Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  Other fickle clients put their correspondence into the boy’s hands, and Cathro found it out but said nothing. Dignity kept him in check; he did not even let the tawse speak for him. So well did he dissemble that Tommy could not decide how much he knew, and dreaded his getting hold of some of the letters, yet pined to watch his face while he read them. This could not last forever. Mr. Cathro was like a haughty kettle which has choked its spout that none may know it has come a-boil, and we all know what in that event must happen sooner or later to the lid.

  The three boys who had college in the tail of their eye had certain privileges not for the herd. It was taken for granted that when knowledge came their way they needed no overseer to make them stand their ground, and accordingly for great part of the day they had a back bench to themselves, with half a dozen hedges of boys and girls between them and the Dominie. From his chair Mr. Cathro could not see them, but a foot-board was nailed to it, and when he stood on this, as he had an aggravating trick of doing, softly and swiftly, they were suddenly in view. A large fire had been burning all day and the atmosphere was soporific. Mr. Cathro was so sleepy himself that the sight of a nodding head enraged him like a caricature, and he was on the foot-board frequently for the reason that makes bearded men suck peppermints in church. Against his better judgment he took several peeps at Tommy, whom he had lately suspected of writing his letters in school or at least of gloating over them on that back bench. To-day he was sure of it. However absorbing Euclid may be, even the forty-seventh of the first book does not make you chuckle and wag your head; you can bring a substantive in Virgil back to the verb that has lost it without looking as if you would like to exhibit them together in the square. But Tommy was thus elated until he gave way to grief of the most affecting kind. Now he looked gloomily before him as if all was over, now he buried his face in his hands, next his eyes were closed as if in prayer. All this the Dominie stood from him, but when at last he began to blubber —

  At the blackboard was an arithmetic class, slates in hand, each member adding up aloud in turn a row of figures. By and by it was known that Cathro had ceased to listen. “Go on,” his voice rather than himself said, and he accepted Mary Dundas’s trembling assertion that four and seven make ten. Such was the faith in Cathro that even boys who could add promptly turned their eleven into ten, and he did not catch them at it. So obviously was his mind as well as his gaze on, something beyond, that Sandy Riach, a wit who had been waiting his chance for years, snapped at it now, and roared “Ten and eleven, nineteen” (“Go on,” said Cathro), “and four, twenty,” gasped Sandy, “and eight, sixteen,” he added, gaining courage. “Very good,” nmrmured the Dominie, whereupon Sandy clenched his reputation forever by saying, in one glorious mouthful, “and six, eleven, and two, five, and one, nocht.”

  There was no laughing at it then (though Sandy held a levee in the evening), they were all so stricken with amazement. By one movement they swung round to see what had fascinated Cathro, and the other classes doing likewise, Tommy became suddenly the centre of observation. Big tears were slinking down his face, and falling on some sheets of paper, which emotion prevented his concealing. Anon the unusual stillness in the school made him look up, but he was dazed, like one uncertain of his whereabouts, and he blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, as a bird shakes water from its wings.

  Mr. Cathro first uttered what was afterward described as a kind of throttled skirl, and then he roared “Come here!” whereupon Tommy stepped forward heavily, and tried, as commanded, to come to his senses, but it was not easy to make so long a journey in a moment, and several times, as he seemed about to conquer his fears, a wave of feeling set them flowing again.

  “Take your time,” said Mr. Cathro, grimly, “I can wait,” and this had such a helpful effect that Tommy was able presently to speak up for his misdeeds. They consisted of some letters written at home but brought to the school for private reading, and the Dominie got a nasty jar when he saw that they were all signed “Betsy Grieve.” Miss Betsy Grieve, servant to Mr. Duthie, was about to marry, and these letters were acknowledgments of wedding presents. Now, Mr. Cathro had written similar letters for Betsy only a few days before.

  “Did she ask you to write these for her?” he demanded, fuming, and Tommy replied demurely that she had. He could not help adding, though he felt the unwisdom of it, “She got some other body to do them first, but his letters didna satisfy her.”

  “Oh!” said Mr. Cathro, and it was such a vicious oh that Tommy squeaked tremblingly, “I dinna know who he was.”

