Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  Carts pass up and down the brae every few minutes, and there comes an occasional gig. Seldom is the brae empty, for many live beyond the top of it now, and men and women go by to their work, children to school or play. Not one of the children I see from the window to-day is known to me, and most of the men and women I only recognize by their likeness to their parents. That sweet-faced old woman with the shawl on 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 Queery past the poorhouse. I cannot say; but this I know, that the grandparents of most of these boys and girls were once young with me. If I see the sons and daughters of my friends grown old, I also see the grandchildren spinning the peerie and hunkering at I-dree-I-dree — I-droppit-it — as we did so long ago. The world remains as young as ever. The lovers that met on the commonty in the gloaming are gone, but there are other lovers to take their place, and still the commonty is here. The sun had sunk on a fine day in June, early in the century, when Hendry and Jess, newly married, he in a rich moleskin waistcoat, she in a white net cap, walked to the house on the brae that was to be their home. So Jess has told me. Here again has been just such a day, and somewhere in Thrums there may be just such a couple, setting out for their home behind a horse with white ears instead of walking, but with the same hopes and fears, and the same love light in their eyes. The world does not age. The hearse passes over the brae and up the straight burying-ground road, but still there is a cry for the christening robe.

  Jess’s window was a beacon by night to travellers in the dark, and it will be so in the future when there are none to remember Jess. There are many such windows still, with loving faces behind them. From them we watch for the friends and relatives who are coming back, and some, alas! watch in vain. Not every one 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 when she was not in bed, things happy and mournful and terrible came into view. At this window she sat for twenty years or more looking at the world as through a telescope; and here an awful ordeal was gone through after her sweet untarnished soul had been given back to God.

  CHAPTER II

  ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER

  On the afternoon of the Saturday that carted me and my two boxes to Thrums, I was ben in the room playing Hendry at the dambrod. I had one of the room chairs, but Leeby brought a chair from the kitchen for her father. Our door stood open, and as Hendry often pondered for two minutes with his hand on a “man,” I could have joined in the gossip that was going on but the house.

  “Ay, weel, then, Leeby,” said Jess, suddenly, “I’ll warrant the minister ‘ll no be preachin’ the morn.”

  This took Leeby to the window.

  “Yea, yea,” she said (and I knew she was nodding her head sagaciously); I looked out at the room window, but all I could see was a man wheeling an empty barrow down the brae.

  “That’s Robbie Tosh,” continued Leeby; “an’ there’s nae doot ‘at he’s makkin for the minister’s, for he has on his black coat. He’ll be to row the minister’s luggage to the post-cart. Ay, an’ that’s Davit Lunnan’s barrow. I ken it by the shaft’s bein’ spliced wi’ yarn. Davit broke the shaft at the sawmill.”

  “He’ll be gaen awa for a curran (number of) days,” said Jess, “or he would juist hae taen his bag. Ay, he’ll be awa to Edinbory, to see the lass.”

  “I wonder wha’ll be to preach the morn — tod, it’ll likely be Mr. Skinner, frae Dundee; him an’ the minister’s chief, ye ken.”

  “Ye micht’ gang up to the attic, Leeby, an’ see if the spare bedroom vent (chimney) at the manse is gaen. We’re sure, if it’s Mr. Skinner, he’ll come wi’ the post frae Tilliedrum the nicht, an’ sleep at the manse.”

  “Weel, I assure ye,” said Leeby, descending from the attic, “it’ll no be Mr. Skinner, for no only is the spare bedroom vent no gaen, but the blind’s drawn doon frae tap to fut, so they’re no even airin’ the room. Na, it canna be him; an’ what’s mair, it’ll be naebody ‘at’s to bide a’ nicht at the manse.”

  “I wouldna say that; na, na. It may only be a student; an’ Marget Dundas” (the minister’s mother and housekeeper) “michtna think it necessary to put on a fire for him.”

  “Tod, I’ll tell ye wha it’ll be. I wonder I didna think o’ ‘im sooner. It’ll be the lad Wilkie; him ‘at’s mither mairit on Sam’l Duthie’s wife’s brither. They bide in Cupar, an’ I mind ‘at when the son was here twa or three year syne he was juist gaen to begin the diveenity classes in Glesca.”

  “If that’s so, Leeby, he would be sure to bide wi’ Sam’l. Hendry, hae ye heard ‘at Sam’l Duthie’s expeckin’ a stranger the nicht?”

  “Haud yer tongue,” replied Hendry, who was having the worst of the game.

  “Ay, but I ken he is,” said Leeby triumphantly to her mother, “for ye mind when I was in at Johnny Watt’s (the draper’s) Chirsty (Sam’l’s wife) was buyin’ twa yards o’ chintz, an’ I couldna think what she would be wantin’ ‘t for!”

  “I thocht Johnny said to ye ‘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 ‘ll 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’ll hae covered it for ‘im to sit on.”

