Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  Hendry would have had a talk out of him on the spot, but was reminded of the luggage. We took the heavy farm road, and soon we were at the sawmill. I am naturally leisurely, but we climbed the commonty at a stride. Jamie pretended to be calm, but in a dark place I saw him take Leeby’s hand, and after that he said not a word. His eyes were fixed on the elbow of the brae, where he would come into sight of his mother’s window. Many, many a time, I know, that lad had prayed to God for still another sight 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, and the fond, anxious 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 country 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 day, 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 remarks and laughed hilariously at jokes of Jamie’s which had been received in silence from me a few minutes before.

  Slowly it came to me that Leeby had something on her mind, and that Jamie was talking to her with his eyes. 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 my presence. Jamie rose and stood near Jess — I daresay he had planned the scene frequently. Then he produced from his pocket a purse, and coolly 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 what it was. Her hand shook, and for a moment she let the ball of paper lie there.

  “Open’t up,” cried Leeby, who was in the secret.

  “What ‘s’t?” asked Hendry, 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 canna tak it, Jamie,” she faltered at last.

  But Jamie waved his hand, meaning that it was 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 slowly out of pence and silver, and that Jamie denied his passions many things for this great hour. His sacrifices watered his young heart and kept it fresh and tender. Let us no longer cheat our consciences by talking of filthy lucre. Money may always be a beautiful thing. It is we who make it grimy.

  CHAPTER XVII

  A HOME FOR GENIUSES

  From hints he had 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 ondootedly something should be done for geniuses, them bein’ aboot the only class as we do naething for. Yet they’re fowk to be prood o’, an’ we shouldna let them overdo the thing, nor run into debt; 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 Burns.

  “Your scheme,” I interposed, “is for living geniuses, of course?”

  “Ay,” he said, thoughtfully, “them ‘at’s gone canna be brocht back. Weel, my idea is ‘at a Home should be built for geniuses at the public 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 marketplace, an’ standin’ in a bit garden, whaur the geniuses could walk aboot arm-in-arm, composin’ their minds.”

  “You would have the grounds walled in, I suppose, so that the public could not intrude?”

  “Weel, there’s a difficulty there, because, ye’ll observe, as the public would support the institootion, they would hae a kind o’ richt to look in. How-some-ever, I daur say we could arrange to fling the grounds open to the public once a week on condition ‘at they didna speak to the geniuses. I’m thinkin’ ‘at if there was a small chairge for admission the Home could be made self-supportin’. Losh! to think ‘at if there had been sic an institootion in his time a man micht hae sat on the bit dyke and watched Robbie Burns danderin’ roond the—”

  “You would divide the Home into suites of rooms, so that every inmate would have his own apartments?”

  “Not by no means; na, na. The mair I read aboot geniuses the mair clearly I see as their wy o’ living alane ower muckle is ane o’ the things as breaks doon their health, and makes them meeserable. I’ the Home they would hae a bedroom apiece, but the parlour an’ the other sittin’-rooms 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 writin’s 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 aff at ten precisely.”

  “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 properly bathed every mornin’, cleanliness bein’ most important for the preservation o’ health.”

  “This sounds well; but suppose a genius broke the rules — lay 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 lay lang i’ the mornin’ he would hae to gang withoot his breakfast.”

  “That would be all very well where the inmate only broke the regulations once in a way; but suppose he were to refuse to take his bath day after day (and, you know, geniuses are 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 of Commons. Ay, the superintendent would get a member o’ the Opposeetion to ask a queistion such as ‘Can the honourable gentleman, the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, inform the Hoose whether it i
s a fac that Mr. Sic-a-one, the wellknown genius, at present resident in the Home for Geniuses, has, contrairy to regulations, perseestently and obstinately refused to change his linen; and, if so, whether the Government proposes to take ony steps in the matter?’ The newspapers would report the discussion next mornin’, an’ so it would be made public withoot onnecessary ootlay.”

