Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “Dear me, if it’s not Mrs. Curly — and Mr. Curly! And hoo are ye? Come in, by. Weel, this is, indeed, a pleasant surprise!”

  CHAPTER IV

  WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR

  Jess had gone early to rest, and the door of her bed in the kitchen was pulled to. From her window I saw Hendry buying dulse.

  Now and again the dulseman wheeled his slimy boxes to the top of the brae, and sat there stolidly on the shafts of his barrow. Many passed him by, but occasionally some one came to rest by his side. Unless the customer was loquacious, there was no bandying of words, and Hendry merely unbuttoned his east-trouser pocket, giving his body the angle at which the pocket could be most easily filled by the dulseman. He then deposited his halfpenny, and moved on. Neither had spoken; yet in the country they would have roared their predictions about tomorrow to a ploughman half a field away.

  Dulse is roasted by twisting it round the tongs fired to a red-heat, and the house was soon heavy with the smell of burning seaweed. Leeby was at the dresser munching it from a broth-plate, while Hendry, on his knees at the fireplace, gingerly tore off the blades of dulse that were sticking to the tongs, and licked his singed fingers.

  “Whaur’s yer mother?” he asked Leeby.

  “Ou,” said Leeby, “whaur would she be but in her bed?”

  Hendry took the tongs to the door, and would have cleaned them himself, had not Leeby (who often talked his interfering ways over with her mother) torn them from his hands.

  “Leeby!” cried Jess at that moment.

  “Ay,” answered Leeby, leisurely, not noticing, as I happened to do, that Jess spoke in an agitated voice.

  “What is’t?” asked Hendry, who liked to be told things.

  He opened the door of the bed.

  “Yer 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 trembling as she buttoned her wrapper.

  She looked at me, and Leeby looked at me.

  “It’s no, it’s no,” cried Leeby, and her voice was as a fist shaken at my face. She blamed me for hesitating in my reply. But ever since this malady left me a lonely dominie for life, diphtheria has been a knockdown word for me. Jess had discovered a great white spot on her throat. I knew the symptoms.

  “Is’t dangerous?” asked Hendry, who once had a headache years before, and could still refer to it as a reminiscence.

  “Them ‘at has ‘t never recovers,” said Jess, sitting down very quietly. A stick fell from the fire, and she bent forward to replace it.

  “They do recover,” cried Leeby, again turning angry eyes 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 ye would be better in yer bed,” suggested Hendry.

  No one spoke.

  “When I had the headache,” said Hendry, “I was better in my bed.”

  Leeby had taken Jess’s hand — a worn old hand that had many a time gone out in love and kindness when younger hands were cold. Poets have sung and fighting men have done great deeds for hands that never had such a record.

  “If ye could eat something,” said Hendry, “I would gae to the flesher’s for ‘t. I mind when I had the headache, hoo a small steak—”

  “Gae awa for the doctor, rayther,” broke in Leeby.

  Jess started, for sufferers think there is less 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, “ga’en 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 beating a charred stick into sparks, and his wife sat with her hands in her lap. I saw Hendry look at her once or twice, but he could think of nothing to say. His terms of endearment had died out thirty-nine years before with his courtship. He had forgotten the words. For his life he could not have crossed over to Jess and put his arm round her. Yet he was uneasy. His eyes wandered round the poorly lit room.

  “Will ye hae a drink o’ 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 away, but I fancied that Jess, now highly strung, had gone into hiding, and I went after her. I was mistaken. She had lit the room lamp, turning the crack in the globe to the wall. The sheepskin hearthrug, which was generally carefully packed away beneath the bed, had been spread out before the empty fireplace, and Jess was on the armchair hurriedly putting on her grand black mutch with the pink flowers.

  “I was juist makkin’ mysel respectable,” she said, but without life in her voice.

  This was the only time I ever saw her in the room.

  Leeby returned panting to say that the doctor might be expected in an hour. He was away among the hills.

  The hour passed reluctantly. Leeby lit a fire ben the house, and then put on her Sabbath dress. She sat with her mother in the room. Never before had I seen Jess sit so quietly, for her way was to work until, as she said herself, she was ready “to fall into her bed.”