  “I wouldna wonder but ye’re richt, Leeby; for Chirsty would be in an oncommon fluster if she thocht the lad’s mither was likely to hear ‘at her best chair was torn. Ay, ay, bein’ a man, he wouldna think to tak off the chintz an’ hae a look at the chair withoot it.”

  Here Hendry, who had paid no attention to the conversation, broke in —

  “Was ye speirin’ had I seen Sam’l Duthie? I saw ‘im yesterday buyin’ a fender at Will’um Crook’s roup.”

  “A fender! Ay, ay, that settles the queistion,” said Leeby; “I’ll warrant the fender was for Chirsty’s parlour. It’s preyed on Chirsty’s mind, they say, this fower-and-thirty year ‘at she doesna hae 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’ll be his mither’s bonnet he’s takkin’ back to get altered. Ye’ll mind she was never pleased wi’ the set o’ the flowers.”

  “Weel, weel, here comes the minister himsel, an’ very snod he is. Ay, Marget’s been puttin’ new braid on his coat, an’ he’s carryin’ the sma’ black bag he bocht in Dundee last year: he’ll hae’s nicht-shirt an’ a comb in’t, I dinna doot. Ye micht rin to the corner, Leeby, an’ see if he cries in at Jess McTaggart’s in passin’.”

  “It’s my opeenion,” said Leeby, returning excitedly from the corner, “‘at the lad Wilkie’s no to be preachin’ the morn, after a’. When I gangs to the corner, at ony rate, what think ye’s the first thing I see but the minister an’ Sam’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!”

  “Losh keep’s a’, Leeby; ye say that? They maun hae haen a quarrel.”

  “I’m thinkin’ we’ll hae Mr. Skinner i’ the poopit the morn after a’.”

  “It may be, it may be. Ay, ay, look, Leeby, whatna bit kimmer’s that wi’ the twa jugs in her hand?”

  “Eh? Ou, it’ll be Lawyer Ogilvy’s servant lassieky gaen to the farm o’ T’nowhead for the milk. She gangs ilka Saturday nicht. But what did ye say — twa jugs? Tod, let’s see! Ay, she has so, a big jug an’ a little ane. The little ane
‘ll 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 fowerpence 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, Leeby; na, na. He’s no weel to do, an’ they wouldna be buyin’ cream for ‘im.”

  “I’ll run up to the attic again, an’ see if there’s ony stir at the lawyer’s hoose.”

  By and by Leeby returned in triumph.

  “Ou, ay,” she said, “they’re expectin’ 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.”

  “It fair beats me though, Leeby, to guess wha’s comin’ to them. Ay, but stop a meenute, I wouldna wonder, no, really I would not wonder but what it’ll be—”

  “The very thing ‘at was passin’ through my head, mother.”

  “Ye mean ‘at the lad Wilkie ‘ll be to bide wi’ the lawyer i’stead o’ wi’ Sam’l Duthie? Sal, am thinkin’ that’s it. Ye ken Sam’l an’ the lawyer married on cousins; but Mistress Ogilvy ay lookit on Chirsty as dirt aneath her feet. She would be glad to get a minister, though, to the hoose, an’ so I warrant the lad Wilkie ‘ll 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’ll 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. “Whaever’s to preach the morn is to bide at the manse, for the minister’s servant’s been at Baker Duft’s buyin’ shortbread — half a lippy, nae doot.”

  “Are ye sure o’ that, Leeby?”

  “Oh, am certain. The servant gaed in to Duffs the noo, an’, as ye ken fine, the manse fowk doesna deal wi’ him, except they’re wantin’ shortbread. He’s Auld Kirk.”

  Leeby returned to the kitchen, and Jess sat for a time ruminating.

  “The lad Wilkie,” she said at last, triumphantly, “‘ll be to bide at Lawyer Ogilvy’s; but he’ll be gaen to the manse the morn for a tea-dinner.”

  “But what,” asked Leeby, “aboot the milk an’ the cream for the lawyer’s?”

  “Ou, they’ll be hae’n a puddin’ for the supper the nicht. That’s a michty genteel thing, I’ve heard.”

  It turned out that Jess was right in every particular.

  CHAPTER III

  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 preserv’s!” cried Leeby.

  Jess looked quickly at the clock.

  “Half fower!” she said, excitedly.

  “Then it canna be dune,” said Leeby, falling despairingly into a chair, “for they may be here ony meenute.”

  “It’s most michty,” said Jess, turning on her husband, “‘at ye should tak a pleasure in bringin’ this hoose to disgrace. Hoo did ye no tell’s suner?”

  “I fair forgot,” Hendry answered, “but what’s a’ yer steer?”

  Jess looked at me (she often did this) in a way that meant, “What a man is this I’m tied to!”

  “Steer!” she exclaimed. “Is’t no time we was makkin’ a steer? They’ll be in for their tea ony meenute, an’ the room no sae muckle as sweepit. Ay, an’ me lookin’ like a sweep; an’ Tibbie Mealmaker ‘at’s sae partikler genteel seein’ you sic a sicht as ye are?”

