Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “Gie me a sook!”

  “No.”

  “Just one,” begged Corp, “and I’ll tell you where he is.”

  He got his way, and smacked his lips unctuously.

  “Now, where is Tommy?”

  “Put your face close to mine,” said Corp, and then he whispered hoarsely, “He’s in a spleet new Lair, writing out bills wi’ a’ his might, offering five hunder crowns reward for Stroke’s head, dead or alive!”

  *

  The new haunt was a deserted house, that stood, very damp, near a little waterfall to the east of the Den. Bits of it well planted in the marsh adhere doggedly together to this day, but even then the roof was off and the chimney lay in a heap on the ground, like blankets that have slipped off a bed.

  This was the good ship Ailie, lying at anchor, man-of-war, thirty guns, a cart-wheel to steer it by, T. Sandys, commander.

  On the following Saturday, Ben the Boatswain piped all hands, and Mr. Sandys delivered a speech, of the bluff, straightforward kind that sailors love. Here, unfortunately, it must be condensed. He reminded them that three years had passed since their gracious queen (cheers) sent them into these seas to hunt down the Pretender (hisses). Their ship had been christened the Ailie, because its object was to avenge the insults offered by the Pretender to a lady of that name for whom everyone of them would willingly die. Like all his race the Pretender, or Stroke, as he called himself, was a torment to single women; he had not only stolen all this lady’s wealth, but now he wanted to make her walk the plank, a way of getting rid of enemies the mere mention of which set the blood of all honest men boiling (cheers). As yet they had not succeeded in finding Stroke’s Lair, though they knew it to be in one of the adjoining islands, but they had suffered many privations, twice their gallant vessel had been burned to the water’s edge, once she had been sunk, once blown into the air, but had that dismayed them?

  Here the Boatswain sent round a whisper, and they all cried loyally,

  “Ay, ay, sir.”

  He had now news for them that would warm their hearts like grog. He had not discovered the Lair, but he had seen Stroke, he had spoken to him! Disguised as a boy he had tracked the Jacobite and found him skulking in the house of the unhappy Ailie. After blustering for a little Stroke had gone on his knees and offered not only to cease persecuting this lady but to return to France. Mr. Sandys had kicked him into a standing posture and then left him. But this clemency had been ill repaid. Stroke had not returned to France. He was staying at the Quharity Arms, a Thrums inn, where he called himself McLean. It had gone through the town like wildfire that he had written to someone in Redlintie to send him on another suit of clothes and four dickies. No one suspected his real character, but all noted that he went to the unhappy Ailie’s house daily, and there was a town about it. Ailie was but a woman, and women could not defend themselves “(Boatswain, put Grizel in irons if she opens her mouth),” and so the poor thing had been forced to speak to him, and even to go walks with him. Her life was in danger, and before now Mr. Sandys would have taken him prisoner, but the queen had said these words, “Noble Sandys, destroy the Lair,” and the best way to discover this horrid spot was to follow Stroke night and day until he went to it. Then they would burn it to the ground, put him on board the Ailie, up with the jib-boom sail, and away to the Tower of London.

  At the words “Tower of London,” Ben cried “Tumble up there!” which was the signal for three such ringing cheers as only British tars are capable of. Three? To be exact only two and a half, for the third stopped in the middle, as if the lid had suddenly been put on.

  What so startled them was the unexpected appearance in their midst of the very man Tommy had been talking of. Taking a stroll through the Den, Mr. McLean had been drawn toward the ruin by the first cheers, and had arrived in time to learn who and what he really was.

  “Stroke!” gasped one small voice.

  The presumptuous man folded his arms. “So, Sandys,” he said, in hollow tones, “we meet again!”

  Even Grizel got behind Tommy, and perhaps it was this that gave him spunk to say tremulously, “Wh-what are you doing her?”

  “I have come,” replied the ruddy Pretender, “to defy you, ay, proud Sandys, to challenge thee to the deed thou pratest of. I go from here to my Lair. Follow me, if thou darest!”

  He brought his hand down with a bang upon the barrel, laughed disdainfully, and springing over the vessel’s side was at once lost in the darkness. Instead of following, all stood transfixed, gazing at the barrel, on which lay five shillings.

