by Unknown
Gavin made his proposal briskly, and as coolly as if he were only 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.
“Mind ye,” said Tammas, a drop of water hanging to the point of his nose, “I disclaim all responsibility in the business. I ken Mag weel for a thrifty, 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 Hendry, settling down to a reminiscence.
“No to be ower hard on Gavin,” continued Tammas, forestalling Hendry, “he took what I said in guid part; but aye when I stopped speakin’ to draw breath, he says, ‘The queistion is, will ye come wi’ me?’ He was michty made up in ‘s mind.”
“Weel, ye went wi’ him,” suggested Jess, who wanted to bring Tammas to the point.
“Ay,” said the stone-breaker, “but no in sic a hurry as that.”
He worked his mouth round and round, to clear the course, as it were, for a sarcasm.
“Fowk often say,” he continued, “‘at ‘am quick beyond the ordinar’ in seeing the humorous side o’ things.”
Here Tammas paused, and looked at us.
“So ye are, Tammas,” said Hendry. “Losh, 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.”
“Ye juist wore them sometimes when ye was delvin’,” broke in Jess, “ye have as guid a pair o’ boots as ony in Thrums.”
“Ay, but I had worn them,” said Hendry, “at odd times for mair than a year, 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. Syne I saw their humorous 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. Ay, 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 sayin’ to ye hoo quick I was to see the humorous side o’ onything. Ay, then, what made me say that was ‘at in a clink (flash) I saw the humorous side o’ Gavin’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 ye aff so as ye can be married to another woman.”
“I daursay there is,” said Hendry, doubtfully.
“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 (beat) the table,” said Jess, and then Tammas proceeded.
“Gavin wanted me to tak’ paper an’ ink an’ a pen wi’ me, to write the proceedins doon, but I said, ‘Na, na, I’ll tak’ paper, but no nae ink nor nae pen, for there’ll 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 alone, too; so Gavin, no to waste time, juist sat doon for politeness’ sake, an’ syne rises up again; an says he, ‘Marget Lownie, I hae a solemn question to speir at ye, namely this. Will you, Marget Lownie, let me, Gavin Birse, aff?’”
“Mag would start at that?”
“Sal, she was braw an’ cool. I thocht she maun ha’e got wind o’ his intentions aforehand, for she juist replies, quiet-like, ‘Hoo do ye want aff, Gavin?’
“‘Because,’ says he, like a book, ‘my affections has undergone a change.’
“‘Ye mean Jean Luke,’ says Mag.
“‘That is wha I mean,’ says Gavin, very strait-forrard.”
“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 would 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’ michty conviction 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 ye have to tak me.’”
“That put a clincher on him,” interrupted Hendry.
“He was loth to gie in,” replied Tammas, “so he says, ‘Ye think ‘am a fine character, Marget Lownie, but ye’re very far mista’en. 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 ye stand there, ‘am a reglar deevil!’”
“That was strong language,” said Hendry, “but he would be wantin’ to fleg (frighten) her?”
“Juist so, but he didna manage ‘t, for Mag says, ‘We a’ ha’e oor faults, Gavin, an’ deevil or no deevil, ye’re the man for me!’
“Gavin thocht a bit,” continued Tammas, “an’ syne he tries her on a new tack. ‘Marget Lownie,’ he says, ‘yer father’s an auld man noo, an’ he has naebody but yersel to look after him. I’m thinkin’ it would be kind o’ cruel o’ me to tak ye awa frae him?’”
“Mag wouldna be ta’en 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, Gavin; my father’s fine willin’ to spare me!’”
“An’ that ended it?”
“Ay, that ended it.”
“Did ye tak it doun 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.”
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 weavers met him they said, “Weel, drawer,” and then passed on, grinning. Tammas Haggart was the first to say this.
The drawer was held a poor man because he straggled about the country looking for subjects for his draws, and Jess, as was her way, gave him many comforts for which she would not charge. That, I daresay, was why he 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 confession about 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 deception was very innocent, Jess being anxious not to hurt the donor’s feelings.
To those who have the artist’s eye, the picture, which hangs in my schoolhouse now, does not show a handsome lad, Jamie being short and dapper, with straw-coloured hair, and a chin that ran away into his neck. That is how I once regarded him, but I have 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 any one disparaging the appearance of Jess’s son is to me a pain.
All Jess’s acquaintances knew that in the beginning
of every month a registered letter reached her from London. To her it was not a matter to keep secret. She was proud that the help she and Hendry needed in the gloaming of their lives should come from her beloved son, and the neighbours 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 serious a thing to jest about. Then if Leeby had a moment for 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, affected 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 do’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’ll 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’ll be, keekin’ (peering) through the blind to see if the post’s comin’, ay, an’ what’s mair, the post will come, and a registerdy in his hand wi’ fifteen shillings in’t at the least.”
