Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “They didna ask the right questions,” she told him, and when the warper asked if Tommy had said so, she declared that he had refused to say a word against them, which seemed to her to cover him with glory. “But he doubted they would make that mistake afore he started, she said brightly, so you see he saw through them afore ever he set eyes on them.”

  Corp would have replied admiringly to this “Oh, the little deevil!” (when he heard of Tommy’s failure he wanted to fight Gav Dishart and Willie Simpson), but Aaron was another kind of confidant, and even when she explained on Tommy’s authority that there are two kinds of cleverness, the kind you learn from books and a kind that is inside yourself, which latter was Tommy’s kind, he only replied,

  “He can take it wi’ him to the herding, then, and see if it’ll keep the cattle frae stravaiging.”

  “It’s no that kind of cleverness either,” said Elspeth, quaking, and quaked also Tommy, who had gone to the garret, to listen through the floor.

  “No? I would like to ken what use his cleverness can be put to, then,” said Aaron, and Elspeth answered nothing, and Tommy only sighed, for that indeed was the problem. But though to these three and to Cathro, and to Mr. and Mrs. McLean and to others more mildly interested, it seemed a problem beyond solution, there was one in Thrums who rocked her arms at their denseness, a girl growing so long in the legs that twice within the last year she had found it necessary to let down her parramatty frock. As soon as she heard that Tommy had come home vanquished, she put on the quaint blue bonnet with the white strings, in which she fondly believed she looked ever so old (her period of mourning was at an end, but she still wore her black dress) and forgetting all except that he was unhappy, she ran to a certain little house to comfort him. But she did not go in, for through the window she saw Elspeth petting him, and that somehow annoyed her. In the evening, however, she called on Mr. Cathro.

  Perhaps you want to know why she, who at last saw Sentimental Tommy in his true light and spurned him accordingly, now exerted herself in his behalf instead of going on with the papering of the surgery. Well, that was the reason. She had put the question to herself before — not, indeed, before going to Monypenny but before calling on the Dominie — and decided that she wanted to send Tommy to college, because she disliked him so much that she could not endure the prospect of his remaining in Thrums. Now, are you satisfied?

  She could scarcely take time to say good-evening to Mr. Cathro before telling him the object of her visit. “The letters Tommy has been writing for people are very clever, are they not?” she began.

  “You’ve heard of them, have you?”

  “Everybody has heard of them,” she said injudiciously, and he groaned and asked if she had come to tell him this. But he admitted their cleverness, whereupon she asked, “Well, if he is clever at writing letters, would he not be clever at writing an essay?”

  “I wager my head against a snuff mull that he would be, but what are you driving at?”

  “I was wondering whether he could not win the prize I heard Dr. McQueen speaking about, the — is it not called the Hugh Blackadder?”

  “My head against a buckie that he could! Sit down, Grizel, I see what you mean now. Ay, but the pity is he’s not eligible for the Hugh Blackadder. Oh, that he was, oh, that he was! It would make Ogilvy of Glenquharity sing small at last! His loons have carried the Blackadder for the last seven years without a break. The Hugh Blackadder Mortification, the bequest is called, and, ‘deed, it has been a sore mortification to me!”

  Calming down, he told her the story of the bequest. Hugh Blackadder was a Thrums man who made a fortune in America, and bequeathed the interest of three hundred pounds of it to be competed for yearly by the youth of his native place. He had grown fond of Thrums and all its ways over there, and left directions that the prize should be given for the best essay in the Scots tongue, the ministers of the town and glens to be the judges, the competitors to be boys who were going to college, but had not without it the wherewithal to support themselves. The ministers took this to mean that those who carried small bursaries were eligible, and indeed it had usually gone to a bursar.

  “Sentimental Tommy would not have been able to compete if he had got a bursary,” Mr. Cathro explained, “because however small it was Mr. McLean meant to double it; and he can’t compete without it, for McLean refuses to help him now (he was here an hour since, saying the laddie was obviously hopeless), so I never thought of entering Tommy for the Blackadder. No, it will go to Ogilvy’s Lauchlan McLauchlan, who is a twelve-pounder, and, as there can be no competitors, he’ll get it without the trouble of coming back to write the essay.”