  Keeping his mouth shut by gripping his underlip with his teeth, the Dominie read the letters, and Tommy gazed eagerly at him, all fear forgotten, soul conquering body. The others stood or sat waiting, perplexed as to the cause, confident of the issue. The letters were much finer productions than Cathro’s, he had to admit it to himself as he read. Yet the rivals had started fair, for Betsy was a recent immigrant from Dunkeld way, and the letters were to people known neither to Tommy nor to the Dominie. Also, she had given the same details for the guidance of each. A lady had sent a teapot, which affected to be new, but was not; Betsy recognized it by a scratch on the lid, and wanted to scratch back, but politely. So Tommy wrote, “When you come to see me we shall have a cup of tea out of your beautiful present, and it will be like a meeting of three old friends.” That was perhaps too polite, Betsy feared, but Tommy said authoritatively, “No, the politer the nippier.”

  There was a set of six cups and saucers from Peter something, who had loved Betsy in vain. She had shown the Dominie and Tommy the earrings given her long ago by Peter (they were bought with ‘Sosh checks) and the poem he had written about them, and she was most anxious to gratify him in her reply. All Cathro could do, however, was to wish Peter well in some ornate sentences, while Tommy’s was a letter that only a tender woman’s heart could have indited, with such beautiful touches about the days which are no more alas forever, that Betsy listened to it with heaving breast and felt so sorry for her old swain that, forgetting she had never loved him, she all but gave Andrew the go-by and returned to Peter. As for Peter, who had been getting over his trouble, he saw now for the first time what he had lost, and he carried Betsy’s dear letter in his oxter pocket and was inconsolable.

  But the masterpiece went to Mrs. Dinnie, baker, in return for a flagon bun. Long ago her daughter, Janet, and Betsy had agreed to marry on the same day, and many a quip had Mrs. Dinnie cast at their romantic compact. But Janet died, and so it was a sad letter that Tommy had to write to her mother. “I’m doubting you’re no auld enough for this ane,” soft-hearted Betsy said, but she did not know her man. “Tell me some one thing the mother used often to say when she was taking her fun off the pair of you,” he said, and “Where is she buried?” was a suggestive question, with the happy tag, “Is there a tree hanging over the grave?” Thus assisted, he composed a letter that had a tear in every sentence. Betsy rubbed her eyes red over it, and not all its sentiments were allowed to die, for Mrs. Dinnie, touched to the heart, printed the best of them in black licorice on short bread for funeral feasts, at which they gave rise to solemn reflections as they went down.

  Nevertheless, this letter affected none so much as the writer of it. His first rough sketch became so damp as he wrote that he had to abandon his pen and take to pencil; while he was revising he had often to desist to dry his eyes on the coverlet of Aaron’s bed, which made Elspeth weep also, though she had no notion what he was at. But when the work was finished he took her into the secret and read his letter to her, and he almost choked as he did so. Yet he smiled rapturously through his woe, and she knew no better than to be proud of him, and he woke next morning with a cold, brought on you can see how, but his triumph was worth its price.

  Having read the letter in an uncanny silence, Mr. Cathro unbottled Tommy for the details, and out they came with a rush, blowing away the cork discretion. Yet was the Dominie slow to strike; he seemed to find more satisfaction in surveying his young friend wit
h a wondering gaze that had a dash of admiration in it, which Tommy was the first to note.

  “I don’t mind admitting before the whole school,” said Mr. Cathro, slowly, “that if these letters had been addressed to me they would have taken me in.”

  Tommy tried to look modest, but his chest would have its way.

  “You little sacket,” cried the Dominie, “how did you manage it?”

  “I think I thought I was Betsy at the time,” Tommy answered, with proper awe.

  “She told me nothing about the weeping-willow at the grave,” said the

  Dominie, perhaps in self-defence.

  “You hadna speired if there was one,” retorted Tommy, jealously.

  “What made you think of it?”

  “I saw it might come in neat.” (He had said in the letter that the weeping-willow reminded him of the days when Janet’s bonny hair hung down kissing her waist just as the willow kissed the grave.)

  “Willows don’t hang so low as you seem to think,” said the Dominie.

