THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS by GEORGE DOUGLAS [Illustration: Publisher's logo] Thomas Nelson and Sons, Ltd. London, Edinburgh, and New York THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS. CHAPTER I. The frowsy chambermaid of the "Red Lion" had just finished washing thefront door steps. She rose from her stooping posture and, being ofslovenly habit, flung the water from her pail straight out, withoutmoving from where she stood. The smooth round arch of the falling waterglistened for a moment in mid-air. John Gourlay, standing in front ofhis new house at the head of the brae, could hear the swash of it whenit fell. The morning was of perfect stillness. The hands of the clock across "the Square" were pointing to the hour ofeight. They were yellow in the sun. Blowsalinda, of the Red Lion, picked up the big bass that usually laywithin the porch, and carrying it clumsily against her breast, moved offround the corner of the public-house, her petticoat gaping behind. Halfway she met the hostler, with whom she stopped in amorous dalliance. He said something to her, and she laughed loudly and vacantly. The silly_tee-hee_ echoed up the street. A moment later a cloud of dust drifting round the corner, and floatingwhite in the still air, showed that she was pounding the bass againstthe end of the house. All over the little town the women of Barbie wereequally busy with their steps and door-mats. There was scarce a man tobe seen either in the Square, at the top of which Gourlay stood, or inthe long street descending from its near corner. The men were at work;the children had not yet appeared; the women were busy with theirhousehold cares. The freshness of the air, the smoke rising thin and far above the redchimneys, the sunshine glistering on the roofs and gables, the rosyclearness of everything beneath the dawn--above all, the quietness andpeace--made Barbie, usually so poor to see, a very pleasant place tolook down at on a summer morning. At this hour there was an unfamiliardelicacy in the familiar scene, a freshness and purity of aspect--almostan unearthliness--as though you viewed it through a crystal dream. Butit was not the beauty of the hour that kept Gourlay musing at his gate. He was dead to the fairness of the scene, even while the fact of itspresence there before him wove most subtly with his mood. He smoked insilent enjoyment because on a morning such as this everything he saw wasa delicate flattery to his pride. At the beginning of a new day, to lookdown on the petty burgh in which he was the greatest man filled all hisbeing with a consciousness of importance. His sense of prosperity wassoothing and pervasive; he felt it all round him like the pleasant air, as real as that and as subtle; bathing him, caressing. It was the mostsecret and intimate joy of his life to go out and smoke on summermornings by his big gate, musing over Barbie ere he possessed it withhis merchandise. He had growled at the quarry carters for being late in setting out thismorning (for, like most resolute dullards, he was sternly methodical), but in his heart he was secretly pleased. The needs of his business wereso various that his men could rarely start at the same hour and in thesame direction. To-day, however, because of the delay, all his cartswould go streaming through the town together, and that brave pomp wouldbe a slap in the face to his enemies. "I'll show them, " he thoughtproudly. "Them" was the town-folk, and what he would show them was whata big man he was. For, like most scorners of the world's opinion, Gourlay was its slave, and showed his subjection to the popular estimateby his anxiety to flout it. He was not great enough for the carelessnessof perfect scorn. Through the big green gate behind him came the sound of carts beingloaded for the day. A horse, weary of standing idle between the shafts, kicked ceaselessly and steadily against the ground with one impatienthinder foot, clink, clink, clink upon the paved yard. "Easy, damn ye;ye'll smash the bricks!" came a voice. Then there was the smart slap ofan open hand on a sleek neck, a quick start, and the rattle of chains asthe horse quivered to the blow. "Run a white tarpaulin across the cheese, Jock, to keep them fraemelting in the heat, " came another voice. "And canny on the top therewi' thae big feet o' yours; d'ye think a cheese was made for _you_ todance on wi' your mighty brogues?" Then the voice sank to the hoarse, warning whisper of impatience--loudish in anxiety, yet throaty from fearof being heard. "Hurry up, man--hurry up, or he'll be down on us likebleezes for being so late in getting off!" Gourlay smiled grimly, and a black gleam shot from his eye as he glancedround to the gate and caught the words. His men did not know he couldhear them. The clock across the Square struck the hour, eight soft, slow strokes, that melted away in the beauty of the morning. Five minutes passed. Gourlay turned his head to listen, but no further sound came from theyard. He walked to the green gate, his slippers making no noise. "Are ye sleeping, my pretty men?" he said softly.... "_Eih?_" The "_Eih_" leapt like a sword, with a slicing sharpness in its tonethat made it a sinister contrast to the first sweet question to his"pretty men. " "_Eih?_" he said again, and stared with open mouth andfierce, dark eyes. "Hurry up, Peter, " whispered the gaffer, "hurry up, for God sake. He hasthe black glower in his een. " "Ready, sir; ready now!" cried Peter Riney, running out to open theother half of the gate. Peter was a wizened little man, with a sandyfringe of beard beneath his chin, a wart on the end of his long, slanting-out nose, light blue eyes, and bushy eyebrows of a reddishgray. The bearded red brows, close above the pale blueness of his eyes, made them more vivid by contrast; they were like pools of blue lightamid the brownness of his face. Peter always ran about his work witheager alacrity. A simple and willing old man, he affected the quickreadiness of youth to atone for his insignificance. "Hup, horse; hup then!" cried courageous Peter, walking backwards withcurved body through the gate, and tugging at the reins of a horse thefeet of which struck sparks from the paved ground as they stressedpainfully on edge to get weigh on the great wagon behind. The cartrolled through, then another, and another, till twelve of them hadpassed. Gourlay stood aside to watch them. All the horses were brown;"he makes a point of that, " the neighbours would have told you. As eachhorse passed the gate the driver left its head, and took his place bythe wheel, cracking his whip, with many a "Hup, horse; yean, horse; woa, lad; steady!" In a dull little country town the passing of a single cart is an event, and a gig is followed with the eye till it disappears. Anything iswelcome that breaks the long monotony of the hours and suggests a topicfor the evening's talk. "Any news?" a body will gravely inquire. "Ouay, " another will answer with equal gravity: "I saw Kennedy's gig goingpast in the forenoon. " "Ay, man; where would _he_ be off till? He's owreoften in his gig, I'm thinking. " And then Kennedy and his affairs willlast them till bedtime. Thus the appearance of Gourlay's carts woke Barbie from its morninglethargy. The smith came out in his leather apron, shoving back, as hegazed, the grimy cap from his white-sweating brow; bowed old men stoodin front of their doorways, leaning with one hand on short, tremblingstaffs, while the slaver slid unheeded along the cutties which the lefthand held to their toothless mouths; white-mutched grannies were keekingpast the jambs; an early urchin, standing wide-legged to stare, wavedhis cap and shouted, "Hooray!"--and all because John Gourlay's cartswere setting off upon their morning rounds, a brave procession for asingle town! Gourlay, standing great-shouldered in the middle of theroad, took in every detail, devoured it grimly as a homage to his pride. "Ha, ha, ye dogs!" said the soul within him. Past the pillar of the RedLion door he could see a white peep of the landlord's waistcoat--thoughthe rest of the mountainous man was hidden deep within his porch. (Onsummer mornings the vast totality of the landlord was always inferentialto the town from the tiny white peep of him revealed. ) Even fat Simpsonhad waddled to the door to see the carts going past. It was fatSimpson--might the Universe blast his adipose--who had once tried toinfringe Gourlay's monopoly as the sole carrier in Barbie. There hadbeen a rush to him at first, but Gourlay set his teeth and drove him offthe road, carrying stuff for nothing till Simpson had nothing to carry, so that the local wit suggested "a wee parcel in a big cart" as a newsign for his hotel. The twelve browns prancing past would be a pill toSimpson! There was no smile about Gourlay's mouth--a fiercer glower wasthe only sign of his pride--but it put a bloom on his morning, he felt, to see the suggestive round of Simpson's waistcoat, down yonder at theporch. Simpson, the swine! He had made short work o' _him_! Ere the last of the carts had issued from the yard at the House with theGreen Shutters the foremost was already near the Red Lion. Gourlay sworebeneath his breath when Miss Toddle--described in the local records as"a spinster of independent means"--came fluttering out with a sillylittle parcel to accost one of the carriers. Did the auld fool mean tostop Andy Gow about _her_ petty affairs, and thus break the line ofcarts on the only morning they had ever been able to go down the braetogether? But no. Andy tossed her parcel carelessly up among his otherpackages, and left her bawling instructions from the gutter, with aportentous shaking of her corkscrew curls. Gourlay's men took their cuefrom their master, and were contemptuous of Barbie, most unchivalrousscorners of its old maids. Gourlay was pleased with Andy for snubbing Sandy Toddle's sister. Whenhe and Elshie Hogg reached the Cross they would have to break off fromthe rest to complete their loads; but they had been down Main Streetover night as usual picking up their commissions, and until they reachedthe Bend o' the Brae it was unlikely that any business should arrestthem now. Gourlay hoped that it might be so; and he had his desire, for, with the exception of Miss Toddle, no customer appeared. The teams wentslowly down the steep side of the Square in an unbroken line, and slowlydown the street leading from its near corner. On the slope the horseswere unable to go fast--being forced to stell themselves back againstthe heavy propulsion of the carts behind; and thus the processionendured for a length of time worthy its surpassing greatness. When itdisappeared round the Bend o' the Brae the watching bodies disappearedtoo; the event of the day had passed, and vacancy resumed her reign. Thestreet and the Square lay empty to the morning sun. Gourlay alone stoodidly at his gate, lapped in his own satisfaction. It had been a big morning, he felt. It was the first time for many ayear that all his men, quarrymen and carriers, carters of cheese andcarters of grain, had led their teams down the brae together in the fullview of his rivals. "I hope they liked it!" he thought, and he noddedseveral times at the town beneath his feet, with a slow up-and-downmotion of the head, like a man nodding grimly to his beaten enemy. Itwas as if he said, "See what I have done to ye!" CHAPTER II. Only a man of Gourlay's brute force of character could have kept all thecarrying trade of Barbie in his own hands. Even in these days ofrailways, nearly every parish has a pair of carriers at the least, journeying once or twice a week to the nearest town. In the days whenGourlay was the great man of Barbie, railways were only beginning tothrust themselves among the quiet hills, and the bulk of inland commercewas still being drawn by horses along the country roads. Yet Gourlay wasthe only carrier in the town. The wonder is diminished when we rememberthat it had been a decaying burgh for thirty years, and that its trade, at the best of times, was of meagre volume. Even so, it was astonishingthat he should be the only carrier. If you asked the natives how he didit, "Ou, " they said, "he makes the one hand wash the other, doan't yeknow?"--meaning thereby that he had so many horses travelling on his ownbusiness, that he could afford to carry other people's goods at ratesthat must cripple his rivals. "But that's very stupid, surely, " said a visitor once, who thought ofentering into competition. "It's cutting off his nose to spite his face!Why is he so anxious to be the only carrier in Barbie that he carriesstuff for next to noathing the moment another man tries to work theroads? It's a daft-like thing to do!" "To be sure is't, to be sure is't! Just the stupeedity o' spite! Oh, there are times when Gourlay makes little or noathing from the carrying;but then, ye see, it gies him a fine chance to annoy folk! If you askhim to bring ye ocht, 'Oh, ' he growls, 'I'll see if it suits my ownconvenience. ' And ye have to be content. He has made so much money oflate that the pride of him's not to be endured. " It was not the insolence of sudden wealth, however, that made Gourlayhaughty to his neighbours; it was a repressiveness natural to the manand a fierce contempt of their scoffing envy. But it was true that hehad made large sums of money during recent years. From his father (whohad risen in the world) he inherited a fine trade in cheese; also thecarrying to Skeighan on the one side and Fleckie on the other. When hemarried Miss Richmond of Tenshillingland, he started as a corn brokerwith the snug dowry that she brought him. Then, greatly to his ownbenefit, he succeeded in establishing a valuable connection withTemplandmuir. It was partly by sheer impact of character that Gourlay obtained hisascendency over hearty and careless Templandmuir, and partly by a bluffjoviality which he--so little cunning in other things--knew to affectamong the petty lairds. The man you saw trying to be jocose withTemplandmuir was a very different being from the autocrat who "downed"his fellows in the town. It was all "How are ye the day, Templandmuir?"and "How d'ye doo-oo, Mr. Gourlay?" and the immediate production of thebig decanter. More than ten years ago now Templandmuir gave this fine, dour upstandingfriend of his a twelve-year tack of the Red Quarry, and that was themaking of Gourlay. The quarry yielded the best building stone in acircuit of thirty miles, easy to work and hard against wind and weather. When the main line went north through Skeighan and Poltandie, there wasa great deal of building on the far side, and Gourlay simply coined themoney. He could not have exhausted the quarry had he tried--he wouldhave had to howk down a hill--but he took thousands of loads from it forthe Skeighan folk; and the commission he paid the laird on each wasridiculously small. He built wooden stables out on Templandmuir'sestate--the Templar had seven hundred acres of hill land--and it wasthere the quarry horses generally stood. It was only rarely--once in twoyears, perhaps--that they came into the House with the Green Shutters. Last Saturday they had brought several loads of stuff for Gourlay's ownuse, and that is why they were present at the great procession on theMonday following. It was their feeling that Gourlay's success was out of all proportion tohis merits that made other great-men-in-a-small-way so bitter againsthim. They were an able lot, and scarce one but possessed fifty times hisweight of brain. Yet he had the big way of doing, though most of themwere well enough to pass. Had they not been aware of his stupidity, theywould never have minded his triumphs in the countryside; but they feltit with a sense of personal defeat that he--the donkey, as they thoughthim--should scoop every chance that was going, and leave them, thelong-headed ones, still muddling in their old concerns. They consoledthemselves with sneers, he retorted with brutal scorn, and the feud keptincreasing between them. They were standing at the Cross, to enjoy their Saturday at e'en, whenGourlay's "quarriers"--as the quarry horses had been named--came throughthe town last week-end. There were groups of bodies in the streets, washed from toil to enjoy the quiet air; dandering slowly or gossipingat ease; and they all turned to watch the quarriers stepping bravely up, their heads tossing to the hill. The big-men-in-a-small-way glowered andsaid nothing. "I wouldn't mind, " said Sandy Toddle at last--"I wouldn't mind if heweren't such a demned ess!" "Ess?" said the Deacon unpleasantly. He puckered his brow and blinked, pretending not to understand. "Oh, a cuddy, ye know, " said Toddle, colouring. "Gourlay'th stupid enough, " lisped the Deacon; "we all know that. Butthere'th one thing to be said on hith behalf. He's not such a 'demnedess' as to try and thpeak fancy English!" When the Deacon was not afraid of a man he stabbed him straight; when hewas afraid of him he stabbed him on the sly. He was annoyed by thepassing of Gourlay's carts, and he took it out of Sandy Toddle. "It's extr'ornar!" blurted the Provost (who was a man of brosy speech, large-mouthed and fat of utterance). "It's extr'ornar. Yass, it'sextr'ornar! I mean the luck of that man--for gumption he has noan, noanwhatever! But if the railway came hereaway I wager Gourlay would godown, " he added, less in certainty of knowledge than as prophet of thething desired. "I wager he'd go down, sirs. " "Likely enough, " said Sandy Toddle; "he wouldn't be quick enough to jumpat the new way of doing. " "Moar than that!" cried the Provost, spite sharpening his insight, "moarthan that--he'd be owre dour to abandon the auld way. _I_'m talling ye. He would just be left entirely! It's only those, like myself, whoapproach him on the town's affairs that know the full extent of hisstupeedity. " "Oh, he's a 'demned ess, '" said the Deacon, rubbing it into Toddle andGourlay at the same time. "A-ah, but then, ye see, he has the abeelity that comes from character, "said Johnny Coe, who was a sage philosopher. "For there are two kinds ofabeelity, don't ye understa-and? There's a scattered abeelity that's ofno use! Auld Randie Donaldson was good at fifty different things, and hedied in the poorhouse! There's a dour kind of abeelity, though, that hasno cleverness, but just gangs tramping on; and that's----" "The easiest beaten by a flank attack, " said the Deacon, snubbing him. CHAPTER III. With the sudden start of a man roused from a daydream Gourlay turnedfrom the green gate and entered the yard. Jock Gilmour, the "orra" man, was washing down the legs of a horse beside the trough. It was Gourlay'sown cob, which he used for driving round the countryside. It was ablack--Gourlay "made a point" of driving with a black. "The brown forsturdiness, the black for speed, " he would say, making a maxim of hiswhim to give it the sanction of a higher law. Gilmour was in a wild temper because he had been forced to get up atfive o'clock in order to turn several hundred cheeses, to prevent thembulging out of shape owing to the heat, and so becoming cracked andspoiled. He did not raise his head at his master's approach. And hishead being bent, the eye was attracted to a patent leather collar whichhe wore, glazed with black and red stripes. It is a collar much affectedby ploughmen, because a dip in the horse-trough once a month sufficesfor its washing. Between the striped collar and his hair (as he stooped)the sunburnt redness of his neck struck the eye vividly--the croppedfair hairs on it showing whitish on the red skin. The horse quivered as the cold water swashed about its legs, and turnedplayfully to bite its groom. Gilmour, still stooping, dug his elbow upbeneath its ribs. The animal wheeled in anger, but Gilmour ran to itshead with most manful blasphemy, and led it to the stable door. The offhind leg was still unwashed. "Has the horse but the three legs?" said Gourlay suavely. Gilmour brought the horse back to the trough, muttering sullenly. "Were ye saying anything?" said Gourlay. "_Eih?_" Gilmour sulked out and said nothing; and his master smiled grimly at thesudden redness that swelled his neck and ears to the verge of bursting. A boy, standing in his shirt and trousers at an open window of the houseabove, had looked down at the scene with craning interest--big-eyed. Hehad been alive to every turn and phase of it--the horse's quiver ofdelight and fear, his skittishness, the groom's ill-temper, andGourlay's grinding will. Eh, but his father was a caution! How easy hehad downed Jock Gilmour! The boy was afraid of his father himself, buthe liked to see him send other folk to the right about. For he was JohnGourlay, too. Hokey, but his father could down them! Mr. Gourlay passed on to the inner yard, which was close to the scullerydoor. The paved little court, within its high wooden walls, wascuriously fresh and clean. A cock-pigeon strutted round, puffing hisgleaming breast and _rooketty-cooing_ in the sun. Large, clear dropsfell slowly from the spout of a wooden pump, and splashed upon a flatstone. The place seemed to enfold the stillness. There was a sense ofinclusion and peace. There is a distinct pleasure to the eye in a quiet brick court whereeverything is fresh and prim; in sunny weather you can lounge in a roomand watch it through an open door, in a kind of lazy dream. The boy, standing at the window above to let the fresh air blow round his neck, was alive to that pleasure; he was intensely conscious of the pigeonswelling in its bravery, of the clean yard, the dripping pump, and thegreat stillness. His father on the step beneath had a different pleasurein the sight. The fresh indolence of morning was round him too, but itwas more than that that kept him gazing in idle happiness. He wasdelighting in the sense of his own property around him, the mostsubstantial pleasure possible to man. His feeling, deep though it was, was quite vague and inarticulate. If you had asked Gourlay what he wasthinking of he could not have told you, even if he had been willing toanswer you civilly--which is most unlikely. Yet his whole being, physical and mental (physical, indeed, rather than mental), wassurcharged with the feeling that the fine buildings around him were his, that he had won them by his own effort, and built them large andsignificant before the world. He was lapped in the thought of it. All men are suffused with that quiet pride in looking at the houses andlands which they have won by their endeavours--in looking at the housesmore than at the lands, for the house which a man has built seems toexpress his character and stand for him before the world, as a sign ofhis success. It is more personal than cold acres, stamped with anindividuality. All men know that soothing pride in the contemplation oftheir own property. But in Gourlay's sense of property there was anotherelement--an element peculiar to itself, which endowed it with itswarmest glow. Conscious always that he was at a disadvantage among hiscleverer neighbours, who could achieve a civic eminence denied to him, he felt nevertheless that there was one means, a material means, bywhich he could hold his own and reassert himself--by the bravery of hisbusiness, namely, and all the appointments thereof, among which hisdwelling was the chief. That was why he had spent so much money on thehouse. That was why he had such keen delight in surveying it. Every timehe looked at the place he had a sense of triumph over what he knew inhis bones to be an adverse public opinion. There was anger in hispleasure, and the pleasure that is mixed with anger often gives thekeenest thrill. It is the delight of triumph in spite of opposition. Gourlay's house was a material expression of that delight, stood for itin stone and lime. It was not that he reasoned deliberately when he built the house. Butevery improvement that he made--and he was always spending money onimprovements--had for its secret motive a more or less vague desire toscore off his rivals. "_That_'ll be a slap in the face to the Provost!"he smiled, when he planted his great mound of shrubs. "There's noathinglike _that_ about the Provost's! Ha, ha!" Encased as he was in his hard and insensitive nature, he was not the manwho in new surroundings would be quick to every whisper of opinion. Buthe had been born and bred in Barbie, and he knew his townsmen--oh yes, he knew them. He knew they laughed because he had no gift of the gab, and could never be Provost, or Bailie, or Elder, or even Chairman of theGasworks! Oh, verra well, verra well; let Connal and Brodie andAllardyce have the talk, and manage the town's affairs (he was damned ifthey should manage his!)--he, for his part, preferred the substantialreality. He could never aspire to the provostship, but a man with ahouse like that, he was fain to think, could afford to do without it. Ohyes; he was of opinion he could do without it! It had run him short ofcash to build the place so big and braw, but, Lord! it was worth it. There wasn't a man in the town who had such accommodation! And so, gradually, his dwelling had come to be a passion of Gourlay'slife. It was a by-word in the place that if ever his ghost was seen, itwould be haunting the House with the Green Shutters. Deacon Allardyce, trying to make a phrase with him, once quoted the saying in hispresence. "Likely enough!" said Gourlay. "It's only reasonable I shouldprefer my own house to you rabble in the graveyard!" Both in appearance and position the house was a worthy counterpart ofits owner. It was a substantial two-story dwelling, planted firm andgawcey on a little natural terrace that projected a considerabledistance into the Square. At the foot of the steep little bank shelvingto the terrace ran a stone wall, of no great height, and the ironrailings it uplifted were no higher than the sward within. Thus thewhole house was bare to the view from the ground up, nothing in front toscreen its admirable qualities. From each corner, behind, flanking wallswent out to the right and left, and hid the yard and the granaries. Infront of these walls the dwelling seemed to thrust itself out fornotice. It took the eye of a stranger the moment he entered the Square. "Whose place is that?" was his natural question. A house that challengesregard in that way should have a gallant bravery in its look; if itsaspect be mean, its assertive position but directs the eye to itsinfirmities. There is something pathetic about a tall, cold, barn-likehouse set high upon a brae; it cannot hide its naked shame; it thrustsits ugliness dumbly on your notice, a manifest blotch upon the world, aplace for the winds to whistle round. But Gourlay's house was worthy itscommanding station. A little dour and blunt in the outlines like Gourlayhimself, it drew and satisfied your eye as he did. And its position, "cockit up there on the brae, " made it the theme ofconstant remark--to men because of the tyrant who owned it, and to womenbecause of the poor woman who mismanaged its affairs. "'Deed, I don'twonder that gurly Gourlay, as they ca' him, has an ill temper, " said thegossips gathered at the pump, with their big, bare arms akimbo;"whatever led him to marry that dishclout of a woman clean beats _me_! Inever could make head nor tail o't!" As for the men, they twisted everyitem about Gourlay and his domicile into fresh matter of assailment. "What's the news?" asked one, returning from a long absence; to whomthe smith, after smoking in silence for five minutes, said, "Gourlay hasgot new rones!" "Ha--ay, man, Gourlay has got new rones!" buzzed thevisitor; and then their eyes, diminished in mirth, twinkled at eachother from out their ruddy wrinkles, as if wit had volleyed betweenthem. In short, the House with the Green Shutters was on everytongue--and with a scoff in the voice, if possible. CHAPTER IV. Gourlay went swiftly to the kitchen from the inner yard. He had stood solong in silence on the step, and his coming was so noiseless, that hesurprised a long, thin trollop of a woman, with a long, thin, scraggyneck, seated by the slatternly table, and busy with a frowsypaper-covered volume, over which her head was bent in intent perusal. "At your novelles?" said he. "Ay, woman; will it be a good story?" She rose in a nervous flutter when she saw him; yet needlessly shrill inher defence, because she was angry at detection. "Ah, well!" she cried, in weary petulance, "it's an unco thing if abody's not to have a moment's rest after such a morning's darg! I justsat down wi' the book for a little, till John should come till hisbreakfast!" "So?" said Gourlay. "God, ay!" he went on; "you're making a nice job of_him_. _He_'ll be a credit to the house. Oh, it's right, no doubt, that_you_ should neglect your work till _he_ consents to rise. " "Eh, the puir la-amb, " she protested, dwelling on the vowels in fatuous, maternal love; "the bairn's wearied, man! He's ainything but strong, andthe schooling's owre sore on him. " "Poor lamb, atweel, " said Gourlay. "It was a muckle sheep that droppedhim. " It was Gourlay's pride in his house that made him harsher to his wifethan others, since her sluttishness was a constant offence to the orderin which he loved to have his dear possessions. He, for his part, likedeverything precise. His claw-toed hammer always hung by the head on acouple of nails close together near the big clock; his gun always layacross a pair of wooden pegs, projecting from the brown rafters, justabove the hearth. His bigotry in trifles expressed his character. Strongmen of a mean understanding often deliberately assume, and passionatelydefend, peculiarities of no importance, because they have nothing elseto get a repute for. "No, no, " said Gourlay; "you'll never see a browncob in _my_ gig--I wouldn't take one in a present!" He was full of suchfads, and nothing should persuade him to alter the crotchets, which, forwant of something better, he made the marks of his dour character. Hehad worked them up as part of his personality, and his pride ofpersonality was such that he would never consent to change them. Hencethe burly and gurly man was prim as an old maid with regard to hisbelongings. Yet his wife was continually infringing the order on whichhe set his heart. If he went forward to the big clock to look for hishammer, it was sure to be gone--the two bright nails staring at himvacantly. "Oh, " she would say, in weary complaint, "I just took it tobreak a wheen coals;" and he would find it in the coal-hole, greasy andgrimy finger-marks engrained on the handle which he loved to keep sosmooth and clean. Innumerable her offences of the kind. Independent ofthese, the sight of her general incompetence filled him with a seethingrage, which found vent not in lengthy tirades but the smooth venom ofhis tongue. Let him keep the outside of the house never so spick andspan, inside was awry with her untidiness. She was unworthy of the Housewith the Green Shutters--that was the gist of it. Every time he set eyeson the poor trollop, the fresh perception of her incompetence which thesudden sight of her flashed, as she trailed aimlessly about, seemed tofatten his rage and give a coarser birr to his tongue. Mrs. Gourlay had only four people to look after--her husband, her twochildren, and Jock Gilmour, the orra man. And the wife of DruckenWabster--who had to go charing because she was the wife of DruckenWabster--came in every day, and all day long, to help her with the work. Yet the house was always in confusion. Mrs. Gourlay had asked foranother servant, but Gourlay would not allow that; "one's enough, " saidhe, and what he once laid down he never went back on. Mrs. Gourlay hadto muddle along as best she could, and having no strength either of mindor body, she let things drift, and took refuge in reading silly fiction. As Gourlay shoved his feet into his boots, and stamped to make themeasy, he glowered at the kitchen from under his heavy brows with a hugedisgust. The table was littered with unwashed dishes, and on the cornerof it next him was a great black sloppy ring, showing where a wetsaucepan had been laid upon the bare board. The sun streamed through thewindow in yellow heat right on to a pat of melting butter. There was abasin of dirty water beneath the table, with the dishcloth slopping overon the ground. "It's a tidy house!" said he. "Ach, well, " she cried, "you and your kitchen-range! It was that thatdid it! The masons could have redd out the fireplace to make room for'tin the afternoon before it comes hame. They could have done't brawly, but ye wouldna hear o't--oh no; ye bude to have the whole place guttedout yestreen. I had to boil everything on the parlour fire this morning;no wonder I'm a little tousy!" The old-fashioned kitchen grate had been removed and the jambs had beenwidened on each side of the fireplace; it yawned empty and cold. Alittle rubble of mortar, newly dried, lay about the bottom of thesquare recess. The sight of the crude, unfamiliar scraps of dropped limein the gaping place where warmth should have been, increased thediscomfort of the kitchen. "Oh, that's it!" said Gourlay. "I see! It was want of the fireplace thatkept ye from washing the dishes that we used yestreen. That wasterrible! However, ye'll have plenty of boiling water when I put in thegrand new range for ye; there winna be its equal in the parish! We'llmaybe have a clean house _than_. " Mrs. Gourlay leaned, with the outspread thumb and red raw knuckles ofher right hand, on the sloppy table, and gazed away through the backwindow of the kitchen in a kind of mournful vacancy. Always when herfirst complaining defence had failed to turn aside her husband's tongue, her mind became a blank beneath his heavy sarcasms, and sought refuge bydrifting far away. She would fix her eyes on the distance in drearycontemplation, and her mind would follow her eyes in a vacant andwistful regard. The preoccupation of her mournful gaze enabled her tomeet her husband's sneers with a kind of numb, unheeding acquiescence. She scarcely heard them. Her head hung a little to one side as if too heavy for her wilting neck. Her hair, of a dry, red brown, curved low on either side of her brow, ina thick, untidy mass, to her almost transparent ears. As she gazed inweary and dreary absorption her lips had fallen heavy and relaxed, inunison with her mood; and through her open mouth her breathing wasquick, and short, and noiseless. She wore no stays, and her slack cottonblouse showed the flatness of her bosom, and the faint outlines of herwithered and pendulous breasts hanging low within. There was something tragic in her pose, as she stood, sad andabstracted, by the dirty table. She was scraggy helplessness, staringin sorrowful vacancy. But Gourlay eyed her with disgust. Why, by Heaven, even now her petticoat was gaping behind, worse than the sloven's at theRed Lion. She was a pr-r-retty wife for John Gourlay! The sight of herfeebleness would have roused pity in some: Gourlay it moved to a steadyand seething rage. As she stood helpless before him he stung her withcrude, brief irony. Yet he was not wilfully cruel; only a stupid man with a strongcharacter, in which he took a dogged pride. Stupidity and pride provokedthe brute in him. He was so dull--only dull is hardly the word for a manof his smouldering fire--he was so dour of wit that he could never hopeto distinguish himself by anything in the shape of cleverness. Yet soresolute a man must make the strong personality of which he was proudtell in some way. How, then, should he assert his superiority and holdhis own? Only by affecting a brutal scorn of everything said and doneunless it was said and done by John Gourlay. His lack of understandingmade his affectation of contempt the easier. A man can never sneer at athing which he really understands. Gourlay, understanding nothing, wasable to sneer at everything. "Hah! I don't understand that; it's damnednonsense!"--that was his attitude to life. If "that" had been anutterance of Shakespeare or Napoleon it would have made no difference toJohn Gourlay. It would have been damned nonsense just the same. And hewould have told them so, if he had met them. The man had made dogged scorn a principle of life to maintain himself atthe height which his courage warranted. His thickness of wit was never abar to the success of his irony. For the irony of the ignorant Scot israrely the outcome of intellectual qualities. It depends on a falsettovoice and the use of a recognized number of catchwords. "Dee-ee-ar me, dee-ee-ar me;" "Just so-a, just so-a;" "Im-phm!" "D'ye tell me that?""Wonderful, serr, wonderful;" "Ah, well, may-ay-be, may-ay-be"--these bewords of potent irony when uttered with a certain birr. Long practicehad made Gourlay an adept in their use. He never spoke to those hedespised or disliked without "the birr. " Not that he was voluble ofspeech; he wasn't clever enough for lengthy abuse. He said little andhis voice was low, but every word from the hard, clean lips was a stab. And often his silence was more withering than any utterance. It strucklife like a black frost. In those early days, to be sure, Gourlay had less occasion for the useof his crude but potent irony, since the sense of his materialwell-being warmed him and made him less bitter to the world. To thesubstantial farmers and petty squires around he was civil, even hearty, in his manner--unless they offended him. For they belonged to the closecorporation of "bien men, " and his familiarity with them was a proof tothe world of his greatness. Others, again, were far too far beneath himalready for him to "down" them. He reserved his gibes for his immediatefoes, the assertive bodies his rivals in the town--and for his wife, whowas a constant eyesore. As for her, he had baited the poor woman so longthat it had become a habit; he never spoke to her without a sneer. "Ay, where have _you_ been stravaiging to?" he would drawl; and if sheanswered meekly, "I was taking a dander to the linn owre-bye, " "TheLinn!" he would take her up; "ye had a heap to do to gang there; yourBible would fit you better on a bonny Sabbath afternune!" Or it mightbe: "What's that you're burying your nose in now?" and if she faltered, "It's the Bible, " "Hi!" he would laugh, "you're turning godly in yourauld age. Weel, I'm no saying but it's time. " "Where's Janet?" he demanded, stamping his boots once more, now he hadthem laced. "Eh?" said his wife vaguely, turning her eyes from the window. "Wha-at?" "Ye're not turning deaf, I hope. I was asking ye where Janet was. " "I sent her down to Scott's for a can o' milk, " she answered himwearily. "No doubt ye had to send _her_, " said he. "What ails the lamb that yecouldna send _him_--eh?" "Oh, she was about when I wanted the milk, and she volunteered to gang. Man, it seems I never do a thing to please ye! What harm will it do herto run for a drop milk?" "Noan, " he said gravely, "noan. And it's right, no doubt, that herbrother should still be abed--oh, it's right that he should get theprivilege--seeing he's the eldest!" Mrs. Gourlay was what the Scotch call "browdened[1] on her boy. " Inspite of her slack grasp on life--perhaps, because of it--she clung witha tenacious fondness to him. He was all she had, for Janet was athowless[2] thing, too like her mother for her mother to like her. AndGourlay had discovered that it was one way of getting at his wife to behard upon the thing she loved. In his desire to nag and annoy her headopted a manner of hardness and repression to his son--which becamepermanent. He was always "down" on John; the more so because Janet washis own favourite--perhaps, again, because her mother seemed to neglecther. Janet was a very unlovely child, with a long, tallowy face and apimply brow, over which a stiff fringe of whitish hair came down almostto her staring eyes, the eyes themselves being large, pale blue, andsaucer-like, with a great margin of unhealthy white. But Gourlay, thoughhe never petted her, had a silent satisfaction in his daughter. He tookher about with him in the gig, on Saturday afternoons, when he went tobuy cheese and grain at the outlying farms. And he fed her rabbits whenshe had the fever. It was a curious sight to see the dour, silent manmixing oatmeal and wet tea-leaves in a saucer at the dirty kitchentable, and then marching off to the hutch, with the ridiculous dish inhis hand, to feed his daughter's pets. * * * * * A sudden yell of pain and alarm rang through the kitchen. It came fromthe outer yard. When the boy, peering from the window above, saw his father disappearthrough the scullery door, he stole out. The coast was clear at last. He passed through to the outer yard. Jock Gilmour had been dashing wateron the paved floor, and was now sweeping it out with a great whalebonebesom. The hissing whalebone sent a splatter of dirty drops showering infront of it. John set his bare feet wide (he was only in his shirt andknickers) and eyed the man whom his father had "downed" with a kind ofsilent swagger. He felt superior. His pose was instinct with thefeeling: "_My_ father is _your_ master, and ye daurna stand up tillhim. " Children of masterful sires often display that attitude towardsdependants. The feeling is not the less real for being subconscious. Jock Gilmour was still seething with a dour anger because Gourlay'squiet will had ground him to the task. When John came out and stoodthere, he felt tempted to vent on him the spite he felt against hisfather. The subtle suggestion of criticism and superiority in the boy'spose intensified the wish. Not that Gilmour acted from deliberatemalice; his irritation was instinctive. Our wrath against those whom wefear is generally wreaked upon those whom we don't. John, with his hands in his pockets, strutted across the yard, stillwatching Gilmour with that silent, offensive look. He came into thepath of the whalebone. "Get out, you smeowt!" cried Gilmour, and with avicious shove of the brush he sent a shower of dirty drops spatteringabout the boy's bare legs. "Hallo you! what are ye after?" bawled the boy. "Don't you try that onagain, I'm telling ye. What are _you_, onyway? Ye're just a servant. Hay-ay-ay, my man, my faither's the boy for ye. _He_ can put ye in yourplace. " Gilmour made to go at him with the head of the whalebone besom. Johnstooped and picked up the wet lump of cloth with which Gilmour had beenwashing down the horse's legs. "Would ye?" said Gilmour threateningly. "Would I no?" said John, the wet lump poised for throwing, level withhis shoulder. But he did not throw it for all his defiant air. He hesitated. He wouldhave liked to slash it into Gilmour's face, but a swift vision of whatwould happen if he did withheld his craving arm. His irresolution waspatent in his face; in his eyes there were both a threat and a watchfulfear. He kept the dirty cloth poised in mid-air. "Drap the clout, " said Gilmour. "I'll no, " said John. Gilmour turned sideways and whizzed the head of the besom round so thatits dirty spray rained in the boy's face and eyes. John let him have thewet lump slash in his mouth. Gilmour dropped the besom and hit him asounding thwack on the ear. John hullabalooed. Murther and desperation! Ere he had gathered breath for a second roar his mother was present inthe yard. She was passionate in defence of her cub, and rage transformedher. Her tense frame vibrated in anger; you would scarce have recognizedthe weary trollop of the kitchen. "What's the matter, Johnny dear?" she cried, with a fierce glance atGilmour. "Gilmour hut me!" he bellowed angrily. "Ye muckle lump!" she cried shrilly, the two scraggy muscles of her neckstanding out long and thin as she screamed; "ye muckle lump--to strike adefenceless wean!