  “But suppose Mr. McLean were willing to do what he promised if Tommy won the Blackadder?”

  “It’s useless to appeal to McLean. He’s hard set against the laddie now and washes his hands of him, saying that Aaron Latta is right after all. He may soften, and get Tommy into a trade to save him from the herding, but send him to college he won’t, and indeed he’s right, the laddie’s a fool.”

  “Not at writing let—”

  “And what is the effect of his letter-writing, but to make me ridiculous? Me! I wonder you can expect me to move a finger for him, he has been my torment ever since his inscrutable face appeared at my door.”

  “Never mind him,” said Grizel, cunningly. “But think what a triumph it would be to you if your boy beat Mr. Ogilvy’s.”

  The Dominie rose in his excitement and slammed the table, “My certie, lassie, but it would!” he cried, “Ogilvy looks on the Blackadder as his perquisite, and he’s surer of it than ever this year. And there’s no doubt but Tommy would carry it. My head to a buckie preen he would carry it, and then, oh, for a sight of Ogilvy’s face, oh, for—” He broke off abruptly. “But what’s the good of thinking of it?” he said, dolefully, “Mr. McLean’s a firm man when he makes up his mind.”

  Nevertheless, though McLean, who had a Scotchman’s faith in the verdict of professors, and had been bitterly disappointed by Tommy’s failure, refused to be converted by the Dominie’s entreaties, he yielded to them when they were voiced by Ailie (brought into the plot vice Grizel retired), and Elspeth got round Aaron, and so it came about that with his usual luck, Tommy was given another chance, present at the competition, which took place in the Thrums school, the Rev. Mr. Duthie, the Rev. Mr. Dishart, the Rev. Mr. Gloag of Noran Side, the Rev. Mr. Lorrimer of Glenquharity (these on hair-bottomed chairs), and Mr. Cathro and Mr. Ogilvy (cane); present also to a less extent (that is to say, their faces at the windows), Corp and others, who applauded the local champion when he entered and derided McLauchlan. The subject of the essay was changed yearly, this time “A Day in Church” was announced, and immediately Lauchlan McLauchlan, who had not missed a service since his scarlet fever year (and too few then), smote his red head in agony, while Tommy, who had missed as many as possible, looked calmly confident. For two hours the competitors were put into a small room communicating with the larger one, and Tommy began at once with a confident smirk that presently gave way to a most holy expression; while Lauchlan gaped at him and at last got started also, but had to pause occasionally to rub his face on his sleeve, for like Corp he was one of the kind who cannot think without perspiring. In the large room the ministers gossiped about eternal punishment, and of the two dominies one sat at his ease, like a passenger who knows that the coach will reach the goal without any exertion on his part, while the other paced the floor, with many a despondent glance through the open door whence the scraping proceeded; and the one was pleasantly cool; and the other in a plot of heat; and the one made genial remarks about everyday matters, and the answers of the other stood on their heads. It was a familiar comedy to Mr. Ogilvy, hardly a variation on what had happened five times in six for many years: the same scene, the same scraping in the little room, the same background of ministers (black-aviced Mr. Lorrimer had begun to bark again), the same dominies; everything was as it had so often been, except that he and Cathro
had changed places; it was Cathro who sat smiling now and Mr. Ogilvy who dolefully paced the floor.

  To be able to write! Throughout Mr. Ogilvy’s life, save when he was about one and twenty, this had seemed the great thing, and he ever approached the thought reverently, as if it were a maid of more than mortal purity. And it is, and because he knew this she let him see her face, which shall ever be hidden from those who look not for the soul, and to help him nearer to her came assistance in strange guise, the loss of loved ones, dolour unutterable; but still she was beyond his reach. Night by night, when the only light in the glen was the schoolhouse lamp, of use at least as a landmark to solitary travellers — who miss it nowadays, for it burns no more — she hovered over him, nor did she deride his hopeless efforts, but rather, as she saw him go from black to gray and from gray to white in her service, were her luminous eyes sorrowful because she was not for him, and she bent impulsively toward him, so that once or twice in a long life he touched her fingers, and a heavenly spark was lit, for he had risen higher than himself, and that is literature.