  “He put them there when he slammed it!”

  “Losh behears! there’s a shilling to ilka ane o’ us.”

  “I winna touch the siller,” said Sandys, moodily.

  “What?” cried Gavinia.

  “I tell you it’s a bribe.”

  “Do you hear him?” screamed Gavinia. “He says we’re no to lay hands on’t! Corp, where’s your tongue?”

  But even in that trying moment Corp’s trust in Tommy shone out beautiful and strong. “Dinna be feared, Gavinia,” he whispered, “he’ll find a wy.”

  “Lights out and follow Stroke!” was the order, and the crew at once scattered in pursuit, Mr. Sandys remaining behind a moment to — to put something in his pocket.

  Mr. McLean gave them a long chase, walking demurely when lovers were in sight, but at other times doubling, jumping, even standing on eminences and crowing insultingly, like a cock, and not until he had only breath left to chuckle did the stout man vanish from the Den. Elspeth, now a cabin-boy, was so shaken by the realism of the night’s adventures that Gavinia (able seaman) took her home, and when Mr. Sandys and his Boatswain met at the Cuttle Well neither could tell where Grizel was.

  “She had no business to munt without my leave,” Tommy said sulkily.

  “No, she hadna. Is she the Lady Griselda yet?”

  “Not her, she’s the Commander’s wife.”

  Ben shook his head, for this, he felt, was the one thing Tommy could not do. “Well, then,” growled Tommy, “if she winna be that, she’ll have to serve before the mast, for I tell you plain I’ll have no single women on board.”

  “And what am I, forby Ben the Boatswain?”

  “Nothing. Honest men has just one name.”

  “What! I’m just one single man?” Corp was a little crestfallen. “It’s a come down,” he said, with a sigh, “mind, I dinna grumble, but it’s a come down.”

  “And you dinna have ‘Methinks’ now either,” Tommy announced pitilessly.

  Corp had dreaded this. “I’ll be gey an’ lonely without it,” he said, with some dignity, “and it was the usefulest swear I kent o’. ‘Methinks!’ I used to roar at Mason Malcolm’s collie, and the crittur came in ahint in a swite o’ fear. Losh, Tommy, is that you blooding?”

  There was indeed an ugly gash on Tommy’s hand. “You’ve been hacking at yoursel’ again,” said the distressed Corp, who knew that in his enthusiasm Tommy had more than once drawn blood from himself. “When you take it a’ so real as that,” he said, uncomfortably “I near think we should give it up.”

  Tommy stamped his foot. “Take tent o’ yoursel’!” he cried threateningly. “When I was tracking Stroke I fell in with one of his men, and we had a tussle. He pinked me in the hand, but ‘tis only a scratch, bah! He was carrying treasure, and I took it from him.”

  Ben whistled. “Five shillings?” he asked, slapping his knee.

  “How did you know?” demanded Tommy, frowning, and then they tried to stare each other down.

  “I thought I saw you pouching it,” Corp ventured to say.

  “Boatswain!”

  “I mean,” explained Corp hurriedly, “I mean that I kent you would find a wy. Didest thou kill the Jacobite rebel?”

  “He lies but a few paces off,” replied Tommy, “and already the vultures are picking his bones.”

  “So perish all Victoria’s enemies,” said Ben the Boatswain, loyally, but a sudden fear made h
im add, with a complete change of voice, “You dinna chance to ken his name?”

  “Ay, I had marked him before,” answered Tommy, “he was called Corp of

  Corp.”

  Ben the Boatswain rose, sat down, rose again, “Tommy,” he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve, “come awa’ hame!”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  THE LONGER CATECHISM

  In the meantime Mr. McLean was walking slowly to the Quharity Arms, fanning his face with his hat, and in the West town end he came upon some boys who had gathered with offensive cries round a girl in a lustre jacket. A wave of his stick put them to flight, but the girl only thanked him with a look, and entered a little house the window of which showed a brighter light than its neighbors. Dr. McQueen came out of this house a moment afterwards, and as the two men now knew each other slightly, they walked home together, McLean relating humorously how he had spent the evening. “And though Commander Sandys means to incarcerate me in the Tower of London,” he said, “he did me a good service the other day, and I feel an interest in him.”