“Dinna say fifteen, Leeby; I would never think o’ sic a sum. Mebbe five—”
“Five! I wonder to hear ye. Vera weel you ken ‘at since he had twenty-twa shillings in the week he’s never 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 downstairs, Jess was in her chair by the window, beaming, 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 difficulty reaching the window in her bare feet, and many a time had she said that the post must be by.
“Havers,” said Leeby, “he winna be for an hour yet. Come awa’ back to your bed.”
“Na, he maun be by,” Jess would say in a few minutes; “ou, we couldna expeck this month.”
So it went on until Jess’s hand shook the blind.
“He’s comin’, Leeby, he’s comin’. He’ll no hae naething, na, I couldna expeck —— He’s by!”
“I 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 brought no letters and passing the door. Then he turned back. “Mistress McQumpha,” 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 find 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 possibility of his appearing 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 came north a week before his time, and his father saw him from the window. Instead of crying out in amazement or hacking his face, for he was shaving at the time. Henry calmly wiped his razor on the window-sill, and said —
“Ay, there’s Jamie.”
Jamie was a little disappointed at being seen in this way, for he had been looking forward for four and forty 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 daresay he checked his breath, the better to catch his mother’s voice, for Jess being an invalid, Jamie thought of her first. He had Leeby sworn to write the truth about her, but many an anxious hour he had on hearing that she was “complaining fell (considerably) about her back the day,” Leeby, as he knew, being frightened to alarm him. Jamie, too, had given his promise to tell exactly how he was keeping, but often he wrote that he was “fine” when Jess had her 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 painfully at the door, and by and by heard his mother say to Leeby that she was sure the teapot was running 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 rudely open and crying —
“Ony rozetty 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 Hendry, who got his medical knowledge second-hand from persons under treatment, but with Jamie’s appearance on the threshold Jess’s health began to improve. This time he kept to the appointed day, and the house was turned upside down in his honour. Such a polish did Leeby put on the flagons which hung on the kitchen wall, that, passing between them and the window, I thought once I had been struck by 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 underclothing 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 Tilliedrum 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. Here, too, Hookey Crewe, the post, deposited his passenger’s box, which Hendry wheeled home in a barrow. Long before the cart had lost sight of Tilliedrum, Jess was at her window.
“Tell her Hookey’s often late on Monundays,” Leeby whispered to me, “for she’ll gang oot o’ her mind if she thinks there’s onything wrang.”
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.
“Hoots,” retorted Leeby, trying to be hardy, “Hookey canna be oot o’ Tilliedrum yet.”
“He maun hae startit lang syne.”
“I wonder at ye, mother, puttin’ yersel in sic a state. Ye’ll be ill when he comes.”
“Na, am no in nae state, Leeby, but there’ll no be nae accident, will there?”
“It’s most provokin’ ‘at ye will think ‘at every time Jamie
steps into a machine there’ll be an accident. Am sure if ye 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 henmost time I saw him he was layin’ doon the law aboot something to T’nowhead.”
“It’s an awfu’ wy that he has o’ ga’en oot withoot a word. I wouldna wonder ‘at he’s no bein’ in time to meet Jamie, an’ that would be a pretty business.”
“Od, ye’re sure he’ll be in braw time.”
“But he hasna ta’en the barrow wi’ him, an’ hoo is Jamie’s luggage to be brocht up withoot a barrow?”
“Barrow! He took the barrow to the sawmill an hour syne 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’ll 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 Leeby; but Jess gave me so beseeching a look that I put on my hat. Then Hendry dandered in to change his coat deliberately, and when the three of us set off, we left Jess with her eye on the door by which Jamie must enter. He was her only son now, and she had not seen him for a year.
On the way down the commonty, Leeby had the honour of being twice addressed as Miss McQumpha, 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 hungrily than Jess, but his pulse still beat regularly. Leeby would have considered it almost wicked to talk of anything except Jamie now, but Hendry cried out comments on the tatties, yesterday’s roup, the fall in jute, to everybody he encountered. When he and a crony had their say and parted, it was their custom to continue the conversation in shouts until they were out of hearing.
Only to Jess at her window was the cart late that afternoon. Jamie jumped from it in the long greatcoat that had been new to Thrums the year before, and Hendry said calmly —
“Ay, Jamie.”
Leeby and Jamie made signs that they recognized each other as brother and sister, but I was the only one with whom he shook hands. He was smart in his movements and quite the gentleman, but the Thrums ways took hold of him again at once. He even inquired for his mother in a tone that was meant to deceive me into thinking he did not care how she was.