  He knew that oblivion was at hand, ready to sweep away his pages almost as soon as they were filled (Do we not all hear her besom when we pause to dip?), but he had done his best and he had a sense of humor, and perhaps some day would come a pupil of whom he could make what he had failed to make of himself. That prodigy never did come, though it was not for want of nursing, and there came at least, in succession most maddening to Mr. Cathro, a row of youths who could be trained to carry the Hugh Blackadder. Mr. Ogilvy’s many triumphs in this competition had not dulled his appetite for more, and depressed he was at the prospect of a reverse. That it was coming now he could not doubt. McLauchlan, who was to be Rev., had a flow of words (which would prevent his perspiring much in the pulpit), but he could no more describe a familiar scene with the pen than a milkmaid can draw a cow. The Thrums representatives were sometimes as little gifted, it is true, and never were they so well exercised, but this Tommy had the knack of it, as Mr. Ogilvy could not doubt, for the story of his letter-writing had been through the glens.

  “Keep up your spirits,” Mr. Lorrimer had said to Mm as they walked together to the fray, “Cathro’s loon may compose the better of the two, but, as I understand, the first years of his life were spent in London, and so he may bogle at the Scotch.”

  But the Dominie replied, “Don’t buoy me up on a soap bubble. If there’s as much in him as I fear, that should be a help to him instead of a hindrance, for it will have set him a-thinking about the words he uses.”

  And the satisfaction on Tommy’s face when the subject of the essay was given out, with the businesslike way in which he set to work, had added to the Dominie’s misgivings; if anything was required to dishearten him utterly it was provided by Cathro’s confident smile. The two Thrums ministers were naturally desirous that Tommy should win, but the younger of them was very fond of Mr. Ogilvy, and noticing his unhappy peeps through the door dividing the rooms, proposed that it should be closed. He shut it himself, and as he did so he observed that Tommy was biting his pen and frowning, while McLauchlan, having ceased to think, was getting on nicely. But it did not strike Mr. Dishart that this was worth commenting on.

  “Are you not satisfied with the honors you have already got, you greedy man?” he said, laying his hand affectionately on Mr. Ogilvy, who only sighed for reply.

  “It is well that the prize should go to different localities, for in that way its sphere of usefulness is extended,” remarked pompous Mr. Gloag, who could be impartial, as there was no candidate from Noran Side. He was a minister much in request for church soirees, where he amused the congregations so greatly with personal anecdote about himself that they never thought much of him afterwards. There is one such minister in every presbytery.

  “And to have carried the Hugh Blackadder seven times running is surely enough for any one locality, even though it be Glenquharity,” said Mr. Lorrimer, preparing for defeat.

  “There’s consolation for you, sir,” said Mr. Cathro, sarcastically, to his rival, who tried to take snuff in sheer bravado, but let it slip through his fingers, and after that, until the two hours were up, the talk was chiefly of how Tommy would get on at Aberdeen. But it was confined to the four ministers and one dominie. Mr. Ogilvy still hovered about the door of communication, and his face fell more and more, making Mr. Dishart quite unhappy.

  “I’m an old fool,” the Dominie admitted, “but I can’t help being cast down. The fact is that — I have only heard the scrape of one pen for nearly an hour.”

  “Poor Lauchlan!” exclaimed Mr. Cathro, rubbing his hands gleefully, and indeed it was such a shameless exhibition that the Auld Licht minister said reproachfully, “You forget yourself, Mr. Cathro, let us not be unseemly exalted in the hour of our triumph.”

  Then Mr. Cathro sat upon his hands as the best way of keeping them apart, but the moment Mr. Dishart’s back presented itself, he winked at Mr. Ogilvy. He winked a good deal more presently. For after all — how to tell it! Tommy was ignominiously beaten, making such a beggarly show that the judges thought it unnecessary to take the essays home with them for leisurely consideration before pronouncing Mr. Lauchlan McLauchlan winner. There was quite a commotion in the school-room. At the end of the allotted time the two competitors had been told to hand in their essays, and how Mr. McLauchlan was sniggering is not worth recording, so dumfounded, confused, and raging was Tommy. He clung to his papers, crying fiercely that the two hours could not be up yet, and Lauchlan having tried to keep the laugh in too long it exploded in his mouth, whereupon, said he, with a guffaw, “He hasna written a word for near an hour!”

