Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “Ay, I wanted ‘im to be a laddie mysel,” said Hendry, “so as he could tak Joey’s place.”

  Jess’s head jerked back involuntarily, and Jamie may have felt her hand shake, for he said in a voice out of Hendry’s hearing —

  “I never took Joey’s place wi’ ye, 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 Hendry, “‘at often I called Jamie by Joey’s name.”

  Jess looked at her husband, and her mouth opened and shut.

  “I canna mind ‘at you ever did that?” Hendry said.

  She shook her head.

  “Na,” said Hendry, “you never mixed them up. I dinna think ye ever missed Joey sae sair as I did.”

  Leeby went ben, and stood in the room in the dark; Jamie knew why.

  “I’ll just gang ben an’ speak to Leeby for a meenute,” he said to his mother; “I’ll no be lang.”

  “Ay, do that, Jamie,” said Jess. “What Leeby’s been to me nae tongue can tell. Ye canna bear to hear me speak, I ken, o’ the time when Hendry an’ me’ll be awa, but, Jamie, when that time comes ye’ll no forget Leeby?”

  “I winna, mother, I winna,” said Jamie. “There’ll 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, who was about to die, and Jamie, who was to forget his mother, came back to the kitchen with a happy light on their faces. I have with me still the look of love they gave each other before Jamie crossed over to Jess.

  “Ye’ll gang anower, noo, mother,” Leeby said, meaning that it was Jess’s bedtime.

  “No yet, Leeby,” Jess answered, “I’ll sit up till the readin’s ower.”

  “I think ye should gang, mother,” Jamie said, “an’ I’ll come an’ sit aside ye after ye’re i’ yer bed.”

  “Ay, Jamie, I’ll no hae ye to sit aside me the morn’s nicht, an’ hap (cover) me wi’ the claes.”

  “But ye’ll gang suner to yer bed, mother.”

  “I may gang, but I winna sleep. I’ll aye be thinkin’ o’ ye tossin’ on the sea. I pray for ye 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 try no to be sae sad, mother,” said Leeby. “We’ve ha’en a richt fine time, have we no?”

  “It’s been an awfu’ happy time,” said Jess. “We’ve ha’en a pleasantness in oor lives ‘at comes to few. I ken naebody ‘at’s ha’en sae muckle happiness one wy or another.”

  “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.”

  “We’ll juist look to meetin’ 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’ Hendry’s fell worn too.”

  Jamie, the boy 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 my days on this earth, be they short or lang, I’ve you for a staff 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 slowly turned over the leaves to his favourite chapter, the fourteenth 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 have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.”

  As Hendry raised his voice to read there was a great stillness in the kitchen. I do not know that I have been able to show in the most imperfect 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. But 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 ye 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 every other word; it was so real and grand to him.

  We went upon our knees while Hendry prayed, all but Jess, who could not. Jamie buried his face in her lap. The words Hendry said were those he used every night. Some, perhaps, would have smiled at his prayer to God that we be not puffed up with riches nor with the things of this world. His head 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 troubled, neither let them be afraid, for this is not our abiding home, and may we all meet in Thy house, where there are many mansions, and where there will be no last night. Amen.”

  It was a silent kitchen after that, though the lamp burned long in Jess’s window. By its meagre light you may take a final glance at the little family; you will never see them together again.

  CHAPTER XXI

  JESS LEFT ALONE

  There may be a few who care to know how the lives of Jess and Hendry ended. Leeby died in the backend of the year I have been speaking of, and as I was snowed up in the schoolhouse 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 morning carried her off 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.

  “Them ‘at has got sae mony blessin’s mair than the generality,” Hendry said to me one day, when Craigiebuckle had given me a lift into Thrums, “has nae shame if they would pray aye for mair. The Lord has gi’en this hoose sae muckle, ‘at to pray for muir looks like no bein’ thankfu’ for what we’ve got. Ay, but I canna help prayin’ to Him ‘at in His great mercy he’ll take Jess afore me. No ‘at Leeby’s gone, an’ Jamie never lets us hear frae him, I canna gulp doon the thocht o’ Jess bein’ left alane.”

