was riiigin' when I saw 'im to speak to. My twa-year-auld bairn was standi n' aboot the door, an' I was makkin some porridge for my man's supper when I heard the bairny skirlin'. She cam runiiin' in to the hoose an' hung i' my wrapper, an' she was hingin' there, when I gaed to the door to see what was wrang. " It was the man I 'd seen passin' the hoose. He was standin' at the gate, which, as a'body kens, is but sax steps frae the hoose, an' I won- dered at 'im neither runnin' awa nor comin' forrit. I speired at 'im what he meant by terrif}'in' a bairn, but he didna say naething. He juist stood. It was ower dark to see his face richt, an' I wasna nane taen aback yet, no till he spoke. Oh, but he had a fearsome word when he did speak. It was a kind o' like a man hoarse wi' a cauld, an' yet no that either. " ' Wha bides i' this hoose? ' he said, aye standin' there. " ' It 's Davit Patullo's hoose,' I said, ' an' 'am the wife.' 256 JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. " 'Whaur's Hendry McOumpha?' ho spcircd. " ' He 's dcid; I said. " He stood still for a fell while. " ' An' his wife, Jess? ' he said. " ' She 's deid, too,' I said. " I thocht he gae a groan, but it nia)' hae been the gate. " ' There was a dochter, Leeby?' he said. " ' Ay,' I said, ' she was taen first.' " I saw 'ini put up his hands to his faee, an' he cried oot, ' Leeby too ! ' an' syne he kind o' fell agin the dyke. I never kent 'im nor nane o' his fowk, but I had heard aboot them, an' I saw 'at it would be the son frae London. It wasna for me to judge 'im, an' I said to 'im would he no come in by an' tak a rest. I was nearer 'im by that time, an' it's an awfu' haver to say 'at he had a face to frichten fowk. It was a rale guid face, but no ava what a body would like to see on a young man. I felt niair like greetin' mysel when I saw his face than drawin' awa frae 'im. "But he wouldna come in. 'Rest,' he saiti, like ane si^eakin' to 'imsel, ' na, there 's nae mair rest for ine.' I didna weel ken what mair t(^ say to 'im, fur he aye stood on, an' I wasna even sure 'at he 17 257 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. saw me. He raised his heid when he heard me telHn' the bairn no to tear my wrapper. " ' Dinna set yer heart ower muckle on that bairn,' he cried oot, sharp hke. ' I was aince hke her, an' I used to hing aboot my mother, too, in that very roady. Ay, I thocht I was fond o' her, an' she thocht it too. Tak a care, woman, 'at that bairn doesna grow up to murder ye.' " He gae a kuich when he saw me tak hand o' the bairn, an' syne a' at aince he gaed awa quick. But he wasna far doon the brae when he turned an' came back. " ' Ye '11, mebbe, tell me,' he said, richt low, ' if ye hae the furniture 'at used to be my mother's?' " ' Na,' I said, ' it was roupit, an' I kenna whaur the things gaed, for me an' my man comes frae Tilliedrum.' " ' Ye wouldna hae heard,' he said, ' wha got the muckle airm-chair 'at used to sit i' the kitchen i' the window 'at looks ower the brae?' " ' I couldna be sure,' I said, ' but there was an airm-chair 'at gaed to Tibbie Birse. If it was the ane ye mean, it a' gaed to bits, an' I think they burned it. It was gey dune.' 258 JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. " ' A}',' he said, ' it was gey dune.* " ■ There was the chairs ben i' the room,' he said, after a while. " I said I thocht Sanders Elshioner had got them at a bargain because twa o' them was mended wi' glue, an' gey silly. " ' Ay, that 's them,' he said, ' they were richt neat mended. It was my mother 'at glued them. I mind o' her makkin the glue, an' warnin' me an' ni)' father no to sit on them. There was the clock too, an' the stool 'at my mother got oot an' into her bed wi', an' the basket 'at Leeby carried when she gaed the errands. The straw was aff the handle, an' my father mended it wi' strings.' "'I dinna ken,' I said, 'whaur nane o' thae gaed ; but did yer mother hae a staff? ' " ' A little staff,' he said ; ' it was near black wi' age. She couldna gang frae the bed to her chair withoot it. It was broadened oot at the foot wi' her leanin' on 't sae muckle.' " ' I 've heard tell,' I said, ' 'at the dominie up i' Glen Quharity took awa the staff.' "lie