  “Yes, they do,” replied Tommy, “I walked three miles to see one to make sure. I was near putting in another beautiful bit about weeping-willows.”

  “Well, why didn’t you?”

  Tommy looked up with an impudent snigger. “You could never guess,” he said.

  “Answer me at once,” thundered his preceptor. “Was it because—”

  “No,” interrupted Tommy, so conscious of Mr. Cathro’s inferiority that to let him go on seemed waste of time. “It was because, though it is a beautiful thing in itself, I felt a servant lassie wouldna have thought o’t. I was sweer,” he admitted, with a sigh; then firmly, “but I cut it out.”

  Again Cathro admired, reluctantly. The hack does feel the difference between himself and the artist. Cathro might possibly have had the idea, he could not have cut it out.

  But the hack is sometimes, or usually, or nearly always the artist’s master, and can make him suffer for his dem’d superiority.

  “What made you snivel when you read the pathetic bits?” asked Cathro, with itching fingers.

  “I was so sorry for Peter and Mrs. Dinnie,” Tommy answered, a little puzzled himself now. “I saw them so clear.”

  “And yet until Betsy came to you, you had never heard tell of them?”

  “No.”

  “And on reflection you don’t care a doit about them?”

  “N-no.”

  “And you care as little for Betsy?”

  “No now, but at the time I a kind of thought I was to be married to

  Andrew.”

  “And even while you blubbered you were saying to yourself, ‘What a clever billie I am!’”

  Mr. Cathro had certainly intended to end the scene with the strap, but as he stretched out his hand for it he had another idea. “Do you know why Nether Drumgley’s sheep are branded with the letters N.D.?” he asked his pupils, and a dozen replied, “So as all may ken wha they belong to.”

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Cathro, “and similarly they used to brand a letter on a felon, so that all might know whom he belonged to.” He crossed to the fireplace, and, picking up a charred stick, wrote with it on the forehead of startled Tommy the letters “S.T.”

  “Now,” said the Dominie complacently, “we know to whom Tommy belongs.”

  All were so taken aback that for some seconds nothing could be heard save Tommy indignantly wiping his brow; then “Wha is he?” cried one, the mouthpiece of half a hundred.

  “He is one of the two proprietors we have just been speaking of,” replied Cathro, dryly, and turning again to Tommy, he said, “Wipe away, Sentimental Tommy, try hot water, try cold water, try a knife, but you will never get those letters off you; you are branded for ever and ever.”

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  OF FOUR MINISTERS WHO AFTERWARDS BOASTED THAT THEY HAD KNOWN TOMMY SANDYS

  Bursary examination time had come, and to the siege of Aberdeen marched a hungry half-dozen — three of them from Thrums, two from the Glenuharity school. The sixth was Tod Lindertis, a ploughman from the Dubb of Prosen, his place of study the bothy after lousing time (Do you hear the klink of quoits?) or a one-roomed house near it, his tutor a dogged little woman, who knew not the accusative from the dative, but never tired of holding the book while Tod recited. Him someone greets with the good-natured jeer, “It’s your fourth try, is it no, Tod?” and he answers cheerily, “It is, my lathie, and I’ll keep kick, kick, kicking away to the nth time.”

  “Which means till the door flies open,” says the dogged little woman, who is the gallant Tod’s no less gallant wife, and already the mother of two. I hope Tod will succeed this time.

  The competitors, who were to travel part of the way on their shanks, met soon after daybreak in Cathro’s yard, where a little crowd awaited them, parents trying to look humble, Mr. Duthie and Ramsay Cameron thinking of the morning when they set off on the same errand — but the results were different, and Mr. Duthie is now a minister, and Ramsay is in the middle of another wob. Both dominies were present, hating each other, for that day only, up to the mouth, where their icy politeness was a thing to shudder at, and each was drilling his detachment to the last moment, but by different methods; for while Mr. Cathro entreated Joe Meldrum for God’s sake to mind that about the genitive, and Willie Simpson to keep his mouth shut and drink even water sparingly, Mr. Ogilvy cracked jokes with Gav Dishart and explained them to Lauchlan McLauchlan. “Think of anything now but what is before you,” was Mr. Ogilvy’s advice. “Think of nothing else,” roared Mr. Cathro. But though Mr. Ogilvy seemed outwardly calm it was base pretence; his dickie gradually wriggled through the opening of his waistcoat, as if bearing a protest from his inward parts, and he let it hang crumpled and conspicuous, while Grizel, on the outskirts of the crowd, yearned to put it right.