  “What did the inventive sacket do?” the doctor asked inquisitively; but McLean, who had referred to the incident of the pass-book, affected not to hear. “Miss Ailie has told me his history,” he said, “and that he goes to the University next year.”

  “Or to the herding,” put in McQueen, dryly.

  “Yes, I heard that was the alternative, but he should easily carry a bursary; he is a remarkable boy.”

  “Ay, but I’m no sure that it’s the remarkable boys who carry the bursaries. However, if you have taken a fancy to him you should hear what Mr. Cathro has to say on the subject; for my own part I have been more taken up with one of his band lately than with himself — a lassie, too.”

  “She who went into that house just before you came out?”

  “The same, and she is the most puzzling bit of womankind I ever fell in with.”

  “She looked an ordinary girl enough,” said Mr. McLean.

  The doctor chuckled. “Man,” he said, “in my time I have met all kinds of women except ordinary ones. What would you think if I told you that this ordinary girl had been spending three or four hours daily in that house entirely because there was a man dying in it?”

  “Some one she had an affection for?”

  “My certie, no! I’m afraid it is long since anybody had an affection for shilpit, hirpling, old Ballingall, and as for this lassie Grizel, she had never spoken to him until I sent her on an errand to his house a week ago. He was a single man (like you and me), without womenfolk, a schoolmaster of his own making, and in the smallest way, and his one attraction to her was that he was on his deathbed. Most lassies of her age skirl to get away from the presence of death, but she prigged, sir, fairly prigged, to get into it!”

  “Ah, I prefer less uncommon girls,” McLean said. “They should not have let her have her wish; it can only do her harm.”

  “That is another curious thing,” replied the doctor. “It does not seem to have done her harm; rather it has turned her from being a dour, silent crittur into a talkative one, and that, I take it, is a sign of grace.”

  He sighed, and added: “Not that I can get her to talk of herself and her mother. (There is a mystery about them, you understand.) No, the obstinate brat will tell me nothing on that subject; instead of answering my questions she asks questions of me — an endless rush of questions, and all about Ballingall. How did I know he was dying? When you put your fingers on their wrist, what is it you count? which is the place where the lungs are? when you tap their chest what do you listen for? are they not dying as long as they can rise now and then, and dress and go out? when they are really dying do they always know it themselves? If they don’t know it, is that a sign that they are not so ill as you think them? When they don’t know they are dying, is it best to keep it from them in case they should scream with terror? and so on in a spate of questions, till I called her the Longer Catechism.”

  “And only morbid curiosity prompted her?”

  “Nothing else,” said the confident doctor; “if there had been anything else I should have found it out, you may be sure. However, unhealthily minded though she be, the women who took their turn at Ballingall’s bedside were glad of her help.”

  “The more shame to them,” McLean remarked warmly; but the doctor would let no one, save himself, miscall the women of Thrums.

  “Ca’ canny,” he retorted. “The women of this place are as overdriven as the men, from the day they have the strength to turn a pirn-wheel to the day they crawl over their bed-board for the last time, but never yet have I said, ‘I need one of you to sit up all night wi’ an unweel body,’ but what there were half a dozen willing to do it. They are a grand race, sir, and will remain so till they find it out themselves.”

  “But of what use could a girl of twelve or fourteen be to them?”

  “Use!” McQueen cried. “Man, she has been simply a treasure, and but for one thing I would believe it was less a morbid mind than a sort of divine instinct for nursing that took her to Ballingall’s bedside. The women do their best in a rough and ready way; but, sir, it cowed to see that lassie easying a pillow for Ballingall’s head, or changing a sheet without letting in the air, or getting a poultice on his back without disturbing the one on his chest. I had just to let her see how to do these things once, and after that Ballingall complained if any other soul touched him.”

  “Ah,” said McLean, “then perhaps I was uncharitable, and the nurse’s instinct is the true explanation.”