didna sjieir for nae other thing. He had the gate in his hand, but I diima think he kent 'at 259 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. he was swingin 't back an' forrit. At last he let it go. " ' That 's a',' he said, ' I maun awa. Good-nicht, an' thank ye kindh'.' " I watched 'im till he gaed oot o' sicht. He gaed down the brae." We learnt afterwards from the grax-edigger that some one spent a great part of that night in the graveyard, and we believe it to have been Jamie. He walked up the glen to the school-house next forenoon, and I went out to meet him when I saw him coming down the path. " Ay," he said, " it's me come back." I wanted to take him into the house and speak with him of his mother, but he would not cross the threshold. "I cam oot," he said, "to see if ye would gie me her staff — no 'at I deserve 't." I brought out the staff and handed it to him. thinking that he and I would soon meet again. As he took it I saw that his e}^es were sunk back into his head. Two great tears hung on his eye- lids, and his mouth closed in agony. He stared at me till the tears fell upon his cheeks, and then he went away. 260 JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. That evening he was seen b\' many persons crossing the square. He went up the brae to his old home, and asked leave to go through the house for the last time. First he climbed up into the attic, and stood looking in, his feet still on the stair. Then he came down and stood at the door of the room, but he went into the kitchen. " I '11 ask one last favour o' ye," he said to the woman; "I would like ye to leave me here alane for juist a little while." " I gaed oot," the woman said, " meanin' to leave 'im to 'imsel', but my bairnie wouldna come, an' he said, ' Never mind her,' so I left her wi' 'im, an' closed the door. He was in a lang time, but I never kent what he did, for the bairn juist aye greets when I speir at her. " I watched 'im frae the corner window^ g^i"'tJ doon the brae till he cam to the corner. I thocht he turned round there an' stood lookin' at the hoose. He would see me better than I saw him, for my lam[) was i' the window, whaur I 've heard tell his mother keepit her cruizey. When my man came in I speired at 'im if he 'd seen ony- body standin' at the corner o' the brae, an' he 261 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. said he thocht he 'd seen somebody wi' a Httle staff in his hand. Davit gaed doon to see if he was aye there after supper-time, but he was gone." Jamie was never again seen in Thrums. 262 GLOSSARY. GLOSSARY. Page 1. Brae. A steep roadway, path, or hillside. 1. Hendry. Equivalent to Henry. 1. Dyke. Stone wall. 2. Leeby. Short for Elizabeth. 3. Dambrod. Checkerboard. 7. Ben in the room. In the parlour or best room. 9. Roup. Auction, or sale. 10. Palaulays. Hopscotch. 11. Peerie. Top. 11. Hunkering. Squattins;. 11, I-dree-I-dree — I droppit it. Drop the handkerchief. 17. Chief. Great friends. 21. Kimmer. A voung woman. 24. U. P.'s. United Presbyterians. 26. Brandering. Toasting. 20. Michty. Strange. 20. Steer. Noise. 28. Besom. A brush about thirty inches long made of twigs. 28. Dicht. Wipe with a wet cloth. 25. Mutch. Cap. 2!J. Spleet. Perfectly. 30. Tid. Toad. 33. Dive. IJother. 33. Dickey. A starched collar and bosom combined. 265 GLOSSARY. Page 35. Chap. Knock. 47. Fettle. Good humour. 47. Yoked. Ready to start. 49. Snuff-mull. Snuff-box. 61. Fell. (A superlative.) Large, or considerably. 66. Thieval. Stick to stir porridge with. 69. Red up. Clean up. 70. Syne. Then, since, ago. 70. Pirn. Spool. 71. Dawty. Dear. 72. Field. Frightened. 72. Fleg. Fright. 74. Deve 's. Weary us. 75. Precentor. Leader of singing. 80. Wise-like. Presentable. 80. Cried. Called. 80. DraTv my leg. Deceive me. 8.3. Hale watter. Very wet. 84. Winsey. A coarse woollen cloth. 88. Blether. Talk nonsense. 89. Bannocks. Large oaten cakes toasted over the fire. 91. Fell dune. Completely worn out. 91. Gaen aboot body. Vagrant. 96. Brose. Oatmeal stirred up thick in boiling water. 96. Haver. Piece of nonsense. lOL Stocky. Body. 101. Weel faured. Good-looking. 102. Kyow-owy. Particular. 106. Sepad. Uphold. 116. Uptake. Understanding of. 121. Steadin'. Outbuildings. 