  This was a prayer that Hendry may be pardoned for having so often in his 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 wh
ich, I thank God, I am not compelled 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 probably have recovered from 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, and his parting words must be sadder to the reader than they were to me.

  “Ay, richt ye are,” he said, in a voice that had become a child’s; “I hae muckle, muckle, to be thankfu’ for, an’ no the least is ‘at baith me an’ Jess has aye belonged to a bural society. We hae nae cause to be anxious aboot a’ thing bein’ dune re-respectable aince we’re gone. It was Jess ‘at insisted on oor joinin’: a’ the wisest things I ever did I was put up to by her.”

  I parted from Hendry, cheered by the doctor’s report, but the old weaver died a few days afterwards. His end was mournful, yet 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 Birse having undertaken to sit up with Hendry. Jess slept for the first time for many days, and as the night was dying Tibbie fell asleep too. Hendry had been better than usual, lying quietly, Tibbie said, and the fever was gone. About three o’clock Tibbie woke and rose to mend the fire. Then she saw that Hendry was not in his bed.

  Tibbie went ben the house in her stocking-soles, but Jess heard her.

  “What is’t, Tibbie?” she asked, anxiously.

  “Ou, 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 heavy 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 rising like smoke. Tibbie ran to the farm and woke up T’nowhead.

  For an hour they looked 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’ll be Sanders Whamond 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 Elshioner’s shop.

  “It’s Hendry,” she cried, and then every one moved toward the workshop.

  The light at the diminutive, yarn-covered window was pale and dim, but Bell, who was at the 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 by the wind. T’nowhead and the others went in. The cruizey stood on the little window. Hendry’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 ordeal far away; where, we did not now even know. But though the poorhouse stands in Thrums, where all may see it, the neighbours did not think only of themselves.

  Than Thomas Haggart there can scarcely have been a poorer man, but Tammas was the first to come forward with offer of help. To the day of Jess’s death he did not once fail to carry her water to her in the morning, and the luxuriously living men of Thrums in those present days of pumps at every corner, can hardly realize what that meant. 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 line with Jess’s pitcher and pan, to wait his turn again. His own house was in the Tenements, far from the brae in winter time, but he always said to Jess it was “naething ava.”

  Every Saturday old Robbie Angus sent a bag of sticks and shavings from the sawmill by his little son Rob, who was afterwards to become a man for speaking about at nights. Of all the friends that Jess and Hendry had, T’nowhead was the ablest to help, and the sweetest memory I have of the farmer and his wife is the delicate way they offered it. You who read will see Jess wince at the offer of charity. But the poor have fine feelings beneath the grime, as you will discover if you care to look for them, and when Jess said she would bake if any one would buy, you would wonder to hear how many kindly folk came to her door for scones.

  She had the house to herself at nights, but Tibbie Birse was with her early in the morning, and other neighbours dropped in. Not for long did she have to wait the summons to the better home.

  “Na,” she said to the minister, who has told me that he was a better man from knowing her, “my thochts is no nane set on the vanities o’ the world noo. I kenra hoo I could ever hae ha’en sic an ambeetion to hae thae stuff-bottomed chairs.”

  I have tried to keep away from Jamie, whom the neighbours sometimes upbraided in her presence. It is of him you who read would like to hear, and I cannot pretend that Jess did not sit at her window looking for him.

  “Even when she was bakin’,” Tibbie told me, “she aye had an eye on the brae. If Jamie had come at ony time when it was licht she would hae seen ‘im as sune as he turned the corner.”

  “If he ever comes back, the sacket (rascal),” T’nowhead said to Jess, “we’ll show ‘im the door gey quick.”

  Jess just looked, and all the women knew how she would take Jamie to her arms.

  We did not know of the London woman then, and Jess never knew of her. Jamie’s mother never for an hour allowed that he had become anything but the loving laddie of his youth.

  “I ken ‘im ower weel,” she always said, “my ain Jamie.”