--Dinna greet, my lamb; I'll no let him meddleye. --Jock Gilmour, how daur ye lift your finger to a wean of mine? ButI'll learn ye the better o't! Mr. Gourlay'll gie _you_ the order totravel ere the day's muckle aulder. I'll have no servant about _my_hoose to ill-use _my_ bairn. " She stopped, panting angrily for breath, and glared at her darling'senemy. "_Your_ servant!" cried Gilmour in contempt. "Ye're a nice-lookingobject to talk about servants. " He pointed at her slovenly dress andburst into a blatant laugh: "Huh, huh, huh!" Mr. Gourlay had followed more slowly from the kitchen, as befitted a manof his superior character. He heard the row well enough, but consideredit beneath him to hasten to a petty squabble. "What's this?" he demanded with a widening look. Gilmour scowled at theground. "This!" shrilled Mrs. Gourlay, who had recovered her breathagain--"this! Look at him there, the muckle slabber, " and she pointed toGilmour, who was standing with a red-lowering, downcast face, "look athim! A man of that size to even himsell to a wean!" "He deserved a' he got, " said Gilmour sullenly. "His mother spoils him, at ony rate. And I'm damned if the best Gourlay that ever dirtiedleather's gaun to trample owre _me_. " Gourlay jumped round with a quick start of the whole body. For a fullminute he held Gilmour in the middle of his steady glower. "Walk, " he said, pointing to the gate. "Oh, I'll walk, " bawled Gilmour, screaming now that anger gave himcourage. "Gie me time to get _my_ kist, and I'll walk mighty quick. Anddamned glad I'll be to get redd o' you and your hoose. The Hoose wi' theGreen Shutters, " he laughed, "hi, hi, hi!--the Hoose wi' the GreenShutters!" Gourlay went slowly up to him, opening his eyes on him black and wide. "You swine!" he said, with quiet vehemence; "for damned little I wouldkill ye wi' a glower!" Gilmour shrank from the blaze in his eyes. "Oh, dinna be fee-ee-ared, " said Gourlay quietly, "dinna be fee-ee-ared. I wouldn't dirty my hand on 'ee! But get your bit kist, and I'll see yeoff the premises. Suspeecious characters are worth the watching. " "Suspeecious!" stuttered Gilmour, "suspeecious! Wh-wh-whan was I eversuspeecious? I'll have the law of ye for that. I'll make ye answer foryour wor-rds. " "Imphm!" said Gourlay. "In the meantime, look slippy wi' that bit box o'yours. I don't like daft folk about _my_ hoose. " "There'll be dafter folk as me in your hoose yet, " spluttered Gilmourangrily, as he turned away. He went up to the garret where he slept and brought down his trunk. Ashe passed through the scullery, bowed beneath the clumsy burden on hisleft shoulder, John, recovered from his sobbing, mocked at him. "Hay-ay-ay, " he said, in throaty derision, "my faither's the boy for ye. Yon was the way to put ye down!" FOOTNOTES: [1] _Browdened. _ A Scot devoted to his children is said to be "browdenedon his bairns. " [2] _Thowless_, weak, useless. CHAPTER V. In every little Scotch community there is a distinct type known as "thebodie. " "What does he do, that man?" you may ask, and the answer willbe, "Really, I could hardly tell ye what he does--he's juist a bodie!"The "bodie" may be a gentleman of independent means (a hundred a yearfrom the Funds), fussing about in spats and light check breeches; or hemay be a jobbing gardener; but he is equally a "bodie. " The chiefoccupation of his idle hours (and his hours are chiefly idle) is thediscussion of his neighbour's affairs. He is generally an "auldresidenter;" great, therefore, at the redding up of pedigrees. He cantell you exactly, for instance, how it is that young Pin-oe's takinggeyly to the dram; for his grandfather, it seems, was a terrible man forthe drink--ou, just terrible. Why, he went to bed with a full jar ofwhisky once, and when he left it he was dead, and it was empty. So, yesee, that's the reason o't. The genus "bodie" is divided into two species--the "harmless bodies" andthe "nesty bodies. " The bodies of Barbie mostly belonged to the secondvariety. Johnny Coe and Tam Wylie and the baker were decent enoughfellows in their way, but the others were the sons of scandal. Gourlayspoke of them as a "wheen damned auld wives. " But Gourlay, to be sure, was not an impartial witness. The Bend o' the Brae was the favourite stance of the bodies: here theyforgathered every day to pass judgment on the town's affairs. And, indeed, the place had many things to recommend it. Among the chief itwas within an easy distance of the Red Lion, farther up the street, towhich it was really very convenient to adjourn nows and nans. Standingat the Bend o' the Brae, too, you could look along two roads to the leftand right, or down upon the Cross beneath, and the three low streetsthat guttered away from it. Or you might turn and look up Main Street, and past the side of the Square, to the House with the Green Shutters, the highest in the town. The Bend o' the Brae, you will gather, was afine post for observation. It had one drawback, true: if Gourlay turnedto the right in his gig he disappeared in a moment, and you could neverbe sure where he was off to. But even that afforded matter for pleasingspeculation which often lasted half an hour. It was about nine o'clock when Gourlay and Gilmour quarrelled in theyard, and that was the hour when the bodies forgathered for theirmorning dram. "Good-moarning, Mr. Wylie!" said the Provost. When the Provost wished you good-morning, with a heavy civic eye, youfelt sure it was going to be good. "Mornin', Provost, mornin'! Fine weather for the fields, " said Tam, casting a critical glance at the blue dome in which a soft, white-bosomed cloud floated high above the town. "If this weather hauds, it'll be a blessing for us poor farming bodies. " Tam was a wealthy old hunks, but it suited his humour to refer tohimself constantly as "a poor farming bodie. " And he dressed inaccordance with his humour. His clean old crab-apple face was alwaysgrinning at you from over a white-sleeved moleskin waistcoat, as if hehad been no better than a breaker of road-metal. "Faith ay!" said the Provost, cunning and quick; "fodder should becheap"--and he shot the covetous glimmer of a bargain-making eye at Mr. Wylie. Tam drew himself up. He saw what was coming. "We're needing some hay for the burgh horse, " said the Provost. "Ye'llbe willing to sell at fifty shillings the ton, since it's like to be soplentiful. " "Oh, " said Tam solemnly, "that's on-possible! Gourlay's seeking thethree pound! and where he leads we maun a' gang. Gourlay sets the tune, and Barbie dances till't. " That was quite untrue so far as the speaker was concerned. It took aclever man to make Tam Wylie dance to his piping. But Thomas, the knave, knew that he could always take a rise out the Provost by cracking up theGourlays, and that to do it now was the best way of fobbing him offabout the hay. "Gourlay!" muttered the Provost, in disgust. And Tam winked at thebaker. "Losh, " said Sandy Toddle, "yonder's the Free Kirk minister going pastthe Cross! Where'll _he_ be off till at this hour of the day? He's notoften up so soon. " "They say he sits late studying, " said Johnny Coe. "H'mph, studying!" grunted Tam Brodie, a big, heavy, wall-cheeked man, whose little, side-glancing eyes seemed always alert for scandal amidthe massive insolence of his smooth face. "I see few signs of studyingin _him_. He's noathing but a stink wi' a skin on't. " T. Brodie was a very important man, look you, and wrote "LeatherMercht. " above his door, though he cobbled with his own hands. He was astaunch Conservative, and down on the Dissenters. "What road'th he taking?" lisped Deacon Allardyce, craning past Brodie'sbig shoulder to get a look. "He's stoppit to speak to Widow Wallace. What will he be saying to_her_?" "She's a greedy bodie that Mrs. Wallace: I wouldna wonder but she'sspeiring him for bawbees. " "Will he take the Skeighan Road, I wonder?" "Or the Fechars?" "He's a great man for gathering gowans and other sic trash. He's maybefor a dander up the burn juist. They say he's a great botanical man. " "Ay, " said Brodie, "paidling in a burn's the ploy for him. He's a weanlygowk. " "A-a-ah!" protested the baker, who was a Burnsomaniac, "there's waurthan a walk by the bank o' a bonny burn. Ye ken what Mossgiel said:-- 'The Muse nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel' he learned to wander, Adown some trottin' burn's meander, And no thick lang; Oh sweet to muse and pensive ponder A heartfelt sang. '" Poetical quotations, however, made the Provost uncomfortable. "Ay, " hesaid dryly in his throat; "verra good, baker, verra good!--Who's yellowdoag's that? I never saw the beast about the town before!" "Nor me either. It's a perfect stranger!" "It's like a herd's doag!" "Man, you're right! That's just what it will be. The morn's Fleckie lambfair, and some herd or other'll be in about the town. " "He'll be drinking in some public-house, I'se warrant, and the doag willhave lost him. " "Imph, that'll be the way o't. " "I'm demned if he hasn't taken the Skeighan Road!" said Sandy Toddle, who had kept his eye on the minister. Toddle's accent was a varyingquality. When he remembered he had been a packman in England it wasexceedingly fine. But he often forgot. "The Skeighan Road! the Skeighan Road! Who'll he be going to see in thatairt? Will it be Templandmuir?" "Gosh, it canna be Templandmuir; he was there no later than yestreen!" "Here's a man coming down the brae!" announced Johnny Coe, in a solemnvoice, as if a man "coming down the brae" was something unusual. In amoment every head was turned to the hill. "What's yon he's carrying on his shouther?" pondered Brodie. "It looks like a boax, " said the Provost slowly, bending every effort ofeye and mind to discover what it really was. He was giving hisprofoundest cogitations to the "boax. " "It _is_ a boax! But who is it though? I canna make him out. " "Dod, I canna tell either; his head's so bent with his burden!" At last the man, laying his "boax" on the ground, stood up to ease hisspine, so that his face was visible. "Losh, it's Jock Gilmour, the orra man at Gourlay's! What'll _he_ bedoing out on the street at this hour of the day? I thocht he was alwaysbusy on the premises! Will Gourlay be sending him off with something tosomebody? But no; that canna be. He would have sent it with the carts. " "I'll wager ye, " cried Johnny Coe quickly, speaking more loudly thanusual in the animation of discovery--"I'll wager ye Gourlay hasquarrelled him and put him to the door!" "Man, you're right! That'll just be it, that'll just be it! Ay, ay--faith ay--and yon'll be his kist he's carrying! Man, you're right, Mr. Coe; you have just put your finger on't. We'll hear news _this_morning. " They edged forward to the middle of the road, the Provost in front, tomeet Gilmour coming down. "Ye've a heavy burden this morning, John, " said the Provost graciously. "No wonder, sir, " said Gilmour, with big-eyed solemnity, and set downthe chest; "it's no wonder, seeing that I'm carrying my a-all. " "Ay, man, John. How's that na?" To be the centre of interest and the object of gracious condescensionwas balm to the wounded feelings of Gilmour. Gourlay had lowered him, but this reception restored him to his own good opinion. He was usuallycalled "Jock" (except by his mother, to whom, of course, he was "oorJohnny"), but the best merchants in the town were addressing him as"John. " It was a great occasion. Gilmour expanded in gossip beneath itsinfluence benign. He welcomed, too, this first and fine opportunity of venting his wrathon the Gourlays. "Oh, I just telled Gourlay what I thocht of him, and took the door ahintme. I let him have it hot and hardy, I can tell ye. He'll no forget _me_in a hurry"--Gilmour bawled angrily, and nodded his head significantly, and glared fiercely, to show what good cause he had given Gourlay toremember him--"he'll no forget _me_ for a month of Sundays. " "Ay, man, John, what did ye say till him?" "Na, man, what did he say to you?" "Wath he angry, Dyohn?" "How did the thing begin?" "Tell us, man, John. " "What was it a-all about, John?" "Was Mrs. Gourlay there?" Bewildered by this pelt of questions, Gilmour answered the last that hithis ear. "There, ay; faith, she was there. It was her was the causeo't. " "D'ye tell me that, John? Man, you surprise me. I would have thocht thethowless trauchle[3] hadna the smeddum left to interfere. " "Oh, it was yon boy of hers. He's aye swaggerin' aboot, interferin' wi'folk at their wark--he follows his faither's example in that, for as theauld cock craws the young ane learns--and his mither's that daft aboothim that ye daurna give a look! He came in my road when I was sweepingout the close, and some o' the dirty jaups splashed about his shins. Butwas I to blame for that?--ye maun walk wide o' a whalebone besom if yedinna want to be splashed. Afore I kenned where I was, he up wi' a dirtywashing-clout and slashed me in the face wi't! I hit him a thud in theear--as wha wadna? Out come his mither like a fury, skirling about _her_hoose, and _her_ servants, and _her_ weans. 'Your servant!' saysI--'your servant! You're a nice-looking trollop to talk aboot servants, 'says I. " "Did ye really, John?" "Man, that wath bauld o' ye. " "And what did _she_ say?" "Oh, she just kept skirling! And then, to be sure, Gourlay must come outand interfere! But I telled him to his face what I thocht of _him!_ 'Thebest Gourlay that ever dirtied leather, ' says I, ''s no gaun to makedirt of me, ' says I. " "Ay, man, Dyohn!" lisped Deacon Allardyce, with bright and eagerlyinquiring eyes. "And what did he thay to that na? _That_ wath a dig forhim! I'the warrant he wath angry. " "Angry? He foamed at the mouth! But I up and says to him, 'I have hadenough o' you, ' says I, 'you and your Hoose wi' the Green Shutters, 'says I. 'You're no fit to have a decent servant, ' says I. 'Pay _me my_wages, and I'll be redd o' ye, ' says I. And wi' that I flang my kist onmy shouther and slapped the gate ahint me. " "And _did_ he pay ye your wages?" Tam Wylie probed him slyly, with asideward glimmer in his eye. "Ah, well, no--not exactly, " said Gilmour, drawing in. "But I'll getthem right enough for a' that. He'll no get the better o' _me_. " Havinggrounded unpleasantly on the question of the wages, he thought it bestto be off ere the bloom was dashed from his importance, so heshouldered his chest and went. The bodies watched him down the street. "He's a lying brose, that, " said the baker. "We a' ken what Gourlay is. He would have flung Gilmour out by the scruff o' the neck if he haddaured to set his tongue against him!" "Faith, that's so, " said Tam Wylie and Johnny Coe together. But the others were divided between their perception of the fact andtheir wish to believe that Gourlay had received a thrust or two. Atother times they would have been the first to scoff at Gilmour'sswagger. Now their animus against Gourlay prompted them to back it up. "Oh, I'm not so sure of tha-at, baker, " cried the Provost, in the false, loud voice of a man defending a position which he knows to be unsound;"I'm no so sure of that at a-all. A-a-ah, mind ye, " he drawledpersuasively, "he's a hardy fallow, that Gilmour. I've no doubt he giedGourlay a good dig or two. Let us howp they will do him good. " For many reasons intimate to the Scot's character, envious scandal isrampant in petty towns such as Barbie. To go back to the beginning, theScot, as pundits will tell you, is an individualist. His religion aloneis enough to make him so; for it is a scheme of personal salvationsignificantly described once by the Reverend Mr. Struthers of Barbie. "At the Day of Judgment, my frehnds, " said Mr. Struthers--"at the Day ofJudgment every herring must hang by his own tail!" Self-dependence wasnever more luridly expressed. History, climate, social conditions, andthe national beverage have all combined (the pundits go on) to make theScot an individualist, fighting for his own hand. The better for him ifit be so; from that he gets the grit that tells. From their individualism, however, comes inevitably a keen spirit ofcompetition (the more so because Scotch democracy gives fine chances tocompete), and from their keen spirit of competition comes, inevitablyagain, an envious belittlement of rivals. If a man's success offendsyour individuality, to say everything you can against him is arecognized weapon of the fight. It takes him down a bit, and (inversely)elevates his rival. It is in a small place like Barbie that such malignity is most virulent, because in a small place like Barbie every man knows everything to hisneighbour's detriment. He can redd up his rival's pedigree, for example, and lower his pride (if need be) by detailing the disgraces of his kin. "I have grand news the day!" a big-hearted Scot will exclaim (and whentheir hearts are big they are big to hypertrophy)--"I have grand newsthe day! Man, Jock Goudie has won the C. B. "--"Jock Goudie"--an enviousbodie will pucker as if he had never heard the name--"Jock Goudie? Wha's_he_ for a Goudie? Oh ay, let me see now. He's a brother o'--eh, abrother o'--eh" (tit-tit-titting on his brow)--"oh, just a brother o'Drucken Will Goudie o' Auchterwheeze! Oo-ooh, I ken _him_ fine. Hisgrannie keepit a sweetie-shop in Strathbungo. " There you have the"nesty" Scotsman. Even if Gourlay had been a placable and inoffensive man, then, themalignants of the petty burgh (it was scarce bigger than a village)would have fastened on his character simply because he was above them. No man has a keener eye for behaviour than the Scot (especially whenspite wings his intuition), and Gourlay's thickness of wit and pride ofplace would in any case have drawn their sneers. So, too, on lowergrounds, would his wife's sluttishness. But his repressiveness added ahundredfold to their hate of him. That was the particular cause which, acting on their general tendency to belittle a too-successful rival, made their spite almost monstrous against him. Not a man among them buthad felt the weight of his tongue--for edge it had none. He walked amongthem like the dirt below his feet. There was no give and take in theman; he could be verra jocose with the lairds, to be sure, but he neverdropped in to the Red Lion for a crack and a dram with the town-folk; hejust glowered as if he could devour them! And who was he, I should liketo know? His grandfather had been noathing but a common carrier! Hate was the greater on both sides because it was often impotent. Gourlay frequently suspected offence, and seethed because he had no ideahow to meet it--except by driving slowly down the brae in his new gigand never letting on when the Provost called to him. That was a wipe inthe eye for the Provost! The "bodies, " on their part, could rarely getnear enough Gourlay to pierce his armour; he kept them off him by hisbrutal dourness. For it was not only pride and arrogance, but aconsciousness also that he was no match for them at their own game, thatkept Gourlay away from their society. They were adepts at the understroke, and they would have given him many a dig if he had only comeamongst them. But, oh no, not he; he was the big man; he never gave abody a chance! Or if you did venture a bit jibe when you met him, heglowered you off the face of the earth with thae black een of his. Oh, how they longed to get at him! It was not the least of the evils causedby Gourlay's black pride that it perverted a dozen characters. The"bodies" of Barbie may have been decent enough men in their own way, butagainst him their malevolence was monstrous. It showed itself in aninsane desire to seize on every scrap of gossip they might twist againsthim. That was why the Provost lowered municipal dignity to gossip in thestreet with a discharged servant. As the baker said afterwards, it wasabsurd for a man in his "poseetion. " But it was done with the soledesire of hearing something that might tell against Gourlay. Evencountesses, we are told, gossip with malicious maids about othercountesses. Spite is a great leveller. "Shall we adjourn?" said Brodie, when they had watched Jock Gilmour outof sight. He pointed across his shoulder to the Red Lion. "Better noat just now, " said the Provost, nodding in slowauthority--"better noat just now! I'm very anxious to see Gourlay aboutyon matter we were speaking of, doan't ye understa-and? But I'mdetermined not to go to his house! On the other hand, if we go into theRed Lion the now, we may miss him on the street. We'll noat have loangto wait, though; he'll be down the town directly, to look at the horseshe has at the gerse out the Fechars Road. But _I'm_ talling ye, I simplywill noat go to his house--to put up with a wheen damned insults!" hepuffed in angry recollection. "To tell the truth, " said Wylie, "I don't like to call upon Gourlayeither. I'm aware of his eyes on my back when I slink beaten through hisgate, and I feel that my hurdies are wanting in dignity!" "Huh!" spluttered Brodie, "that never affects me. I come stunting out ina bleeze of wrath and slam the yett ahint me!" "Oh, well, " said the Deacon, "that'th one way of being dignified. " "I'm afraid, " said Sandy Toddle, "that he won't be in a very good key toconsider our request this morning, after his quarrel with Gilmour. " "No, " said the Provost; "he'll be blazing angry! It's most unfoartunate. But we maun try to get his consent, be his temper what it will. It's amatter of importance to the town, doan't ye see, and if he refuses wesimply can-noat proceed wi' the improvement. " "It was Gilmour's jibe at the House wi' the Green Shutters that wouldanger him the most, for it's the perfect god of his idolatry. Eh, sirs, he has wasted an awful money upon yon house!" "Wasted's the word!" said Brodie, with a blatant laugh. "Wasted's theword! They say he has verra little lying cash! And I shouldna besurprised at all. For, ye see, Gibson the builder diddled him owre thebuilding o't. " "Oh, I'se warrant Cunning Johnny would get the better of an ass likeGourlay. But how in particular, Mr. Brodie? Have ye heard ainy details?" "I've been on the track o' the thing for a while back, but it was onlyyestreen I had the proofs o't. It was Robin Wabster that telled me. He'sa jouking bodie, Robin, and he was ahint a dike up the Skeighan Roadwhen Gibson and Gourlay forgathered--they stoppit just forenenst him!Gourlay began to curse at the size of Gibson's bill, but Cunning Johnnykenned the way to get round him brawly. 'Mr. Gourlay, ' says he, 'there'snot a thing in your house that a man in your poseetion can afford to bewithout, and ye needn't expect the best house in Barbie for an oaldsong!' And Gourlay was pacified at once! It appeared frae their crack, however, that Gibson has diddled him tremendous. 'Verra well then, 'Robin heard Gourlay cry, 'you must allow me a while ere I pay that!' Iwager, for a' sae muckle as he's made of late, that his balance at thebank's a sma' yin. " "More thyow than thubstanth, " said the Deacon. "Well, I'm sure!" said the Provost, "he needn't have built such agra-and house to put a slut of a wife like yon in!" "I was surprised, " said Sandy Toddle, "to hear about her firing up. Iwouldn't have thought she had the spirit, or that Gourlay would havecome to her support!" "Oh, " said the Provost, "it wasn't her he was thinking of! It was hisown pride, the brute. He leads the woman the life of a doag. I'msurprised that he ever married her!" "I ken fine how he married her, " said Johnny Coe. "I was acquaint wi'her faither, auld Tenshillingland owre at Fechars--a grand farmer hewas, wi' land o' his nain, and a gey pickle bawbees. It was the bawbees, and not the woman, that Gourlay went after! It was _her_ money, as yeken, that set him on his feet, and made him such a big man. He nevercared a preen for _her_, and then when she proved a dirty trollop, hecouldna endure her look! That's what makes him so sore upon her now. Andyet I mind her a braw lass, too, " said Johnny the sentimentalist, "abraw lass she was, " he mused, "wi' fine, brown glossy hair, I mind, and--ochonee! ochonee!--as daft as a yett in a windy day. She had acousin, Jenny Wabster, that dwelt in Tenshillingland than, and mony asummer nicht up the Fechars Road, when ye smelled the honeysuckle in thegloaming, I have heard the two o' them tee-heeing owre the ladsthegither, skirling in the dark and lauching to themselves. They were ofthe glaikit kind ye can always hear loang before ye see. Jock Allan(that has done so well in Embro) was a herd at Tenshillingland than, andhe likit her, and I think she likit him; but Gourlay came wi' his gigand whisked her away. She doesna lauch sae muckle now, puir bodie! But abraw lass she----" "It's you maun speak to Gourlay, Deacon, " said the Provost, brushingaside the reminiscent Coe. "How can it be that, Provost? It'th _your_ place, surely. You're thehead of the town!" When Gourlay was to be approached there was always a competition for whoshould be hindmost. "Yass, but you know perfectly well, Deacon, that I cannot thole the lookof him. I simply cannot thole the look. And he knows it too. Thething'll gang smash at the outset--_I'm_ talling ye, now--it'll gosmash at the outset if it's left to me. And than, ye see, you have abetter way of approaching folk!" "Ith that tho?" said the Deacon dryly. He shot a suspicious glance tosee if the Provost was guying him. "Oh, it must be left to you, Deacon, " said the baker and Tam Wylie in abreath. "Certainly, it maun be left to the Deacon, " assented Johnny Coe, when hesaw how the others were giving their opinion. "Tho be it, then, " snapped the Deacon. "Here he comes, " said Sandy Toddle. Gourlay came down the street towards them, his chest big, his thumbs inthe armholes of his waistcoat. He had the power of staring steadily atthose whom he approached without the slightest sign of recognition orintelligence appearing in his eyes. As he marched down upon the bodieshe fixed them with a wide-open glower that was devoid of everyexpression but courageous steadiness. It gave a kind of fierce vacancyto his look. The Deacon limped forward on his thin shanks to the middle of the road. "It'th a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay, " he simpered. "There's noathing wrong with the morning, " grunted Gourlay, as if therewas something wrong with the Deacon. "We wath wanting to thee ye on a very important matter, MithterGourlay, " lisped the Deacon, smiling up at the big man's face, with hishead on one side, and rubbing his fingers in front of him. "It'th amatter of the common good, you thee; and we all agreed that we shouldspeak to _you_, ath the foremost merchant of the town!" Allardyce meant his compliment to fetch Gourlay. But Gourlay knew hisAllardyce, and was cautious. It was well to be on your guard when theDeacon was complimentary. When his language was most flowery there wassure to be a serpent hidden in it somewhere. He would lisp out aninnocent remark and toddle away, and Gourlay would think nothing of thematter till a week afterwards, perhaps, when something would flash alight; then "Damn him, did he mean '_that_'?" he would seethe, startingback and staring at the "_that_" while his fingers strangled the air inplace of the Deacon. He glowered at the Deacon now till the Deacon blinked. "You thee, Mr. Gourlay, " Allardyce shuffled uneasily, "it'th for yourown benefit just ath much ath ourth. We were thinking of you ath wellath of ourthelves! Oh yeth, oh yeth!" "Ay, man!" said Gourlay, "that was kind of ye! I'll be the first man inBarbie to get ainy benefit from the fools that mismanage our affairs. " The gravel grated beneath the Provost's foot. The atmosphere wasbecoming electric, and the Deacon hastened to the point. "You thee, there'th a fine natural supply of water--a perfect reservorethe Provost sayth--on the brae-face just above _your_ garden, Mr. Gourlay. Now, it would be easy to lead that water down and alang throughall the gardenth on the high side of Main Street--and, 'deed, it mightfeed a pump at the Cross, too, to supply the lower portionth o' thetown. It would really be a grai-ait convenience. Every man on the highside o' Main Street would have a running spout at his own back door! Ifyour garden didna run tho far back, Mr. Gourlay, and ye hadna tho muckleland about your place"--_that_ should fetch him, thought the Deacon--"ifit werena for that, Mr. Gourlay, we could easily lead the water round tothe other gardenth without interfering with your property. But, ath itith, we simply can-noat move without ye. The water must come throughyour garden, if it comes at a-all. " "The most o' you important men live on the high side o' Main Street, "birred Gourlay. "Is it the poor folk at the Cross, or your ain bits o'back doors that you're thinking o'?" "Oh--oh, Mr. Gourlay!" protested Allardyce, head flung back, and palmsin air, to keep the thought of self-interest away, "oh--oh, Mr. Gourlay!We're thinking of noathing but the common good, I do assure ye. " "Ay, man! You're dis-in-ter-ested!" said Gourlay, but he stumbled on thebig word and spoiled the sneer. That angered him, and, "It's likely, " herapped out, "that I'll allow the land round _my_ house to be howked andtrenched and made a mudhole of to oblige a wheen things like you!" "Oh--oh, but think of the convenience to uth--eh--eh--I mean to thecommon good, " said Allardyce. "I howked wells for myself, " snapped Gourlay. "Let others do the like. " "Oh, but we haven't all the enterprithe of you, Mr. Gourlay. You'llsurely accommodate the town!" "I'll see the town damned first, " said Gourlay, and passed on his steadyway. FOOTNOTES: [3] _Trauchle_, a poor trollop who trails about; _smeddum_, grit. CHAPTER VI. The bodies watched Gourlay in silence until he was out of earshot. Then, "It's monstrous!" the Provost broke out in solemn anger; "I declare it'sperfectly monstrous! But I believe we could get Pow-ers to compel him. Yass; I believe we could get Pow-ers. I do believe we could getPow-ers. " The Provost was fond of talking about "Pow-ers, " because it implied thathe was intimate with the great authorities who might delegate such"Pow-ers" to him. To talk of "Pow-ers, " mysteriously, was a tribute tohis own importance. He rolled the word on his tongue as if he enjoyedthe sound of it. On the Deacon's cheek bones two red spots flamed, round and big as aScotch penny. His was the hurt silence of the baffled diplomatist, towhom a defeat means reflections on his own ability. "Demn him!" he skirled, following the solid march of his enemy withfiery eyes. Never before had his deaconship been heard to swear. Tam Wylie laughedat the shrill oath till his eyes were buried in his merry wrinkles, asuppressed snirt, a continuous gurgle in the throat and nose, in beamingsurvey the while of the withered old creature dancing in his rage. (Itwas all a good joke to Tam, because, living on the outskirts of thetown, he had no spigot of his own to feed. ) The Deacon turned the eyesof hate on him. Demn Wylie too--what was he laughing at! "Oh, I dare thay you could have got round him!" he snapped. "In my opinion, Allardyce, " said the baker, "you mismanaged the wholeaffair. Yon wasna the way to approach him!" "It'th a pity you didna try your hand, then, I'm sure! No doubt a cleverman like _you_ would have worked wonderth!" So the bodies wrangled among themselves. Somehow or other Gourlay hadthe knack of setting them by the ears. It was not till they hit on acommon topic of their spite in railing at him that they became a band ofbrothers and a happy few. "Whisht!" said Sandy Toddle suddenly; "here's his boy!" John was coming towards them on his way to school. The bodies watchedhim as he passed, with the fixed look men turn on a boy of whose kinsmenthey were talking even now. They affect a stony and deliberate regard, partly to include the newcomer in their critical survey of his family, and partly to banish from their own eyes any sign that they have justbeen running down his people. John, as quick as his mother to feel, knewin a moment they were watching _him_. He hung his head sheepishly andblushed, and the moment he was past he broke into a nervous trot, thebag of books bumping on his back as he ran. "He's getting a big boy, that son of Gourlay's, " said the Provost; "howoald will he be?" "He's approaching twelve, " said Johnny Coe, who made a point of beingable to supply such news because it gained him consideration where hewas otherwise unheeded. "He was born the day the brig on the FleckieRoad gaed down, in the year o' the great flood; and since the greatflood it's twelve year come Lammas. Rab Tosh o' Fleckie's wife washeavy-footed at the time, and Doctor Munn had been a' nicht wi' her, andwhen he cam to Barbie Water in the morning it was roaring wide fraebank to brae; where the brig should have been there was naething but theswashing of the yellow waves. Munn had to drive a' the way round to theFechars brig, and in parts o' the road the water was so deep that itlapped his horse's bellyband. A' this time Mrs. Gourlay was skirling inher pains and praying to God she micht dee. Gourlay had been a greatcrony o' Munn's, but he quarrelled him for being late; he had trystedhim, ye see, for the occasion, and he had been twenty times at the yettto look for him. Ye ken how little he would stomach that; he was readyto brust wi' anger. Munn, mad for the want of sleep and wat to the bane, swüre back at him; and than Gourlay wadna let him near his wife! Ye mindwhat an awful day it was; the thunder roared as if the heavens weretumbling on the world, and the lichtnin sent the trees daudin on theroads, and folk hid below their beds and prayed--they thocht it was theJudgment! But Gourlay rammed his black stepper in the shafts, and dravelike the devil o' hell to Skeighan Drone, where there was a youngdoctor. The lad was feared to come, but Gourlay swore by God that heshould, and he garred him. In a' the countryside driving like his thatday was never kenned or heard tell o'; they were back within the hour! Isaw them gallop up Main Street; lichtnin struck the ground before them;the young doctor covered his face wi' his hands, and the horse nicheredwi' fear and tried to wheel, but Gourlay stood up in the gig and lashedhim on through the fire. It was thocht for lang that Mrs. Gourlay woulddie; and she was never the same woman after. Atweel, ay, sirs, Gourlayhas that morning's work to blame for the poor wife he has now. Him andMunn never spoke to each other again, and Munn died within thetwelvemonth--he got his death that morning on the Fleckie Road. But, fora' so pack's they had been, Gourlay never looked near him. " Coe had told his story with enjoying gusto, and had told it well--forJohnny, though constantly snubbed by his fellows, was in many ways theablest of them all. His voice and manner drove it home. They knew, besides, he was telling what himself had seen. For they knew he waslying prostrate with fear in the open smiddy-shed from the time Gourlaywent to Skeighan Drone to the time that he came back, and that he hadseen him both come and go. They were silent for a while, impressed, inspite of themselves, by the vivid presentment of Gourlay's manhood onthe day that had scared them all. The baker felt inclined to cry out onhis cruelty for keeping his wife suffering to gratify his wrath; but thesudden picture of the man's courage changed that feeling to another ofadmiring awe: a man so defiant of the angry heavens might do anything. And so with the others; they hated Gourlay, but his bravery was a factof nature which they could not disregard; they knew themselves smaller, and said nothing for a while. Tam Brodie, the most brutal among them, was the first to recover. Even he did not try to belittle at once, buthe felt the subtle discomfort of the situation, and relieved it bybringing the conversation back to its usual channel. "That was at the boy's birth, Mr. Coe?" said he. "Ou ay, just the laddie. It was a' richt when the lassie came. It wasDoctor Dandy brocht _her_ hame, for Munn was deid by that time, andDandy had his place. " "What will Gourlay be going to make of him?" the Provost asked. "Adoctor or a minister or wha-at?" "Deil a fear of that, " said Brodie; "he'll take him into the business!It's a' that he's fit for. He's an infernal dunce, just his father owreagain, and the Dominie thrashes him remorseless! I hear my own weansspeaking o't. Ou, it seems he's just a perfect numbskull!" "Ye couldn't expect ainything else from a son of Gourlay, " said theProvost. Conversation languished. Some fillip was needed to bring it to an easyflow, and the simultaneous scrape of their feet turning round showed thedirection of their thoughts. "A dram would be very acceptable now, " murmured Sandy Toddle, rubbinghis chin. "Ou, we wouldna be the waur o't, " said Tam Wylie. "We would all be the better of a little drope, " smirked the Deacon. And they made for the Red Lion for the matutinal dram. CHAPTER VII. John Gourlay the younger was late for school, in spite of the nervoustrot he fell into when he shrank from the bodies' hard stare at him. There was nothing unusual about that; he was late for school everyother day. To him it was a howling wilderness where he played amost appropriate _rôle_. If his father was not about he would hanground his mother till the last moment, rather than be off to old"Bleach-the-boys"--as the master had been christened by his scholars. "Mother, I have a pain in _my_ heid, " he would whimper, and she wouldcondole with him and tell him she would keep him at home with her--wereit not for dread of her husband. She was quite sure he was ainything butstrong, poor boy, and that the schooling was bad for him; for it wasreally remarkable how quickly the pain went if he was allowed to stay athome; why, he got better just directly! It was not often she dared tokeep him from school, however; and if she did, she had to hide him fromhis father. On school mornings the boy shrank from going out with a shrinking thatwas almost physical. When he stole through the green gate with his bagslithering at his hip (not braced between the shoulders like a birkiescholar's), he used to feel ruefully that he was in for it now--and theLord alone knew what he would have to put up with ere he came home! Andhe always had the feeling of a freed slave when he passed the gate onhis return, never failing to note with delight the clean smell of theyard after the stuffiness of school, sucking it in through gladnostrils, and thinking to himself, "O crickey, it's fine to be home!" OnFriday nights, in particular, he used to feel so happy that, becomingarrogant, he would try his hand at bullying Jock Gilmour in imitation ofhis father. John's dislike of school, and fear of its trampling bravoes, attached him peculiarly to the House with the Green Shutters; there washis doting mother, and she gave him stories to read, and the place wasso big that it was easy to avoid his father and have great times withthe rabbits and the doos. He was as proud of the sonsy house as Gourlayhimself, if for a different reason, and he used to boast of it to hiscomrades. And he never left it, then or after, without a foreboding. As he crept along the School Road with a rueful face, he was alone, forJanet, who was cleverer than he, was always earlier at school. Theabsence of children in the sunny street lent to his depression. He feltforlorn; if there had been a chattering crowd marching along, he wouldhave been much more at his ease. Quite recently the school had been fitted up with varnished desks, andJohn, who inherited his mother's nervous senses with his father's lackof wit, was always intensely alive to the smell of the desks the momenthe went in; and as his heart always sank when he went in, the smellbecame associated in his mind with that sinking of the heart--to feelit, no matter where, filled him with uneasiness. As he stole past thejoiner's on that sunny morning, when wood was resinous and pungent ofodour, he was suddenly conscious of a varnishy smell, and felt amisgiving without knowing why. It was years after, in Edinburgh, ere heknew the reason; he found that he never went past an upholsterer's shop, on a hot day in spring, without being conscious of a vague depression, and feeling like a boy slinking into school. In spite of his forebodings, nothing more untoward befell him thatmorning than a cut over the cowering shoulders for being late, as hecrept to the bottom of his class. He reached "leave, " the ten minutes'run at twelve o'clock, without misadventure. Perhaps it was thisunwonted good fortune that made him boastful when he crouched near thepump among his cronies, sitting on his hunkers with his back to thewall. Half a dozen boys were about him, and Swipey Broon was in front, making mud pellets in a trickle from the pump. He began talking of the new range. "Yah! Auld Gemmell needn't have let welp at me for being late thismorning, " he spluttered big-eyed, nodding his head in aggrieved andsolemn protest. "It wasna _my_ faut! We're getting in a grand new range, and the whole of the kitchen fireplace has been gutted out to make roomfor't; and my mother couldna get my breakfast in time this morning, because, ye see, she had to boil everything in the parlour--and here, when she gaed ben the house, the parlour fire was out! "It's to be a splendid range, the new one, " he went on, with a conceitedjerk of the head. "Peter Riney's bringin'd from Skeighan in theafternune. My father says there winna be its equal in the parish!" The faces of the boys lowered uncomfortably. They felt it was a sillything of Gourlay to blow his own trumpet in this way, but, being boys, they could not prick his conceit with a quick rejoinder. It is onlygrown-ups who can be ironical; physical violence is the boy's repartee. It had scarcely gone far enough for that yet, so they lowered inuncomfortable silence. "We're aye getting new things up at our place, " he went on. "I heard myfather telling Gibson the builder he must have everything of the best!Mother says it'll all be mine some day. I'll have the fine times when Ileave the schule--and that winna be long now, for I'm clean sick o't;I'll no bide a day longer than I need! I'm to go into the business, andthen I'll have the times. I'll dash about the country in a gig wi' twodogs wallopping ahin'. I'll have the great life o't. " "Ph-tt!" said Swipey Broon, and planted a gob of mud right in the middleof his brow. "Hoh! hoh! hoh!" yelled the others. They hailed Swipey's action withdelight because, to their minds, it exactly met the case. It was the onefit retort to his bouncing. Beneath the wet plunk of the mud John started back, bumping his headagainst the wall behind him. The sticky pellet clung to his brow, and hebrushed it angrily aside. The laughter of the others added to his wrathagainst Swipey. "What are you after?" he bawled. "Don't try your tricks on me, SwipeyBroon. Man, I could kill ye wi' a glower!" In a twinkling Swipey's jacket was off, and he was dancing in his shirtsleeves, inviting Gourlay to come on and try't. "G'way, man, " said John, his face as white as the wall; "g'way, man!Don't have _me_ getting up to ye, or I'll knock the fleas out of yourduds!" Now the father of Swipey--so called because he always swiped whenbatting at rounders--the father of Swipey was the rag and bone merchantof Barbie, and it was said (with what degree of truth I know not) thathis home was verminous in consequence. John's taunt was calculated, therefore, to sting him to the quick. The scion of the Broons, fired for the honour of his house, drovestraight at the mouth of the insulter. But John jouked to the side, andSwipey skinned his knuckles on the wall. For a moment he rocked to and fro, doubled up in pain, crying "_Ooh!