  Hendry wandered between the two rooms, always in the way when Leeby ran to the window to see if that was the doctor at last. He would stand gaping in the middle of the room for five minutes, then slowly withdraw to stand as drearily but the house. His face lengthened. At last he sat down by the kitchen fire, a Bible in his hand. It lay open on his knee, but he did not read much. He sat there with his legs outstretched, looking straight before him. I believe he saw Jess young again. His face was very solemn, and his mouth twitched. The fire sank into ashes unheeded.

  I sat alone at my attic window for hours, waiting for the doctor. From the attic I could see nearly all Thrums, but, until very late, the night was dark, and the brae, except immediately before the door, was blurred and dim. A sheet of light canopied the square as long as a cheap Jack paraded his goods there. It was gone before the moon came out. Figures tramped, tramped up the brae, passed the house in shadow and stole silently on. A man or boy whistling seemed to fill the valley. The moon arrived too late to be of service to any wayfarer. Everybody in Thrums was asleep but ourselves, and the doctor who never came.

  About midnight Hendry climbed the attic stair and joined me at the window. His hand was shaking as he pulled back the blind. I began to realize that his heart could still overflow.

  “She’s waur,” he whispered, like one who had lost his voice.

  For a long time he sat silently, his hand on the blind. He was so different from the Hendry I had known, that I felt myself in the presence of a strange man. His eyes were glazed with staring at the turn of the brae where the doctor must first come into sight. His breathing became heavier, till it was a gasp. Then I put my hand on his shoulder, and he stared at me.

  “Nine-and-thirty years come June,” he said, speaking to himself.

  For this length of time, I knew, he and Jess had been married. He repeated the words at intervals.

  “I mind—” he began, and stopped. He was thinking of the springtime of Jess’s life.

  The night ended as we watched; then came the terrible moment t
hat precedes the day — the moment known to shuddering watchers by sick-beds, when a chill wind cuts through the house, and the world without seems cold in death. It is as if the heart of the earth did not mean to continue beating.

  “This is a fearsome nicht,” Hendry said, hoarsely.

  He turned to grope his way to the stairs, but suddenly went down on his knees to pray.…

  There was a quick step outside. I arose in time to see the doctor on the brae. He tried the latch, but Leeby was there to show him in. The door of the room closed on him.

  From the top of the stair I could see into the dark passage, and make out Hendry shaking at 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.”

  But Hendry did not need to be told. As Jess spoke I heard him say, huskily: “Thank God!” and then he tottered back to the kitchen. When the doctor left, Hendry was still on Jess’s armchair, trembling like a man with the palsy. Ten 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 fourteenth of John.”

  CHAPTER V

  A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING

  After the eight o’clock bell had rung, Hendry occasionally crossed over to the farm of T’nowhead and sat on the pig-sty. If no one joined him he scratched the pig, and returned home gradually. Here what was almost a club held informal meetings, 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 wellknown sarcastic way. Sometimes we had got off the pig-sty to separate before Tammas was properly yoked. There we might remain a long time, planted round him like trees, for he was a mesmerising talker.

  There was a pail belonging to the pig-sty, which some one would turn bottom upwards and sit upon if the attendance was unusually numerous. Tammas liked, however, to put a foot on it now and again in the full swing of a harangue, and when he paused for a sarcasm I have seen the pail kicked toward him. He had the wave of the arm that is so convincing in argument, and such a natural way of asking questions, that an audience not used to public speaking might have thought he wanted them to reply. It is an undoubted fact, that when he went on the platform, at the time of the election, to heckle the Colonel, he paused in the middle of his questions to take a drink out of the tumbler of water which stood on the table. As soon as they saw what he was up to, the spectators raised a ringing cheer.

  On concluding his perorations, Tammas sent his snuff-mull round, but we had our own way of passing him a vote of thanks. One of the company 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’nowhead, “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 Hendry, “doesna speak in a wy ‘at a body can follow ‘im. He doesna gae even on. Jess says he’s juist like a man ay at the cross-roads, an’ no sure o’ his wy. But the stock has words, an’ no ilka body has that.”

  “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 Hendry; “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 think ‘at spouts oot o’ its ain accord. Some of the maist humorous things I’ve ever said cam oot, as a body may say, by themsels.”

  “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, aboot that time, i’ the Tenements, and he didna ken ‘at Chirsty was deid, an’ I’d married again. ‘Well, Haggart,’ he says, in his frank wy, ‘and how is your wife?’ ‘She’s vara weel, sir,’ I maks answer, ‘but she’s no the ane you mean.’”

  “Na, he meant Chirsty,” said Hendry.