  “What! It was you I heard!” cried Mr. Ogilvy gleaming, while the unhappy Cathro tore the essay from Tommy’s hands. Essay! It was no more an essay than a twig is a tree, for the gowk had stuck in the middle of his second page. Yes, stuck is the right expression, as his chagrined teacher had to admit when the boy was crossexamined. He had not been “up to some of his tricks,” he had stuck, and his explanations, as you will admit, merely emphasized his incapacity.

  He had brought himself to public scorn for lack of a word. What word? they asked testily, but even now he could not tell. He had wanted a Scotch word that would signify how many people were in church, and it was on the tip of his tongue but would come no farther. Puckle was nearly the word, but it did not mean so many people as he meant. The hour had gone by just like winking; he had forgotten all about time while searching his mind for the word.

  When Mr. Ogilvy heard this he seemed to be much impressed, repeatedly he nodded his head as some beat time to music, and he muttered to himself, “The right word — yes, that’s everything,” and “‘the time went by like winking’ — exactly, precisely,” and he would have liked to examine Tommy’s bumps, but did not, nor said a word aloud, for was he not there in McLauchlan’s interest?

  The other five were furious; even Mr. Lorrimer, though his man had won, could not smile in face of such imbecility. “You little tattie doolie,” Cathro roared, “were there not a dozen words to wile from if you had an ill-will to puckle? What ailed you at manzy, or—”

  “I thought of manzy,” replied Tommy, woefully, for he was ashamed of himself, “but — but a manse’s a swarm. It would mean that the folk in the kirk were buzzing thegither like bees, instead of sitting still.”

  “Even if it does mean that,” said Mr. Duthie, with impatience, “what was the need of being so particular? Surely the art of essay-writing consists in using the first word that comes and hurrying on.”

  “That’s how I did,” said the proud McLauchlan, who is now leader of a party in the church, and a figure in Edinburgh during the month of May.

  “I see,” interposed Mr. Gloag, “that McLauchlan speaks of there being a mask of people in the church. Mask is a fine Scotch word.”

  “Admirable,” assented Mr. Dishart. “I thought of mask,” whimpered Tommy, “but that would mean the kirk was crammed, and I just meant it to be
middling full.”

  “Flow would have done,” suggested Mr. Lorrimer.

  “Flow’s but a handful,” said Tommy.

  “Curran, then, you jackanapes!”

  “Curran’s no enough.”

  Mr. Lorrimer flung up his hands in despair.

  “I wanted something between curran and mask,” said Tommy, dogged, yet almost at the crying.

  Mr. Ogilvy, who had been hiding his admiration with difficulty, spread a net for him. “You said you wanted a word that meant middling full. Well, why did you not say middling full — or fell mask?”

  “Yes, why not?” demanded the ministers, unconsciously caught in the net.

  “I wanted one word,” replied Tommy, unconsciously avoiding it.

  “You jewel!” muttered Mr. Ogilvy under his breath, but Mr. Cathro would have banged the boy’s head had not the ministers interfered.

  “It is so easy, too, to find the right word,” said Mr. Gloag.

  “It’s no; it’s as difficult as to hit a squirrel,” cried Tommy, and again Mr. Ogilvy nodded approval.

  But the ministers were only pained.

  “The lad is merely a numskull,” said Mr. Dishart, kindly.

  “And no teacher could have turned him into anything else,” said Mr.

  Duthie.

  “And so, Cathro, you need not feel sore over your defeat,” added Mr. Gloag; but nevertheless Cathro took Tommy by the neck and ran him out of the parish school of Thrums. When he returned to the others he found the ministers congratulating McLauchlan, whose nose was in the air, and complimenting Mr. Ogilvy, who listened to their formal phrases solemnly and accepted their handshakes with a dry chuckle.

  “Ay, grin away, sir,” the mortified dominie of Thrums said to him sourly, “the joke is on your side.”