_"with a rueful face, and squeezing his hand between his thighs to dullits sharper agonies. Then with redoubled wrath bold Swipey hurled himat the foe. He grabbed Gourlay's head, and shoving it down between hisknees, proceeded to pommel his bent back, while John bellowed angrily(from between Swipey's legs), "Let me up, see!" Swipey let him up. John came at him with whirling arms, but Swipeyjouked and gave him one on the mouth that split his lip. In anothermoment Gourlay was grovelling on his hands and knees, and triumphantSwipey, astride his back, was bellowing "Hurroo!"--Swipey's father wasan Irishman. "Let him up, Broon!" cried Peter Wylie--"let him up, and meet each othersquare!" "Oh, I'll let him up, " cried Swipey, and leapt to his feet withmagnificent pride. He danced round Gourlay with his fists sawing theair. "I could fight ten of him!--Come on, Gourlay!" he cried, "and I'llpoultice the road wi' your brose. " John rose, glaring. But when Swipey rushed he turned and fled. The boysran into the middle of the street, pointing after the coward andshouting, "Yeh! yeh! yeh!" with the infinite cruel derision of boyhood. "Yeh! yeh! yeh!" the cries of execration and contempt pursued him as heran. * * * * * Ere he had gone a hundred yards he heard the shrill whistle with whichMr. Gemmell summoned his scholars from their play. CHAPTER VIII. All the children had gone into school. The street was lonely in thesudden stillness. The joiner slanted across the road, brushing shavingsand sawdust from his white apron. There was no other sign of life in thesunshine. Only from the smiddy, far away, came at times the tink of ananvil. John crept on up the street, keeping close to the wall. It seemedunnatural being there at that hour; everything had a quiet, unfamiliarlook. The white walls of the houses reproached the truant with theirsilent faces. A strong smell of wallflowers oozed through the hot air. John thought ita lonely smell, and ran to get away. "Johnny dear, what's wrong wi' ye?" cried his mother, when he stole inthrough the scullery at last. "Are ye ill, dear?" "I wanted to come hame, " he said. It was no defence; it was the sad andsimple expression of his wish. "What for, my sweet?" "I hate the school, " he said bitterly; "I aye want to be at hame. " His mother saw his cut mouth. "Johnny, " she cried in concern, "what's the matter with your lip, dear?Has ainybody been meddling ye?" "It was Swipey Broon, " he said. "Did ever a body hear?" she cried. "Things have come to a fine pass whendecent weans canna go to the school without a wheen rag-folk yoking onthem! But what can a body ettle? Scotland's not what it used to be!It's owrerun wi' the dirty Eerish!" In her anger she did not see the sloppy dishclout on the scullery chair, on which she sank exhausted by her rage. "Oh, but I let him have it, " swaggered John. "I threatened to knock thefleas off him. The other boys were on _his_ side, or I would havewalloped him. " "Atweel, they would a' be on his side, " she cried. "But it's juist envy, Johnny. Never mind, dear; you'll soon be left the school, and there'snot wan of them has the business that you have waiting ready to stepintil. " "Mother, " he pleaded, "let me bide here for the rest o' the day!" "Oh, but your father, Johnny? If _he_ saw ye!" "If you gie me some o' your novelles to look at, I'll go up to thegarret and hide, and ye can ask Jenny no to tell. " She gave him a hunk of nuncheon and a bundle of her novelettes, and hestole up to an empty garret and squatted on the bare boards. The sunstreamed through the skylight window and lay, an oblong patch, in thecentre of the floor. John noted the head of a nail that stuck gleamingup. He could hear the pigeons _rooketty-cooing_ on the roof, and everynow and then a slithering sound, as they lost their footing on theslates and went sliding downward to the rones. But for that, all wasstill, uncannily still. Once a zinc pail clanked in the yard, and hestarted with fear, wondering if that was his faither! If young Gourlay had been the right kind of a boy he would have been inhis glory, with books to read and a garret to read them in. For tosnuggle close beneath the slates is as dear to the boy as the bard, ifsomewhat diverse their reasons for seclusion. Your garret is the truekingdom of the poet, neighbouring the stars; side-windows tether him toearth, but a skylight looks to the heavens. (That is why so many poetslive in garrets, no doubt. ) But it is the secrecy of a garret for himand his books that a boy loves; there he is lord of his imagination;there, when the impertinent world is hidden from his view, he rides withgreat Turpin at night beneath the glimmer of the moon. What boy of sensewould read about Turpin in a mere respectable parlour? A hay-loft's thething, where you can hide in a dusty corner, and watch through a chinkthe baffled minions of Bow Street, and hear Black Bess--goodjade!--stamping in her secret stall, and be ready to descend when afriendly hostler cries, "Jericho!" But if there is no hay-loft at hand amere garret will do very well. And so John should have been in hisglory, as indeed for a while he was. But he showed his difference fromthe right kind of a boy by becoming lonely. He had inherited from hismother a silly kind of interest in silly books, but to him reading was apainful process, and he could never remember the plot. What he likedbest (though he could not have told you about it) was a vivid physicalpicture. When the puffing steam of Black Bess's nostrils cleared awayfrom the moonlit pool, and the white face of the dead man stared atTurpin through the water, John saw it and shivered, staring big-eyed atthe staring horror. He was alive to it all; he heard the seep of thewater through the mare's lips, and its hollow glug as it went down, andthe creak of the saddle beneath Turpin's hip; he saw the smear of sweatroughening the hair on her slanting neck, and the great steaming breathshe blew out when she rested from drinking, and then that awful faceglaring from the pool. --Perhaps he was not so far from being the rightkind of boy, after all, since that was the stuff that _he_ liked. Hewished he had some Turpin with him now, for his mother's periodicalswere all about men with impossibly broad shoulders and impossibly curvedwaists who asked Angelina if she loved them. Once, it is true, asomewhat too florid sentence touched him on the visual nerve: "Througha chink in the Venetian blind a long pencil of yellow light pierced thebeautiful dimness of the room and pointed straight to the dainty bronzeslipper peeping from under Angelina's gown; it became a slipper of vividgold amid the gloom. " John saw that and brightened, but the next momentthey began to talk about love and he was at sea immediately. "Dagon themand their love!" quoth he. To him, indeed, reading was never more than a means of escape fromsomething else; he never thought of a book so long as there were thingsto see. Some things were different from others, it is true. Things ofthe outer world, where he swaggered among his fellows and was thrashed, or bungled his lessons and was thrashed again, imprinted themselvesvividly on his mind, and he hated the impressions. When Swipey Broon washot the sweat pores always glistened distinctly on the end of hismottled nose--John, as he thought angrily of Swipey this afternoon, sawthe glistening sweat pores before him and wanted to bash them. Thevarnishy smell of the desks, the smell of the wallflowers at Mrs. Manzie's on the way to school, the smell of the school itself--to allthese he was morbidly alive, and he loathed them. But he loved theimpressions of his home. His mind was full of perceptions of which hewas unconscious, till he found one of them recorded in a book, and thatwas the book for him. The curious physical always drew his mind to hateit or to love. In summer he would crawl into the bottom of an old hedge, among the black mould and the withered sticks, and watch a red-endedbeetle creep slowly up a bit of wood till near the top, and fallsuddenly down, and creep patiently again--this he would watch withcurious interest and remember always. "Johnny, " said his mother once, "what do you breenge into the bushes to watch those nasty things for?" "They're queer, " he said musingly. Even if he _was_ a little dull wi' the book, she was sure he would cometo something, for, eh, he was such a noticing boy. But there was nothing to touch him in "The Wooing of Angeline;" he wasmoving in an alien world. It was a complicated plot, and, some of thenumbers being lost, he was not sharp enough to catch the idea of thestory. He read slowly and without interest. The sounds of the outerworld reached him in his loneliness and annoyed him, because, whilewondering what they were, he dared not look out to see. He heard therattle of wheels entering the big yard; that would be Peter Riney backfrom Skeighan with the range. Once he heard the birr of his father'svoice in the lobby and his mother speaking in shrill protest, andthen--oh, horror!--his father came up the stair. Would he come into thegarret? John, lying on his left side, felt his quickened heart thudagainst the boards, and he could not take his big frighted eyes from thebottom of the door. But the heavy step passed and went into anotherroom. John's open mouth was dry, and his shirt was sticking to his back. The heavy steps came back to the landing. "Whaur's _my_ gimlet?" yelled his father down the stair. "Oh, I lost the corkscrew, and took it to open a bottle, " cried hismother wearily. "Here it is, man, in the kitchen drawer. " "_Hah!_" his father barked, and he knew he was infernal angry. If heshould come in! But he went tramping down the stair, and John, after waiting till hispulses were stilled, resumed his reading. He heard the masons in thekitchen, busy with the range, and he would have liked fine to watchthem, but he dared not go down till after four. It was lonely up here byhimself. A hot wind had sprung up, and it crooned through the keyholedrearily; "_oo-woo-oo_, " it cried, and the sound drenched him in a vaguedepression. The splotch of yellow light had shifted round to thefireplace; Janet had kindled a fire there last winter, and the ashes hadnever been removed, and now the light lay, yellow and vivid, on a redclinker of coal and a charred piece of stick. A piece of glossy whitepaper had been flung in the untidy grate, and in the hollow curve of ita thin silt of black dust had gathered--the light showed it plainly. Allthese things the boy marked and was subtly aware of theirunpleasantness. He was forced to read to escape the sense of them. Butit was words, words, words, that he read; the subject mattered not atall. His head leaned heavy on his left hand and his mouth hung open, ashis eye travelled dreamily along the lines. He succeeded in hypnotizinghis brain at last, by the mere process of staring at the page. At last he heard Janet in the lobby. That meant that school was over. Hecrept down the stair. "_You_ were playing the truant, " said Janet, and she nodded her head inaccusation. "I've a good mind to tell my faither. " "If ye wud----" he said, and shook his fist at her threateningly. Sheshrank away from him. They went into the kitchen together. The range had been successfully installed, and Mr. Gourlay was showingit to Grant of Loranogie, the foremost farmer of the shire. Mrs. Gourlay, standing by the kitchen table, viewed her new possession with afaded simper of approval. She was pleased that Mr. Grant should see thegrand new thing that they had gotten. She listened to the talk of themen with a faint smile about her weary lips, her eyes upon the sonsyrange. "Dod, it's a handsome piece of furniture, " said Loranogie. "How did yeget it brought here, Mr. Gourlay?" "I went to Glasgow and ordered it special. It came to Skeighan by thetrain, and my own beasts brought it owre. That fender's a feature, " headded complacently; "it's onusual wi' a range. " The massive fender ran from end to end of the fireplace, projecting alittle in front; its rim, a square bar of heavy steel, with bright, sharp edges. "And that poker, too; man, there's a history wi' that. I made a point ofthe making o't. He was an ill-bred little whalp, the bodie in Glasgow. Ihappened to say till um I would like a poker-heid just the same size asthe rim of the fender! 'What d'ye want wi' a heavy-heided poker?' sayshe; 'a' ye need's a bit sma' thing to rype the ribs wi'. ' 'Is that so?'says I. 'How do _you_ ken what _I_ want?' I made short work o' _him!_The poker-heid's the identical size o' the rim; I had it made to fit. " Loranogie thought it a silly thing of Gourlay to concern himself about apoker. But that was just like him, of course. The moment the body inGlasgow opposed his whim, Gourlay, he knew, would make a point o't. The grain merchant took the bar of heavy metal in his hand. "Dod, it'san awful weapon, " he said, meaning to be jocose. "You could murder a manwi't. " "Deed you could, " said Loranogie; "you could kill him wi' the one lick. " The elders, engaged with more important matters, paid no attention tothe children, who had pushed between them to the front and were lookingup at their faces, as they talked, with curious watching eyes. John, with his instinct to notice things, took the poker up when his fatherlaid it down, to see if it was really the size of the rim. It was tooheavy for him to raise by the handle; he had to lift it by the middle. Janet was at his elbow, watching him. "You could kill a man with that, "he told her, importantly, though she had heard it for herself. Janetstared and shuddered. Then the boy laid the poker-head along the rim, fitting edge to edge with a nice precision. "Mother, " he cried, turning towards her in his interest, "mother, lookhere! It's exactly the same size!" "Put it down, sir, " said his father with a grim smile at Loranogie. "You'll be killing folk next. " CHAPTER IX. "Are ye packit, Peter?" said Gourlay. "Yes, sir, " said Peter Riney, running round to the other side of a cart, to fasten a horse's bellyband to the shaft. "Yes, sir, we're a' ready. " "Have the carriers a big load?" "Andy has just a wheen parcels, but Elshie's as fu' as he can haud. Andthere's a gey pickle stuff waiting at the Cross. " The hot wind of yesterday had brought lightning through the night, andthis morning there was the gentle drizzle that sometimes follows a heavythunderstorm. Hints of the farther blue showed themselves in a lofty skyof delicate and drifting gray. The blackbirds and thrushes welcomed thecooler air with a gush of musical piping, as if the liquid tenderness ofthe morning had actually got into their throats and made them softer. "You had better snoove away then, " said Gourlay. "Donnerton's five mileayont Fleckie, and by the time you deliver the meal there, and load theironwork, it'll be late ere you get back. Snoove away, Peter; snooveaway!" Peter shuffled uneasily, and his pale blue eyes blinked at Gourlay frombeneath their grizzled crow nests of red hair. "Are we a' to start thegither, sir?" he hesitated. "D'ye mean--d'ye meanthe carriers too?" "Atweel, Peter!" said Gourlay. "What for no?" Peter took a great old watch, with a yellow case, from his fob, and, "It wants a while o' aicht, sir, " he volunteered. "Ay, man, Peter, and what of that?" said Gourlay. There was almost a twinkle in his eye. Peter Riney was the only humanbeing with whom he was ever really at his ease. It is only when a mindfeels secure in itself that it can laugh unconcernedly at others. Peterwas so simple that in his presence Gourlay felt secure; and he used tobanter him. "The folk at the Cross winna expect the carriers till aicht, sir, " saidPeter, "and I doubt their stuff won't be ready. " "Ay, man, Peter, " Gourlay joked lazily, as if Peter was a little boy. "Ay, man, Peter. You think the folk at the Cross winna be prepared?" "No, sir, " said Peter, opening his eyes very solemnly, "they winna beprepared. " "It'll do them good to hurry a little for once, " growled Gourlay, humouryielding to spite at the thought of his enemies. "It'll do them good tohurry a little for once. Be off, the lot of ye!" After ordering his carriers to start, to back down and postpone theirdeparture, just to suit the convenience of his neighbours, wouldderogate from his own importance. His men might think he was afraid ofBarbie. He strolled out to the big gate and watched his teams going down thebrae. There were only four carts this morning because the two that had gone toFechars yesterday with the cheese would not be back till the afternoon;and another had already turned west to Auchterwheeze, to bring slatesfor the flesher's new house. Of the four that went down the street twowere the usual carriers' carts, the other two were off to Fleckie withmeal, and Gourlay had started them the sooner since they were to bringback the ironwork which Templandmuir needed for his new improvements. Though the Templar had reformed greatly since he married his birkiewife, he was still far from having his place in proper order, and he hadoften to depend on Gourlay for the carrying of stuff which a man in hisposition should have had horses of his own to bring. As Gourlay stood at his gate he pondered with heavy cunning how much hemight charge Templandmuir for bringing the ironwork from Fleckie. Hedecided to charge him for the whole day, though half of it would bespent in taking his own meal to Donnerton. In that he was carrying outhis usual policy--which was to make each side of his business help theother. As he stood puzzling his wits over Templandmuir's account, his lipsworked in and out, to assist the slow process of his brain. His eyesnarrowed between peering lids, and their light seemed to turn inward ashe fixed them abstractedly on a stone in the middle of the road. Hishead was tilted that he might keep his eyes upon the stone; and everynow and then, as he mused, he rubbed his chin slowly between the thumband fingers of his left hand. Entirely given up to the thought ofTemplandmuir's account, he failed to see the figure advancing up thestreet. At last the scrunch of a boot on the wet road struck his ear. He turnedwith his best glower on the man who was approaching; more of the"Wha-the-bleezes-are-you?" look than ever in his eyes--because he hadbeen caught unawares. The stranger wore a light yellow overcoat, and he had been walking along time in the rain apparently, for the shoulders of the coat werequite black with the wet, these black patches showing in strong contrastwith the dryer, therefore yellower, front of it. Coat and jacket wereboth hanging slightly open, and between was seen the slight bulge of adirty white waistcoat. The newcomer's trousers were turned high at thebottom, and the muddy spats he wore looked big and ungainly inconsequence. In this appearance there was an air of dirty andpretentious well-to-do-ness. It was not shabby gentility. It was likethe gross attempt at dress of your well-to-do publican who looks down onhis soiled white waistcoat with complacent and approving eye. "It's a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay, " simpered the stranger. His air wasthat of a forward tenant who thinks it a great thing to pass remarks onthe weather with his laird. Gourlay cast a look at the dropping heavens. "Is that _your_ opinion?" said he. "I fail to see't mysell. " It was not in Gourlay to see the beauty of that gray, wet dawn. A finemorning to him was one that burnt the back of your neck. The stranger laughed: a little deprecating giggle. "I meant it was fineweather for the fields, " he explained. He had meant nothing of the kind, of course; he had merely been talking at random in his wish to be civilto that important man, John Gourlay. "Imphm, " he pondered, looking round on the weather with a wise air;"imphm; it's fine weather for the fields. " "Are _you_ a farmer, then?" Gourlay nipped him, with his eye on thewhite waistcoat. "Oh--oh, Mr. Gourlay! A farmer, no. Hi--hi! I'm not a farmer. I daresay, now, you have no mind of _me_?" "No, " said Gourlay, regarding him very gravely and steadily with hisdark eyes. "I cannot say, sir, that I have the pleasure of remembering_you_. " "Man, I'm a son of auld John Wilson of Brigabee. " "Oh, auld Wilson, the mole-catcher!" said contemptuous Gourlay. "What'sthis they christened him now? 'Toddling Johnnie, ' was it noat?" Wilson coloured. But he sniggered to gloss over the awkwardness of theremark. A coward always sniggers when insulted, pretending that theinsult is only a joke of his opponent, and therefore to be laughedaside. So he escapes the quarrel which he fears a show of displeasuremight provoke. But though Wilson was not a hardy man, it was not timidity only thatcaused his tame submission to Gourlay. He had come back after an absence of fifteen years, with a good deal ofmoney in his pocket, and he had a fond desire that he, the son of themole-catcher, should get some recognition of his prosperity from themost important man in the locality. If Gourlay had said, with solemn andfat-lipped approval, "Man, I'm glad to see that you have done so well, "he would have swelled with gratified pride. For it is often thefavourable estimate of their own little village--"What they'll think ofme at home"--that matters most to Scotsmen who go out to make their wayin the world. No doubt that is why so many of them go home and cut adash when they have made their fortunes; they want the cronies of theiryouth to see the big men they have become. Wilson was not exempt fromthat weakness. As far back as he remembered Gourlay had been the big manof Barbie; as a boy he had viewed him with admiring awe; to be receivedby him now, as one of the well-to-do, were a sweet recognition of hisgreatness. It was a fawning desire for that recognition that caused hissmirking approach to the grain merchant. So strong was the desire that, though he coloured and felt awkward at the contemptuous reference to hisfather, he sniggered and went on talking, as if nothing untoward hadbeen said. He was one of the band impossible to snub, not because theyare endowed with superior moral courage, but because their easyself-importance is so great that an insult rarely pierces it enough todivert them from their purpose. They walk through life wrappedcomfortably round in the wool of their own conceit. Gourlay, though adull man--perhaps because he was a dull man--suspected insult in amoment. But it rarely entered Wilson's brain (though he was clevererthan most) that the world could find anything to scoff at in such a finefellow as James Wilson. A less ironic brute than Gourlay would neverhave pierced the thickness of his hide. It was because Gourlay succeededin piercing it that morning that Wilson hated him for ever--with a hatethe more bitter because he was rebuffed so seldom. "Is business brisk?" he asked, irrepressible. Business! Heavens, did ye hear him talking? What did Toddling Johnny'sson know about business? What was the world coming to? To hear himsetting up his face there, and asking the best merchant in the townwhether business was brisk! It was high time to put him in his place, the conceited upstart, shoving himself forward like an equal! For it was the assumption of equality implied by Wilson's manner thatoffended Gourlay--as if mole-catcher's son and monopolist werediscussing, on equal terms, matters of interest to them both. "Business!" he said gravely. "Well, I'm not well acquainted with yourline, but I believe mole traps are cheap--if ye have any idea of takingup the oald trade. " Wilson's eyes flickered over him, hurt and dubious. His mouthopened--then shut--then he decided to speak after all. "Oh, I wasthinking Barbie would be very quiet, " said he, "compared wi' placeswhere they have the railway. I was thinking it would need stirring up abit. " "Oh, ye was thinking that, was ye?" birred Gourlay, with a stupid man'srepetition of his jibe. "Well, I believe there's a grand opening in themoleskin line, so _there's_ a chance for ye. My quarrymen wear out theirbreeks in no time. " Wilson's face, which had swelled with red shame, went a dead white. "Good-morning!" he said, and started rapidly away with a vicious dig ofhis stick upon the wet road. "Goo-ood mor-r-ning, serr!" Gourlay birred after him; "goo-oodmor-r-ning, serr!" He felt he had been bright this morning. He had putthe branks on Wilson! Wilson was as furious at himself as at Gourlay. Why the devil had hesaid "Good-morning"? It had slipped out of him unawares, and Gourlay hadtaken it up with an ironic birr that rang in his ears now, poisoning hisblood. He felt equal in fancy to a thousand Gourlays now--so strong washe in wrath against him. He had gone forward to pass pleasant remarksabout the weather, and why should he noat?--he was no disgrace toBarbie, but a credit rather. It was not every working-man's son thatcame back with five hundred in the bank. And here Gourlay had treatedhim like a doag! Ah, well, he would maybe be upsides with Gourlay yet, so he might! CHAPTER X. "Such a rickle of furniture I never saw!" said the Provost. "Whose is it?" said Brodie. "Oh, have ye noat heard?" said the Head of the Town with eyebrows inair. "It beloangs to that fellow Wilson, doan't ye know? He's a son ofoald Wilson, the mowdie-man of Brigabee. It seems we're to have him fora neighbour, or all's bye wi't. I declare I doan't know what thisworld's coming to!" "Man, Provost, " said Brodie, "d'ye tell me tha-at? I've been over atFleckie for the last ten days--my brother Rab's dead and won away, as Idare say you have heard--oh yes, we must all go--so, ye see, I'mscarcely abreast o' the latest intelligence. What's Wilson doing here? Ithought he had been a pawnbroker in Embro. " "Noat he! It's _whispered_ indeed, that he left Brigabee to go and helpin a pawmbroker's, but it seems he married an Aberdeen lass and sattledthere after a while, the manager of a store, I have been given toundersta-and. He has taken oald Rab Jamieson's barn at the bottom of theCross--for what purpose it beats even me to tell! And that's hisfurniture----" "I declare!" said the astonished Brodie. "He's a smart-looking boy that. Will that be a son of his?" He pointed to a sharp-faced urchin of twelve who was busy carryingchairs round the corner of the barn, to the tiny house where Wilsonmeant to live. He was a red-haired boy with an upturned nose, dressed inshirt and knickerbockers only. The cross of his braces came comicallynear his neck--so short was the space of shirt between the top line ofhis breeches and his shoulders. His knickers were open at the knee, andthe black stockings below them were wrinkled slackly down his thin legs, being tied loosely above the calf with dirty white strips of clothinstead of garters. He had no cap, and it was seen that his hair had a"cow-lick" in front; it slanted up from his brow, that is, in a sleekkind of tuft. There was a violent squint in one of his sharp gray eyes, so that it seemed to flash at the world across the bridge of his nose. He was so eager at his work that his clumsy-looking boots--they only_looked_ clumsy because the legs they were stuck to were sothin--skidded on the cobbles as he whipped round the barn with a chairinverted on his poll. When he came back for another chair, he sometimeswheepled a tune of his own making, in shrill, disconnected jerks, andsometimes wiped his nose on his sleeve. And the bodies watched him. "Faith, he's keen, " said the Provost. "But what on earth has Wilson ta'en auld Jamieson's house and barn for?They have stude empty since I kenna whan, " quoth Alexander Toddle, forgetting his English in surprise. "They say he means to start a business! He's made some bawbees inAiberdeen, they're telling me, and he thinks he'll set Barbie in a lowewi't. " "Ou, he means to work a perfect revolution, " said Johnny Coe. "In Barbie!" cried astounded Toddle. "In Barbie e'en't, " said the Provost. "It would take a heap to revolutionize _hit_, " said the baker, theironic man. "There's a chance in that hoose, " Brodie burst out, ignoring the baker'sgibe. "Dod, there's a chance, sirs. I wonder it never occurred to mebefore. " "Are ye thinking ye have missed a gude thing?" grinned the Deacon. But Brodie's lips were working in the throes of commercial speculation, and he stared, heedless of the jibe. So Johnny Coe took up his sapientparable. "Atweel, " said he, "there's a chance, Mr. Brodie. That road round to theback's a handy thing. You could take a horse and cart brawly through anopening like that. And there's a gey bit ground at the back, too, when abody comes to think o't. " "What line's he meaning to purshoo?" queried Brodie, whose mind, quickened by the chance he saw at No. 1 The Cross, was hot on the huntof its possibilities. "He's been very close about that, " said the Provost. "I asked JohnnyGibson--it was him had the selling o't--but he couldn't give me ainysatisfaction. All he could say was that Wilson had bought it and paidit. 'But, losh, ' said I, 'he maun 'a' lat peep what he wanted the placefor!' But na; it seems he was owre auld-farrant for the like of that. 'We'll let the folk wonder for a while, Mr. Gibson, ' he had said. 'Theless we tell them, the keener they'll be to ken; and they'll advertiseme for noathing by speiring one another what I'm up till. '" "Cunning!" said Brodie, breathing the word low in expressive admiration. "Demned cute!" said Sandy Toddle. "Very thmart!" said the Deacon. "But the place has been falling down since ever I have mind o't, " saidSandy Toddle. "He's a very clever man if he makes anything out of_that_. " "Well, well, " said the Provost, "we'll soon see what he's meaning to beat. Now that his furniture's in, he surely canna keep us in the darkmuch loanger!" Their curiosity was soon appeased. Within a week they were privileged toread the notice here appended:-- "Mr. James Wilson begs to announce to the inhabitants of Barbie and surrounding neighbourhood that he has taken these commodious premises, No. 1 The Cross, which he intends to open shortly as a Grocery, Ironmongery, and General Provision Store. J. W. Is apprised that such an Emporium has long been a felt want in the locality. To meet this want is J. W. 's intention. He will try to do so, not by making large profits on a small business, but by making small profits on a large business. Indeed, owing to his long acquaintance with the trade, Mr. Wilson will be able to supply all commodities at a very little over cost price. For J. W. Will use those improved methods of business which have been confined hitherto to the larger centres of population. At his Emporium you will be able, as the saying goes, to buy everything from a needle to an anchor. Moreover, to meet the convenience of his customers, J. W. Will deliver goods at your own doors, distributing them with his own carts either in the town of Barbie or at any convenient distance from the same. Being a native of the district, his business hopes to secure a due share of your esteemed patronage. Thanking you, in anticipation, for the favour of an early visit, "Believe me, Ladies and Gentlemen, "Yours faithfully, "JAMES WILSON. " Such was the poster with which "Barbie and surrounding neighbourhood"were besprinkled within a week of "J. W. 