  “Is that a’ the story?” asked T’nowhead.

  Tammas had been looking at us queerly.

  “There’s no nane o’ ye lauchin’,” he said, “but I can assure ye the Earl’s son gaed east the toon lauchin’ like onything.”

  “But what was’t he lauched at?”

  “Ou,” said Tammas, “a humorist doesna tell whaur the humour comes in.”

  “No, but when you said that, did you mean it to be humorous?”

  “Am no sayin’ I did, but as I’ve been tellin’ ye, humour spouts oot by itsel.”

  “Ay, but do ye ken noo what the Earl’s son gaed awa lauchin’ at?”

  Tammas hesitated.

  “I dinna exactly see’t,” he confessed, “but that’s no an oncommon thing. A humorist would often no ken ‘at he was ane if it wasna by the wy he makes other fowk lauch. A body canna be expeckit baith to mak the joke an’ to see’t. Na, that would be doin’ twa fowks’ wark.”

  “Weel, that’s reasonable enough, but I have often seen ye lauchin’,” said Hendry, “lang afore other fowk lauched.”

  “Nae doubt,” Tammas explained, “an’ that’s because humour has twa sides, juist like a penny piece. When I say a humorous thing mysel I’m dependent on other fowk to tak note o’ the humour o’t, bein’ mysel ta’en up wi’ the makkin’ o’t. Ay, but there’s things I see an’ hear ‘at maks me lauch, an’ that’s the other side o’ humour.”

  “I never heard it put sae plain afore,” said T’nowhead, “an’, sal, am no nane sure but what am a humorist too.”

  “Na, na, no you, T’nowhead,” said Tammas, hotly.

  “Weel,” continued the farmer, “I never set up for bein’ a humorist, but I can juist assure ye ‘at I lauch at queer things too. No lang syne I woke up i’ my bed lauchin’ like onything, an’ Lisbeth thocht I wasna weel. It was something I dreamed ‘at made me lauch, I couldna think what it was, but I laughed richt. Was that no fell like a humorist?”

  “That was neither here nor there,” said Tammas. “Na, dreams dinna coont, for we’re no responsible for them. Ay, an’ what’s mair, the mere lauchin’s no the important side o’ humour, even though ye hinna to be telt to lauch. The important side’s the other side, the sayin’ the humorous things. I’ll tell ye what: the humorist’s like a man firin’ at a target — he doesna ken whether he hits or no till them at the target tells ‘im.”

  “I would be of opeenion,” said Hendry, who was one of Tammas’s most staunch admirers, “‘at another mark o’ the rale humorist was his seein’ humour in all things?”

  Tammas shook his head — a way he had when Hendry advanced theories.

  “I dinna haud wi’ that ava,” he said. “I ken fine ‘at Davit Lunan gaes aboot sayin’ he sees 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 withoot a spark o’ humour in them. When a subject rises to the sublime it should be regairded philosophically, an’ no humorously. Davit would lauch ‘at the grandest thochts, whaur they only fill the true 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 Magazine,” said T’nowhead.

  “Was I sayin’ it wasna?” demanded Tammas. “It was through me readin’ the account oot o’ the Cheap Magazine ‘at the discussion arose.”

  “But what said the Cheapy was the origin o’ cock-fechtin’?”

  “T’nowhead ‘ll tell ye,” answered Tammas; “he says I dinna ken.”

  “I never 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 army, an’ one day he led them doon the mountains to attack the biggest army ‘at was ever gathered thegither.”

  “They were Persians,” interposed T’nowhead.

  “Are you tellin’ the story, or am I?” asked Tammas. “I kent fine ‘at they were Persians. Weel, Miltiades had the matter o’ twenty thoosand men wi’ im’, and when they got to the foot o’ the mountain, behold there was two cocks fechtin’.”

  “Man, man,” said Hendry, “an’ was there cocks in thae days?”

  “Ondoubtedly,” said Tammas, “or hoo could thae twa hae been fechtin’?”

  “Ye have me there, Tammas,” admitted Hendry. “Ye’re perfectly richt.”

  “Ay, then,” continued the stone-breaker, “when Miltiades saw the cocks at it wi’ all their micht, he stopped the army and addressed it. ‘Behold!’ he cried, at the top o’ his voice, ‘these cocks do not fight for their household gods, nor for the monuments of their ancestors, nor for glory, nor for liberty, nor for their children, but only because the one will not give way unto the other.’”