121. Skirled. Out of their wits. 123. Dour. Ill-humoured. 124. Egyptians. Gypsies. 266 GLOSSARY. Page 124. Tinkler. Gypsy. 124. Flichtered. Scared. 128. Lousing. Stopping. 134. Pit potatoes. To bury them in the ground for winter. 141. Doited. Silly. 148. Feikieness. Fussiness. 148. Perjink. Trim. 152. Tove. Talk. 154. Silvendy. Safe. 155. Mask. Ouantity. 157. Hod. Hide. 164. Marrows. Mates. 164. Delvin'. Digging. 165. Clink. Flash. 166. Blatter. Beat. 172. Keekin'. Peering. 178. Rozetty roots. Roots with pitch in tliem for use as kindlings. ISI. Machine. Vehicle. 182. Tatties. Potatoes. 182. Settle. Comfort. 202. Priggiu'. Begging. 203. Grat. Cried. 203. Pirly. Money-box. 204. Curran. Many. 205. Baw^bees. Half-pennies. 213. Wag-at-the-wa' clock. One with pendulum and weiL^hts exposed. 217. Fell thrawn. Very surly. 218. Dottle. Silly. 218. Syllup. Syllable. 223. Comp. Company. 225. Keeks, (dances. 267 GLOSSARY. Page 226. Gey. Very. 229. Trackle. Trouble. 2:30. Pocky. Little bag. 233. Hap. Cover. 246. Sacket. Rascal. 250. Sugarelly water. A drink the children make by dissolving licorice in a bottle of water. 252. Silly but. Uncertain. 252. Joukit. Jerked. 259. Gey silly. Very shaky. 268 GLOSSARY. Page 89. Baunocks. Large oaten cakes toasted over the fire. 205. Bawbees Half-pennies. 7. Ben in the room. In the parlour, or best room. 28. Besom. A brush about thirty inches long, made of twigs. 166. Blatter. Beat. 88. Blether. Talk nonsense. 1. Brae. A steep roadway, path, or hillside. 26. Brandering. Toasting. 96. Brose. Oatmeal stirred up thick in boiling water. 35. Chap. Knock. 17. Chief. Great friends. 165. Clink. Flash. 223. Comp. Company. 80. Cried Called. 201. Curran. Many. 3. Dambrod Checkerboard. 71. Da-wty. Dear. 101. Delvin'. Digging. 74. Deve "s. Weary us. 28. Dicht Wipe with a wet cloth. 33. Dickey. .A starched collar and bosom combined. 269 GLOSSARY, Page 30. Dive. Bother. 141. Doited. Silly. 218. Dottle. Silly. 123. Dour. Ill-humoured. 80. Draw my leg. Deceive me. 1. Dyke. Stone wall. 124. Egyptians. Gypsies. 148. Feikieness. Fussiness. 61. Fell. (A superlative.) Large, or considerably. 91. Fell dune. Completely worn out. 217. Fell thrawn. Very early. 47. Fettle. Good humour. 72. Fleid. Frightened. 72. Fleg. Fright. 124. Flichtered. Scared. 01. Gaen aboot body. Vagrant. 220. Gey. Wry. 259. Gey silly. Very shaky. 203. Grat. Cried. 83. Hale -watter. Very wet. 233. Hap. Cover. 96. Haver. Piece of nonsense. 1. Hendry. Equivalent to Henry. 157. Hod. Hide. 11. Hunkering. Squatting. 11. I dree. I-dree, I droppit it. Drop the handkerchief. A children's game. 252. Joukit. Jerked. 270 GLOSSARY. Page 172. Keekin . Peering. 225. Keeks. Glances. 21. Kimmer, A young woman. 102. Kyow-owy. Particuhir. 2. Leeby. Short for Elizabeth. 128. Lousing. Stopping. 181. Machine. Veliicle. 164. Marrows. Mates. 155. Mask. Ouantity. 26. Michty Strange, mighty, great. 2y. Mutch. Woman's cap. 1(1. Palaulays. Hopscotch. 11. Peerie. Top. lis. Perjink. Trim. 203. Pirly. Money-box. 70. Pirn. Spool. 134. Pit potatoes. To bury them in the ground for w inter. 230. Pocky. Little bag. 75. Precentor. Leader of singing. 202. Priggin". Begging. 09. Red up. Clean up. 9. Roup. Auction or sale. 178, Rozetty roots- Roots with pitch in them, for use as kindlings. 210. Sacket. Rascal. 100. Sepad. Uphold. 182. Settle. Conilort. 252. Silly but. Uncertain. 271 GLOSSARY. Page 15i. Silveiidy. Gape. 121. Skilled. Out of their wits. 49. Snuff-mull. Snuff-box. 29. Spleet. Perfectly. 26. Steer. Noise. 121. Stradin'. Outbuildings. 101. Stocky. Body. 250. Sugarelly water. A drink the children make by dissolving licorice in a bottle. 70. Syne. Then, since, go. 218. Syllup. Syllable. 182. Tatties. Potatoes. 66. Thieval. Stick to stir porridge with. 30. Tid. Toad. 124. Tinkler. Gypsy. 152. Tove. Talk. 229. Trachle. Trouble. 21. U. P.'s. United Presbyterians. 116. Uptake. Understanding of. 213. Wag-at-the-wa' clock. One with pendulum and weights exposed. 101. Weel faured. Good-looking. 84. Winsey. A coarse woollen cloth. 80. Wise-like. Presentable. 47. Yoked. Ready to start. ',']2 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-Series 4939 ,y,{j south™ regional library facility ^ AA 000 380 371 PR v/72 1896