's" appearance on the scene. Hewas known as "J. W. " ever after. To be known by your initials issometimes a mark of affection, and sometimes a mark of disrespect. Itwas not a mark of affection in the case of our "J. W. " When Donald Scottslapped him on the back and cried, "Hullo, J. W. , how are the anchorsselling?" Barbie had found a cue which it was not slow to make use of. Wilson even received letters addressed to "J. W. , Anchor Merchant, No. 1 The Cross. " Ours is a nippy locality. But Wilson, cosy and cocky in his own good opinion, was impervious tothe chilly winds of scorn. His posters, in big blue letters, were on thesmiddy door and on the sides of every brig within a circuit of fivemiles; they were pasted, in smaller letters, red on the gateposts ofevery farm; and Robin Tam, the bellman, handed them about from door todoor. The folk could talk of nothing else. "Dod!" said the Provost, when he read the bill, "we've a new departurehere! This is an unco splutter, as the oald sow said when she tumbled inthe gutter. " "Ay, " said Sandy Toddle, "a fuff in the pan, I'm thinking. He promisesowre muckle to last long! He lauchs owre loud to be merry at the endo't. For the loudest bummler's no the best bee, as my father, honestman, used to tell the minister. " "Ah-ah, I'm no so sure o' that, " said Tam Brodie. "I forgathered wi'Wilson on Wednesday last, and I tell ye, sirs, he's worth the watching. They'll need to stand on a baikie that put the branks on him. He has theconsidering eye in his head--yon lang far-away glimmer at a thing fromout the end of the eyebrow. He turned it on mysell twa-three times, thecunning devil, trying to keek into me, to see if he could use me. Andlook at the chance he has! There's two stores in Barbie, to be sure. ButKinnikum's a dirty beast, and folk have a scunner at his goods; andCatherwood's a drucken swine, and his place but sairly guided. That's agreat stroke o' policy, too, promising to deliver folk's goods on theirown doorstep to them. There's a whole jing-bang of outlying clachansround Barbie that he'll get the trade of by a dodge like that. The likewas never tried hereaway before. I wadna wonder but it works wonders. " It did. It was partly policy and partly accident that brought Wilson back toBarbie. He had been managing a wealthy old merchant's store for a longtime in Aberdeen, and he had been blithely looking forward to thegoodwill of it, when jink, at the old man's death, in stepped a nephew, and ousted the poo-oor fellow. He had bawled shrilly, but to no purpose;he had to be travelling. When he rose to greatness in Barbie it waswhispered that the nephew discovered he was feathering his own nest, andthat this was the reason of his sharp dismissal. But perhaps we shouldcredit that report to Barbie's disposition rather than to Wilson'smisdemeanour. Wilson might have set up for himself in the nippy northern town. But itis an instinct with men who have met with a rebuff in a place to shakeits dust from their shoes, and be off to seek their fortunes in thelarger world. We take a scunner at the place that has ill-used us. Wilson took a scunner at Aberdeen, and decided to leave it and lookaround him. Scotland was opening up, and there were bound to be heaps ofchances for a man like him! "A man like me, " was a frequent phrase ofWilson's retired and solitary speculation. "Ay, " he said, emerging fromone of his business reveries, "there's bound to be heaps o' chances fora man like me, if I only look about me. " He was "looking about him" in Glasgow when he forgathered with hiscousin William--the borer he! After many "How are ye, Jims's" and mutualspeirings over a "bit mouthful of yill"--so they phrased it; but thatwas a meiosis, for they drank five quarts--they fell to a seriousdiscussion of the commercial possibilities of Scotland. The borer was ofthe opinion that the Braes of Barbie had a future yet, "for a' thegaffer was so keen on keeping his men in the dark about the coal. " Now Wilson knew (as what Scotsman does not?) that in the middle 'fiftiescoal-boring in Scotland was not the honourable profession that it nowis. More than once, speculators procured lying reports that there wereno minerals, and after landowners had been ruined by their abortivepreliminary experiments, stepped in, bought the land, and boomed it. Inone notorious case a family, now great in the public eye, bribed alaird's own borers to conceal the truth, and then buying the Golcondafrom its impoverished owner, laid the basis of a vast fortune. "D'ye mean--to tell--_me_, Weelyum Wilson, " said James, giving him hisfull name in the solemnity of the moment, "d'ye mean--to tell--_me_, sir"--here he sank his voice to a whisper--"that there's joukery-pawkeryat work?" "A declare to God A div, " said Weelyum, with equal solemnity, and henodded with alarmed sapience across his beer jug. "You believe there's plenty of coal up Barbie Valley, and that they'rekeeping it dark in the meantime for some purpose of their own?" "I do, " said Weelyum. "God!" said James, gripping the table with both hands in hisexcitement--"God, if that's so, what a chance there's in Barbie! It hasbeen a dead town for twenty year, and twenty to the end o't. A verralittle would buy the hauf o't. But property 'ull rise in value like apuddock stool at dark, serr, if the pits come round it! It will that. IfI was only sure o' your suspeecion, Weelyum, I'd invest every bawbee Ihave in't. You're going home the night, are ye not?" "I was just on my road to the station when I met ye, " said Weelyum. "Send me a scrape of your pen to-morrow, man, if what you see on gettingback keeps you still in the same mind o't. And directly I get yourletter I'll run down and look about me. " The letter was encouraging, and Wilson went forth to spy the land andinitiate the plan of campaign. It was an important day for him. Heentered on his feud with Gourlay, and bought Rab Jamieson's house andbarn (with the field behind it) for a trifle. He had five hundred of hisown, and he knew where more could be had for the asking. Rab Jamieson's barn was a curious building to be stranded in the midstof Barbie. In quaint villages and little towns of England you sometimessee a mellow red-tiled barn, with its rich yard, close upon the street;it seems to have been hemmed in by the houses round, while dozing, sothat it could not escape with the fields fleeing from the town. There itremains and gives a ripeness to the place, matching fitly with the greathorse-chestnut yellowing before the door, and the old inn further down, mantled in its blood-red creepers. But that autumnal warmth and cosinessis rarely seen in the barer streets of the north. How Rab Jamieson'sbarn came to be stuck in Barbie nobody could tell. It was a gaunt, graybuilding with never a window, but a bole high in one corner for thesheaves, and a door low in another corner for auld Rab Jamieson. Therewas no mill inside, and the place had not been used for years. But theroof was good, and the walls stout and thick, and Wilson soon got towork on his new possession. He had seen all that could be made of theplace the moment he clapped an eye on it, and he knew that he had founda good thing, even if the pits should never come near Barbie. The boleand door next the street were walled up, and a fine new door opened inthe middle, flanked on either side by a great window. The interior wasfitted up with a couple of counters and a wooden floor; and above thenew wood ceiling there was a long loft for a storeroom, lighted byskylights in the roof. That loft above the rafters, thought theprovident Wilson, will come in braw and handy for storing things, so itwill. And there, hey presto! the transformation was achieved, andWilson's Emporium stood before you. It was crammed with merchandise. Onthe white flapping slant of a couple of awnings, one over each window, you might read in black letters, "JAMES WILSON: EMPORIUM. " The lettersof "James Wilson" made a triumphal arch, to which "Emporium" was thebase. It seemed symbolical. Now, the shops of Barbie (the drunken man's shop and the dirty man'sshop always excepted, of course) had usually been low-browed littleplaces with faded black scrolls above the door, on which you might readin dim gilt letters (or it might be in white) "LICENS'D TO SELL TEA & TOBACCO. " "Licens'd" was on one corner of the ribboned scroll, "To Sell Tea &"occupied the flowing arch above, with "Tobacco" in the other corner. When you mounted two steps and opened the door, a bell of some kind went"_ping_" in the interior, and an old woman in a mutch, with big specsslipping down her nose, would come up a step from a dim little roombehind, and wiping her sunken mouth with her apron--she had just lefther tea--would say, "What's your wull the day, sir?" And if you saidyour "wull" was tobacco, she would answer, "Ou, sir, I dinna sell ochtnow but the tape and sweeties. " And then you went away, sadly. With the exception of the dirty man's shop and the drunken man's shop, that kind of shop was the Barbie kind of shop. But Wilson changed allthat. One side of the Emporium was crammed with pots, pans, pails, scythes, gardening implements, and saws, with a big barrel of paraffinpartitioned off in a corner. The rafters on that side were bristling andhoary with brushes of all kinds dependent from the roof, so that theminister's wife (who was a six-footer) went off with a brush in herbonnet once. Behind the other counter were canisters in goodly rows, barrels of flour and bags of meal, and great yellow cheeses in thewindow. The rafters here were heavy with their wealth of hams, brown-skinned flitches of bacon interspersed with the white tight-cordedhome-cured--"Barbie's Best, " as Wilson christened it. All along theback, in glass cases to keep them unsullied, were bales of cloth, layeron layer to the roof. It was a pleasure to go into the place, so big andbien was it, and to smell it on a frosty night set your teeth watering. There was always a big barrel of American apples just inside the door, and their homely fragrance wooed you from afar, the mellow savourcuddling round you half a mile off. Barbie boys had despised theprovision trade, heretofore, as a mean and meagre occupation; but nowthe imagination of each gallant youth was fired and radiant--he meant tobe a grocer. Mrs. Wilson presided over the Emporium. Wilson had a treasure in hiswife. She was Aberdeen born and bred, but her manner was the manner ofthe South and West. There is a broad difference of character between thepeoples of East and West Scotland. The East throws a narrower and anippier breed. In the West they take Burns for their exemplar, andaffect the jovial and robustious--in some cases it is affectation only, and a mighty poor one at that. They claim to be bigger men and biggerfools than the Eastern billies. And the Eastern billies are very willingto yield one half of the contention. Mrs. Wilson, though Eastie by nature, had the jovial manner that youfind in Kyle; more jovial, indeed, than was common in nippy Barbie, which, in general character, seems to have been transplanted from somesand dune looking out upon the German Ocean. She was big of hip andbosom, with sloe-black hair and eyes, and a ruddy cheek, and when sheflung back her head for the laugh her white teeth flashed splendid onthe world. That laugh of hers became one of the well-known features ofBarbie. "Lo'd-sake!" a startled visitor would cry, "whatna skirl'stha-at!" "Oh, dinna be alarmed, " a native would comfort him, "it's onlyWilson's wife lauchin at the Cross!" Her manner had a hearty charm. She had a laugh and a joke for everycustomer, quick as a wink with her answer; her gibe was in you and outagain before you knew you were wounded. Some, it is true, took exceptionto the loudness of her skirl--the Deacon, for instance, who "gave her agood one" the first time he went in for snuff. But "Tut!" quoth she; "amim cat's never gude at the mice, " and she lifted him out by the scruffof his neck, crying, "Run, mousie, or I'll catch ye!" On that day herpopularity in Barbie was assured for ever. But she was as keen on thepenny as a penurious weaver, for all her heartiness and laughing ways. She combined the commercial merits of the East and West. She could coaxyou to the buying like a Cumnock quean, and fleece you in the sellinglike the cadgers o' Kincardine. When Wilson was abroad on his affairs hehad no need to be afraid that things were mismanaging at home. Duringhis first year in Barbie Mrs. Wilson was his sole helper. She had thebrawny arm of a giantess, and could toss a bag of meal like a baby; tosee her twirl a big ham on the counter was to see a thing done as itshould be. When Drucken Wabster came in and was offensive once, "Poo-oorfellow!" said she (with a wink to a customer), "I declare he's in a highfever, " and she took him kicking to the pump and cooled him. With a mate like that at the helm every sail of Wilson's craft wastrimmed for prosperity. He began to "look about" him to increase thefleet. CHAPTER XI. That the Scot is largely endowed with the commercial imagination hisfoes will be ready to acknowledge. Imagination may consecrate the worldto a man, or it may merely be a visualizing faculty which sees that asalready perfect which is still lying in the raw material. The Scot hasthe lower faculty in full degree; he has the forecasting leap of themind which sees what to make of things--more, sees them made and invivid operation. To him there is a railway through the desert where norailway exists, and mills along the quiet stream. And his _perfervidumingenium_ is quick to attempt the realizing of his dreams. That is whyhe makes the best of colonists. Galt is his type--Galt, dreaming inboyhood of the fine water power a fellow could bring round the hill, from the stream where he went a-fishing (they have done it since), dreaming in manhood of the cities yet to rise amid Ontario's woods (theyare there to witness to his foresight). Indeed, so flushed and riotouscan the Scottish mind become over a commercial prospect that itsometimes sends native caution by the board, and a man's really fineidea becomes an empty balloon, to carry him off to the limbo ofvanities. There is a megalomaniac in every parish of Scotland. Well, notso much as that; they're owre canny for that to be said of them. But inevery district almost you may find a poor creature who for thirty yearshas cherished a great scheme by which he means to revolutionize theworld's commerce, and amass a fortune in monstrous degree. He isgenerally to be seen shivering at the Cross, and (if you are a nippyman) you shout carelessly in going by, "Good-morning, Tamson; how's thescheme?" And he would be very willing to tell you, if only you wouldwait to listen. "Man, " he will cry eagerly behind you, "if I only hadanither wee wheel in my invention--she would do, the besom! I'll sunehave her ready noo. " Poor Tamson! But these are the exceptions. Scotsmen, more than other men perhaps, have the three great essentials of commercial success--imagination toconceive schemes, common sense to correct them, and energy to push themthrough. Common sense, indeed, so far from being wanting, is in mostcases too much in evidence, perhaps, crippling the soaring mind androbbing the idea of its early radiance; in quieter language, she makesthe average Scotsman to be over-cautious. His combinations are rarelyNapoleonic until he becomes an American. In his native dales he seldomventures on a daring policy. And yet his forecasting mind is alwaysdetecting "possibeelities. " So he contents himself by creepingcautiously from point to point, ignoring big, reckless schemes and usingthe safe and small, till he arrives at a florid opulence. He hasexpressed his love of _festina lente_ in business in a score ofproverbs--"Bit-by-bit's the better horse, though big-by-big's thebaulder;" "Ca' canny, or ye'll cowp;" "Many a little makes a mickle;"and "Creep before ye gang. " This mingling of caution and imagination isthe cause of his stable prosperity. And its characteristic is a sureprogressiveness. That sure progressiveness was the characteristic ofWilson's prosperity in Barbie. In him, too, imagination and caution wereequally developed. He was always foreseeing "chances" and using them, gripping the good and rejecting the dangerous (had he not gripped thechance of auld Rab Jamieson's barn? There was caution in that, for itwas worth the money whatever happened; and there was imagination in thewhole scheme, for he had a vision of Barbie as a populous centre andstreets of houses in his holm). And every "chance" he seized led to abetter one, till almost every "chance" in Barbie was engrossed by himalone. This is how he went to work. Note the "bit-by-bitness" of hisgreat career. When Mrs. Wilson was behind the counter, Wilson was out "distributing. "He was not always out, of course--his volume of trade at first was notbig enough for that; but in the mornings, and the long summer dusks, hemade his way to the many outlying places of which Barbie was the centre. There, in one and the same visit, he distributed goods and collectedorders for the future. Though his bill had spoken of "carts, " as if hehad several, that was only a bit of splurge on his part; his oneconveyance at the first was a stout spring cart, with a good brown cobbetween the shafts. But with this he did such a trade as had never beenknown in Barbie. The Provost said it was "shtupendous. " When Wilson was jogging homeward in the balmy evenings of his firstsummer at Barbie, no eye had he for the large evening star, tremulousabove the woods, or for the dreaming sprays against the yellow west. Itwasn't his business; he had other things to mind. Yet Wilson was adreamer too. His close, musing eye, peering at the dusky-brown nodge ofhis pony's hip through the gloom, saw not that, but visions of chances, opportunities, occasions. When the lights of Barbie twinkled before himin the dusk, he used to start from a pleasant dream of some commercialenterprise suggested by the country round. "Yon holm would make a finebleaching green--pure water, fine air, labour cheap, and everythinghandy. Or the Lintie's Linn among the woods--water power running towaste yonder--surely something could be made of that. " He would followhis idea through all its mazes and developments, oblivious of thepassing miles. His delight in his visions was exactly the same as theauthor's delight in the figments of his brain. They were the same goodcompany along the twilight roads. The author, happy with his throngingthoughts (when they are kind enough to throng), is no happier thanWilson was on nights like these. He had not been a week on his rounds when he saw a "chance" waiting fordevelopment. When out "delivering" he used to visit the upland farms tobuy butter and eggs for the Emporium. He got them cheaper so. But moreeggs and butter could be had than were required in the neighbourhood ofBarbie. Here was a chance for Wilson! He became a collector formerchants at a distance. Barbie, before it got the railway, had only asilly little market once a fortnight, which was a very poor outlet forstuff. Wilson provided a better one. Another thing played into hishands, too, in that connection. It is a cheese-making countryside aboutBarbie, and the less butter produced at a cheese-making place, thebetter for the cheese. Still, a good many pounds are often churned onthe sly. What need the cheese merchant ken? it keepit the gudewife inbawbees frae week to week; and if she took a little cream frae thecheese now and than they werena a pin the waur o't, for she aye did itwi' decency and caution! Still, it is as well to dispose of this kind ofbutter quietly, to avoid gabble among ill-speakers. Wilson, slitheringup the back road with his spring cart in the gloaming, was the man todispose of it quietly. And he got it dirt cheap, of course, seeing itwas a kind of contraband. All that he made in this way was not much tobe sure--threepence a dozen on the eggs, perhaps, and fourpence on thepound of butter--still, you know, every little makes a mickle, andhained gear helps weel. [4] And more important than the immediate profitwas the ultimate result. For Wilson in this way established withmerchants, in far-off Fechars and Poltandie, a connection for the saleof country produce which meant a great deal to him in future, when helaunched out as cheese-buyer in opposition to Gourlay. It "occurred" to him also (things were always occurring to Wilson) thatthe "Scotch cuddy" business had as fine a chance in "Barbie andsurrounding neighbourhood" as ever it had in North and Middle England. The "Scotch cuddy" is so called because he is a beast of burden, and notfrom the nature of his wits. He is a travelling packman, who infestscommunities of working-men, and disposes of his goods on the creditsystem, receiving payment in instalments. You go into a working-man'shouse (when he is away from home for preference), and laying a swatch ofcloth across his wife's knee, "What do you think of that, mistress?" youinquire, watching the effect keenly. Instantly all her covetous heart isin her eye, and, thinks she to herself, "Oh, but John would look well inthat at the kirk on Sunday!" She has no ready money, and would neverhave the cheek to go into a draper's and order the suit; but when shesees it lying there across her knee, she just cannot resist it. (Andfine you knew that when you clinked it down before her!) Now that thegoods are in the house, she cannot bear to let them out the door again. But she hints a scarcity of cash. "Tut, woman!" quoth you, bounteous andkind, "there's no obstacle in _that_! You can pay me in instalments!"How much would the instalments be, she inquires. "Oh, a meretrifle--half a crown a week, say. " She hesitates and hankers. "John'sSunday coat's getting quite shabby, so it is, and Tam Macalister has anew suit, she was noticing--the Macalisters are always flaunting intheir braws! And, there's that Paisley shawl for herself, too; eh, butthey would be the canty pair, cocking down the road on Sunday in _that_rig! they would take the licht frae Meg Macalister's een--thaeMacalisters are always so en-vy-fu'!" Love, vanity, covetousness, present opportunity, are all at work upon the poor body. She succumbs. But the half-crown weekly payments have a habit of lengtheningthemselves out till the packman has made fifty per cent. By thebusiness. And why not? a man must have some interest on his money!Then there's the risk of bad debts, too--that falls to be considered. But there was little risk of bad debts when Wilson took tocloth-distributing. For success in that game depends on pertinacity inpursuit of your victim, and Wilson was the man for that. He was jogging home from Brigabee, where he had been distributinggroceries at a score of wee houses, when there flashed on his mind awhole scheme for cloth-distribution on a large scale; for miningvillages were clustering in about Barbie by this time, and he saw hisway to a big thing. He was thinking of Sandy Toddle, who had been a Scotch cuddy in theMidlands, and had retired to Barbie on a snug bit fortune--he wasthinking of Sandy when the plan rose generous on his mind. He would soonhave more horses than one on the road; why shouldn't they carry swatchesof cloth as well as groceries? If he had responsible men under him, itwould be their own interest, for a small commission on the profits, tosee that payments were levied correctly every week. And those collierswere reckless with their cash, far readier to commit themselves tobuying than the cannier country bodies round. Lord! there was money inthe scheme. No sooner thought of than put in practice. Wilson gave upthe cloth-peddling after five or six years--he had other fish to fry bythat time--but while he was at it he made money hand over fist at thejob. But what boots it to tell of all his schemes? He had the lucky eye, andeverything he looked on prospered. Before he had been a week in Barbie he met Gourlay, just at the Bend o'the Brae, in full presence of the bodies. Remembering their firstencounter, the grocer tried to outstare him; but Gourlay hardened hisglower, and the grocer blinked. When the two passed, "I declare!" saidthe bodies, "did ye see yon?--they're not on speaking terms!" And theyhotched with glee to think that Gourlay had another enemy. Judge of their delight when they saw one day about a month later, justas Gourlay was passing up the street, Wilson come down it with a load ofcoals for a customer! For he was often out Auchterwheeze road in theearly morning, and what was the use of an empty journey back again, especially as he had plenty of time in the middle of the day to attendto other folk's affairs? So here he was, started as a carrier, in fullopposition to Gourlay. "Did you see Gourlay's face?" chuckled the bodies when the cart went by. "Yon was a bash in the eye to him. Ha, ha! he's not to have it all hisown way now!" Wilson had slid into the carrying in the natural development ofbusiness. It was another of the possibilities which he saw and turned tohis advantage. The two other chief grocers in the place, Cunningham thedirty and Calderwood the drunken, having no carts or horses of theirown, were dependent on Gourlay for conveyance of their goods fromSkeighan. But Wilson brought his own. Naturally, he was asked by hiscustomers to bring a parcel now and then, and naturally, being the manhe was, he made them pay for the privilege. With that for a start therest was soon accomplished. Gourlay had to pay now for his years ofinsolence and tyranny; all who had irked beneath his domineering waysgot their carrying done by Wilson. Ere long that prosperous gentlemanhad three carts on the road, and two men under him to help in hisvarious affairs. Carting was only one of several new developments in the business of J. W. When the navvies came in about the town and accommodation was ill tofind, Wilson rigged up an old shed in the corner of his holm as ahostelry for ten of them--and they had to pay through the nose for theirnight's lodging. Their food they obtained from the Emporium, and thusthe Wilsons bled them both ways. Then there was the scheme for supplyingmilk--another of the "possibeelities. " Hitherto in winter, Barbie wasdependent for its milk supply on heavy farm-carts that came lumberingdown the street, about half-past seven in the morning, jangling bells towaken sleepy customers, and carrying lanterns that carved circles offairy yellow out the raw air. But Mrs. Wilson got four cows, back-calvers who would be milking strong in December, and supplied milkto all the folk about the Cross. She had a lass to help her in the house now, and the red-headed boy wasalways to be seen, jinking round corners like a weasel, running messageshot-foot, errand boy to the "bisness" in general. Yet, though everybodywas busy and skelping at it, such a stress of work was accompanied withmuch disarray. Wilson's yard was the strangest contrast to Gourlay's. Gourlay's was a pleasure to the eye, everything of the best andeverything in order, since the master's pride would not allow it to beother. But though Wilson's Emporium was clean, his back yard waslittered with dirty straw, broken boxes, old barrels, stable refuse, andthe sky-pointing shafts of carts, uptilted in between. When boxes andbarrels were flung out of the Emporium they were generally allowed tolie on the dunghill until they were converted into firewood. "Mistress, you're a trifle mixed, " said the Provost in grave reproof, when he wentround to the back to see Wilson on a matter of business. But "Tut, "cried Mrs. Wilson, as she threw down a plank, to make a path for himacross a dub--"Tut, " she laughed, "the clartier the cosier!" And it wasas true as she said it. The thing went forward splendidly in spite ofits confusion. Though trade was brisker in Barbie than it had ever been before, Wilsonhad already done injury to Gourlay's business as general conveyor. But, hitherto, he had not infringed on the gurly one's other monopolies. Hischance came at last. He appeared on a market-day in front of the Red Lion, a piece of pinkybrown paper in his hand. That was the first telegram ever seen inBarbie, and it had been brought by special messenger from Skeighan. Itwas short and to the point. It ran: "Will buy 300 stone cheese 8shillings stone[5] delivery at once, " and was signed by a merchant inPoltandie. Gourlay was talking to old Tarmillan of Irrendavie, when Wilson pushedin and addressed Tarmillan, without a glance at the grain-merchant. "Have you a kane o' cheese to sell, Irrendavie?" was his blithesalutation. "I have, " said Irrendavie, and he eyed him suspiciously. For what wasWilson speiring for? _He_ wasna a cheese-merchant. "How much the stane are ye seeking for't?" said Wilson. "I have just been asking Mr. Gourlay here for seven-and-six, " saidIrrendavie, "but he winna rise a penny on the seven!" "_I_'ll gi'e ye seven-and-six, " said Wilson, and slapped his long thinflexible bank-book far too ostentatiously against the knuckles of hisleft hand. "But--but, " stammered Irrendavie, suspicious still, but melting at theoffer, "_you_ have no means of storing cheese. " "Oh, " said Wilson, getting in a fine one at Gourlay, "there's nodrawback in that! The ways o' business have changed greatly since steamcame close to our doors. It's nothing but vanity nowadays when a countrymerchant wastes money on a ramshackle of buildings for storing--there'sno need for that if he only had brains to develop quick deliveries. Somefolk, no doubt, like to build monuments to their own pride, but I'm notone of that kind; there's not enough sense in that to satisfy a man likeme. My offer doesna hold, you understand, unless you deliver the cheeseat Skeighan Station. Do you accept the condition?" "Oh yes, " said Irrendavie, "I'm willing to agree to that. " "C'way into the Red Lion then, " said Wilson, "and we'll wet the bargainwith a drink to make it hold the tighter!" Then a strange thing happened. Gourlay had a curious stick of foreignwood (one of the trifles he fed his pride on) the crook of which curvedback to the stem and inhered, leaving space only for the fingers. Thewood was of wonderful toughness, and Gourlay had been known to bet thatno man could break the handle of his stick by a single grip over thecrook and under it. Yet now, as he saw his bargain whisked away from himand listened to Wilson's jibe, the thing snapped in his grip like arotten twig. He stared down at the broken pieces for a while, as ifwondering how they came there, then dashed them on the ground whileWilson stood smiling by. And then he strode--with a look on his facethat made the folk fall away. "He's hellish angry, " they grinned to each other when their foe wasgone, and laughed when they heard the cause of it. "Ha, ha, Wilson's theboy to diddle him!" And yet they looked queer when told that the famousstick had snapped in his grasp like a worm-eaten larch-twig. "Lord!"cried the baker in admiring awe, "did he break it with the ae chirt!It's been tried by scores of fellows for the last twenty years, andnever a man of them was up till't! Lads, there's something splendidabout Gourlay's wrath. What a man he is when the paw-sion grups him!" "Thplendid, d'ye ca't?" said the Deacon. "He may thwing in a towe forhis thplendid wrath yet. " From that day Wilson and Gourlay were a pair of gladiators for whom thepeople of Barbie made a ring. They pitted the protagonists against eachother and hounded them on to rivalry by their comments and remarks, taking the side of the newcomer, less from partiality to him than fromhatred of their ancient enemy. It was strange that a thing so impalpableas gossip should influence so strong a man as John Gourlay to his ruin. But it did. The bodies of Barbie became not only the chorus to Gourlay'stragedy, buzzing it abroad and discussing his downfall; they becamealso, merely by their maddening tattle, a villain of the piece and anactive cause of the catastrophe. Their gossip seemed to materialize intoa single entity, a something propelling, that spurred Gourlay on to theschemes that ruined him. He was not to be done, he said; he would showthe dogs what he thought of them. And so he plunged headlong, while thewary Wilson watched him, smiling at the sight. There was a pretty hell-broth brewing in the little town. FOOTNOTES: [4] _Hained gear_, saved money. [5] That is for the stone of fourteen pounds. At that time Scotch cheesewas selling, _roughly_, at from fifty to sixty shillings thehundred-weight. CHAPTER XII. "Ay, man, Templandmuir, it's you!" said Gourlay, coming forward withgreat heartiness. "Ay, man, and how are ye? C'way into the parlour!" "Good-evening, Mr. Gourlay, " said the Templar. His manner was curiouslysubdued. Since his marriage there was a great change in the rubicund squireen. Hitherto he had lived in sluttish comfort on his own land, content withthe little it brought in, and proud to be the friend of Gourlay, whomeverybody feared. If it ever dawned on his befuddled mind that Gourlayturned the friendship to his own account, his vanity was flattered bythe prestige he acquired because of it. Like many another robustious bigtoper, the Templar was a chicken at heart, and "to be in with Gourlay"lent him a consequence that covered his deficiency. "Yes, I'm sleepy, "he would yawn in Skeighan Mart; "I had a sederunt yestreen wi' JohnGourlay, " and he would slap his boot with his riding-switch and feellike a hero. "I know how it is, I know how it is!" Provost Connal ofBarbie used to cry; "Gourlay both courts and cowes him--first he courtsand then he cowes--and the Templar hasn't the courage to break it off!"The Provost hit the mark. But when the Templar married the miller's daughter of the Mill o' Blink(a sad come-down, said foolish neighbours, for a Halliday ofTemplandmuir) there was a sudden change about the laird. In our goodScots proverb, "A miller's daughter has a shrill voice, " and the newleddy of Templandmuir ("a leddy she is!" said the frightenedhousekeeper) justified the proverb. Her voice went with the skirl of aneast wind through the rat-riddled mansion of the Hallidays. She wasnine-and-twenty, and a birkie woman of nine-and-twenty can make a goodhusband out of very unpromising material. The Templar wore a scared lookin those days and went home betimes. His cronies knew the fun was overwhen they heard what happened to the great punchbowl--she made it aswine-trough. It was the heirloom of a hundred years, and as much as aman could carry with his arms out, a massive curio in stone; but to herhusband's plaint about its degradation, "Oh, " she cried, "it'll neverknow the difference! It's been used to swine!" But she was not content with the cessation of the old; she wasdetermined on bringing in the new. For a twelvemonth now she had urgedher husband to be rid of Gourlay. The country was opening up, she said, and the quarry ought to be their own. A dozen times he had promised herto warn Gourlay that he must yield the quarry when his tack ran out atthe end of the year, and a dozen times he had shrunk from the encounter. "I'll write, " he said feebly. "Write!" said she, lowered in her pride to think her husband was acoward. "Write, indeed! Man, have ye no spunk? Think what he has madeout o' ye! Think o' the money that has gone to him that should have cometo you! You should be glad o' the chance to tell him o't. My certy, if Iwas you I wouldn't miss it for the world--just to let him know of hischeatry! Oh, it's very right that _I_"--she sounded the _I_ big andbrave--"it's very right that _I_ should live in this tumbledown holewhile _he_ builds a palace from your plunder! It's right that _I_ shouldput up with this"--she flung hands of contempt at her dwelling--"it'sright that _I_ should put up with this, while yon trollop has asplendid mansion on the top o' the brae! And every bawbee of hisfortune has come out of you--the fool makes nothing from his otherbusiness--he would have been a pauper if he hadn't met a softie like youthat he could do what he liked with. Write, indeed! I have no patiencewith a wheen sumphs of men! Them do the work o' the world! They may wearthe breeks, but the women wear the brains, I trow. I'll have it out withthe black brute myself, " screamed the hardy dame, "if you're feared ofhis glower. If you havena the pluck for it, _I_ have. Write, indeed! Inyou go to the meeting that oald ass of a Provost has convened, and don'tshow your face in Templandmuir till you have had it out with Gourlay!" No wonder the Templar looked subdued. When Gourlay came forward with his usual calculated heartiness, thelaird remembered his wife and felt very uncomfortable. It was ill toround on a man who always imposed on him a hearty and hardygood-fellowship. Gourlay, greeting him so warmly, gave him no excuse foran outburst. In his dilemma he turned to the children, to postpone theevil hour. "Ay, man, John!" he said heavily, "you're there!" Heavy Scotsmen arefond of telling folk that they are where they are. "You're there!" saidTemplandmuir. "Ay, " said John, the simpleton, "I'm here. " In the grime of the boy's face there were large white circles round theeyes, showing where his fists had rubbed off the tears through the day. "How are you doing at the school?" said the Templar. "Oh, he's an ass!" said Gourlay. "He takes after his mother in that! Thelassie's more smart--she favours our side o' the house! Eh, Jenny?" heinquired, and tugged her pigtail, smiling down at her in grim fondness. "Yes, " nodded Janet, encouraged by the petting, "John's always at thebottom of the class. Jimmy Wilson's always at the top, and the dominieset him to teach John his 'counts the day--after he had thrashed him!" She cried out at a sudden tug on her pigtail, and looked up, with tearsin her eyes, to meet her father's scowl. "You eediot!" said Gourlay, gazing at his son with a savage contempt, "have you no pride to let Wilson's son be your master?" John slunk from the room. "Bide where you are, Templandmuir, " said Gourlay after a little. "I'llbe back directly. " He went through to the kitchen and took a crystal jug from the dresser. He "made a point" of bringing the water for his whisky. "I like to pumpit up _cold_, " he used to say, "cold and cold, ye know, till there's amist on the outside of the glass like the bloom on a plum, and then, byGoad, ye have the fine drinking! Oh no--ye needn't tell me, I wouldn'tlip drink if the water wasna ice-cold. " He never varied from the tipplehe approved. In his long sederunts with Templandmuir he would slip outto the pump, before every brew, to get water of sufficient coldness. To-night he would birl the bottle with Templandmuir as usual, till thefuddled laird should think himself a fine big fellow as being theintimate of John Gourlay--and then, sober as a judge himself, he woulddrive him home in the small hours. And when next they met, thepot-valiant squireen would chuckle proudly, "Faith, yon was a night. " Bya crude cunning of the kind Gourlay had maintained his ascendancy foryears, and to-night he would maintain it still. He went out to the pumpto fetch water with his own hands for their first libation. But when he came back and set out the big decanter Templandmuir startedto his feet. "Noat to-night, Mr. Gourlay, " he stammered--and his unusual flutter ofrefusal might have warned Gourlay--"noat to-night, if _you_ please; noatto-night, if _you_ please. As a matter of fact--eh--what I really cameinto the town for, doan't you see, was--eh--to attend the meeting theProvost has convened about the railway. You'll come down to the meeting, will ye noat?" He wanted to get Gourlay away from the House with the Green Shutters. Itwould be easier to quarrel with him out of doors. But Gourlay gaped at him across the table, his eyes big with surpriseand disapproval. "Huh!" he growled, "I wonder at a man like you giving your head to that!It's a wheen damned nonsense. " "Oh, I'm no so sure of that, " drawled the Templar. "I think the railwaymeans to come. " The whole country was agog about the new railway. The question agitatingsolemn minds was whether it should join the main line at Fechars, thirtymiles ahead, or pass to the right, through Fleckie and Barbie, to ajunction up at Skeighan Drone. Many were the reasons spluttered invehement debate for one route or the other. "On the one side, ye see, Skeighan was a big place a'readys, and look what a centre it would be ifit had three lines of rail running out and in! Eh, my, what a centre!Then there was Fleckie and Barbie--they would be the big towns! Up thevalley, too, was the shortest road; it would be a daft-like thing tobuild thirty mile of rail, when fifteen was enough to establish theconnection! And was it likely--I put it to ainy man of sense--was itlikely the Coal Company wouldn't do everything in their power to get therailway up the valley, seeing that if it didn't come that airt theywould need to build a line of their own?"--"Ah, but then, ye see, Fechars was a big place too, and there was lots of mineral up there aswell! And though it was a longer road to Fechars and part of it layacross the moors, there were several wee towns that airt just waitingfor a chance of growth! I can tell ye, sirs, this was going to be aclose question!" Such was the talk in pot-house and parlour, at kirk and mart and trystand fair, and wherever potentates did gather and abound. The partisanson either side began to canvass the country in support of theircontentions. They might have kept their breath to cool their porridge, for these matters, we know, are settled in the great Witenagemot. Butpetitions were prepared and meetings were convened. In those daysProvost Connal of Barbie was in constant communion with the "Pow-ers. ""Yass, " he nodded gravely--only "nod" is a word too swift for the graveinclining of that mighty pow--"yass, ye know, the great thing in matterslike this is to get at the Pow-ers, doan't you see? Oh yass, yass; wemust get at the Pow-ers!" and he looked as if none but he were equal tothe job. He even went to London (to interrogate the "Pow-ers"), andsimple bodies, gathered at the Cross for their Saturday at e'en, toldeach other with bated breath that the Provost was away to the "seat ofGoaver'ment to see about the railway. " When he came back and shook hishead, hope drained from his fellows and left them hollow in an emptyworld. But when he smacked his lips on receiving an important letter, the heavens were brightened and the landscapes smiled. The Provost walked about the town nowadays with the air of a man onwhose shoulders the weight of empires did depend. But for all his airsit was not the Head o' the Town who was the ablest advocate of the routeup the Water of Barbie. It was that public-spirited citizen, Mr. JamesWilson of the Cross! Wilson championed the cause of Barbie with anardour that did infinite credit to his civic heart. For one thing, itwas a grand way of recommending himself to his new townsfolk, as he toldhis wife, "and so increasing the circle of our present trade, don't yeunderstand?"--for another, he was as keen as the keenest that therailway should come and enhance the value of his property. "We mustagitate, " he cried, when Sandy Toddle murmured a doubt whether anythingthey could do would be of much avail. "It's not settled yet what roadthe line's to follow, and who knows but a trifle may turn the scale inour behalf? Local opinion ought to be expressed! They're sending amonster petition from the Fechars side; we'll send the Company a biggerone from ours! Look at Skeighan and Fleckie and Barbie--three towns atour back, and the new Coal Company forbye! A public opinion of that sizeought to have a great weight--if put forward properly! We must agitate, sirs, we must agitate; we maun scour the country for names in oursupport. Look what a number of things there are to recommend _our_route. It's the shortest, and there's no need for heavy cuttings such asare needed on the other side; the road's there a'ready--Barbie Water hascut it through the hills. It's the manifest design of Providence thatthere should be a line up Barbie Valley! What a position for't!--And, oh, " thought Wilson, "what a site for building houses in my holm!