  Jess shook Hendry out of his chair, while Leeby began to sweep with the one hand, and agitatedly to unbutton her wrapper with the other.

  “She didna see me,” said Hendry, sitting down forlornly on the table.

  “Get aff that table!” cried Jess. “See haud o’ the besom,” she said to Leeby.

  “For mercy’s sake, mother,” said Leeby, “gie yer face a dicht, an’ put on a clean mutch.”

  “I’ll open the door if they come afore you’re ready,” said Hendry, as Leeby pushed him against the dresser.

  “Ye daur to speak aboot openin’the door, an’ you sic a mess!” cried Jess, with pins in her mouth.

  “Havers!” retorted Hendry. “A man canna be aye washin’ at ‘imsel.”

  Seeing that Hendry was as much in the way as myself, I invited him upstairs to the attic, whence we heard Jess and Leeby upbraiding each other shrilly. I was aware that the room was speckless; but for all that, Leeby was turning it upside down.

  “She’s aye ta’en like that,” Hendry said to me, referring to his wife, “when she’s expectin’ company. Ay, it’s a peety she canna tak things cannier.”

  “Tibbie Mealmaker must be some one of importance?” I asked.

  “Ou, she’s naething by the ord’nar’; but ye see she was mairit to a Tilliedrum man no lang syne, an’ they’re said to hae a michty grand establishment. Ay, they’ve a wardrobe spleet new; an’ what think ye Tibbie wears ilka day?”

  I shook my head.

  “It was Chirsty Miller ‘at put it through the toon,” Henry continued. “Chirsty was in Tilliedrum last Teisday or Wednesday, an’ Tibbie gae her a cup o’ tea. Ay, weel, Tibbie telt Chirsty ‘at she wears hose ilka day.”

  “Wears hose?”

  “Ay. It’s some michty grand kind o’ stockin’. I never heard o’t in this toon. Na, there’s 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 Tilliedrum bill-sticker.”

  At this moment Jess shouted from her chair (she was burnishing the society teapot as she spoke), “Mind, Hendry McQumpha, ‘at upon nae condition are you to mention the bill-stickin’ afore Tibbie!”

  “Tibbie,” Hendry explained to me, “is a terrible vain tid, an’ doesna think the bill-stickin’ genteel. Ay, they say ‘at if she meets Davit in the street wi’ his paste-pot an’ the brush in his hands she pretends no to ken ‘im.”

  Every time Jess paused to think she cried up orders, such as —

  “Dinna call her Tibbie, mind ye. Always address her as Mistress Curly.”

  “Shak’ hands wi’ baith o’ them, an’ say ye hope they’re in the enjoyment o’ guid health.”

  “Dinna put yer feet on the table.”

  “Mind, you’re no’ to mention ‘at ye kent they were in the toon.”

  “When onybody passes ye yer tea say, ‘Thank ye.’”

  “Dinna stir yer tea as if ye was churnin’ butter, nor let on ‘at the scones is no our am bakin’.”

  “If Tibbie says onything aboot the china yer no’ to say ‘at we dinna use it ilka day.”

  “Dinna lean back in the big chair, for it’s broken, an’ Leeby’s gi’en it a lick o’ glue this meenute.”

  “When Leeby gies ye a kick aneath the table that’ll be a sign to ye to say grace.”

  Hendry looked at me apologetically while these instructions came up.

  “I winna dive my head wi’ sic nonsense,” he said; “it’s no’ for a man body to be sae crammed fu’ o’ manners.”

  “Come awa doon,” Jess shouted to him, “an’ put on a clean dickey.”

  “I’ll better do’t to please her,” said Hendry, “tho
ugh for my ain part I dinna like the feel o’ a dickey on weekdays. Na, they mak’s think it’s the Sabbath.”

  Ten minutes afterwards I went downstairs to see how the preparations were progressing. Fresh muslin curtains had been put up in the room. The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, was so placed that Tibbie could not help seeing it; and a fine cambric handkerchief, of which Jess was very proud, was hanging out of a drawer as if by accident. An antimacassar lying carelessly on the seat of a chair concealed a rent in the horsehair, 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 tray in the kitchen bed, whence they could be quickly brought into the room, just as if they were always ready to be used daily. Leeby, as yet 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; “they’re comin’.”

  Hendry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, and then came a tap at the door, a very genteel tap. Jess nodded to Leeby, who softly shoved Hendry into the room.

  The tap was repeated, but Leeby pushed her father into a chair and thrust Barrow’s Sermons open into his hand. Then she stole but the house, and swiftly buttoned her wrapper, speaking to Jess by nods the while. There was a third knock, whereupon Jess said, in a loud, Englishy voice —

  “Was that not a chap (knock) at the door?”

  Hendry was about to reply, but she shook her fist at him. Next moment Leeby opened the door. I was upstairs, but I heard Jess say —