  “In a general way, however, you 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 whatever 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 labors of the day were over the genius would be at liberty to make calls by himself or to run up, say, to London for an hour or two?”

  “Hoots no, that would spoil everything. It’s the drink, ye see, as does for a terrible lot o’ geniuses. Even Rob—”

  “Alas! yes. But would you have them all teetotalers?”

  “What do ye tak me for? Na, na; the superintendent would allow them one glass o’ toddy every nicht, an’ mix it himsel; but he would never get the keys o’ the press, whaur he kept the drink, oot o’ his hands. They would never be allowed oot o’ the gairden either, withoot a man to look after them; an’ I wouldna burthen them wi’ ower muckle pocket-money. Saxpence in the week would be suffeecient.”

  “How about their clothes?”

  “They would get twa suits a year, wi’ the letter G sewed on the shoulders, so as if they were lost they could be recognized and brocht back.”

  “Certainly it is a scheme deserving consideration, and I have no doubt our geniuses would jump at it; but you must remember that some of them would have wives.”

  “Ay, an’ some o’ them would hae husbands. I’ve been thinkin’ that oot, an’ I daur say the best 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.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  LEEBY AND JAMIE

  By the bank of the Quharity 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 county 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 staggering round the garden with Jamie in her arms, her duty lay before her, straight as the burying-ground road. Jess had need of her in the little home at the top of the brae, where God, looking down upon her as she scrubbed and gossipped 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. Her years were less than thirty when He took her away, but she had few days that were altogether dark. Those who bring sunshine 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 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 knowing that she was his sister, and that he was not fond of her.

  “It distressed him mair than ye could believe, though,” Jess has told me; “an’ when he came hame he would greet an’ say ‘at Leeby disgraced him.”

  Leeby, of course, suffered for her too obvious affection.

  “I wonder ‘at ye dinna 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 ay lookin’ at me sae fond-like ‘at I dinna ken what 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 keep it secret. When we’re in the hoose am juist richt fond o’ ye.”

  “Do ye love me, Jamie?”

  Jamie waggled his head in irritation.

  “Love,” he said, “is an awful like word to use when fowk’s weel. Ye shouldna speir sic annoyin’ queistions.”

  “But if ye juist say ye love me I’ll 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.”

  “Well,” 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 him, 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 could juist get a promise wrung oot o’ him, she didna care hoo muckle she had to prig. Syne they quarrelled, an’ ane or baith o’ them grat (cried) 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’ll no seek to go through the toon wi’ ye. Na, I’ll 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’ themsels 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,” said Jess, “an’ you blind wi’ them for three days. Ay, ay, Jamie was richt taen up aboot ye. I mind he broke open his pirly (money-box), an’ bocht a ha’penny worth o’ something to ye every day.”

  “An’ ye hinna forgotten the stick?”

  “‘Deed no, I hinna. Ye see,” Jess explained to me, “Leeby was lyin’ ben the hoose, an’ Jamie wasna allowed to gang near her for fear o’ infection. Weel, he gat a lang stick — it was a pea-stick — an’ put it aneath the door an’ waggled it. Ay, he did that a curran times every day, juist to let her see he was thinkin’ o’ her.”

  “Mair than that,” said Leeby, “he cried oot ‘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, th
ocht 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 un’erstood.”

  “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 love her richt.’ The only reglar fecht I ever kent Jamie hae was wi’ a lad ‘at cried that to him. It was Bowlegs Chirsty’s laddie. Ay, but when she got better Jamie blamed Leeby.”

  “He no only 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 was born to, and there was hardly an alternative. This was the time I saw most of him, and he and Leeby were often in my 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 Leeby 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 making, but Jamie’s insinuations were more than she could bear. Then I have seen her seize and shake him. I know from Jess that Leeby cried herself hoarse the day Joey was buried, because her little black frock was not ready for wear.