--Let ameeting be convened at wunst!" The meeting was convened, with Provost Connal in the chair and Wilson asgeneral factotum. "You'll come down to the meeting?" said Templandmuir to Gourlay. Go to a meeting for which Wilson had sent out the bills! At another, Gourlay would have hurled his usual objurgation that he would see himcondemned to eternal agonies ere he granted his request! ButTemplandmuir was different. Gourlay had always flattered this man (whomhe inwardly despised) by a companionship which made proud the other. Hehad always yielded to Templandmuir in small things, for the sake of thequarry, which was a great thing. He yielded to him now. "Verra well, " he said shortly, and rose to get his hat. When Gourlay put on his hat the shallow meanness of his brow was hid, and nothing was seen to impair his dark, strong gravity of face. He wasa man you would have turned to look at as he marched in silence by theside of Templandmuir. Though taller than the laird, he looked shorterbecause of his enormous breadth. He had a chest like the heave of ahill. Templandmuir was afraid of him. And fretting at the necessity hefelt to quarrel with a man of whom he was afraid, he had an unreasonablehatred of Gourlay, whose conduct made this quarrel necessary at the sametime that his character made it to be feared; and he brooded on hisgrowing rage that, with it for a stimulus, he might work his cowardlynature to the point of quarrelling. Conscious of the coming row, then, he felt awkward in the present, and was ignorant what to say. Gourlaywas silent too. He felt it an insult to the House with the GreenShutters that the laird should refuse its proffered hospitality. Hehated to be dragged to a meeting he despised. Never before was suchirritation between them. When they came to the hall where the meeting was convened, there wereknots of bodies grouped about the floor. Wilson fluttered from group togroup, an important man, with a roll of papers in his hand. Gourlay, quick for once in his dislike, took in every feature of the man heloathed. Wilson was what the sentimental women of the neighbourhood called a"bonny man. " His features were remarkably regular, and his complexionwas remarkably fair. His brow was so delicate of hue that the blue veinsrunning down his temples could be traced distinctly beneath thewhiteness of the skin. Unluckily for him, he was so fair that in astrong light (as now beneath the gas) the suspicion of his unwashednessbecame a certainty--"as if he got a bit idle slaik now and than, andnever a good rub, " thought Gourlay in a clean disgust. Full lips showedthemselves bright red in the middle between the two wings of a veryblonde and very symmetrical moustache. The ugly feature of the face wasthe blue calculating eyes. They were tender round the lids, so that thewhite lashes stuck out in little peaks. And in conversation he had ahabit of peering out of these eyes as if he were constantly spying forsomething to emerge that he might twist to his advantage. As he talkedto a man close by and glimmered (not at the man beside him, but far awayin the distance of his mind at some chance of gain suggested by theother's words) Gourlay heard him say musingly, "Imphm, imphm, imphm!there might be something _in_ that!" nodding his head and stroking hismoustache as he uttered each meditative "imphm. " It was Wilson's unconscious revelation that his mind was busy with acommercial hint which he had stolen from his neighbour's talk. "Thedamned sneck-drawer!" thought Gourlay, enlightened by his hate; "he'ssucking Tam Finlay's brains, to steal some idea for himsell!" And stillas Wilson listened he murmured swiftly, "Imphm! I see, Mr. Finlay;imphm! imphm! imphm!" nodding his head and pulling his moustache andglimmering at his new "opportunity. " Our insight is often deepest into those we hate, because annoyance fixesour thought on them to probe. We cannot keep our minds off them. "Why dothey do it?" we snarl, and wondering why, we find out their character. Gourlay was not an observant man, but every man is in any man somewhere, and hate to-night driving his mind into Wilson, helped him to read himlike an open book. He recognized with a vague uneasiness--not with fear, for Gourlay did not know what it meant, but with uneasy anger--thesuperior cunning of his rival. Gourlay, a strong block of a man cut offfrom the world by impotence of speech, could never have got out ofFinlay what Wilson drew from him in two minutes' easy conversation. Wilson ignored Gourlay, but he was very blithe with Templandmuir, andinveigled him off to a corner. They talked together very briskly, andWilson laughed once with uplifted head, glancing across at Gourlay as helaughed. Curse them, were they speaking of him? The hall was crammed at last, and the important bodies took their seatsupon the front benches. Gourlay refused to be seated with the rest, butstood near the platform, with his back to the wall, by the side ofTemplandmuir. After what the Provost described "as a few preliminary remarks"--theylasted half an hour--he called on Mr. Wilson to address the meeting. Wilson descanted on the benefits that would accrue to Barbie if it gotthe railway, and on the needcessity for a "long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together"--a phrase which he repeated many times in thecourse of his address. He sat down at last amid thunders of applause. "There's no needcessity for me to make a loang speech, " said theProvost. "Hear, hear!" said Gourlay, and the meeting was unkind enough to laugh. "Order, order!" cried Wilson perkily. "As I was saying when I was grossly interrupted, " fumed the Provost, "there's no needcessity for me to make a loang speech. I had thoat wewere a-all agreed on the desirabeelity of the rileway coming in ourdirection. I had thoat, after the able--I must say the very able--speechof Mr. Wilson, that there wasn't a man in this room so shtupid as toutter a word of dishapproval. I had thoat we might prosheed at woance toelect a deputation. I had thoat we would get the name of everybody herefor the great petition we mean to send the Pow-ers. I had thoat it wasall, so to shpeak, a foregone conclusion. But it seems I was mistaken, ladies and gentlemen--or rather, I oat to say gentlemen, for I believethere are no ladies present. Yass, it seems I was mistaken. It may bethere are some who would like to keep Barbie going on in the oald waywhich they found so much to their advantage. It may be there are somewho regret a change that will put an end to their chances oftyraneezin'. It may be there are some who know themselves so shtupidthat they fear the new condeetions of trade the railway's bound tobring. "--Here Wilson rose and whispered in his ear, and the peoplewatched them, wondering what hint J. W. Was passing to the Provost. TheProvost leaned with pompous gravity toward his monitor, hand at ear tocatch the treasured words. He nodded and resumed. --"Now, gentlemen, asMr. Wilson said, this is a case that needs a loang pull, and a stroangpull, and a pull all together. We must be unanimous. It will _noat_ doto show ourselves divided among ourselves. Therefore I think we oat tohave expressions of opinion from some of our leading townsmen. That willshow how far we are unanimous. I had thoat there could be only oneopinion, and that we might prosheed at once with the petition. But itseems I was wroang. It is best to inquire first exactly where we stand. So I call upon Mr. John Gourlay, who has been the foremost man in thetown for mainy years--at least he used to be that--I call upon Mr. Gourlay as the first to express an opinion on the subjeck. " Wilson's hint to the Provost placed Gourlay in a fine dilemma. Stupid ashe was, he was not so stupid as not to perceive the general advantage ofthe railway. If he approved it, however, he would seem to support Wilsonand the Provost, whom he loathed. If he disapproved, his oppositionwould be set down to a selfish consideration for his own trade, and hewould incur the anger of the meeting, which was all for the coming ofthe railway, Wilson had seized the chance to put him in a falseposition. He knew Gourlay could not put forty words together in public, and that in his dilemma he would blunder and give himself away. Gourlay evaded the question. "It would be better to convene a meeting, " he bawled to the Provost, "toconsider the state of some folk's back doors. "--That was a nipper toWilson!--"There's a stink at the Cross that's enough to kill a cuddy!" "Evidently not, " yelled Wilson, "since you're still alive!" A roar went up against Gourlay. All he could do was to scowl before him, with hard-set mouth and gleaming eyes, while they bellowed him to scorn. "I would like to hear what Templandmuir has to say on the subject, " saidWilson, getting up. "But no doubt he'll follow his friend Mr. Gourlay. " "No, I don't follow Mr. Gourlay, " bawled Templandmuir with unnecessaryloudness. The reason of his vehemence was twofold. He was nettled (asWilson meant he should) by the suggestion that he was nothing butGourlay's henchman. And being eager to oppose Gourlay, yet a coward, heyelled to supply in noise what he lacked in resolution. "I don't follow Mr. Gourlay at all, " he roared; "I follow nobody butmyself! Every man in the district's in support of this petition. Itwould be absurd to suppose anything else. I'll be glad to sign't amongthe first, and do everything I can in its support. " "Verra well, " said the Provost; "it seems we're agreed after all. We'llget some of our foremost men to sign the petition at this end of thehall, and then it'll be placed in the anteroom for the rest to sign asthey go out. " "Take it across to Gourlay, " whispered Wilson to the two men who werecarrying the enormous tome. They took it over to the grain merchant, andone of them handed him an inkhorn. He dashed it to the ground. The meeting hissed like a cellarful of snakes. But Gourlay turned andglowered at them, and somehow the hisses died away. His was the highcourage that feeds on hate, and welcomes rather than shrinks from itsexpression. He was smiling as he faced them. "Let _me_ pass, " he said, and shouldered his way to the door, thebystanders falling back to make room. Templandmuir followed him out. "I'll walk to the head o' the brae, " said the Templar. He must have it out with Gourlay at once, or else go home to meet theanger of his wife. Having opposed Gourlay already, he felt that now wasthe time to break with him for good. Only a little was needed tocomplete the rupture. And he was the more impelled to declare himselfto-night because he had just seen Gourlay discomfited, and was beginningto despise the man he had formerly admired. Why, the whole meeting hadlaughed at his expense! In quarrelling with Gourlay, moreover, he wouldhave the whole locality behind him. He would range himself on thepopular side. Every impulse of mind and body pushed him forward to thebrink of speech; he would never get a better occasion to bring out hisgrievance. They trudged together in a burning silence. Though nothing was saidbetween them, each was in wrathful contact with the other's mind. Gourlay blamed everything that had happened on Templandmuir, who haddragged him to the meeting and deserted him. And Templandmuir waslonging to begin about the quarry, but afraid to start. That was why he began at last with false, unnecessary loudness. It waspartly to encourage himself (as a bull bellows to increase his rage), and partly because his spite had been so long controlled. It burst thelouder for its pent fury. "Mr. Gourlay!" he bawled suddenly, when they came opposite the Housewith the Green Shutters, "I've had a crow to pick with you for more thana year. " It came on Gourlay with a flash that Templandmuir was slipping away fromhim. But he must answer him civilly for the sake of the quarry. "Ay, man, " he said quietly, "and what may that be?" "I'll damned soon tell you what it is, " said the Templar. "Yon was amonstrous overcharge for bringing my ironwork from Fleckie. I'll bedamned if I put up with that!" And yet it was only a trifle. He had put up with fifty worse impositionsand never said a word. But when a man is bent on a quarrel any sparkwill do for an explosion. "How do ye make that out?" said Gourlay, still very quietly, lest heshould alienate the quarry laird. "Damned fine do I make that out, " yelled Templandmuir, and louder thanever was the yell. He was the brave man now, with his bellow to heartenhim. "Damned fine do I make that out. You charged me for a whole day, though half o't was spent upon your own concerns. I'm tired o' you andyour cheatry. You've made a braw penny out o' me in your time. But curseme if I endure it loanger. I give you notice this verra night that yourtack o' the quarry must end at Martinmas. " He was off, glad to have it out and glad to escape the consequence, leaving Gourlay a cauldron of wrath in the darkness. It was not merelythe material loss that maddened him. But for the first time in his lifehe had taken a rebuff without a word or a blow in return. In his desireto conciliate he had let Templandmuir get away unscathed. His bloodrocked him where he stood. He walked blindly to the kitchen door, never knowing how he reached it. It was locked--at this early hour!--and the simple inconvenience letloose the fury of his wrath. He struck the door with his clenched fisttill the blood streamed on his knuckles. It was Mrs. Gourlay who opened the door to him. She started back beforehis awful eyes. "John!" she cried, "what's wrong wi' ye?" The sight of the she-tatterdemalion there before him, whom he hadendured so long and must endure for ever, was the crowning burden of hisnight. Damn her, why didn't she get out of the way? why did she standthere in her dirt and ask silly questions? He struck her on the bosomwith his great fist, and sent her spinning on the dirty table. She rose from among the broken dishes and came towards him, with slacklips and great startled eyes. "John, " she panted, like a pitifulfrightened child, "what have I been doing?... Man, what did you hit mefor?" He gaped at her with hanging jaw. He knew he was a brute--knew she haddone nothing to-night more than she had ever done--knew he had vented onher a wrath that should have burst on others. But his mind was at astick; how could he explain--to _her_? He gaped and glowered for aspeechless moment, then turned on his heel and went into the parlour, slamming the door till the windows rattled in their frames. She stared after him a while in large-eyed stupor, then flung herself inher old nursing-chair by the fire, and spat blood in the ribs, hawkingit up coarsely--we forget to be delicate in moments of supremer agony. And then she flung her apron over her head and rocked herself to and froin the chair where she had nursed his children, wailing, "It's a pity o'me, it's a pity o' me! My God, ay, it's a geyan pity o' me!" The boy was in bed, but Janet had watched the scene with a white, scaredface and tearful cries. She crept to her mother's side. The sympathy of children with those who weep is innocently selfish. Thesight of tears makes them uncomfortable, and they want them to cease, inthe interests of their own happiness. If the outward signs of griefwould only vanish, all would be well. They are not old enough toappreciate the inward agony. So Janet tugged at the obscuring apron, and whimpered, "Don't greet, mother, don't greet. Woman, I dinna like to see ye greetin'. " But Mrs. Gourlay still rocked herself and wailed, "It's a pity o' me, it's a pity o' me! My God, ay, it's a geyan pity o' me!" CHAPTER XIII. "Is he in himsell?" asked Gibson the builder, coming into the Emporium. Mrs. Wilson was alone in the shop. Since trade grew so brisk she had anassistant to help her, but he was out for his breakfast at present, andas it happened she was all alone. "No, " she said, "he's no in. We're terribly driven this twelvemonthback, since trade grew so thrang, and he's aye hunting business in somecorner. He's out the now after a carrying affair. Was it ainythingperticular?" She looked at Gibson with a speculation in her eyes that almost vergedon hostility. Wives of the lower classes who are active helpers in ahusband's affairs often direct that look upon strangers who approach himin the way of business. For they are enemies whatever way you take them;come to be done by the husband or to do him--in either case, therefore, the object of a sharp curiosity. You may call on an educated man, eitherto fleece him or be fleeced, and his wife, though she knows all aboutit, will talk to you charmingly of trifles while you wait for him in herparlour. But a wife of the lower orders, active in her husband'saffairs, has not been trained to dissemble so prettily; though her facebe a mask, what she is wondering comes out in her eye. There wassuspicion in the big round stare that Mrs. Wilson directed at thebuilder. What was _he_ spiering for "himsell" for? What could he be upto? Some end of his own, no doubt. Anxious curiosity forced her toinquire. "Would I do instead?" she asked. "Well, hardly, " said Gibson, clawing his chin, and gazing at a cordedround of "Barbie's Best" just above his head. "Dod, it's a fine hamthat, " he said, to turn the subject. "How are ye selling it the now?" "Tenpence a pound retail, but ninepence only if ye take a whole one. Yehad better let me send you one, Mr. Gibson, now that winter's drawingon. It's a heartsome thing, the smell of frying ham on a frostymorning"--and her laugh went skelloching up the street. "Well, ye see, " said Gibson, with a grin, "I expect Mr. Wilson topresent me with one when he hears the news that I have brought him. " "Aha!" said she, "it's something good, then, " and she stuck her armsakimbo. --"James!" she shrilled, "James!" and the red-haired boy shotfrom the back premises. "Run up to the Red Lion, and see if your father has finished his crackwi' Templandmuir. Tell him Mr. Gibson wants to see him on importantbusiness. " The boy squinted once at the visitor, and scooted, the red head of himforemost. While Gibson waited and clawed his chin she examined him narrowly. Suspicion as to the object of his visit fixed her attention on his face. He was a man with mean brown eyes. Brown eyes may be clear and limpid asa mountain pool, or they may have the fine black flash of anger and thejovial gleam, or they may be mean things--little and sly and oily. Gibson's had the depth of cunning, not the depth of character, and theyglistened like the eyes of a lustful animal. He was a reddish man, witha fringe of sandy beard, and a perpetual grin which showed his yellowteeth, with green deposit round their roots. It was more than agrin--it was a _rictus_, semicircular from cheek to cheek; and the beadyeyes, ever on the watch up above it, belied its false benevolence. Hewas not florid, yet that grin of his seemed to intensify his reddishness(perhaps because it brought out and made prominent his sandy valance andthe ruddy round of his cheeks), so that the baker christened him longago "the man with the sandy smile. " "Cunning Johnny" was his othernickname. Wilson had recognized a match in him the moment he came toBarbie, and had resolved to act with him if he could, but never to actagainst him. They had made advances to each other--birds of a feather, in short. The grocer came in hurriedly, white-waistcoated to-day, and aperceptibly bigger bulge in his belly than when we first saw him inBarbie, four years ago now. "Good-morning, Mr. Gibson, " he panted. "Is it private that ye wanted tosee me on?" "Verra private, " said the sandy smiler. "We'll go through to the house, then, " said Wilson, and ushered hisguest through the back premises. But the voice of his wife recalled him. "James!" she cried. "Here for a minute just, " and he turned to her, leaving Gibson in the yard. "Be careful what you're doing, " she whispered in his ear. "It wasna fornothing they christened Gibson 'Cunning Johnny. ' Keep the dirt out youreen. " "There's no fear of that, " he assured her pompously. It was a grandthing to have a wife like that, but her advice nettled him now just alittle, because it seemed to imply a doubt of his efficiency--and thatwas quite onnecessar. He knew what he was doing. They would need to risevery early that got the better o' a man like him! "You'll take a dram?" said Wilson, when they reached a pokey little roomwhere the most conspicuous and dreary object was a large bare flowerpotof red earthenware, on a green woollen mat, in the middle of a roundtable. Out of the flowerpot rose gauntly a three-sticked frame, up whichtwo lonely stalks of a climbing plant tried to scramble, but failedmiserably to reach the top. The round little rickety table with thefamily album on one corner (placed at what Mrs. Wilson considered abeautiful artistic angle to the window), the tawdry cloth, the greenmat, the shiny horsehair sofa, and the stuffy atmosphere, were all inperfect harmony of ugliness. A sampler on the wall informed the worldthat there was no place like home. Wilson pushed the flowerpot to one side, and "You'll take a dram?" hesaid blithely. "Oh ay, " said Gibson with a grin; "I never refuse drink when I'm offeredit for nothing. " "Hi! hi!" laughed Wilson at the little joke, and produced a cut decanterand a pair of glasses. He filled the glasses so brimming full that thedrink ran over on the table. "Canny, man, for God's sake canny!" cried Gibson, starting forward inalarm. "Don't ye see you're spilling the mercies?" He stooped his lipsto the rim of his glass, and sipped, lest a drop of Scotia's nectarshould escape him. They faced each other, sitting. "Here's pith!" said Gibson. "Pith!" saidthe other in chorus, and they nodded to each other in amity, primedglasses up and ready. And then it was eyes heavenward and the littlefinger uppermost. Gibson smacked his lips once and again when the fiery spirit tickled hisuvula. "Ha!" said he, "that's the stuff to put heart in a man. " "It's no bad whisky, " said Wilson complacently. Gibson wiped the sandy stubble round his mouth with the back of hishand, and considered for a moment. Then, leaning forward, he tappedWilson's knee in whispering importance. "Have you heard the news?" he murmured, with a watchful glimmer in hiseyes. "No!" cried Wilson, glowering, eager and alert. "Is't ocht in thebusiness line? Is there a possibeelity for me in't?" "Oh, there might, " nodded Gibson, playing his man for a while. "Ay, man!" cried Wilson briskly, and brought his chair an inch or twoforward. Gibson grinned and watched him with his beady eyes. "What greenteeth he has!" thought Wilson, who was not fastidious. "The Coal Company are meaning to erect a village for five hundred minersa mile out the Fleckie Road, and they're running a branch line up theLintie's Burn that'll need the building of a dozen brigs. I'm happy tosay I have nabbed the contract for the building. " "Man, Mr. Gibson, d'ye tell me that! I'm proud to hear it, sir; I amthat!" Wilson was hotching in his chair with eagerness. For what couldGibson be wanting with _him_ if it wasna to arrange about the carting?"Fill up your glass, Mr. Gibson, man; fill up your glass. You'redrinking nothing at all. Let _me_ help you. " "Ay, but I havena the contract for the carting, " said Gibson. "That'snot mine to dispose of. They mean to keep it in their own hand. " Wilson's mouth forgot to shut, and his eyes were big and round as hismouth in staring disappointment. Was it this he was wasting his drinkfor? "Where do I come in?" he asked blankly. Gibson tossed off another glassful of the burning heartener of men, andleaned forward with his elbows on the table. "D'ye ken Goudie, the Company's manager? He's worth making up to, I cantell ye. He has complete control of the business, and can airt you theroad of a good thing. I made a point of helping him in everything, eversince he came to Barbie, and I'm glad to say that he hasna forgotten't. Man, it was through him I got the building contract; they never threw'topen to the public. But they mean to contract separate for carting thematerial. That means that they'll need the length of a dozen horses onthe road for a twelvemonth to come; for it's no only thebuilding--they're launching out on a big scale, and there's lots ofother things forbye. Now, Goudie's as close as a whin, and likes to keepeverything dark till the proper time comes for sploring o't. Not awhisper has been heard so far about this village for the miners--there'sa rumour, to be sure, about a wheen houses going up, but nothing _near_the reality. And there's not a soul, either, that kens there's a bigcontract for carting to be had 'ceptna Goudie and mysell. But or amonth's by they'll be advertising for estimates for a twelvemonth'scarrying. I thocht a hint aforehand would be worth something to you, andthat's the reason of my visit. " "I see, " said Wilson briskly. "You're verra good, Mr. Gibson. You meanyou'll give me an inkling in private of the other estimates sent in, andhelp to arrange mine according?" "Na, " said Gibson. "Goudie's owre close to let me ken. I'll speak a wordin his ear on your behalf, to be sure, if you agree to the proposal Imean to put before you. But Gourlay's the man you need to keep your eyeon. It's you or him for the contract--there's nobody else to compete wi'the two o' ye. " "Imphm, I see, " said Wilson, and tugged his moustache in meditation. Allexpression died out of his face while his brain churned within. WhatBrodie had christened "the considering keek" was in his eyes; they werefar away, and saw the distant village in process of erection; busy withits chances and occasions. Then an uneasy thought seemed to strike himand recall him to the man by his side. He stole a shifty glance at thesandy smiler. "But I thought _you_ were a friend of Gourlay's, " he said slowly. "Friendship!" said Gibson. "We're speaking of business. And there'ssma-all friendship atween me and Gourlay. He was nebby owre a bill Isent in the other day; and I'm getting tired of his bluster. Besides, there's little more to be made of him. Gourlay's bye wi't. But you're arising man, Mr. Wilson, and I think that you and me might work thegitherto our own advantage, don't ye see? Yes; just so; to the advantage of usboth. Oom?" "I hardly see what you're driving at, " said Wilson. "I'm driving at this, " said Gibson. "If Gourlay kens you're against himfor the contract, he'll cut his estimate down to a ruinous price, out o'sheer spite--yes, out o' sheer spite--rather than be licked by _you_ inpublic competition. And if he does that, Goudie and I may do what welike, but we canna help you. For it's the partners that decide theestimates sent in, d'ye see? Imphm, it's the partners. Goudie hasnoathing to do wi' that. And if Gourlay once gets round the partners, you'll be left out in the cold for a very loang time. Shivering, sir, shivering! You will that!" "Dod, you're right. There's a danger of that. But I fail to see how wecan prevent it. " "We can put Gourlay on a wrong scent, " said Gibson. "But how, though?" Gibson met one question by another. "What was the charge for a man and a horse and a day's carrying when yefirst came hereaway?" he asked. "Only four shillings a day, " said Wilson promptly. "It has risen to sixnow, " he added. "Exactly, " said Gibson; "and with the new works coming in about the townit'll rise to eight yet. I have it for a fact that the Company's willingto gie that. Now if you and me could procure a job for Gourlay at thelower rate, before the news o' this new industry gets scattered--a jobthat would require the whole of his plant, you understand, and preventhis competing for the Company's business--we would clear"--he clawed hischin to help his arithmetic--"we would clear three hundred andseventy-four pounds o' difference on the twelvemonth. At least _you_would make that, " he added, "but you would allow me a handsomecommission of course--the odd hundred and seventy, say--for bringing thescheme before ye. I don't think there's ocht unreasonable in tha-at. Forit's not the mere twelvemonth's work that's at stake, you understand;it's the valuable connection for the fee-yuture. Now, I have influencewi' Goudie; I can help you there. But if Gourlay gets in there's just achance that you'll never be able to oust him. " "I see, " said Wilson. "Before he knows what's coming, we're to providework for Gourlay at the lower rate, both to put money in our own pocketand prevent him competing for the better business. " "You've summed it to the nines, " said Gibson. "Yes, " said Wilson blankly, "but how on earth are _we_ to provide workfor him?" Gibson leaned forward a second time and tapped Wilson on the knee. "Have you never considered what a chance for building there's in thatholm of yours?" he asked. "You've a fortune there, lying undeveloped. " That was the point to which Cunning Johnny had been leading all thetime. He cared as little for Wilson as for Gourlay; all he wanted was acontract for covering Wilson's holm with jerry-built houses, and a goodcommission on the year's carrying. It was for this he evolved theconspiracy to cripple Gourlay. Wilson's thoughts went to and fro like the shuttle of a weaver. Heblinked in rapidity of thinking, and stole shifty glances at hiscomrade. He tugged his moustache and said "Imphm" many times. Then hiseyes went off in their long preoccupied stare, and the sound of thebreath, coming heavy through his nostrils, was audible in the quietroom. Wilson was one of the men whom you hear thinking. "I see, " he said slowly. "You mean to bind Gourlay to cart buildingmaterial to my holm at the present price of work. You'll bind him ingeneral terms so that he canna suspect, till the time comes, who inparticular he's to work for. In the meantime I'll be free to offer forthe Company's business at the higher price. " "That's the size o't, " said Gibson. Wilson was staggered by the rapid combinations of the scheme. ButCunning Johnny had him in the toils. The plan he proposed stole aboutthe grocer's every weakness, and tugged his inclinations to consent. Itwas very important, he considered, that he, and no other, should obtainthis contract, which was both valuable in itself and an earnest of otherbusiness in the future. And Gibson's scheme got Gourlay, the onlypossible rival, out of the way. For it was not possible for Gourlay toput more than twelve horses on the road, and if he thought he hadsecured a good contract already, he would never dream of applying foranother. Then, Wilson's malice was gratified by the thought thatGourlay, who hated him, should have to serve, as helper and underling, in a scheme for his aggrandizement. That would take down his pride forhim! And the commercial imagination, so strong in Wilson, was inflamedby the vision of himself as a wealthy houseowner which Gibson put beforehim. Cunning Johnny knew all this when he broached the scheme--heforesaw the pull of it on Wilson's nature. Yet Wilson hesitated. He didnot like to give himself to Gibson quite so rapidly. "You go fast, Mr. Gibson, " said he. "Faith, you go fast. This is a bigaffair, and needs to be looked at for a while. " "Fast!" cried Gibson. "Damn it, we have no time to waste. We maun act onthe spur of the moment. " "I'll have to borrow money, " said Wilson slowly; "and it's verra dear atthe present time. " "It was never worth more in Barbie than it is at the present time. Man, don't ye see the chance you're neglecting? Don't ye see what it means?There's thousands lying at your back door if ye'll only reach to pickthem up. Yes, thousands. Thousands, I'm telling ye--thousands!" Wilson saw himself provost and plutocrat. Yet was he cautious. "_You_'ll do well by the scheme, " he said tartly, "if you get the solecontract for building these premises of mine, and a fat commission onthe carrying forbye. " "Can you carry the scheme without me?" said Gibson. "A word from me toGoudie means a heap. " There was a veiled threat in the remark. "Oh, we'll come to terms, " said the other. "But how will you manageGourlay?" "Aha!" said Gibson, "I'll come in handy for that, you'll discover. There's been a backset in Barbie for the last year--things went owrequick at the start and were followed by a wee lull; but it's only for atime, sir--it's only for a time. Hows'ever, it and you thegither havedamaged Gourlay: he's both short o' work and scarce o' cash, as I foundto my cost when I asked him for my siller! So when I offer him a bigcontract for carting stones atween the quarry and the town foot, he'llswallow it without question. I'll insert a clause that he must deliverthe stuff at such places as I direct within four hundred yards of theCross, in ainy direction--for I've several jobs near the Cross, doan'tye see, and how's he to know that yours is one o' them? Man, it's easyto bamboozle an ass like Gourlay! Besides, he'll think my principalshave trusted me to let the carrying to ainy one I like, and, as I let itto him, he'll fancy I'm on his side, doan't ye see? He'll never jalousethat I mean to diddle him. In the meantime we'll spread the news thatyou're meaning to build on a big scale upon your own land; we'll havethe ground levelled, the foundations dug, and the drains and everythingseen to. Now, it'll never occur to Gourlay, in the present slackness o'trade, that you would contract wi' another man to cart your material, and go hunting for other work yoursell. That'll throw him off the scenttill the time comes to put his nose on't. When the Company advertise forestimates he canna compete wi' you, because he's pre-engaged to me; andhe'll think you're out o't too, because you're busy wi' your own woark. You'll be free to nip the eight shillings. Then we'll force him tofulfill his bargain and cart for us at six. " "If he refuses?" said Wilson. "I'll have the contract stamped and signed in the presence ofwitnesses, " said Gibson. "Not that that's necessary, I believe, but adouble knot's aye the safest. " Wilson looked at him with admiration. "Gosh, Mr. Gibson, " he cried, "you're a warmer! Ye deserve your name. Yeken what the folk ca' you?" "Oh yes, " said Gibson complacently. "I'm quite proud o' thedescription. " "I've my ain craw to pick wi' Gourlay, " he went on. "He was damnedill-bred yestreen when I asked him to settle my account, and talkedabout extortion. But bide a wee, bide a wee! I'll enjoy the look on hisface when he sees himself forced to carry for you, at a rate lower thanthe market price. " When Gibson approached Gourlay on the following day he was full oflaments about the poor state of trade. "Ay, " said he, "the grand railway they boasted o' hasna done muckle forthe town!" "Atwell ay, " quoth Gourlay with pompous wisdom; "they'll maybe find, ora's by, that the auld way wasna the warst way. There was to be a greatboom, as they ca't, but I see few signs o't. " "I see few signs o't either, " said Gibson, "it's the slackest time forthe last twa years. " Gourlay grunted his assent. "But I've a grand job for ye, for a' that, " said Gibson, slapping hishands. "What do ye say to the feck of a year's carting tweesht thequarry and the town foot?" "I might consider that, " said Gourlay, "if the terms were good. " "Six shillins, " said Gibson, and went on in solemn protest: "In thepresent state o' trade, doan't ye see, I couldna give a penny more. "Gourlay, who had denounced the present state of trade even now, wasprevented by his own words from asking for a penny more. "At the town foot, you say?" he asked. "I've several jobs thereaway, " Gibson explained hurriedly, "and you mustagree to deliver stuff ainy place I want it within four hundred yards o'the Cross. It's all one to you, of course, " he went on, "seeing you'repaid by the day. " "Oh, it's all one to me, " said Gourlay. Peter Riney and the new "orra" man were called in to witness theagreement. Cunning Johnny had made it as cunning as he could. "We may as well put a stamp on't, " said he. "A stamp costs little, andmeans a heap. " "You're damned particular the day, " cried Gourlay in a sudden heat. "Oh, nothing more than my usual, nothing more than my usual, " saidGibson blandly. "Good-morning, Mr. Gourlay, " and he made for the door, buttoning the charter of his dear revenge in the inside pocket of hiscoat. Gourlay ignored him. When Gibson got out he turned to the House with the Green Shutters, and"Curse you!" said he; "you may refuse to answer me the day, but waittill this day eight weeks. You'll be roaring than. " On that day eight weeks Gourlay received a letter from Gibson requiringhim to hold himself in readiness to deliver stone, lime, baulks oftimber, and iron girders in Mr. Wilson's holm, in terms of hisagreement, and in accordance with the orders to be given him from day today. He was apprised that a couple of carts of lime and seven loads ofstone were needed on the morrow. He went down the street with grinding jaws, the letter crushed to awhite pellet in his hand. It would have gone ill with Gibson had he methim. Gourlay could not tell why, or to what purpose, he marched on andon with forward staring eyes. He only knew vaguely that the anger drovehim. When he came to the Cross a long string of carts was filing from theSkeighan Road, and passing across to the street leading Fleckie-ward. Heknew them to be Wilson's. The Deacon was there, of course, hobbling onhis thin shanks, and cocking his eye to see everything that happened. "What does this mean?" Gourlay asked him, though he loathed the Deacon. "Oh, haven't ye heard?" quoth the Deacon blithely. "That's the stuff forthe new mining village out the Fleckie Road. Wilson has nabbed thecontract for the carting. They're saying it was Gibson's influence wi'Goudie that helped him to the getting o't. " Amid his storm of anger at the trick, Gourlay was conscious of a suddenpity for himself, as for a man most unfairly worsted. He realized for amoment his own inefficiency as a business man, in conflict withcleverer rivals, and felt sorry to be thus handicapped by nature. Thoughwrath was uppermost, the other feeling was revealed, showing itself by agulping in the throat and a rapid blinking of the eyes. The Deaconmarked the signs of his chagrin. "Man!" he reported to the bodies, "but Gourlay was cut to the quick. Hisface showed how gunkit he was. Oh, but he was chawed. I saw his breistgive the great heave. " "Were ye no sorry?" cried the baker. "Thorry, hi!" laughed the Deacon. "Oh, I was thorry, to be sure, " helisped, "but I didna thyow't. I'm glad to thay I've a grand control ofmy emotionth. Not like thum folk we know of, " he added slyly, giving thebaker a "good one. " All next day Gibson's masons waited for their building material inWilson's holm. But none came. And all day seven of Gourlay's horseschamped idly in their stalls. Barbie had a weekly market now, and, as it happened, that was the day itfell on. At two in the afternoon Gourlay was standing on the graveloutside the Red Lion, trying to look wise over a sample of grain which afarmer had poured upon his great palm. Gibson approached with falsevoice and smile. "Gosh, Mr. Gourlay!" he cried protestingly, "have ye forgotten whatnaday it is? Ye havena gi'en my men a ton o' stuff to gang on wi'. " To the farmer's dismay his fine sample of grain was scattered on thegravel by a convulsive movement of Gourlay's arm. As Gourlay turned onhis enemy, his face was frightfully distorted; all his brow seemedgathered in a knot above his nose, and he gaped on his words, yet groundthem out like a labouring mill, each word solid as plug shot. "I'll see Wil-son ... And Gib-son ... And every other man's son ... Frying in hell, " he said slowly, "ere a horse o' mine draws a stane o'Wilson's property. Be damned to ye, but there's your answer!" Gibson's cunning deserted him for once. He put his hand on Gourlay'sshoulder in pretended friendly remonstrance. "Take your hand off my shouther!" said Gourlay, in a voice the tensequietness of which should have warned Gibson to forbear. But he actually shook Gourlay with a feigned playfulness. Next instant he was high in air; for a moment the hobnails in the solesof his boots gleamed vivid to the sun; then Gourlay sent him flyingthrough the big window of the Red Lion, right on to the middle of thegreat table where the market-folk were drinking. For a minute he lay stunned and bleeding among the broken crockery, in acircle of white faces and startled cries. Gourlay's face appeared at the jagged rent, his eyes narrowed tofiercely gleaming points, a hard, triumphant devilry playing round hisblack lips. "You damned treacherous rat!" he cried, "that's the gameJohn Gourlay can play wi' a thing like you. " Gibson rose from the ruin on the table and came bleeding to the window, his grin a _rictus_ of wrath, his green teeth wolfish with anger. "By God, Gourlay, " he screamed, "I'll make you pay for this; I'll fightyou through a' the law courts in Breetain, but you'll implement yourbond. " "Damn you for a measled swine! would you grunt at me?" cried Gourlay, and made to go at him through the window. Though he could not reach him, Gibson quailed at his look. He shook his fist in impotent wrath, andspat threats of justice through his green teeth. "To hell wi' your law-wers!" cried Gourlay. "I'd throttle ye like thedog you are on the floor o' the House o' Lords. " But that day was to cost him dear. Ere six months passed he was cast indamages and costs for a breach of contract aggravated by assault. Heappealed, of course. He was not to be done; he would show the dogs whathe thought of them. CHAPTER XIV. In those days it came to pass that Wilson sent his son to the HighSchool of Skeighan--even James, the red-haired one, with the squint inhis eye. Whereupon Gourlay sent _his_ son to the High School of Skeighantoo, of course, to be upsides with Wilson. If Wilson could afford tosend his boy to a distant and expensive school, then, by the Lord, socould he! And it also came to pass that James, the son of James thegrocer, took many prizes; but John, the son of John, took no prizes. Whereat there were ructions in the House of Gourlay. Gourlay's resolve to be equal to Wilson in everything he did was hismain reason for sending his son to the High School of Skeighan. That hesaw his business decreasing daily was a reason too. Young Gourlay was alad of fifteen now, undersized for his age at that time, though he soonshot up to be a swaggering youngster. He had been looking forward withdelight to helping his father in the business--how grand it would be todrive about the country and see things!--and he had irked at being keptfor so long under the tawse of old Bleach-the-boys. But if the businesswent on at this rate there would be little in it for the boy. Gourlaywas not without a thought of his son's welfare when he packed him off toSkeighan. He would give him some book-lear, he said; let him make a kirkor a mill o't. But John shrank, chicken-hearted, from the prospect. Was he still todrudge at books? Was he to go out among strangers whom he feared? Hisimagination set to work on what he heard of the High School ofSkeighan, and made it a bugbear. They had to do mathematics; what could_he_ do wi' thae whigmaleeries? They had to recite Shakespeare inpublic; how could _he_ stand up and spout, before a whole jing-bang o'them? "I don't want to gang, " he whined. "Want?" flamed his father. "What does it matter what _you_ want? Go youshall. " "I thocht I was to help in the business, " whimpered John. "Business!" sneered his father; "a fine help _you_ would be inbusiness. " "Ay man, Johnnie, " said his mother, maternal fondness coming out insupport of her husband, "you should be glad your father can allow ye theopportunity. Eh, but it's a grand thing a gude education! You may riseto be a minister. " Her ambition could no further go. But Gourlay seemed to have formed adifferent opinion of the sacred calling. "It's a' he's fit for, " hegrowled. So John was put to the High School of Skeighan, travelling backwards andforwards night and morning by the train, after the railway had beenopened. And he discovered, on trying it, that the life was not so bad ashe had feared. He hated his lessons, true, and avoided them whenever hewas able. But his father's pride and his mother's fondness saw that hewas well dressed and with money in his pocket; and he began to growimportant. Though Gourlay was no longer the only "big man" of Barbie, hewas still one of the "big men, " and a consciousness of the fact grewupon his son. When he passed his old classmates (apprentice grocers now, and carters and ploughboys) his febrile insolence led him to swagger andassume. And it was fine to mount the train at Barbie on the fresh, coolmornings, and be off past the gleaming rivers and the woods. Betterstill was the home-coming--to board the empty train at Skeighan whenthe afternoon sun came pleasant through the windows, to loll on the fatcushions and read the novelettes. He learned to smoke too, and that wasa source of pride. When the train was full on market days he liked toget in among the jovial farmers, who encouraged his assumptions. Meanwhile Jimmy Wilson would be elsewhere in the train, busy with hislessons for the morrow; for Jimmy had to help in the Emporium ofnights--his father kept him to the grindstone. Jimmy had no more realability than young Gourlay, but infinitely more caution. He was one ofthe gimlet characters who, by diligence and memory, gain prizes in theirschool days--and are fools for the remainder of their lives. The bodies of Barbie, seeing young Gourlay at his pranks, speculatedover his future, as Scottish bodies do about the future of everyyoungster in their ken. "I wonder what that son o' Gourlay's 'ull come till, " said Sandy Toddle, musing on him with the character-reading eye of the Scots peasant. "To no good--you may be sure of that, " said ex-Provost Connal. "He's aregular splurge! When Drunk Dan Kennedy passed him his flask in thetrain the other day he swigged it, just for the sake of showing off. Andhe's a coward, too, for all his swagger. He grew ill-bred when heswallowed the drink, and Dan, to frighten him, threatened to hang himfrom the window by the heels. He didn't mean it, to be sure; but youngGourlay grew white at the very idea o't--he shook like a dog in a wetsack. 