  “No, you’re wrong again, though I might have been taken in as well as you but for the one thing I spoke of. Three days ago Ballingall had a ghost of a chance of pulling through, I thought, and I told the lassie that if he did, the credit would be mainly hers. You’ll scarcely believe it, but, upon my word, she looked disappointed rather than pleased, and she said to me, quite reproachfully, ‘You told me he was sure to die!’ What do you make of that?”

  “It sounds unnatural.”

  “It does, and so does what followed. Do you know what straiking is?”

  “Arraying the corpse for the coffin, laying it out, in short, is it not?”

  “Ay, ay. Well, it appears that Grizel had prigged with the women to let her be present at Ballingall’s straiking, and they had refused.”

  “I should think so,” exclaimed McQueen, with a shudder.

  “But that’s not all. She came to me in her difficulty, and said that if

  I didna promise her this privilege she would nurse Ballingall no more.”

  “Ugh! That shows at least that pity for him had not influenced her.”

  “No, she cared not a doit for him. I question if she’s the kind that could care for anyone. It’s plain by her thrawn look when you speak to her about her mother that she has no affection even for her. However, there she was, prepared to leave Ballingall to his fate if I did not grant her request, and I had to yield to her.”

  “You promised?”

  “I did, sore against the grain, but I accept the responsibility. You are pained, but you don’t know what a good nurse means to a doctor.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, he died after all, and the straiking is going on now. You saw her go in.”

  “I think you could have been excused for breaking your word and turning her out.”

  “To tell the truth,” said the doctor, “I had the same idea when I saw her enter, and I tried to shoo her to the door, but she cried, ‘You promised, you can’t break a promise!’ and the morbid brat that she is looked so horrified at the very notion of anybody’s breaking a promise that I slunk away as if she had right on her side.”

  “No wonder the little monster is unpopular,” was McLean’s comment. “The children hereabout seem to take to her as little as I do, for I had to drive away some who were molesting her. I am sorry I interfered now.”

  “I can tell you why they t’nead her,” replied the doctor, and he repeated the little that was known in
Thrums of the Painted Lady, “And you see the womenfolk are mad because they can find out so little about her, where she got her money, for instance, and who are the ‘gentlemen’ that are said to visit her at Double Dykes. They have tried many ways of drawing Grizel, from heckle biscuits and parlies to a slap in the face, but neither by coaxing nor squeezing will you get an egg out of a sweer hen, and so they found. ‘The dour little limmer,’ they say, ‘stalking about wi’ all her blinds down,’ and they are slow to interfere when their laddies call her names. It’s a pity for herself that she’s not more communicative, for if she would just satisfy the women’s curiosity she would find them full of kindness. A terrible thing, Mr. McLean, is curiosity. The Bible says that the love of money is the root of all evil, but we must ask Mr. Dishart if love of money is not a misprint for curiosity. And you won’t find men boring their way into other folk’s concerns; it is a woman’s failing, essentially a woman’s.” This was the doctor’s pet topic, and he pursued it until they had to part. He had opened his door and was about to enter when he saw Gavinia passing on her way home from the Den.

  “Come here, my lass,” he called to her, and then said inquisitively,

  “I’m told Mr. McLean is at his tea with Miss Ailie every day?”

  “And it’s true,” replied Gavinia, in huge delight, “and what’s more, she has given him some presents.”

  “You say so, lassie! What were they now?”

  “I dinna ken,” Gavinia had to admit, dejectedly. “She took them out o’ the ottoman, and it has aye been kept looked.”

  McQueen looked very knowingly at her. “Will he, think you?” he asked mysteriously.

  The maid seemed to understand, for she replied, promptly, “I hope he will.”

  “But he hasna spiered her as yet, you think?”

  “No,” she said, “no, but he calls her Ailie, and wi’ the gentry it’s but one loup frae that to spiering.”

  “Maybe,” answered the doctor, “but it’s a loup they often bogle at. I’se uphaud he’s close on fifty, Gavinia?”

  “There’s no denying he is by his best,” she said regretfully, and then added, with spirit, “but Miss Ailie’s no heavy, and in thae grite arms o’ his he could daidle her as if she were an infant.”