  Toward the end she was sure he was dead. I do not know when she first made up her mind to this, nor whether it was not merely a phrase for those who wanted to discuss him with her. I know that she still sat at the window looking at the elbow of the brae.

  The minister was with her when she died. She was in her chair, and he asked her, as was his custom, if there was any particular chapter which she would like him to read. Since her husband’s death she had always asked for the fourteenth of John, “Hendry’s chapter,” as it is still called among a very few old people in Thrums. This time she asked him to read the sixteenth chapter of Genesis.

  “When I came to the thirteenth verse,” the minister told me, “‘And she called the name of the Lord that spake unto her. Thou God seest me,’ she covered her face with her two hands, and said, ‘Joey’s text, Joey’s text. Oh, but I grudged ye sair, Joey.’”

  “I shut the book,” the minister said, “when I came to the end of the chapter, and then I saw that she was dead. It is my belief that her heart broke one-and-twenty years ago.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  JAMIE’S HOMECOMING

  On a summer day, when the sun was in the weavers’ workshops, and bairns hopped solemnly at the game of palaulays, or gaily shook their bottles of sugarelly water into a froth, Jamie came back. The first man to see him was Hookey Crewe, the post.

  “When he came frae London,” Hookey said afterwards at T’nowhead’s pig-sty, “Jamie used to wait for me at Zoar, i’ the north end o’ Tilliedrum. He carried his box ower the market muir, an’ sat on’t at Zoar, waitin’ for me to catch ‘im up. Ay, the day afore yesterday me an’ the powny was clatterin’ by Zoar, when there was Jamie standin’ in his identical place. He hadna nae box to sit upon, an’ he was far frae bein’ weel in order, but I kent ‘im at aince, an’ I saw ‘at he was waitin’ for me. So I drew up, an’ waved my hand to ‘im.”

  “I would hae drove straucht by ‘im,” said T’nowhead; “them ‘at leaves their auld mother to want doesna deserve a lift.”

  “Ay, ye say that sittin’ there,” Hookey said; “but, lads, I saw his face, an’ as sure as death it was sic
an’ awfu’ meeserable face ‘at I couldna but pu’ the powny up. Weel, he stood for the space o’ a meenute lookin’ straucht at me, as if he would like to come forrit but dauredna, an’ syne he turned an’ strided awa ower the muir like a huntit thing. I sat still i’ the cart, an’ when he was far awa he stoppit an’ lookit again, but a’ my cryin’ wouldna bring him a step back, an’ i’ the end I drove on. I’ve thocht since syne ‘at he didna ken whether his fowk was livin’ or deid, an’ was fleid to speir.”

  “He didna ken,” said T’nowhead, “but the faut was his ain. It’s ower late to be ta’en up aboot Jess noo.”

  “Ay, ay, T’nowhead,” said Hookey, “it’s aisy to you to speak like that. Ye didna see his face.”

  It is believed that Jamie walked from Tilliedrum, though no one is known to have met him on the road. Some two hours after the post left him he was seen by old Rob Angus at the sawmill.

  “I was sawin’ awa wi’ a’ my micht,” Rob said, “an’ little Rob was haudin’ the booards, for they were silly but things, when something made me look at the window. It couldna hae been a tap on’t, for the birds has used me to that, an’ it would hardly be a shadow, for little Rob didna look up. Whatever it was, I stoppit i’ the middle o’ a booard, an’ lookit up, an’ there I saw Jamie McQumpha. He joukit back when our een met, but I saw him weel; ay, it’s a queer thing to say, but he had the face o’ a man ‘at had come straucht frae hell.”

  “I stood starin’ at the window,” Angus continued, “after he’d gone, an’ Robbie cried oot to ken what was the maiter wi’ me. Ay, that brocht me back to mysel, an’ I hurried oot to look for Jamie, but he wasna to be seen. That face gae me a turn.”

  From the sawmill to the house at the top of the brae, some may remember, the road is up the commonty. I do not think any one saw Jamie on the commonty, though there were those to say they met him.