'Oh, ' he cried, shivering, 'how the ground would go flying pastyour eyes; how quick the wheel opposite ye would buzz--it would blind yeby its quickness; how the gray slag would flash below ye!' Those werehis very words. He seemed to see the thing as if it were happeningbefore his eyes, and stared like a fellow in hysteerics, till Dan wasobliged to give him another drink. 'You would spue with the dizziness, 'said he, and he actually bocked himsell. " Young Gourlay seemed bent on making good the prophecy of Barbie. Thoughhis father was spending money he could ill afford on his education, hefooled away his time. His mind developed a little, no doubt, since itwas no longer dazed by brutal and repeated floggings. In some of hisclasses he did fairly well, but others he loathed. It was the rule atSkeighan High School to change rooms every hour, the classes trampingfrom one to another through a big lobby. Gourlay got a habit of stealingoff at such times--it was easy to slip out--and playing truant in thebyways of Skeighan. He often made his way to the station, and loafed inthe waiting room. He had gone there on a summer afternoon, to avoid hismathematics and read a novel, when a terrible thing befell him. For a while he swaggered round the empty platform and smoked acigarette. Milk-cans clanked in a shed mournfully. Gourlay had acongenital horror of eerie sounds--he was his mother's son for that--andhe fled to the waiting room, to avoid the hollow clang. It was a Juneafternoon, of brooding heat, and a band of yellow sunshine was lying onthe glazed table, showing every scratch in its surface. The placeoppressed him; he was sorry he had come. But he plunged into his noveland forgot the world. He started in fear when a voice addressed him. He looked up, and here itwas only the baker--the baker smiling at him with his fine gray eyes, the baker with his reddish fringe of beard and his honest grin, whichwrinkled up his face to his eyes in merry and kindly wrinkles. He had awonderful hearty manner with a boy. "Ay man, John, it's you, " said the baker. "Dod, I'm just in time. Thestorm's at the burstin'!" "Storm!" said Gourlay. He had a horror of lightning since the day of hisbirth. "Ay, we're in for a pelter. What have you been doing that you didnasee't?" They went to the window. The fronting heavens were a black purple. Thethunder, which had been growling in the distance, swept forward androared above the town. The crash no longer rolled afar, but crackedclose to the ear, hard, crepitant. Quick lightning stabbed the world invicious and repeated hate. A blue-black moistness lay heavy on thecowering earth. The rain came--a few drops at first, sullen, as if loathto come, that splashed on the pavement wide as a crown piece; then awhite rush of slanting spears. A great blob shot in through the window, open at the top, and spat wide on Gourlay's cheek. It was lukewarm. Hestarted violently--that warmth on his cheek brought the terror so near. The heavens were rent with a crash, and the earth seemed on fire. Gourlay screamed in terror. The baker put his arm round him in kindly protection. "Tuts, man, dinna be feared, " he said. "You're John Gourlay's son, yeknow. You ought to be a hardy man. " "Ay, but I'm no, " chattered John, the truth coming out in his fear. "Ijust let on to be. " But the worst was soon over. Lightning, both sheeted and forked, wasvivid as ever, but the thunder slunk growling away. "The heavens are opening and shutting like a man's eye, " said Gourlay. "Oh, it's a terrible thing the world!" and he covered his face with hishands. A flash shot into a mounded wood far away. "It stabbed it like adagger!" stared Gourlay. "Look, look, did ye see yon? It came down in a broad flash--then jerkedto the side--then ran down to a sharp point again. It was like thecoulter of a plough. " Suddenly a blaze of lightning flamed wide, and a fork shot down itscentre. "That, " said Gourlay, "was like a red crack in a white-hot furnacedoor. " "Man, you're a noticing boy, " said the baker. "Ay, " said John, smiling in curious self-interest, "I notice things toomuch. They give me pictures in my mind. I'm feared of them, but I liketo think them over when they're by. " Boys are slow of confidence to their elders, but Gourlay's terror andthe baker's kindness moved him to speak. In a vague way he wanted toexplain. "I'm no feared of folk, " he went on, with a faint return to his swagger. "But things get in on me. A body seems so wee compared with that"--henodded to the warring heavens. The baker did not understand. "Have you seen your faither?" he asked. "My faither!" John gasped in terror. If his father should find himplaying truant! "Yes; did ye no ken he was in Skeighan? We come up thegither by the tentrain, and are meaning to gang hame by this. I expect him every moment. " John turned to escape. In the doorway stood his father. When Gourlay was in wrath he had a widening glower that enveloped theoffender; yet his eye seemed to stab--a flash shot from its centre totransfix and pierce. Gaze at a tiger through the bars of his cage, andyou will see the look. It widens and concentrates at once. "What are you doing here?" he asked, with the wild-beast glower on hisson. "I--I--I----" John stammered and choked. "What are you doing here?" said his father. John's fingers worked before him; his eyes were large and aghast on hisfather; though his mouth hung open no words would come. "How lang has he been here, baker?" There was a curious regard between Gourlay and the baker. Gourlay spokewith a firm civility. "Oh, just a wee whilie, " said the baker. "I see. You want to shield him. --You have been playing the truant, have'ee? Am I to throw away gude money on _you_ for this to be the end o't?" "Dinna be hard on him, John, " pleaded the baker. "A boy's but a boy. Dinna thrash him. " "Me thrash him!" cried Gourlay. "I pay the High School of Skeighan tothrash him, and I'll take damned good care I get my money's worth. Idon't mean to hire dowgs and bark for mysell. " He grabbed his son by the coat collar and swung him out the room. DownHigh Street he marched, carrying his cub by the scruff of the neck asyou might carry a dirty puppy to an outhouse. John was black in theface; time and again in his wrath Gourlay swung him off the ground. Grocers coming to their doors, to scatter fresh yellow sawdust on theold, now trampled black and wet on the sills, stared sideways, chins upand mouths open, after the strange spectacle. But Gourlay splashed onamid the staring crowd, never looking to the right or left. Opposite the Fiddler's Inn whom should they meet but Wilson! A sniggershot to his features at the sight. Gourlay swung the boy up; for amoment a wild impulse surged within him to club his rival with his ownson. He marched into the vestibule of the High School, the boy dangling fromhis great hand. "Where's your gaffer?" he roared at the janitor. "Gaffer?" blinked the janitor. "Gaffer, dominie, whatever the damn you ca' him--the fellow that runsthe business. " "The Headmaster!" said the janitor. "Heidmaister, ay, " said Gourlay in scorn, and went trampling after thejanitor down a long wooden corridor. A door was flung open showing aclassroom where the Headmaster was seated teaching Greek. The sudden appearance of the great-chested figure in the door, with hisfierce, gleaming eyes, and the rain-beads shining on his frieze coat, brought into the close academic air the sharp, strong gust of an outerworld. "I believe I pay _you_ to look after that boy, " thundered Gourlay. "Isthis the way you do your work?" And with the word he sent his sonspinning along the floor like a curling-stone, till he rattled, a wet, huddled lump, against a row of chairs. John slunk bleeding behind themaster. "Really?" said MacCandlish, rising in protest. "Don't 'really' me, sir! I pay _you_ to teach that boy, and you allowhim to run idle in the streets. What have you to seh?" "But what can I do?" bleated MacCandlish, with a white spread ofdeprecating hands. The stronger man took the grit from his limbs. "Do--do? Damn it, sir, am _I_ to be _your_ dominie? Am _I_ to teach_you_ your duty? Do! Flog him, flog him, flog him! If you don't send himhame wi' the welts on him as thick as that forefinger, I'll have a wordto say to you-ou, Misterr MacCandlish!" He was gone--they heard him go clumping along the corridor. Thereafter young Gourlay had to stick to his books. And, as we know, theforced union of opposites breeds the greater disgust between them. However, his school days would soon be over, and meanwhile it was fineto pose on his journeys to and fro as Young Hopeful of the GreenShutters. He was smoking at Skeighan Station on an afternoon, as the Barbie trainwas on the point of starting. He was staying on the platform till thelast moment, in order to show the people how nicely he could bring thesmoke down his nostrils--his "Prince of Wales's feathers" he called thegreat, curling puffs. As he dallied, a little aback from an open window, he heard a voice which he knew mentioning the Gourlays. It wasTemplandmuir who was speaking. "I see that Gourlay has lost his final appeal in that lawsuit of his, "said the Templar. "D'ye tell me that?" said a strange voice. Then--"Gosh, he must havelost infernal!" "Atweel has he that, " said Templandmuir. "The costs must have beenenormous, and then there's the damages. He would have been better tosettle't and be done wi't, but his pride made him fight it to thehindmost! It has made touch the boddom of his purse, I'll wager ye. Weel, weel, it'll help to subdue his pride a bit, and muckle was theneed o' that. " Young Gourlay was seized with a sudden fear. The prosperity of the Housewith the Green Shutters had been a fact of his existence; it had neverentered his boyish mind to question its continuance. But a weakeningdoubt stole through his limbs. What would become of him if the Gourlayswere threatened with disaster? He had a terrifying vision of himself asa lonely atomy, adrift on a tossing world, cut off from his anchorage. "Mother, are _we_ ever likely to be ill off?" he asked his mother thatevening. She ran her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his browfondly. He was as tall as herself now. "No, no, dear; what makes ye think that? Your father has always had agrand business, and I brought a hantle money to the house. " "Hokey!" said the youth, "when Ah'm in the business Ah'll have thetimes!" CHAPTER XV. Gourlay was hard up for money. Every day of his life taught him that hewas nowhere in the stress of modern competition. The grand days--only afew years back, but seeming half a century away, so much had happened inbetween--the grand days when he was the only big man in the locality, and carried everything with a high hand, had disappeared for ever. Nowall was bustle, hurry, and confusion, the getting and sending oftelegrams, quick dispatches by railway, the watching of markets at adistance, rapid combinations that bewildered Gourlay's duller mind. Atfirst he was too obstinate to try the newer methods; when he did, he wastoo stupid to use them cleverly. When he plunged it was always at thewrong time, for he plunged at random, not knowing what to do. He hadlost heavily of late both in grain and cheese, and the lawsuit withGibson had crippled him. It was well for him that property in Barbie hadincreased in value; the House with the Green Shutters was to prove thebuttress of his fortune. Already he had borrowed considerably upon thatsecurity; he was now dressing to go to Skeighan and get more. "Brodie, Gurney, and Yarrowby" of Glasgow were the lawyers who financedhim, and he had to sign some papers at Goudie's office ere he touchedthe cash. He was meaning to drive, of course; Gourlay was proud of his gig, andalways kept a spanking roadster. "What a fine figure of a man!" youthought, as you saw him coming swiftly towards you, seated high on hisdriving cushion. That driving cushion was Gourlay's pedestal from whichhe looked down on Barbie for many a day. A quick step, yet shambling, came along the lobby. There was a pause, asof one gathering heart for a venture; then a clumsy knock on the door. "Come in, " snapped Gourlay. Peter Riney's queer little old face edged timorously into the room. Heonly opened the door the width of his face, and looked ready to bolt ata word. "Tam's deid!" he blurted. Gourlay gashed himself frightfully with his razor, and a big red blobstood out on his cheek. "Deid!" he stared. "Yes, " stammered Peter. "He was right enough when Elshie gae him hisfeed this morning; but when I went in enow to put the harness on, he waslying deid in the loose-box. The batts--it's like. " For a moment Gourlay stared with the open mouth of an angry surprise, forgetting to take down his razor. "Aweel, Peter, " he said at last, and Peter went away. The loss of his pony touched Gourlay to the quick. He had been stolidand dour in his other misfortunes, had taken them as they came, calmly;he was not the man to whine and cry out against the angry heavens. Hehad neither the weakness nor the width of nature to indulge in theluxury of self-pity. But the sudden death of his gallant roadster, hisproud pacer through the streets of Barbie, touched him with a sense ofquite personal loss and bereavement. Coming on the heels of his othercalamities it seemed to make them more poignant, more sinister, prompting the question if misfortune would never have an end. "Damn it, I have enough to thole, " Gourlay muttered; "surely there wasno need for this to happen. " And when he looked in the mirror to fastenhis stock, and saw the dark, strong, clean-shaven face, he stared at itfor a moment, with a curious compassion for the man before him, as forone who was being hardly used. The hard lips could never have framed thewords, but the vague feeling in his heart, as he looked at the darkvision, was: "It's a pity of you, sir. " He put on his coat rapidly, and went out to the stable. An instinctprompted him to lock the door. He entered the loose-box. A shaft of golden light, aswarm with motes, slanted in the quietness. Tam lay on the straw, his head far out, hisneck unnaturally long, his limbs sprawling, rigid. What a spanker Tamhad been! What gallant drives they had had together! When he first putTam between the shafts, five years ago, he had been driving his worldbefore him, plenty of cash and a big way of doing. Now Tam was dead, andhis master netted in a mesh of care. "I was always gude to the beasts, at any rate, " Gourlay muttered, as ifpleading in his own defence. For a long time he stared down at the sprawling carcass, musing. "Tamthe powney, " he said twice, nodding his head each time he said it; "Tamthe powney, " and he turned away. How was he to get to Skeighan? He plunged at his watch. The ten o'clocktrain had already gone, the express did not stop at Barbie; if he waitedtill one o'clock he would be late for his appointment. There was abrake, true, which ran to Skeighan every Tuesday. It was a downcome, though, for a man who had been proud of driving behind his ownhorseflesh to pack in among a crowd of the Barbie sprats. And if he wentby the brake, he would be sure to rub shoulders with his stinging anddetested foes. It was a fine day; like enough the whole jing-bang ofthem would be going with the brake to Skeighan. Gourlay, who shrank fromnothing, shrank from the winks that would be sure to pass when they sawhim, the haughty, the aloof, forced to creep among them cheek for jowl. Then his angry pride rushed towering to his aid. Was John Gourlay toturn tail for a wheen o' the Barbie dirt? Damn the fear o't! It was apublic conveyance; he had the same right to use it as the rest o' folk! The place of departure for the brake was the "Black Bull, " at the Cross, nearly opposite to Wilson's. There were winks and stares andelbow-nudgings when the folk hanging round saw Gourlay coming forward;but he paid no heed. Gourlay, in spite of his mad violence when roused, was a man at all other times of a grave and orderly demeanour. He neversplurged. Even his bluster was not bluster, for he never threatened thething which he had not it in him to do. He walked quietly into the emptybrake, and took his seat in the right-hand corner at the top, closebelow the driver. As he had expected, the Barbie bodies had mustered in strength forSkeighan. In a country brake it is the privilege of the important men tomount beside the driver, in order to take the air and show themselvesoff to an admiring world. On the dickey were ex-Provost Connal and SandyToddle, and between them the Deacon, tightly wedged. The Deacon was sothin (the bodie) that, though he was wedged closely, he could turn andaddress himself to Tam Brodie, who was seated next the door. The fun began when the horses were crawling up the first brae. The Deacon turned with a wink to Brodie, and dropping a glance on thecrown of Gourlay's hat, "Tummuth, " he lisped, "what a dirty place thatith!" pointing to a hovel by the wayside. Brodie took the cue at once. His big face flushed with a malicious grin. "Ay, " he bellowed; "the owner o' that maun be married to a dirty wife, I'm thinking!" "It must be terrible, " said the Deacon, "to be married to a dirtytrollop. " "Terrible, " laughed Brodie; "it's enough to give ainy man a gurlytemper. " They had Gourlay on the hip at last. More than arrogance had kept himoff from the bodies of the town; a consciousness also that he was nottheir match in malicious innuendo. The direct attack he could meetsuperbly, downing his opponent with a coarse birr of the tongue; to theveiled gibe he was a quivering hulk, to be prodded at your ease. And nowthe malignants were around him (while he could not get away)--talking_to_ each other, indeed, but _at_ him, while he must keep quiet in theirmidst. At every brae they came to (and there were many braes) the bodies playedtheir malicious game, shouting remarks along the brake, to each other'sears, to his comprehension. The new house of Templandmuir was seen above the trees. "What a splendid house Templandmuir has built!" cried the ex-Provost. "Splendid!" echoed Brodie. "But a laird like the Templar has a right toa fine mansion such as that! He's no' like some merchants we ken o' whothrow away money on a house for no other end but vanity. Many a manbuilds a grand house for a show-off, when he has verra little to supportit. But the Templar's different. He has made a mint of money since hetook the quarry in his own hand. " "He's verra thick wi' Wilson, I notice, " piped the Deacon, turning witha grin and a gleaming droop of the eye on the head of his tormentedenemy. The Deacon's face was alive and quick with the excitement of thegame, his face flushed with an eager grin, his eyes glittering. Decentfolk in the brake behind felt compunctious visitings when they saw himturn with the flushed grin and the gleaming squint on the head of hisenduring victim. "Now for another stab!" they thought. "You may well say that, " shouted Brodie. "Wilson has procured the wholeof the Templar's carterage. Oh, Wilson has become a power! Yon newhouses of his must be bringing in a braw penny. --I'm thinking, Mr. Connal, that Wilson ought to be the Provost!" "Strange!" cried the former Head of the Town, "that _you_ should havebeen thinking that! I've just been in the same mind o't. Wilson's by farand away the most progressive man we have. What a business he has builtin two or three years!" "He has that!" shouted Brodie. "He goes up the brae as fast as someother folk are going down't. And yet they tell me he got a verra poorwelcome from some of us the first morning he appeared in Barbie!" Gourlay gave no sign. Others would have shown, by the moist glisten ofself-pity in the eye, or the scowl of wrath, how much they were moved;but Gourlay stared calmly before him, his chin resting on the head ofhis staff, resolute, immobile, like a stone head at gaze in the desert. Only the larger fullness of his fine nostril betrayed the hell of wrathseething within him. And when they alighted in Skeighan an observant boysaid to his mother, "I saw the marks of his chirted teeth through hisjaw. " But they were still far from Skeighan, and Gourlay had much to thole. "Did ye hear, " shouted Brodie, "that Wilson is sending his son to theCollege at Embro in October?" "D'ye tell me that?" said the Provost. "What a successful lad that hasbeen! He's a credit to moar than Wilson; he's a credit to the wholetown. " "Ay, " yelled Brodie; "the money wasna wasted on _him_! It must be aterrible thing when a man has a splurging ass for his son, that nevergot a prize!" The Provost began to get nervous. Brodie was going too far. It was allvery well for Brodie, who was at the far end of the wagonette and out ofdanger; but if he provoked an outbreak, Gourlay would think nothing oftearing Provost and Deacon from their perch and tossing them across thehedge. "What does Wilson mean to make of his son?" he inquired--a civil enoughquestion surely. "Oh, a minister. That'll mean six or seven years at the University. " "Indeed!" said the Provost. "That'll cost an enormous siller!" "Oh, " yelled Brodie, "but Wilson can afford it! It's not everybody can!It's all verra well to send your son to Skeighan High School, but whenit comes to sending him to College, it's time to think twice of whatyou're doing--especially if you've little money left to come and go on. " "Yeth, " lisped the Deacon; "if a man canna afford to College his son, hehad better put him in hith business--if he hath ainy business left tothpeak o', that ith!" The brake swung on through merry cornfields where reapers were at work, past happy brooks flashing to the sun, through the solemn hush ofancient and mysterious woods, beneath the great white-moving clouds andblue spaces of the sky. And amid the suave enveloping greatness of theworld the human pismires stung each other and were cruel, and full ofhate and malice and a petty rage. "Oh, damn it, enough of this!" said the baker at last. "Enough of what?" blustered Brodie. "Of you and your gibes, " said the baker, with a wry mouth of disgust. "Damn it, man, leave folk alane!" Gourlay turned to him quietly. "Thank you, baker, " he said slowly. "Butdon't interfere on my behalf! John Gourla"--he dwelt on his name inringing pride--"John Gourla can fight for his own hand--if so there needto be. And pay no heed to the thing before ye. The mair ye tramp on adirt it spreads the wider!" "Who was referring to _you_?" bellowed Brodie. Gourlay looked over at him in the far corner of the brake, with thewide-open glower that made people blink. Brodie blinked rapidly, tryingto stare fiercely the while. "Maybe ye werena referring to me, " said Gourlay slowly. "But if _I_ hadbeen in your end o' the brake _ye_ would have been in hell or this!" He had said enough. There was silence in the brake till it reachedSkeighan. But the evil was done. Enough had been said to influenceGourlay to the most disastrous resolution of his life. "Get yourself ready for the College in October, " he ordered his son thatevening. "The College!" cried John aghast. "Yes! Is there ainything in that to gape at?" snapped his father, insudden irritation at the boy's amaze. "But I don't want to gang!" John whimpered as before. "Want! what does it matter what _you_ want? You should be damned glad ofthe chance! I mean to make ye a minister; they have plenty of money andlittle to do--a grand, easy life o't. MacCandlish tells me you're astupid ass, but have some little gift of words. You have everyqualification!" "It's against _my_ will, " John bawled angrily. "_Your_ will!" sneered his father. To John the command was not only tyrannical, but treacherous. There hadbeen nothing to warn him of a coming change, for Gourlay was toocontemptuous of his wife and children to inform them how his businessstood. John had been brought up to go into the business, and now, at thelast moment, he was undeceived, and ordered off to a new life, fromwhich every instinct of his being shrank afraid. He was cursed with animagination in excess of his brains, and in the haze of the future hesaw two pictures with uncanny vividness--himself in bleak lodgingsraising his head from Virgil, to wonder what they were doing at hometo-night; and, contrasted with that loneliness, the others, his cronies, laughing along the country roads beneath the glimmer of the stars. Theywould be having the fine ploys while he was mewed up in Edinburgh. Musthe leave loved Barbie and the House with the Green Shutters? must hestill drudge at books which he loathed? must he venture on a new lifewhere everything terrified his mind? "It's a shame!" he cried. "And I refuse to go. I don't want to leaveBarbie! I'm feared of Edinburgh, " and there he stopped in consciousimpotence of speech. How could he explain his forebodings to a rock of aman like his father? "No more o't!" roared Gourlay, flinging out his hand--"not another word!You go to College in October!" "Ay, man, Johnny, " said his mother, "think o' the future that's beforeye!" "Ay, " howled the youth in silly anger, "it's like to be a braw future!" "It's the best future you can have!" growled his father. For while rivalry, born of hate, was the propelling influence inGourlay's mind, other reasons whispered that the course suggested byhate was a good one on its merits. His judgment, such as it was, supported the impulse of his blood. It told him that the old businesswould be a poor heritage for his son, and that it would be well to lookfor another opening. The boy gave no sign of aggressive smartness towarrant a belief that he would ever pull the thing together. Better makehim a minister. Surely there was enough money left about the house fortha-at! It was the best that could befall him. Mrs. Gourlay, for her part, though sorry to lose her son, was so pleasedat the thought of sending him to college, and making him a minister, that she ran on in foolish maternal gabble to the wife of DruckenWebster. Mrs. Webster informed the gossips, and they discussed thematter at the Cross. "Dod, " said Sandy Toddle, "Gourlay's better off than I supposed!" "Huts!" said Brodie, "it's just a wheen bluff to blind folk!" "It would fit him better, " said the Doctor, "if he spent some money onhis daughter. She ought to pass the winter in a warmer locality thanBarbie. The lassie has a poor chest! I told Gourlay, but he only gave agrunt. And 'oh, ' said Mrs. Gourlay, 'it would be a daft-like thing tosend _her_ away, when John maun be weel provided for the College. ' D'yeknow, I'm beginning to think there's something seriously wrong with yonwoman's health! She seemed anxious to consult me on her own account, butwhen I offered to sound her she wouldn't hear of it. 'Na, ' she cried, 'I'll keep it to mysell!' and put her arm across her breast as if tokeep me off. I do think she's hiding some complaint! Only a woman whosemind was weak with disease could have been so callous as yon about herlassie. " "Oh, her mind's weak enough, " said Sandy Toddle. "It was always that!But it's only because Gourlay has tyraneezed her verra soul. I'msurprised, however, that _he_ should be careless of the girl. He was ayesaid to be browdened upon _her_. " "Men-folk are often like that about lassie-weans, " said Johnny Coe. "They like well enough to pet them when they're wee, but when oncethey're big they never look the road they're on! They're a' very finewhen they're pets, but they're no sae fine when they're pretty misses. And, to tell the truth, Janet Gourlay's ainything but pretty!" Old Bleach-the-boys, the bitter dominie (who rarely left the studies inpolitical economy which he found a solace for his thwarted powers), happened to be at the Cross that evening. A brooding and taciturn man, he said nothing till others had their say. Then he shook his head. "They're making a great mistake, " he said gravely, "they're making agreat mistake! Yon boy's the last youngster on earth who should go toCollege. " "Ay, man, dominie, he's an infernal ass, is he noat?" they cried, andpressed for his judgment. At last, partly in real pedantry, partly with humorous intent to puzzlethem, he delivered his astounding mind. "The fault of young Gourlay, " quoth he, "is a sensory perceptiveness ingross excess of his intellectuality. " They blinked and tried to understand. "Ay, man, dominie!" said Sandy Toddle. "That means he's an infernalcuddy, dominie! Does it na, dominie?" But Bleach-the-boys had said enough. "Ay, " he said dryly, "there's awheen gey cuddies in Barbie!" and he went back to his stuffy little roomto study "The Wealth of Nations. " CHAPTER XVI. The scion of the house of Gourlay was a most untravelled sprig when hisfather packed him off to the University. Of the world beyond Skeighan hehad no idea. Repression of his children's wishes to see something of theworld was a feature of Gourlay's tyranny, less for the sake of the moneywhich a trip might cost (though that counted for something in hisrefusal) than for the sake of asserting his authority. "Wants to gang toFechars, indeed! Let him bide at home, " he would growl; and at home theyoungster had to bide. This had been the more irksome to John since mostof his companions in the town were beginning to peer out, with theirmammies and daddies to encourage them. To give their cubs a "cast o' theworld" was a rule with the potentates of Barbie; once or twice a yearyoung Hopeful was allowed to accompany his sire to Fechars or Poltandie, or--oh, rare joy!--to the city on the Clyde. To go farther, and get thelength of Edinburgh, was dangerous, because you came back with a halo ofglory round your head which banded your fellows together in a commonattack on your pretensions. It was his lack of pretension to travel, however, that banded them against young Gourlay. "Gunk" and "chaw" arethe Scots for a bitter and envious disappointment which shows itself inface and eyes. Young Gourlay could never conceal that envious look whenhe heard of a glory which he did not share; and the youngsters noted hisweakness with the unerring precision of the urchin to mark simpledifference of character. Now the boy presses fiendishly on an intimatediscovery in the nature of his friends, both because it gives him a newand delightful feeling of power over them, and also because he has notlearned charity from a sense of his deficiencies, the brave ruffianhaving none. He is always coming back to probe the raw place, and Barbieboys were always coming back to "do a gunk" and "play a chaw" on youngGourlay by boasting their knowledge of the world, winking at each otherthe while to observe his grinning anger. They were large on the wondersthey had seen and the places they had been to, while he grew small (andthey saw it) in envy of their superiority. Even Swipey Broon had a crowat him. For Swipey had journeyed in the company of his father to far-offFechars, yea even to the groset-fair, and came back with an epic tale ofhis adventures. He had been in fifteen taverns, and one hotel (atemperance hotel, where old Brown bashed the proprietor for refusing tosupply him gin); one Pepper's Ghost; one Wild Beasts' Show; oneExhibition of the Fattest Woman on the Earth; also in the precincts ofone jail, where Mr. Patrick Brown was cruelly incarcerate for wiping thefloor with the cold refuser of the gin. "Criffens! Fechars!" said Swipeyfor a twelvemonth after, stunned by the mere recollection of that homeof the glories of the earth. And then he would begin to expatiate forthe benefit of young Gourlay--for Swipey, though his name was the baseTeutonic Brown, had a Celtic contempt for brute facts that cripple theimperial mind. So well did he expatiate that young Gourlay would slinkhome to his mother and say, "Yah, even Swipey Broon has been to Fechars, though my faither 'ull no allow _me_!" "Never mind, dear, " she wouldsoothe him; "when once you're in the business, you'll gang a'where. Andnut wan o' them has sic a business to gang intill!" But though he longed to go here and there for a day, that he might beable to boast of it at home, young Gourlay felt that leaving Barbie forgood would be a cutting of his heart-strings. Each feature of it, townand landward, was a crony of old years. In a land like Barbie, of quickhill and dale, of tumbled wood and fell, each facet of nature has anindividuality so separate and so strong that if you live with it alittle it becomes your friend, and a memory so dear that you kiss thethought of it in absence. The fields are not similar as pancakes; theyhave their difference; each leaps to the eye with a remembered andpeculiar charm. That is why the heart of the Scot dies in flat southernlands; he lives in a vacancy; at dawn there is no Ben Agray to nodrecognition through the mists. And that is why, when he gets north ofCarlisle, he shouts with glee as each remembered object sweeps on thesight: yonder's the Nith with a fisherman hip-deep jigging at his rod, and yonder's Corsoncon with the mist on his brow. It is less thetotality of the place than the individual feature that pulls at theheart, and it was the individual feature that pulled at young Gourlay. With intellect little or none, he had a vast, sensational experience, and each aspect of Barbie was working in his blood and brain. Was thereever a Cross like Barbie Cross? Was there ever a burn like the Lintie?It was blithe and heartsome to go birling to Skeighan in the train; itwas grand to jouk round Barbie on the nichts at e'en! Even people whomhe did not know he could locate with warm sure feelings of superiority. If a poor workman slouched past him on the road, he set him down in hisheart as one of that rotten crowd from the Weaver's Vennel or theTinker's Wynd. Barbie was in subjection to the mind of the son of theimportant man. To dash about Barbie in a gig, with a big dog wallopingbehind, his coat-collar high about his ears, and the reek of ameerschaum pipe floating white and blue many yards behind him, jovialand sordid nonsense about home--that had been his ideal. His father, hethought angrily, had encouraged the ideal, and now he forbade it, likethe brute he was. From the earth in which he was rooted so deeply hisfather tore him, to fling him on a world he had forbidden him to know. His heart presaged disaster. Old Gourlay would have scorned the sentimentality of seeing him off fromthe station, and Mrs. Gourlay was too feckless to propose it forherself. Janet had offered to convoy him, but when the afternoon cameshe was down with a racking cold. He was alone as he strolled on theplatform--a youth well-groomed and well-supplied, but for once in hislife not a swaggerer, though the chance to swagger was unique. He waspointed out as "Young Gourlay off to the College. " But he had nopleasure in the rôle, for his heart was in his boots. He took the slow train to Skeighan, where he boarded the express. Fewsensational experiences were unknown to his too-impressionable mind, andhe knew the animation of railway travelling. Coming back from Skeighanin an empty compartment on nights of the past, he had sometimes shoutedand stamped and banged the cushions till the dust flew, in mere joy ofhis rush through the air; the constant rattle, the quick-repeated noise, getting at his nerves, as they get at the nerves of savages andEnglishmen on Bank Holidays. But any animation of the kind which he feltto-day was soon expelled by the slow uneasiness welling through hisblood. He had no eager delight in the unknown country rushing past; itinspired him with fear. He thought with a feeble smile of what MysieMonk said when they took her at the age of sixty (for the first time inher life) to the top of Milmannoch Hill. "Eh, " said Mysie, looking roundher in amaze--"eh, sirs, it's a lairge place the world when you see itall!" Gourlay smiled because he had the same thought, but feebly, because he was cowering at the bigness of the world. Folded nooks inthe hills swept past, enclosing their lonely farms; then the openstraths, where autumnal waters gave a pale gleam to the sky. Soddenmoors stretched away in vast patient loneliness. Then a gray smear ofrain blotted the world, penning him in with his dejection. He seemed tobe rushing through unseen space, with no companion but his ownforeboding. "Where are you going to?" asked his mind, and the wheels ofthe train repeated the question all the way to Edinburgh, jerking it outin two short lines and a long one: "Where are you going to? Where areyou going to? Ha, ha, Mr. Gourlay, where are you going to?" It was the same sensitiveness to physical impression which won him toBarbie that repelled him from the outer world. The scenes round Barbie, so vividly impressed, were his friends, because he had known them fromhis birth; he was a somebody in their midst and had mastered theirfamiliarity; they were the ministers of his mind. Those other sceneswere his foes, because, realizing them morbidly in relation to himself, he was cowed by their big indifference to him, and felt puny, a nobodybefore them. And he could not pass them like more manly and more callousminds; they came burdening in on him whether he would or no. Neithercould he get above them. Except when lording it at Barbie, he had nevera quick reaction of the mind on what he saw; it possessed him, not heit. About twilight, when the rain had ceased, his train was brought up witha jerk between the stations. While the rattle and bang continued itseemed not unnatural to young Gourlay (though depressing) to be whirlingthrough the darkening land; it went past like a panorama in a dream. Butin the dead pause following the noise he thought it "queer" to besitting here in the intense quietude and looking at a strange andunfamiliar scene--planted in its midst by a miracle of speed, andgazing at it closely through a window! Two ploughmen from the farmhousenear the line were unyoking at the end of the croft; he could hear themuddy noise ("splorroch" is the Scotch of it) made by the big hoofs onthe squashy head-rig. "Bauldy" was the name of the shorter ploughman, soyelled to by his mate; and two of the horses were "Prince and Rab"--justlike a pair in Loranogie's stable. In the curtainless window of thefarmhouse shone a leaping flame--not the steady glow of a lamp, but thetossing brightness of a fire--and thought he to himself, "They'regetting the porridge for the men!" He had a vision of the woman stirringin the meal, and of the homely interior in the dancing firelight. Hewondered who the folk were, and would have liked to know them. Yes, itwas "queer, " he thought, that he who left Barbie only a few hours agoshould be in intimate momentary touch with a place and people he hadnever seen before. The train seemed arrested by a spell that he mightget his vivid impression. When ensconced in his room that evening he had a brighter outlook on theworld. With the curtains drawn, and the lights burning, its shabbinesswas unrevealed. After the whirling strangeness of the day he was glad tobe in a place that was his own; here at least was a corner of earth ofwhich he was master; it reassured him. The firelight dancing on the teathings was pleasant and homely, and the enclosing cosiness shut out theblack roaring world that threatened to engulf his personality. Hisspirits rose, ever ready to jump at a trifle. The morrow, however, was the first of his lugubrious time. If he had been an able man he might have found a place in his classes toconsole him. Many youngsters are conscious of a vast depression whenentering the portals of a university; they feel themselves inadequate tocope with the wisdom of the ages garnered in the solid walls. They envyalike the smiling sureness of the genial charlatan (to whom professorsare a set of fools), and the easy mastery of the man of brains. Theyhave a cowering sense of their own inefficiency. But the feeling ofuneasiness presently disappears. The first shivering dip is soonforgotten by the hearty breaster of the waves. But ere you breast thewaves you must swim; and to swim through the sea of learning was morethan heavy-headed Gourlay could accomplish. His mind, finding no solacein work, was left to prey upon itself. If he had been the ass total and complete he might have loafed in thecomfortable haze which surrounds the average intelligence, and cushionsit against the world. But in Gourlay was a rawness of nerve, asensitiveness to physical impression, which kept him fretting andstewing, and never allowed him to lapse on a sluggish indifference. Though he could not understand things, he could not escape them; theythrust themselves forward on his notice. We hear of poor genius cursedwith perceptions which it can't express; poor Gourlay was cursed withimpressions which he couldn't intellectualize. With little power ofthought, he had a vast power of observation; and as everything heobserved in Edinburgh was offensive and depressing, he was constantlydepressed--the more because he could not understand. At Barbie his life, though equally void of mental interest, was solaced by surroundingswhich he loved. In Edinburgh his surroundings were appalling to histimid mind. There was a greengrocer's shop at the corner of the streetin which he lodged, and he never passed it without being conscious ofits trodden and decaying leaves. They were enough to make his morningfoul. The middle-aged woman, who had to handle carrots with her frozenfingers, was less wretched than he who saw her, and thought of her afterhe went by. A thousand such impressions came boring in upon his mind andmade him squirm. He could not toss them aside like the callous andmanly; he could not see them in their due relation, and think themunimportant, like the able; they were always recurring and suggestingwoe. If he fled to his room, he was followed by his morbid sense of anunpleasant world. He conceived a rankling hatred of the four wallswherein he had to live. Heavy Biblical pictures, in frames of gleamingblack like the splinters of a hearse, were hung against a dark ground. Every time Gourlay raised his head he scowled at them with eyes ofgloom. It was curious that, hating his room, he was loath to go to bed. He got a habit of sitting till three in the morning, staring at the deadfire in sullen apathy. He was sitting at nine o'clock one evening, wondering if there was nomeans of escape from the wretched life he had to lead, when he receiveda letter from Jock Allan, asking him to come and dine. CHAPTER XVII. That dinner was a turning-point in young Gourlay's career. It is luckythat a letter describing it has fallen into the hands of the patientchronicler. It was sent by young Jimmy Wilson to his mother. As it givesan idea--which is slightly mistaken--of Jock Allan, and an idea--whichis very unmistakable--of young Wilson, it is here presented in the placeof pride. It were a pity not to give a human document of this kind allthe honour in one's power. "Dear mother, " said the wee sma' Scoatchman--so the hearty Allan dubbedhim--"dear mother, I just write to inform you that I've been out to agrand dinner at Jock Allan's. He met me on Princes Street, and made agreat how-d'ye-do. 