  Grizel was not there, she told several people, including herself, to say good-by to Tommy, and oh, how she scorned Elspeth, for looking as if life would not be endurable without him. Knowing what Elspeth was, Tommy had decided that she should not accompany him to the yard (of course she was to follow him to Aberdeen if he distinguished himself — Mr. McLean had promised to bring her), but she told him of her dream that he headed the bursary list, and as this dream coincided with some dreams of his own, though not with all, it seemed to give her such fortitude that he let her come. An expressionless face was Tommy’s, so that not even the experienced dominie of Glenquharity, covertly scanning his rival’s lot, could tell whether he was gloomy or uplifted; he did not seem to be in need of a long sleep like Willie Simpson, nor were his eyes glazed like Gav Dishart’s, who carried all the problems of Euclid before him on an invisible blackboard and dared not even wink lest he displaced them, nor did he, like Tod Lindertis, answer questions about his money pocket or where he had stowed his bread and cheese with

  “After envy, spare, obey,

  The dative put, remember, pray.”

  Mr. Ogilvy noticed that Cathro tapped his forehead doubtfully every time his eyes fell on Tommy, but otherwise shunned him, and he asked “What are his chances?”

  “That’s the laddie,” replied Mr. Cathro, “who, when you took her ladyship to see Corp Shiach years ago impersona—”

  “I know,” Mr. Ogilvy interrupted him hastily, “but how will he stand, think you?”

  Mr. Cathro coughed. “We’ll see,” he said guardedly.

  Nevertheless Tommy was not to get round the corner without betraying a little of himself, for Elspeth having borne up magnificently when he shook hands, screamed at the tragedy of his back and fell into the arms of Tod’s wife, whereupon Tommy first tried to brazen it out and then kissed her in the presence of a score of witnesses, including Grizel, who stamped her foot, though what right had she to be so angry? “I’m sure,” Elspeth sobbed, “that the professor would let me sit beside you; I would just hunker on the floor and hold your foot and no say a word.” Tommy gave Tod’s wife an imploring look, and she managed to comfort Elspeth with predictions of his
coming triumph and the reunion to follow. Grateful Elspeth in return asked Tommy to help Tod when the professors were not looking, and he promised, after which she had no more fear for Tod.

  And now, ye drums that we all carry in our breasts, beat your best over the bravest sight ever seen in a small Scotch town of an autumn morning, the departure of its fighting lads for the lists at Aberdeen. Let the tune be the sweet familiar one you found somewhere in the Bible long ago, “The mothers we leave behind us” — leave behind us on their knees. May it dirl through your bones, brave boys, to the end, as you hope not to be damned. And now, quick march.

  A week has elapsed, and now — there is no call for music now, for these are but the vanquished crawling back, Joe Meldrum and — and another. No, it is not Tod, he stays on in Aberdeen, for he is a twelve-pound tenner. The two were within a mile of Thrums at three o’clock, but after that they lagged, waiting for the gloaming, when they stole to their homes, ducking as they passed windows without the blinds down. Elspeth ran to Tommy when he appeared in the doorway, and then she got quickly between him and Aaron. The warper was sitting by the fire at his evening meal, and he gave the wanderer a long steady look, then without a word returned to his porridge and porter. It was a less hearty welcome home even than Joe’s; his mother was among those who had wept to lose her son, but when he came back to her she gave him a whack on the head with the thieval.

  Aaron asked not a question about those days in Aberdeen, but he heard a little about them from Elspeth. Tommy had not excused himself to Elspeth, he had let her do as she liked with his head (this was a great treat to her), and while it lay pressed against hers, she made remarks about Aberdeen professors which it would have done them good to hear. These she repeated to Aaron, who was about to answer roughly, and then suddenly put her on his knee instead.