'Come out on Thursday night, and dine with me, ' sayshe, in his big way. So here I went out to see him. I can tell you he's awarmer! I never saw a man eat so much in all my born days--but I supposehe would be having more on his table than usual to show off a bit, knowing us Barbie boys would be writing home about it all. And drink!D'ye know, he began with a whole half tumbler of whisky, and how manymore he had I really should _not_ like to say! And he must be used toit, too, for it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. And then hesmoked and smoked--two great big cigars after we had finished eating, and then 'Damn it, ' says he--he's an awful man to swear--'damn it, ' hesays, 'there's no satisfaction in cigars; I must have a pipe, ' and heactually smoked _four_ pipes before I came away! I noticed the cigarswere called 'Estorellas--Best Quality, ' and when I was in last Saturdaynight getting an ounce of shag at the wee shoppie round the corner, Iasked the price of 'these Estorellas. ' 'Ninepence a piece!' said thebodie. Just imagine Jock Allan smoking eighteen-pence, and not beingsatisfied! He's up in the world since he used to shaw turnips atLoranogie for sixpence a day! But he'll come down as quick if he keepson at yon rate. He made a great phrase with me; but though it keeps downone's weekly bill to get a meal like yon--I declare I wasn't hungry fortwo days--for all that I'll go very little about him. He'll be the kindthat borrows money very fast--one of those harum-scarum ones!" Criticism like that is a boomerang that comes back to hit the emittingskull with a hint of its kindred woodenness. It reveals the writer morethan the written of. Allan was a bigger man than you would gather fromWilson's account of his Gargantuan revelry. He had a genius formathematics--a gift which crops up, like music, in the most unexpectedcorners--and from plough-boy and herd he had become an actuary in AuldReekie. Wilson had no need to be afraid, the meagre fool, for his hostcould have bought him and sold him. Allan had been in love with young Gourlay's mother when she herself wasa gay young fliskie at Tenshillingland, but his little romance was soonended when Gourlay came and whisked her away. But she remained the oneromance of his life. Now in his gross and jovial middle age he idealizedher in memory (a sentimentalist, of course--he was Scotch); he never sawher in her scraggy misery to be disillusioned; to him she was still thewee bit lairdie's dochter, a vision that had dawned on his wretchedboyhood, a pleasant and pathetic memory. And for that reason he had acurious kindness to her boy. That was why he introduced him to his booncompanions. He thought he was doing him a good turn. It was true that Allan made a phrase with a withered wisp of humanitylike young Wilson. Not that he failed to see through him, for hechristened him "a dried washing-clout. " But Allan, like mostgreat-hearted Scots far from their native place, saw it through a veilof sentiment; harsher features that would have been ever-present to hismind if he had never left it disappeared from view, and left only thefiner qualities bright within his memory. And idealizing the place heidealized its sons. To him they had a value not their own, just becausethey knew the brig and the burn and the brae, and had sat upon theschool benches. He would have welcomed a dog from Barbie. It was from alike generous emotion that he greeted the bodies so warmly on his visitshome--he thought they were as pleased to see him as he was to see them. But they imputed false motives to his hearty greetings. Even as theyshook his hand the mean ones would think to themselves: "What does hemean by this now? What's he up till? No doubt he'll be wanting somethingoff me!" They could not understand the gusto with which the returnedexile cried, "Ay, man, Jock Tamson, and how are ye?" They thought suchwarmth must have a sinister intention. --A Scot revisiting his nativeplace ought to walk very quietly. For the parish is sizing him up. There were two things to be said against Allan, and two only--unless, ofcourse, you consider drink an objection. Wit with him was less themoment's glittering flash than the anecdotal bang; it was a fine oldcrusted blend which he stored in the cellars of his mind to bring forthon suitable occasions, as cob-webby as his wine. And it tickled hisvanity to have a crowd of admiring youngsters round him to whom he mightretail his anecdotes, and play the brilliant _raconteur_. He had croniesof his own years, and he was lordly and jovial amongst them--yet hewanted another _entourage_. He was one of those middle-aged bachelorswho like a train of youngsters behind them, whom they favour in returnfor homage. The wealthy man who had been a peasant lad delighted to actthe jovial host to sons of petty magnates from his home. Batch afterbatch as they came up to College were drawn around him--partly becausetheir homage pleased him, and partly because he loved anything whateverthat came out of Barbie. There was no harm in Allan--though when hisface was in repose you saw the look in his eye at times of a mandefrauding his soul. A robustious young fellow of sense and brains wouldhave found in this lover of books and a bottle not a bad comrade. But hewas the worst of cronies for a weak swaggerer like Gourlay. For Gourlay, admiring the older man's jovial power, was led on to imitate his faults, to think them virtues and a credit; and he lacked the clear, cool headthat kept Allan's faults from flying away with him. At dinner that night there were several braw, braw lads of Barbie Water. There were Tarmillan the doctor (a son of Irrendavie), Logan thecashier, Tozer the Englishman, old Partan--a guileless and inquiringmind--and half a dozen students raw from the west. The students were ofthe kind that goes up to College with the hayseed sticking in its hair. Two are in a Colonial Cabinet now, two are in the poorhouse. So they go. Tarmillan was the last to arrive. He came in sucking his thumb, intowhich he had driven a splinter while conducting an experiment. "I've a morbid horror of lockjaw, " he explained. "I never get a jag froma pin but I see myself in the shape of a hoop, semicircular, with myhead on one end of a table, my heels on the other, and a doctor standingon my navel trying to reduce the curvature. " "Gosh!" said Partan, who was a literal fool, "is that the treatment theypurshoo?" "That's the treatment!" said Tarmillan, sizing up his man. "Oh, it's aqueer thing lockjaw! I remember when I was gold-mining in Tibet, one ofour carriers who died of lockjaw had such a circumbendibus in his bodythat we froze him and made him the hoop of a bucket to carry our waterin. You see he was a thin bit man, and iron was scarce. " "Ay, man!" cried Partan, "you've been in Tibet?" "Often, " waved Tarmillan, "often! I used to go there every summer. " Partan, who liked to extend his geographical knowledge, would havetalked of Tibet for the rest of the evening--and Tarmie would have toldhim news--but Allan broke in. "How's the book, Tarmillan?" he inquired. Tarmillan was engaged on a treatise which those who are competent tojudge consider the best thing of its kind ever written. "Oh, don't ask me, " he writhed. "Man, it's an irksome thing to write, and to be asked about it makes you squirm. It's almost as offensive toask a man when his book will be out as to ask a woman when she'll bedelivered. I'm glad you invited me--to get away from the confoundedthing. It's become a blasted tyrant. A big work's a mistake; it's amonster that devours the brain. I neglect my other work for that fellowof mine; he bags everything I think. I never light on a new thing, but'Hullo!' I cry, 'here's an idea for the book!' If you are engaged on abig subject, all your thinking works into it or out of it. " "M'yes, " said Logan; "but that's a swashing way of putting it. " "It's the danger of the aphorism, " said Allan, "that it states too muchin trying to be small. --Tozer, what do you think?" "I never was engaged on a big subject, " sniffed Tozer. "We're aware o' that!" said Tarmillan. Tozer went under, and Tarmillan had the table. Allan was proud of him. "Courage is the great thing, " said he. "It often succeeds by the mereshow of it. It's the timid man that a dog bites. Run _at_ him and heruns. " He was speaking to himself rather than the table, admiring the couragethat had snubbed Tozer with a word. But his musing remark rang a bell inyoung Gourlay. By Jove, he had thought that himself, so he had! He was ahollow thing, he knew, but a buckram pretence prevented the world frompiercing to his hollowness. The son of his courageous sire (whom heequally admired and feared) had learned to play the game of bluff. Abold front was half the battle. He had worked out his little theory, andit was with a shock of pleasure the timid youngster heard great Allangive it forth. He burned to let him know that he had thought that too. To the youngsters, fat of face and fluffy of its circling down, the talkwas a banquet of the gods. For the first time in their lives they heardideas (such as they were) flung round them royally. They yearned to showthat they were thinkers too. And Gourlay was fired with the rest. "I heard a very good one the other day from old Bauldy Johnston, " saidAllan, opening his usual wallet of stories when the dinner was in fullswing. At a certain stage of the evening "I heard a good one" was theinvariable keynote of his talk. If you displayed no wish to hear the"good one, " he was huffed. "Bauldy was up in Edinburgh, " he went on, "and I met him near the Scott Monument and took him to Lockhart's for adram. You remember what a friend he used to be of old Will Overton. Iwasn't aware, by-the-bye, that Will was dead till Bauldy told me. '_Hewas a great fellow my friend Will_, ' he rang out in yon deep voice ofhis. '_The thumb-mark of his Maker was wet in the clay of him_. ' Man, it made a quiver go down my spine. " "Oh, Bauldy has been a kenned phrase-maker for the last forty year, "said Tarmillan. "But every other Scots peasant has the gift. To hearEnglishmen talk, you would think Carlyle was unique for the word thatsends the picture home--they give the man the credit of his race. ButI've heard fifty things better than 'willowy man' in the stable a-hameon a wat day in hairst--fifty things better--from men just sitting onthe corn-kists and chowing beans. " "I know a better one than that, " said Allan. Tarmillan had told nostory, you observe, but Allan was so accustomed to saying "I know abetter one than that, " that it escaped him before he was aware. "Iremember when Bauldy went off to Paris on the spree. He kept his mouthshut when he came back, for he was rather ashamed o' the outburst. Butthe bodies were keen to hear. 'What's the incense like in Notre Dame?'said Johnny Coe, with his een big. '_Burning stink!_' said Bauldy. " "I can cap that with a better one still, " said Tarmillan, who wasn't tobe done by any man. "I was with Bauldy when he quarrelled Tam Gibb ofHoochan-doe. Hoochan-doe's a yelling ass, and he threatened Bauldy--oh, he would do this, and he would do that, and he would do the other thing. '_Damn ye, would ye threaten me?_' cried Bauldy. '_I'll gar your brainsjaup red to the heavens!_' And I 'clare to God, sirs, a nervous manlooked up to see if the clouds werena spattered with the gore!" Tozer cleared a sarcastic windpipe. "Why do you clear your throat like that?" said Tarmillan--"like a crawwith the croup, on a bare branch against a gray sky in November! If Ihad a throat like yours, I'd cut it and be done wi't. " "I wonder what's the cause of that extraordinary vividness in thespeech of the Scotch peasantry?" said Allan--more to keep the bladesfrom bickering than from any wish to know. "It comes from a power of seeing things vividly inside your mind, " saida voice, timorous and wheezy, away down the table. What cockerel was this crowing? They turned, and beheld the blushing Gourlay. But Tarmillan and Tozer were at it again, and he was snubbed. JimmyWilson sniggered, and the other youngsters enjoyed his discomfiture. Huh! What right has _he_ to set up his pipe? His shirt stuck to his back. He would have liked the ground to open andswallow him. He gulped a huge swill of whisky to cover his vexation; and oh, themighty difference! A sudden courage flooded his veins. He turned with ascowl on Wilson, and, "What the devil are _you_ sniggering at?" hegrowled. Logan, the only senior who marked the byplay, thought him ahardy young spunkie. The moment the whisky had warmed the cockles of his heart Gourlay ceasedto care a rap for the sniggerers. Drink deadened his nervous perceptionof the critics on his right and left, and set him free to follow hisidea undisturbed. It was an idea he had long cherished--being one of thefew that ever occurred to him. He rarely made phrases himself--though, curiously enough, his father often did without knowing it--the harshgrind of his character producing a flash. But Gourlay was aware of hisuncanny gift of visualization--or of "seeing things in the inside of hishead, " as he called it--and vanity prompted the inference, that this wasthe faculty that sprang the metaphor. His theory was now clear andeloquent before him. He was realizing for the first time in his life(with a sudden joy in the discovery) the effect of whisky to unloose thebrain; sentences went hurling through his brain with a fluency thatthrilled. If he had the ear of the company, now he had the drink tohearten him, he would show Wilson and the rest that he wasn't such ablasted fool! In a room by himself he would have spouted to the emptyair. Some such point he had reached in the hurrying jumble of his thoughtswhen Allan addressed him. Allan did not mean his guest to be snubbed. He was a gentleman at heart, not a cad like Tozer; and this boy was the son of a girl whose laugh heremembered in the gloamings at Tenshillingland. "I beg your pardon, John, " he said in heavy benevolence--he had reachedthat stage--"I beg your pardon. I'm afraid you was interrupted. " Gourlay felt his heart a lump in his throat, but he rushed into speech. "Metaphor comes from the power of seeing things in the inside of yourhead, " said the unconscious disciple of Aristotle--"seeing them so vividthat you see the likeness between them. When Bauldy Johnston said 'thethumb-mark of his Maker was wet in the clay of him, ' he _saw_ the printof a thumb in wet clay, and he _saw_ the Almighty making a man out ofmud, the way He used to do in the Garden of Eden lang syne. So Bauldyflashed the two ideas together, and the metaphor sprang! A man'll nevermake phrases unless he can see things in the middle of his brain. _I_can see things in the middle of my brain, " he went on cockily--"anythingI want to! I don't need to shut my eyes either. They just come up beforeme. " "Man, you're young to have noticed these things, John, " said Jock Allan. "I never reasoned it out before, but I'm sure you're in the right o't. " He spoke more warmly than he felt, because Gourlay had flushed andpanted and stammered (in spite of inspiring bold John Barleycorn) whileairing his little theory, and Allan wanted to cover him. But Gourlaytook it as a tribute to his towering mind. Oh, but he was the proudmannikin. "Pass the watter!" he said to Jimmy Wilson, and Jimmy passedit meekly. Logan took a fancy to Gourlay on the spot. He was a slow, sly, cosy man, with a sideward laugh in his eye, a humid gleam. And because his bloodwas so genial and so slow, he liked to make up to brisk young fellows, whose wilder outbursts might amuse him. They quickened his sluggishblood. No bad fellow, and good-natured in his heavy way, he was what theScotch call a "slug for the drink. " A "slug for the drink" is a man whosoaks and never succumbs. Logan was the more dangerous a crony on thataccount. Remaining sober while others grew drunk, he was always readyfor another dram, always ready with an oily chuckle for the sploringnonsense of his satellites. He would see them home in the small hours, taking no mean advantage over them, never scorning them because they"couldn't carry it, " only laughing at their daft vagaries. And next dayhe would gurgle, "So-and-so was screwed last night, and, man, if you hadheard his talk!" Logan had enjoyed it. He hated to drink by himself, andliked a splurging youngster with whom to go the rounds. He was attracted to Gourlay by the manly way he tossed his drink, and bythe false fire it put into him. But he made no immediate advance. He satsmiling in creeshy benevolence, beaming on Gourlay but saying nothing. When the party was ended, however, he made up to him going through thedoor. "I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Gourlay, " said he. "Won't you come roundto the Howff for a while?" "The Howff?" said Gourlay. "Yes, " said Logan; "haven't ye heard o't? It's a snug bit house wheresome of the West Country billies forgather for a nicht at e'en. Oh, nothing to speak of, ye know--just a dram and a joke to pass the timenow and then!" "Aha!" laughed Gourlay, "there's worse than a drink, by Jove. It putssmeddum in your blood!" Logan nipped the guard of his arm in heavy playfulness and led him tothe Howff. CHAPTER XVIII. Young Gourlay had found a means of escaping from his foolish mind. Bythe beginning of his second session he was as able a toper as a publicancould wish. The somewhat sordid joviality of Allan's ring, theirwit-combats that were somewhat crude, appeared to him the very acme ofsocial intercourse. To emulate Logan and Allan was his aim. But drinkappealed to him in many ways besides. Now when his too apprehensivenerves were frightened by bugbears in his lonely room he could be off tothe Howff and escape them. And drink inspired him with false courage tosustain his pose as a hardy rollicker. He had acquired a kind ofprestige since the night of Allan's party, and two of the fellows whomhe met there--Armstrong and Gillespie--became his friends at College andthe Howff. He swaggered before them as he had swaggered at school bothin Barbie and Skeighan, and now there was no Swipey Broon to cut himover the coxcomb. Armstrong and Gillespie--though they saw throughhim--let him run on, for he was not bad fun when he was splurging. Hefound, too, when with his cronies that drink unlocked his mind, and gavea free flow to his ideas. Nervous men are often impotent of speech fromvery excess of perception; they realize not merely what they mean tosay, but with the nervous antennæ of their minds they feel the attitudeof every auditor. Distracted by lateral perceptions from the pointahead, they blunder where blunter minds would go forward undismayed. That was the experience of young Gourlay. If he tried to talk freelywhen sober, he always grew confused. But drink deadened the outer rim ofhis perception and left it the clearer in the middle for itsconcentration. In plainer language, when he was drunk he was less afraidof being laughed at, and free of that fear he was a better speaker. Hewas driven to drink, then, by every weakness of his character. Asnervous hypochondriac, as would-be swaggerer, as a dullard requiringstimulus, he found that drink, to use his own language, gave him"smeddum. " With his second year he began the study of philosophy, and that added tohis woes. He had nerves to feel the Big Conundrum, but not the brains tosolve it; small blame to him for that, since philosophers have cursedeach other black in the face over it for the last five thousand years. But it worried him. The strange and sinister detail of the world, thathad always been a horror to his mind, became more horrible beneath thestimulus of futile thought. But whisky was the mighty cure. He was thegentleman who gained notoriety on a memorable occasion by exclaiming, "Metaphysics be damned; let us drink!" Omar and other bards haveexpressed the same conclusion in more dulcet wise. But Gourlay's wasequally sincere. How sincere is another question. Curiously, an utterance of "Auld Tam, " one of his professors, halfconfirmed him in his evil ways. "I am speaking now, " said Tam, "of the comfort of a true philosophy, less of its higher aspect than its comfort to the mind of man. Physically, each man is highest on the globe; intellectually, thephilosopher alone dominates the world. To him are only two entities thatmatter--himself and the Eternal; or, if another, it is his fellow-man, whom serving he serves the ultimate of being. But he is master of theouter world. The mind, indeed, in its first blank outlook on life isterrified by the demoniac force of nature and the swarming misery ofman; by the vast totality of things, the cold remoteness of the starryheavens, and the threat of the devouring seas. It is puny in theirmidst. " Gourlay woke up, and the sweat broke on him. Great Heaven, had Tam beenthrough it too! "At that stage, " quoth the wise man, "the mind is dispersed in athousand perceptions and a thousand fears; there is no central greatnessin the soul. It is assailed by terrors which men sunk in the materialnever seem to feel. Phenomena, uninformed by thought, bewilder anddepress. " "Just like me!" thought Gourlay, and listened with a thrilling interestbecause it was "just like him. " "But the labyrinth, " said Tam, with a ring in his voice as of one whoknew--"the labyrinth cannot appal the man who has found a clue to itswindings. A mind that has attained to thought lives in itself, and theworld becomes its slave. Its formerly distracted powers rally home; itis central, possessing, not possessed. The world no longer frightens, being understood. Its sinister features are accidents that will passaway, and they gradually cease to be observed. For real thinkers knowthe value of a wise indifference. And that is why they are often themost genial men; unworried by the transient, they can smile and wait, sure of their eternal aim. The man to whom the infinite beckons is notto be driven from his mystic quest by the ambush of a temporal fear;there is no fear--it has ceased to exist. That is the comfort of a truephilosophy--if a man accepts it not merely mechanically, from another, but feels it in breath and blood and every atom of his being. With awarm surety in his heart, he is undaunted by the outer world. That, gentlemen, is what thought can do for a man. " "By Jove, " thought Gourlay, "that's what whisky does for me!" And that, on a lower level, was what whisky did. He had no conceptionof what Tam really meant; there were people, indeed, who used to thinkthat Tam never knew what he meant himself. They were as little able asGourlay to appreciate the mystic, through the radiant haze of whose mindthoughts loomed on you sudden and big, like mountain tops in a sunnymist, the grander for their dimness. But Gourlay, though he could notunderstand, felt the fortitude of whisky was somehow akin to thefortitude described. In the increased vitality it gave he was able totread down the world. If he walked on a wretched day in a wretchedstreet, when he happened to be sober, his mind was hither and yon in athousand perceptions and a thousand fears, fastening to (and fastenedto) each squalid thing around. But with whisky humming in his blood hepaced onward in a happy dream. The wretched puddles by the way, thefrowning rookeries where misery squalled, the melancholy noises of thestreet, were passed unheeded by. His distracted powers rallied home; hewas concentrate, his own man again, the hero of his musing mind. For, like all weak men of a vivid fancy, he was constantly framing dramas ofwhich he was the towering lord. The weakling who never "downed" men inreality was always "downing" them in thought. His imaginary triumphsconsoled him for his actual rebuffs. As he walked in a tipsy dream, hewas "standing up" to somebody, hurling his father's phrases at him, making short work of _him_! If imagination paled, the nearest tavernsupplied a remedy, and flushed it to a radiant glow. Whereupon he hadbecome the master of his world, and not its slave. "Just imagine, " he thought, "whisky doing for me what philosophy seemsto do for Tam. It's a wonderful thing the drink!" His second session wore on, and when near its close Tam gave out thesubject for the Raeburn. The Raeburn was a poor enough prize--a few books for an "essay in thepicturesque;" but it had a peculiar interest for the folk of Barbie. Twenty years ago it was won four years in succession by men from thevalley; and the unusual run of luck fixed it in their minds. Thereafterwhen an unsuccessful candidate returned to his home, he was sure to beasked very pointedly, "Who won the Raeburn the year?" to rub into himtheir perception that he at least had been a failure. A bodie woulddander slowly up, saying, "Ay, man, ye've won hame!" Then, having musedawhile, would casually ask, "By-the-bye, who won the Raeburn the year?Oh, it was a Perthshire man! It used to come our airt, but we seem tohave lost the knack o't! Oh yes, sir, Barbie bred writers in those days, but the breed seems to have decayed. " Then he would murmur dreamily, asif talking to himself, "Jock Goudie was the last that got it hereaway. But _he_ was a clever chap. " The caustic bodie would dander away with a grin, leaving a poor writhingsoul. When he reached the Cross he would tell the Deacon blithely of the"fine one he had given him, " and the Deacon would lie in wait to givehim a fine one too. In Barbie, at least, your returning student is nevermet at the station with a brass band, whatever may happen in moreemotional districts of the North, where it pleases them to shed thetear. "An Arctic Night" was the inspiring theme which Tam set for the Raeburn. "A very appropriate subject!" laughed the fellows; "quite in the styleof his own lectures. " For Tam, though wise and a humorist, had his prosyhours. He used to lecture on the fifteen characteristics of Lady Macbeth(so he parcelled the unhappy Queen), and he would announce quitegravely, "We will now approach the discussion of the eleventh feature ofthe lady. " Gourlay had a shot at the Raeburn. He could not bring a radiant fullnessof mind to bear upon his task (it was not in him to bring), but hismorbid fancy set to work of its own accord. He saw a lonely little townfar off upon the verge of Lapland night, leagues and leagues across adarkling plain, dark itself and little and lonely in the gloomysplendour of a Northern sky. A ship put to sea, and Gourlay heard in hisears the skirl of the man who went overboard--struck dead by the icywater on his brow, which smote the brain like a tomahawk. He put his hand to his own brow when he wrote that, and, "Yes, " he criedeagerly, "it would be the _cold_ would kill the brain! Ooh-ooh, how itwould go in!" A world of ice groaned round him in the night; bergs ground on eachother and were rent in pain; he heard the splash of great fragmentstumbled in the deep, and felt the waves of their distant falling liftthe vessel beneath him in the darkness. To the long desolate night camea desolate dawn, and eyes were dazed by the encircling whiteness; yetthere flashed green slanting chasms in the ice, and towering pinnaclesof sudden rose, lonely and far away. An unknown sea beat upon an unknownshore, and the ship drifted on the pathless waters, a white dead man atthe helm. "Yes, by Heaven, " cried Gourlay, "I can see it all, I can see itall--that fellow standing at the helm, frozen white and as stiff's anicicle!" Yet, do what he might, he was unable to fill more than half a dozensmall pages. He hesitated whether he should send them in, and held themin his inky fingers, thinking he would burn them. He was full of pityfor his own inability. "I wish I was a clever chap, " he said mournfully. "Ach, well, I'll try my luck, " he muttered at last, "though Tam may guyme before the whole class for doing so little o't. " The Professor, however (unlike the majority of Scottish professors), rated quality higher than quantity. "I have learned a great deal myself, " he announced on the last day ofthe session--"I have learned a great deal myself from the papers sent inon the subject of an 'Arctic Night. '" "Hear, hear!" said an insolent student at the back. "Where, where?" said the Professor; "stand up, sir!" A gigantic Borderer rose blushing into view, and was greeted with howlsof derision by his fellows. Tam eyed him, and he winced. "You will apologize in my private room at the end of the hour, " saidAquinas, as the students used to call him. "Learn that this is not aplace to bray in. " The giant slunk down, trying to hide himself. "Yes, " said Tam, "I have learned what a poor sense of proportion some ofyou students seem to have. It was not to see who could write the most, but who could write the best, that I set the theme. One gentleman--hehas been careful to give me his full name and address, " twinkled Tam, and picking up a huge manuscript he read it from the outer page, "Mr. Alexander MacTavish of Benmacstronachan, near Auchnapeterhoolish, in theisland of South Uist--has sent me in no less than a hundred andfifty-three closely-written pages! I dare say it's the size of theadjectives he uses that makes the thing so heavy, " quoth Tam, anddropped it thudding on his desk. "Life is short, the art of theMacTavish long, and to tell the truth, gentlemen"--he gloomed at themhumorously--"to tell the truth, I stuck in the middle o't!" (Roars oflaughter, and a reproving voice, "Oh, ta pold MacTa-avish!" whereatthere was pandemonium). MacTavish was heard to groan, "Oh, why tid Ileave my home!" to which a voice responded in mocking antiphone, "Whytid you cross ta teep?" The noise they made was heard at Holyrood. When the tumult and the shouting died, Tam resumed with a quiver in hisvoice, for "ta pold MacTavish" had tickled him too. "Now, gentlemen, " hesaid, "I don't judge essays by their weight, though I'm told theysometimes pursue that method in Glasgow!" (Groans for the rival University, cries of "Oh-oh-oh!" and a wearyvoice, "Please, sir, don't mention that place; it makes me feel quiteill. ") The Professor allayed the tumult with dissuasive palm. "I believe, " he said dryly, "you call that noise of yours 'the CollegeTramp;' in the Senatus we speak o't as 'the Cuddies' Trudge. ' Nowgentlemen, I'm not unwilling to allow a little noise on the last day ofthe session, but really you must behave more quietly. --So little doesthat method of judging essays commend itself to me, I may tell you, thatthe sketch which I consider the best barely runs to half a dozen shortpages. " Young Gourlay's heart gave a leap within him; he felt it thudding on hisribs. The skin crept on him, and he breathed with quivering nostrils. Gillespie wondered why his breast heaved. "It's a curious sketch, " said the Professor. "It contains a seriousblunder in grammar and several mistakes in spelling, but it shows, insome ways, a wonderful imagination. " "Ho, ho!" thought Gourlay. "Of course there are various kinds of imagination, " said Tam. "In itslowest form it merely recalls something which the eyes have alreadyseen, and brings it vividly before the mind. A higher form picturessomething which you never saw, but only conceived as a possibleexistence. Then there's the imagination which not only sees buthears--actually hears what a man would say on a given occasion, andentering into his blood, tells you exactly why he does it. The highestform is both creative and consecrative, if I may use the word, mergingin diviner thought. It irradiates the world. Of that high power there isno evidence in the essay before me. To be sure there was little occasionfor its use. " Young Gourlay's thermometer went down. "Indeed, " said Aquinas, "there's a curious want of bigness in thesketch--no large nobility of phrase. It is written in gaspy littlesentences, and each sentence begins 'and'--'and'--'and, ' like aschoolboy's narrative. It's as if a number of impressions had seized thewriter's mind, which he jotted down hurriedly, lest they should escapehim. But, just because it's so little wordy, it gets the effect of thething--faith, sirs, it's right on to the end of it every time! Thewriting of some folk is nothing but a froth of words--lucky if itglistens without, like a blobber of iridescent foam. But in this sketchthere's a perception at the back of every sentence. It displays, indeed, too nervous a sense of the external world. " "Name, name!" cried the students, who were being deliberately worked byTam to a high pitch of curiosity. "I would strongly impress on the writer, " said the shepherd, heedless ofhis bleating sheep--"I would strongly impress on the writer to sethimself down for a spell of real, hard, solid, and deliberate thought. That almost morbid perception, with philosophy to back it, might createan opulent and vivid mind. Without philosophy it would simply be acurse. With philosophy it would bring thought the material to work on. Without philosophy it would simply distract and irritate the mind. " "Name, name!" cried the fellows. "The winner of the Raeburn, " said Thomas Aquinas, "is Mr. John Gourlay. " * * * * * Gourlay and his friends made for the nearest public-house. Theoccasion, they thought, justified a drink. The others chaffed Gourlayabout Tam's advice. "You know, Jack, " said Gillespie, mimicking the sage, "what you have gotto do next summer is to set yourself down for a spell of real, hard, solid, and deliberate thought. That was Tam's advice, you know. " "Him and his advice!" said Gourlay. CHAPTER XIX. There were only four other passengers dropped by the eleven o'clockexpress at Skeighan station, and, as it happened, young Gourlay knewthem all. They were petty merchants of the neighbourhood whom he hadoften seen about Barbie. The sight of their remembered faces as hestepped on to the platform gave him a delightful sense that he wasnearing home. He had passed from the careless world where he was nobodyat all to the familiar circle where he was a somebody, a mentioned man, and the son of a mentioned man--young Mr. Gourlay! He had a feeling of superiority to the others, too, because they weremere local journeyers, while he had travelled all the way from mightyEdinburgh by the late express. He was returning from the outer world, while they were bits of bodies who had only been to Fechars. AsEdinburgh was to Fechars so was he to them. Round him was the halo ofdistance and the mystery of night-travelling. He felt big. "Have you a match, Robert?" he asked very graciously of Robin Gregg, oneof the porters whom he knew. Getting his match, he lit a cigarette; andwhen it was lit, after one quick puff, turned it swiftly round toexamine its burning end. "Rotten!" he said, and threw it away to lightanother. The porters were watching him, and he knew it. When thestationmaster appeared yawning from his office, as he was passingthrough the gate, and asked who it was, it flattered his vanity to hearRobin's answer, that it was "young Mr. Gourlay of Barbie, just back fromthe Univ-ai-rsity!" He had been so hot for home that he had left Edinburgh at twilight, tooeager to wait for the morrow. There was no train for Barbie at this hourof the night; and, of course, there was no gig to meet him. Even if hehad sent word of his coming, "There's no need for travelling so late, "old Gourlay would have growled; "let him shank it. We're in no hurry tohave him home. " He set off briskly, eager to see his mother and tell her he had won theRaeburn. The consciousness of his achievement danced in his blood, andmade the road light to his feet. His thoughts were not with the countryround him, but entirely in the moment of his entrance, when he shouldproclaim his triumph, with proud enjoyment of his mother's pride. Hisfancy swept to his journey's end, and took his body after, so that thelong way was as nothing, annihilate by the leap forward of his mind. He was too vain, too full of himself and his petty triumph, to have roomfor the beauty of the night. The sky was one sea of lit cloud, foamyridge upon ridge over all the heavens, and each wave was brimming withits own whiteness, seeming unborrowed of the moon. Through onepeep-hole, and only one, shone a distant star, a faint white speck faraway, dimmed by the nearer splendours of the sky. Sometimes the thinningedge of a cloud brightened in spume, and round the brightness came acircle of umber, making a window of fantastic glory for Dian the queen;there her white vision peeped for a moment on the world, and the nextshe was hid behind a fleecy veil, witching the heavens. Gourlay wasalone with the wonder of the night. The light from above him wassoftened in a myriad boughs, no longer mere light and cold, but a spiritindwelling as their soul, and they were boughs no longer but a wovendream. He walked beneath a shadowed glory. But he was dead to it all. One only fact possessed him. He had won the Raeburn--he had won theRaeburn! The road flew beneath him. Almost before he was aware, the mean gray streets of Barbie had clippedhim round. He stopped, panting from the hurry of his walk, and looked atthe quiet houses, all still among the gloom. He realized with a suddenpride that he alone was in conscious possession of the town. Barbieexisted to no other mind. All the others were asleep; while he had athrilling consciousness of them and of their future attitude to him, they did not know that he, the returning great one, was present in theirmidst. They all knew of the Raeburn, however, and ere long they wouldknow that it was his. He was glad to hug his proud secret in presence ofthe sleeping town, of which he would be the talk to-morrow. How he wouldsurprise them! He stood for a little, gloating in his own sensations. Then a desire to get home tugged him, and he scurried up the long brae. He stole round the corner of the House with the Green Shutters. Roger, the collie, came at him with a bow-wow-wow. "Roger!" he whispered, andcuddled him, and the old loyalist fawned on him and licked his hand. Thevery smell of the dog was couthie in his nose. The window of a bedroom went up with a crash. "Now, then, who the devil are you?" came the voice of old Gourlay. "It's me, faither, " said John. "Oh, it's you, is it? This is a fine time o' night to come home. " "Faither, I have--I have won the Raeburn!" "It'll keep, my mannie, it'll keep"--and the window slammed. Next moment it was up. "Did young Wilson get onything?" came the eager cry. "Nut him!" said John. "Fine, man! Damned, sir, I'm proud o' ye!" John went round the corner treading on air. For the first time in hislife his father had praised him. He peeped through a kink at the side of the kitchen blind, where itsdescent was arrested by a flowerpot in the corner of the window-sill. Ashe had expected, though it was long past midnight, his mother was notyet in bed. She was folding a white cloth over her bosom, and about her, on the backs of chairs, there were other such cloths, drying by thefire. He watched her curiously; once he seemed to hear a whimperingmoan. When she buttoned her dress above the cloth, she gazed sadly atthe dying embers--the look of one who has gained short respite from atask of painful tendance on the body, yet is conscious that the task andthe pain are endless, and will have to be endured, to-morrow andto-morrow, till she dies. It was the fixed gaze of utter weariness andapathy. A sudden alarm for his mother made John cry her name. She flew to the door, and in a moment had him in her arms. He told hisnews, and basked in her adoration. She came close to him, and "John, " she said in a smiling whisper, big-eyed, "John, " she breathed, "would ye like a dram?" It was as if shewas propounding a roguish plan in some dear conspiracy. He laughed. "Well, " he said, "seeing we have won the Raeburn, you and I, I think we might. " He heard her fumbling in the distant pantry. He smiled to himself as helistened to the clinking glass, and, "By Jove, " said he, "a mother's afine thing!" "Where's Janet?" he asked when she returned. He wanted anotherworshipper. "Oh, she gangs to bed the moment it's dark, " his mother complained, likeone aggrieved. "She's always saying that she's ill. I thocht when shegrew up that she might be a wee help, but she's no use at all. And I'msure, if a' was kenned, I have more to complain o' than she has. Atweelay, " she said, and stared at the embers. It rarely occurs to young folk who have never left their homes thattheir parents may be dying soon; from infancy they have known them asestablished facts of nature like the streams and hills; they expect themto remain. But the young who have been away for six months are oftenstruck by a tragic difference in their elders on returning home. Toyoung Gourlay there was a curious difference in his mother. She wasalmost beautiful to-night. Her blue eyes were large and glittering, herears waxen and delicate, and her brown hair swept low on her blue-veinedtemples. Above and below her lips there was a narrow margin of thepurest white. "Mother, " he said anxiously, "you're not ill, are ye? What do ye need somany wee clouts for?" She gasped and started. "They're just a wheen clouts I was sorting out, "she faltered. "No, no, dear, there's noathing wrong wi' me. " "There's one sticking in your blouse, " said he, and pointed to her slackbreast. She glanced nervously down and pushed it farther in. "I dare say I put it there when I wasna thinking, " she explained. But she eyed him furtively to see if he were still looking. CHAPTER XX. There is nothing worse for a weakling than a small success. The strongman tosses it beneath his feet as a step to rise higher on. He squeezesit into its proper place as a layer in the life he is building. If hismemory dwells on it for a moment, it is only because of its valuableresults, not because in itself it is a theme for vanity. And if he behigher than strong he values not it, but the exercise of getting it;viewing his actual achievement, he is apt to reflect, "Is this pitifulthing, then, all that I toiled for?" Finer natures often experience akeen depression and sense of littleness in the pause that follows asuccess. But the fool is so swollen by thought of his victory that he isunfit for all healthy work till somebody jags him and lets the gas out. He never forgets the great thing he fancies he did thirty years ago, andexpects the world never to forget it either. The more of a weakling heis, and the more incapable of repeating his former triumph, the more hethinks of it; and the more he thinks of it the more it satisfies hismeagre soul, and prevents him essaying another brave venture in theworld. His petty achievement ruins him. The memory of it never leaveshim, but swells to a huge balloon that lifts him off his feet andcarries him heavens-high--till it lands him on a dunghill. Even fromthat proud eminence he oft cock-a-doodles his former triumph to theworld. "Man, you wouldn't think to see me here that I once held a greatposition. Thirty year back I did a big thing. It was like this, ye see. "And then follows a recital of his faded glories--generally ending witha hint that a drink would be very acceptable. Even such a weakling was young Gourlay. His success in Edinburgh, pettyas it was, turned his head, and became one of the many causes working todestroy him. All that summer at Barbie he swaggered and drank on thestrength of it. On the morning after his return he clothed himself in fine raiment (hewas always well dressed till the end came), and sallied forth todominate the town. As he swaggered past the Cross, smoking a cigarette, he seemed to be conscious that the very walls of the houses watched himwith unusual eyes, as if even they felt that yon was John Gourlay whomthey had known as a boy, proud wearer now of the academic wreath, theconquering hero returned to his home. So Gourlay figured them. He, thedisconsidered, had shed a lustre on the ancient walls. They weretributaries to his new importance--somehow their attitude was differentfrom what it had ever been before. It was only his self-consciousbigness, of course, that made even inanimate things seem the feeders ofhis greatness. As Gourlay, always alive to obscure emotions which hecould never express in words, mused for a moment over the strange newfeeling that had come to him, a gowsterous voice hailed him from theBlack Bull door. He turned, and Peter Wylie, hearty and keen like hisfather, stood him a drink in honour of his victory, which was alreadybuzzed about the town. Drucken Wabster's wife had seen to that. "Ou, " she cried, "his mother'sdaft about it, the silly auld thing; she can speak o' noathing else. Though Gourlay gies her very little to come and go on, she slipped him awhole sovereign this morning, to keep his pouch. Think o' that, kimmers;heard ye ever sic extravagance! I saw her doin'd wi' my own eyes. It'saince wud and aye waur[6] wi' her, I'm thinking. But the wastefu'wife's the waefu' widow, she should keep in mind. She's far owrebrowdened upon yon boy. I'm sure I howp good may come o't, but----" andwith an ominous shake of the head she ended the Websterian harangue. When Peter Wylie left him Gourlay lit a cigarette and stood at theCross, waiting for the praises yet to be. The Deacon toddled forward onhis thin shanks. "Man Dyohn, you're won hame, I thee. Ay, man! And how are ye?" Gourlay surveyed him with insolent, indolent eyes. "Oh, I'm allrai-ight, Deacon, " he swaggered; "how are ye-ow?" and he sent a puff oftobacco smoke down through his nostrils. "I declare!" said the Deacon. "I never thaw onybody thmoke like thatbefore! That'll be one of the thingth ye learn at College, no doubt. " "Ya-as, " yawned Gourlay; "it gives you the full flavour of the we-eed. " The Deacon glimmered over him with his eyes. "The weed, " said he. "Juthttho! Imphm. The weed. " Then worthy Mister Allardyce tried another opening. "But, dear me!" hecried, "I'm forgetting entirely. I must congratulate ye. Ye've beendoing wonderth, they tell me, up in Embro. " "Just a little bit, " swaggered Gourlay, right hand on outshot hip, lefthand flaunting a cigarette in air most delicate, tobacco smoke curlingfrom his lofty nose. He looked down his face at the Deacon. "Just alittle bit, Mr. Allardyce, just a little bit. I tossed the thing off ina twinkling. " "Ay man, Dyohn, " said the Deacon with great solicitude; "but you maunnawork that brain o' yours too hard, though. A heid like yours doesna comethrough the hatter's hand ilka day o' the week; you mutht be careful notto put too great a thtrain on't. Ay, ay; often the best machine's theeasiest broken and the warst to mend. You should take a rest and enjoyyourself. But there! what need I be telling _you_ that? A College-bredman like you kenth far better about it than a thilly auld country bodie!You'll be meaning to have a grand holiday and lots o' fun--a dram nowand then, eh, and mony a rattle in the auld man's gig?" At this assault on his weak place Gourlay threw away his importantmanner with the end of his cigarette. He could never maintain the loftypose for more than five minutes at a time. "You're _right_, Deacon, " he said, nodding his head with splurgingsincerity. "I mean to have a demned good holiday. One's glad to get backto the old place after six months in Edinburgh. " "Atweel, " said the Deacon. "But, man, have you tried the new whisky atthe Black Bull?--I thaw ye in wi' Pate Wylie. It'th extr'ornargude--thaft as the thang o' a mavis on a nicht at e'en, and fiery as aHighland charge. "--It was not in character for the Deacon to say such athing, but whisky makes the meanest of Scots poetical. He elevates themanner to the matter, and attains the perfect style. --"But no doubt, "the cunning old prier went on, with a smiling suavity in his voice--"butno doubt a man who knowth Edinburgh tho well as you will have afavourite blend of hith own. I notice that University men have a finetaste in thpirits. " "I generally prefer 'Kinblythmont's Cure, '" said Gourlay, with the airof a connoisseur. "But 'Anderson's Sting o' Delight' 's very good, andso's 'Balsillie's Brig o' the Mains. '" "Ay, " said the Deacon. "Ay, ay! 'Brig o' the Mains' ith what Jock Allandrinks. He'll pree noathing else. I dare thay you thee a great deal ofhim in Embro. " "Oh, every week, " swaggered Gourlay. "We're always together, he and I. " "Alwayth thegither!" said the Deacon. It was not true that Allan and Gourlay were together at all times. Allanwas kind to Jean Richmond's son (in his own ruinous way), but not tothe extent of being burdened with the cub half a dozen times a week. Gourlay was merely boasting--as young blades are apt to do ofacquaintance with older roisterers. They think it makes them seem men ofthe world. And in his desire to vaunt his comradeship with Allan, Johnfailed to see that Allardyce was scooping him out like an oyster. "Ay man, " resumed the Deacon; "he's a hearty fellow, Jock. No doubt youhave the great thprees?" "Sprees!" gurgled Gourlay, and flung back his head with a laugh. "Ishould think we have. There was a great foy at Allan's the night beforeI left Edinburgh. Tarmillan was there--d'ye know, yon's the finestfellow I ever met in my life!--and Bauldy Logan--he's another greatchap. Then there was Armstrong and Gillespie--great friends of mine, anddamned clever fellows they are, too, I can tell you. Besides us threethere were half a dozen more from the College. You should have heard thetalk! And every man-jack was as drunk as a lord. The last thing Iremember is some of us students dancing round a lamp-post while Loganwhistled a jig. " Though Gourlay the elder hated the Deacon, he had never warned his sonto avoid him. To have said "Allardyce is dangerous" would have been topay the old malignant too great a compliment; it would have been beneathJohn Gourlay to admit that a thing like Allardyce could harm him andhis. Young Gourlay, therefore, when once set agoing by the Deacon's deftmanagement, blurted everything without a hanker. Even so, however, hefelt that he had gone too far. He glanced anxiously at his companion. "Mum's the word about this, of course, " he said with a wink. "It wouldnever do for this to be known about the 'Green Shutters. '" "Oh, I'm ath thound ath a bell, Dyohn, I'm ath thound ath a bell, " saidthe Deacon. "Ay, man! You jutht bear out what I have alwayth underthoodabout the men o' brainth. They're the heartiest devilth after a'. Burns, that the baker raves so muckle o', was jutht another o' the thame--juthtanother o' the thame. We'll be hearing o' you boys--Pate Wylie and youand a wheen mair--having rare ploys in Barbie through the thummer. " "Oh, we'll kick up a bit of a dust, " Gourlay sniggered, well pleased. Had not the Deacon ranked him in the robustious great company of Burns!"I say, Deacon, come in and have a nip. " "There's your faither, " grinned the Deacon. "Eh? what?" cried Gourlay in alarm, and started round, to see his fatherand the Rev. Mr. Struthers advancing up the Fechars Road. "Eh--eh--Deacon--I--I'll see you again about the nip. " "Jutht tho, " grinned the Deacon. "We'll postpone the drink to a moreconvenient opportunity. " He toddled away, having no desire that old Gourlay should find himtalking to his son. If Gourlay suspected him of pulling the youngfellow's leg, likely as not he would give an exhibition of his demnedunpleasant manners. Gourlay and the minister came straight towards the student. Of the Rev. Mr. Struthers it may be said with truth that he would have cut aremarkable figure in any society. He had big splay feet, short stoutlegs, and a body of such bulging bulbosity that all the droppings of hisspoon--which were many--were caught on the round of his black waistcoat, which always looked as if it had just been spattered by a gray shower. His eyebrows were bushy and white, and the hairs slanting up and outrendered the meagre brow even narrower than it was. His complexion, moreespecially in cold weather, was a dark crimson. The purply colour of hisface was intensified by the pure whiteness of the side whiskersprojecting stiffly by his ears, and in mid-week, when he was unshaven, his redness revealed more plainly, in turn, the short gleaming stubblethat lay like rime on his chin. His eyes goggled, and his manner at alltimes was that of a staring and earnest self-importance. "PuffyImportance" was one of his nicknames. Struthers was a man of lowly stock who, after a ten years' desperatebattle with his heavy brains, succeeded at the long last of it inpassing the examinations required for the ministry. The influence of awealthy patron then presented him to Barbie. Because he had taken solong to get through the University himself, he constantly magnified theplace in his conversation, partly to excuse his own slowness in gettingthrough it, partly that the greater glory might redound on him who hadconquered it at last, and issued from its portals a fat and prosperousalumnus. Stupid men who have mastered a system, not by intuition but bya plodding effort of slow years, always exaggerate its importance--didit not take them ten years to understand it? Whoso has passed thesystem, then, is to their minds one of a close corporation, of a selectand intellectual few, and entitled to pose before the uninitiate. Because their stupidity made the thing difficult, their vanity leadsthem to exalt it. Woe to him that shall scoff at any detail! ToStruthers the Senatus Academicus was an august assemblage worthy of theRoman Curia, and each petty academic rule was a law sacrosanct and holy. He was for ever talking of the "Univairsity. " "Mind ye, " he would say, "it takes a long time to understand even the workings of theUnivairsity--the Senatus and such-like; it's not for every one tocriticize. " He implied, of course, that he had a right to criticize, having passed triumphant through the mighty test. This vanity of his wasfed by a peculiar vanity of some Scots peasants, who like to discussDivinity Halls, and so on, because to talk of these things shows thatthey too are intelligent men, and know the awful intellectual ordealrequired of a "Meenister. " When a peasant says, "He went through hisArts course in three years, and got a kirk the moment he was licensed, "he wants you to see that he's a smart man himself, and knows what he'stalking of. There were several men in Barbie who liked to talk in thatway, and among them Puffy Importance, when graciously inclined, foundready listeners to his pompous blether about the "Univairsity. " But whathe liked best of all was to stop a newly-returned student in full viewof the people, and talk learnedly of his courses--dear me, ay--of hiscourses, and his matriculations, and his lectures, and his graduations, and his thingumbobs. That was why he bore down upon our great essayist. "Allow me to congratulate you, John, " he said, with heavy solemnity; forStruthers always made a congregation of his listener, and droned as ifmounted for a sermon. "Ye have done excellently well this session; yehave indeed. Ex-cellently well--ex-cellently well!" Gourlay blushed and thanked him. "Tell me now, " said the cleric, "do you mean to take your Arts course inthree years or four? A loang Arts course is a grand thing for aclairgyman. Even if he spends half a dozen years on't he won't bewasting his time!" Gourlay glanced at his father. "I mean to try't in three, " he said. Hisfather had threatened him that he must get through his Arts in threeyears--without deigning, of course, to give any reason for the threat. "We-ell, " said Mr. Struthers, gazing down the Fechars Road, as ifvisioning great things, "it will require a strenuous and devotedapplication--a strenuous and devoted application--even from the man ofabeelity you have shown yourself to be. Tell me now, " he went on, "haveye heard ainything of the new Professor of Exegesis? D'ye know how he'sdoing?" Young Gourlay knew nothing of the new Professor of Exegesis, but heanswered, "Very well, I believe, " at a venture. "Oh, he's sure to do well, he's sure to do well! He's one of the bestmen we have in the Church. I have just finished his book on theEpheesians. It's most profound! It has taken me a whole year to masterit. " ("Garvie on the Ephesians" is a book of a hundred and eightypages. ) "And, by the way, " said the parson, stooping to Scotch in hisministerial jocoseness, "how's auld Tam, in whose class you were aprize-winner? He was appointed to the professoriate the same year that Iobtained my licence. I remember to have heard him deliver a lecture onGerman philosophy, and I thought it excellently good. But perhaps, " headded, with solemn and pondering brows--"perhaps he was a little toofond of Hegel. Yess, I am inclined to think that he was a little toofond of Hegel. " Mrs. Eccles, listening from the Black Bull door, wondered if Hegel was a drink. "He's very popular, " said young Gourlay. "Oh, he's sure to be popular; he merits the very greatest popple-arity. And he would express himself as being excellently well pleased with yourtheme? What did he say of it, may I venture to inquire?" Beneath the pressure of his father's presence young Gourlay did not dareto splurge. "He seemed to think there was something in it, " he answered, modestly enough. "Oh, he would be sure to think there was something in it, " said theminister, staring, and wagging his pow. "Not a doubt of tha-at, not adoubt of tha-at! There must have been something in it to obtain the palmof victory in the face of such prodigious competeetion. It's thesee-lect intellect of Scotland that goes to the Univairsity, and onlythe ee-lect of the see-lect win the palm. And it's an augury of greatgood for the future. Abeelity to write is a splendid thing for theChurch. Good-bye, John, and allow me to express once moar my greatsatisfaction that a pareeshioner of mine is a la-ad of such brilliantpromise!" Though the elder Gourlay disconsidered the Church, and thought little ofMr. Struthers, he swelled with pride to think that the minister shouldstop his offspring in the Main Street of Barbie, to congratulate him onhis prospects. They were close to the Emporium, and with the tail of hiseye he could see Wilson peeping from the door and listening to everyword. This would be a hair in Wilson's neck! There were no clericalcompliments for _his_ son! The tables were turned at last. His father had a generous impulse to John for the bright triumph he hadwon the Gourlays. He fumbled in his trouser pocket, and passed him asovereign. "I'm kind o' hard-up, " he said, with grim jocosity, "but there's a poundto keep your pouch. No nonsense now!" he shot at the youth with a loadedeye. "That's just for use if you happen to be in company. A Gourlay maunspend as much as the rest o' folk. " "Yes, faither, " said the youngster, and Gourlay went away. That grimly-jocose reference to his poverty was a feature of Gourlay'stalk now, when he spoke of money to his family. It excused the smallnessof his doles, yet led them to believe that he was only joking--that hehad plenty of money if he would only consent to shell it out. And thatwas what he wished them to believe. His pride would not allow him toconfess, even to his nearest, that he was a failure in business, andhampered with financial trouble. Thus his manner of warning them to becareful had the very opposite effect. "He has heaps o' cash, " thoughtthe son, as he watched the father up the street; "there's no need for afellow to be mean. " Flattered (as he fondly imagined) by the Deacon, flatteredby the minister, tipped by his mother, tipped by his father, hail-fellow-well-met with Pate Wylie--Lord, but young Gourlay was thefine fellow! Symptoms of swell-head set in with alarming rapidity. Hehad a wild tendency to splurge. And, that he might show in a singleafternoon all the crass stupidity of which he was capable, heimmediately allowed himself a veiled insult towards the daughters of theex-Provost. They were really nice girls, in spite of their parentage, and as they came down the street they glanced with shy kindness at thestudent from under their broad-brimmed hats. Gourlay raised his inanswer to their nod. But the moment after, and in their hearing, heyelled blatantly to Swipey Broon to come on and have a drink of beer. Swipey was a sweep now, for Brown the ragman had added chimney-cleaningto his other occupations--plurality of professions, you observe, beingone of the features of the life of Barbie. When Swipey turned out of theFleckie Road he was as black as the ace of spades, a most disreputablephiz. And when Gourlay yelled his loud welcome to that grimy object, what he wanted to convey to the two girls was: "Ho, ho, my prettymisses, I'm on bowing terms with you, and yet when I might go up andspeak to ye, I prefer to go off and drink with a sweep, d'ye see? Thatshows what I think o' ye!" All that summer John took an oblique revengeon those who had disconsidered the Gourlays, but would have liked tomake up to him now when they thought he was going to do well--he took apaltry revenge by patently rejecting their advances and consortinginstead, and in their presence, with the lowest of low company. Thus hevented a spite which he had long cherished against them for their formerneglect of Janet and him. For though the Gourlay children had beenwelcome at well-to-do houses in the country, their father's unpopularityhad cut them off from the social life of the town. When the Provost gavehis grand spree on Hogmanay there was never an invitation for theGourlay youngsters. The slight had rankled in the boy's mind. Now, however, some of the local bigwigs had an opinion (with very little tosupport it) that he was going to be a successful man, and they showed adisposition to be friendly. John, with a rankling memory of their formercoldness, flouted every overture, by letting them see plainly that hepreferred to their company that of Swipey Broon, Jock M'Craw, and everyragamuffin of the town. It was a kind of back-handed stroke at them. That was the paltry form which his father's pride took in him. He didnot see that he was harming himself rather than his father's enemies. Harm himself he did, for you could not associate with Jock M'Craw andthe like without drinking in every howff you came across. When the bodies assembled next day for their "morning, " the Deacon wasable to inform them that young Gourlay was back from the College, dafterthan ever, and that he had pulled his leg as far as he wanted it. "Oh, "he said, "I played him like a kitten wi' a cork, and found out ainythingand everything I wished. I dithcovered that he's in wi' Jock Allan andthat crowd--I edged the conversation round on purpoth! Unless he wathblowing his trump--which I greatly doubt--they're as thick as thieveth. Ye ken what that meanth. He'll turn hith wee finger to the ceilingoftener than he puts hith forefinger to the pen, I'm thinking. Ittheemth he drinkth enormuth! He took a gey nip last thummer, and thisthummer I wager he takes mair o't. He avowed his plain intention. 'Imean to kick up a bit of a dust, ' thays he. Oh, but he's the splurge!" "Ay, ay, " said Sandy Toddle, "thae students are a gey squad--especiallythe young ministers. " "Ou, " said Tam Wylie, "dinna be hard on the ministers. Ministers arejust like the rest o' folk. They mind me o' last year's early tatties. They're grand when they're gude, but the feck o' them's frostit. " "Ay, " said the Deacon, "and young Gourlay's frostit in the shaw already. I doubt it'll be a poor ingathering. " "Weel, weel, " said Tam Wylie, "the mair's the pity o' that, Deacon. " "Oh, it'th a grai-ait pity, " said the Deacon, and he bowed his bodysolemnly with outspread hands. "No doubt it'th a grai-ait pity!" and hewagged his head from side to side, the picture of a poignant woe. "I saw him in the Black Bull yestreen, " said Brodie, who had been silenthitherto in utter scorn of the lad they were speaking of--too disgustedto open his mouth. "He was standing drinks to a crowd that were puffinghim up about that prize o' his. " "It's alwayth the numskull hath the most conceit, " said the Deacon. "And yet there must be something in him too, to get that prize, " musedthe ex-Provost. "A little ability's a dangerous thing, " said Johnny Coe, who could thinkat times. "To be safe you should be a genius winged and flying, or acrawling thing that never leaves the earth. It's the half-and-half thathell gapes for. And owre they flap. " But nobody understood him. "Drink and vanity'll soon make end of _him_, "said Brodie curtly, and snubbed the philosopher. Before the summer holiday was over (it lasts six months in Scotland)young Gourlay was a habit-and-repute tippler. His shrinking abhorrencefrom the scholastic life of Edinburgh flung him with all the greaterabandon into the conviviality he had learned to know at home. His mother(who always seemed to sit up now, after Janet and Gourlay were in bed)often let him in during the small hours, and as he hurried past her inthe lobby he would hold his breath lest she should smell it. "You'reunco late, dear, " she would say wearily, but no other reproach did sheutter. "I was taking a walk, " he would answer thickly; "there's a finemoon!" It was true that when his terrible depression seized him he wassometimes tempted to seek the rapture and peace of a moonlight walkupon the Fleckie Road. In his crude clay there was a vein of poetry: hecould be alone in the country, and not lonely; had he lived in a greenquiet place, he might have learned the solace of nature for the woundedwhen eve sheds her spiritual dews. But the mean pleasures to be found atthe Cross satisfied his nature, and stopped him midway to that soothingbeauty of the woods and streams which might have brought healing and awise quiescence. His success--such as it was--had gained him acircle--such as it was--and the assertive nature proper to his father'sson gave him a kind of lead amongst them. Yet even his henchmen sawthrough his swaggering. Swipey Broon turned on him one night, andthreatened to split his mouth, and he went as white as the wall behindhim. Among his other follies, he assumed the pose of a man who could an hewould--who had it in him to do great things, if he would only set aboutthem. In this he was partly playing up to a foolish opinion of his moreignorant associates; it was they who suggested the pose to him. "Devilish clever!" he heard them whisper one night as he stood in thedoor of a tavern; "he could do it if he liked, only he's too fond o' thefun. " Young Gourlay flushed where he stood in the darkness--flushed withpleasure at the criticism of his character which was, nevertheless, acompliment to his wits. He felt that he must play up at once to thecharacter assigned him. "Ho, ho, my lads!" he cried, entering with, asplurge; "let's make a night o't. I should be working for my degreeto-night, but I suppose I can get it easy enough when the time comes. ""What did I tell ye?" said M'Craw, nudging an elbow; and Gourlay saw thenudge. Here at last he had found the sweet seduction of a properpose--that of a _grand homme manqué_, of a man who would be a geniuswere it not for the excess of his qualities. Would he continue to appeara genius, then he must continue to display that excess which--so hewished them to believe--alone prevented his brilliant achievements. Itwas all a curious, vicious inversion. "You could do great things if youdidn't drink, " crooned the fools. "See how I drink, " Gourlay seemed toanswer; "that is why I don't do great things. But, mind you, I could dothem were it not for this. " Thus every glass he tossed off seemed tohint in a roundabout way at the glorious heights he might attain if hedidn't drink it. His very roistering became a pose, and his vanity madehim roister the more, to make the pose more convincing. FOOTNOTES: [6] "_Aince wud and aye waur_, " silly for once and silly for always. CHAPTER XXI. On a beautiful evening in September, when a new crescent moon waspointing through the saffron sky like the lit tip of a finger, the CityFathers had assembled at the corner of the Fleckie Road. Though the moonwas peeping, the dying glory of the day was still upon the town. Thewhite smoke rose straight and far in the golden mystery of the heavens, and a line of dark roofs, transfigured against the west, wooed the eyeto musing. But though the bodies felt the fine evening bathe them in asensuous content, as they smoked and dawdled, they gave never a thoughtto its beauty. For there had been a blitheness in the town that day, andevery other man seemed to have been preeing the demijohn. Drucken Wabster and Brown the ragman came round the corner, staggering. "Young Gourlay's drunk!" blurted Wabster--and reeled himself as hespoke. "Is he a wee fou?" said the Deacon eagerly. "Wee be damned, " said Wabster; "he's as fou as the Baltic Sea! If youwait here, you'll be sure to see him! He'll be round the cornerdirectly. " "De-ar me, is he so bad as that?" said the ex-Provost, raising his handsin solemn reprobation. He raised his eyes to heaven at the same time, asif it pained them to look on a world that endured the burden of a youngGourlay. "In broad daylight, too!" he sighed. "De-ar me, has he come tothis?" "Yis, Pravast, " hiccupped Brown, "he has! He's as phull of drink as awhelk-shell's phull of whelk. He's nearly as phull as meself--andbegorra, that's mighty phull. " He stared suddenly, scratching his headsolemnly as if the fact had just occurred to him. Then he winked. "You could set fire to his braith!" cried Wabster. "A match to his mouthwould send him in a lowe. " "A living gas jet!" said Brown. They staggered away, sometimes rubbing shoulders as they lurchedtogether, sometimes with the road between them. "I kenned young Gourlay was on the fuddle when I saw him swinging offthis morning in his greatcoat, " cried Sandy Toddle. "There was debauchin the flap o' the tails o't. " "Man, have you noticed that too!" cried another eagerly. "He's aye warstwi' the coat on!" "Clothes undoubtedly affect the character, " said Johnny Coe. "It takes agentleman to wear a lordly coat without swaggering. " "There's not a doubt o' tha-at!" approved the baker, who was merry withhis day's carousal; "there's not a doubt o' tha-at! Claes affect thedisposeetion. I mind when I was a young chap I had a grand pair o'breeks--Wull I ca'ed them--unco decent breeks they were, I mind, langand swankie like a ploughman; and I aye thocht I was a tremendous honestand hamely fallow when I had them on! And I had a verra disreputablehat, " he added--"Rab I christened him, for he was a perfect devil--and Inever cocked him owre my lug on nichts at e'en but 'Baker!' he seemed towhisper, 'Baker! Let us go out and do a bash!' And we generally went. " "You're a wonderful man!" piped the Deacon. "We may as well wait and see young Gourlay going by, " said theex-Provost. "He'll likely be a sad spectacle. " "Ith auld Gourlay on the thtreet the nicht?" cried the Deacon eagerly. "I wonder will he thee the youngster afore he gets hame! Eh, man"--hebent his knees with staring delight--"eh, man, if they would only meetforenenst uth! Hoo!" "He's a regular waster, " said Brodie. "When a silly young blood takes afancy to a girl in a public-house he's always done for; I've observed ittimes without number. At first he lets on that he merely gangs in for adrink; what he really wants, however, is to see the girl. Even if he'sno great toper to begin with, he must show himself fond o' the dram, asa means of getting to his jo. Then, before he kens where he is, thehabit has gripped him. That's a gate mony a ane gangs. " "That's verra true, now that ye mention't, " gravely assented theex-Provost. His opinion of Brodie's sagacity, high already, was enhancedby the remark. "Indeed, that's verra true. But how does't apply to youngGourlay in particular, Thomas? Is _he_ after some damsel o' thegill-stoup?" "Ou ay--he's ta'en a fancy to yon bit shilp in the bar-room o' the RedLion. He's always hinging owre the counter talking till her, a cigarettedropping from his face, and a half-fu' tumbler at his elbow. When ayoung chap takes to hinging round bars, ae elbow on the counter and ahand on his other hip, I have verra bad brows o' him always--verra badbrows, indeed. Oh--oh, young Gourlay's just a goner! a goner, sirs--agoner!" "Have ye heard about him at the Skeighan Fair?" said Sandy Toddle. "No, man, " said Brodie, bowing down and keeking at Toddle in hisinterest; "I hadna heard about tha-at! Is this a _new_ thing?" "Oh, just at the fair; the other day, ye know!" "Ay, man, Sandy!" said big Brodie, stooping down to Toddle to get nearthe news; "and what was it, Sandy?" "Ou, just drinking, ye know, wi'--wi' Swipey Broon--and, eh, and thatM'Craw, ye know--and Sandy Hull--and a wheen mair o' that kind--ye kenthe kind; a verra bad lot!" said Sandy, and wagged a disapproving pow. "Here they all got as drunk as drunk could be, and started fighting wi'the colliers! Young Gourlay got a bloodied nose! Then nothing wouldserve him but he must drive back wi' young Pin-oe, who was even drunkerthan himsell. They drave at sic a rate that when they dashed from thisside o' Skeighan Drone the stour o' their career was rising at the farend. They roared and sang till it was a perfect affront to God's day, and frae sidie to sidie they swung till the splash-brods were skreighingon the wheels. At a quick turn o' the road they wintled owre; and therethey were, sitting on their doups in the atoms o' the gig, and gloweringfrae them! When young Gourlay slid hame at dark he was in such a statethat his mother had to hide him frae the auld man. She had that, puirbody! The twa women were obliged to carry the drunk lump to hisbedroom--and yon lassie far ga'en in consumption, too, they tell me! Ou, he was in a perfectly awful condition--perfectly awful!" "Ay, man, " nodded Brodie. "I hadna heard o't. Curious that I didna hearo' that!" "It was Drucken Wabster's wife that telled it. There's not a haet thathappens at the Gourlays but she clypes. I speired her mysell, and shesays young Gourlay has a black eye. " "Ay, ay; there'th thmall hope for the Gourlayth in _him_!" said theDeacon. "How do _you_ ken?" cried the baker. "He's no the first youngster I'veseen the wiseacres o' the world wagging their sagacious pows owre; and, eh, but he was _this_ waster!--according to their way of it--and, oh, but he was the _other_ waster! and, ochonee, but he was the _wild_fellow. And a' the while they werena fit to be his doormat; for it wasonly the fire in the ruffian made him seem sae daft. " "True!" said the ex-Provost, "true! Still there's a decency in daftness. And there's no decency in young Gourlay. He's just a mouth! 'Startcanny, and you'll steer weel, ' my mother used to say; but he has startedunco ill, and he'll steer to ruin. " "Dinna spae ill-fortune!" said the baker, "dinna spae ill-fortune! Andnever despise a youngster for a random start. It's the blood makes abreenge. " "Well, I like young men to be quiet, " said Sandy Toddle. "I would ratherhave them a wee soft than rollickers. " "Not I!" said the baker. "If I had a son, I would rather an ill deil satforenenst me at the table than parratch in a poke. Burns (God rest hisbanes!) struck the he'rt o't. Ye mind what he said o' Prince Geordie: 'Yet mony a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble aiver; And ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clishmaclaver. There him at Agincourt wha shone. Few better were or braver; And yet wi' funny queer Sir John He was an unco shaver For mony a day. ' Dam't, but Burns is gude. " "Huts, man, dinna sweer sae muckle!" frowned the old Provost. "Ou, there's waur than an oath now and than, " said the baker. "Likespice in a bun it lends a briskness. But it needs the hearty mannerwi't. The Deacon there couldna let blatter wi' a hearty oath to save hiswithered sowl. I kenned a trifle o' a fellow that got in among a jovialgang lang syne that used to sweer tremendous, and he bude to do the samethe bit bodie; so he used to say '_Dim it!_' in a wee, sma voice thatwas clean rideec'lous. He was a lauchable dirt, that. " "What was his name?" said Sandy Toddle. "Your ain, " said the baker. (To tell the truth, he was gey fou. )"Alexander Toddle was his name: '_Dim it!_' he used to squeak, for hehad been a Scotch cuddy in the Midlands, and whiles he used the English. '_Dim it!_' said he. I like a man that says '_Dahm't. _'" "Ay; but then, you thee, _you_'re an artitht in wordth, " said theDeacon. "Ye're an artist in spite, " said the baker. "Ah, well, " said the ex-Provost, "Burns proved to be wrang in the endo't, and you'll maybe be the same. George the Fort' didna fill thethrone verra doucely for a' their clishmaclaver, and I don't think youngGourlay'll fill the pulpit verra doucely for a' ours. For he's saftieand daftie baith, and that's the deidly combination. At least, that's myopinion, " quoth he, and smacked his lips, the important man. "Tyuts, " said the baker, "folk should be kind to folk. There may be apossibeelity for the Gourlays in the youngster yet!" He would have said more, but at that moment his sonsy big wife came out, with oh, such a roguish and kindly smile, and, "Tom, Tom, " said she, "what are ye havering here for? C'way in, man, and have a dish o' teawi' me!" He glanced up at her with comic shrewdness from where he sat on hishunkers--for fine he saw through her--and "Ou ay, " said he, "ye greatmuckle fat hotch o' a dacent bodie, ye--I'll gang in and have a dish o'tea wi' ye. " And away went the fine fuddled fellow. "She's a wise woman that, " said the ex-Provost, looking after them. "Shekenned no to flyte, and he went like a lamb. " "I believe he'th feared o' her, " snapped the Deacon, "or he wudny-unwent thae lamb-like!" "Leave him alone!" said Johnny Coe, who had been drinking too. "He'sthe only kind heart in Barbie. And Gourlay's the only gentleman. " "Gentleman!" cried Sandy Toddle. "Lord save us! Auld Gourlay agentleman!" "Yes, gentleman!" said Johnny, to whom the drink gave a courage. "Brute, if ye like, but aristocrat frae scalp to heel. If he had brains, and adacent wife, and a bigger field--oh, man, " said Johnny, visioning thepossibility, "Auld Gourla could conquer the world, if he swalled hisneck till't. " "It would be a big conquest that!" said the Deacon. --"Here comes hisson, taking his ain share o' the earth, at ony rate. " Young Gourlay came staggering round the corner, "a little sprung" (asthey phrase it in Barbie), but not so bad as they had hoped to see him. Webster and the ragman had exaggerated the condition of theirfellow-toper. Probably their own oscillation lent itself to everythingthey saw. John zigzagged, it is true, but otherwise he was fairly steadyon his pins. Unluckily, however, failing to see a stone before on theroad, he tripped, and went sprawling on his hands and knees. A titterwent. "What the hell are you laughing at?" he snarled, leaping up, quick tofeel the slight, blatant to resent it. "Tyuts, man, " Tam Wylie rebuked him in a careless scorn. With a parting scowl he went swaggering up the street. "Ay, " said Toddle dryly, "that's the Gourlay possibeelity. " CHAPTER XXII. "Aha, Deacon, my old cock, here you are!" The speaker smote the Deaconbetween his thin shoulder-blades till the hat leapt on his startledcranium. "No, not a lengthy stay--just down for a flying visit to see mylittle girl. Dem'd glad to get back to town again--Barbie's too quietfor my tastes. No life in the place, no life at all!" The speaker was Davie Aird, draper and buck. "No life at all, " he cried, as he shot down his cuffs with a jerk, and swung up and down thebar-room of the Red Lion. He was dressed in a long fawn overcoatreaching to his heels, with two big yellow buttons at the waist behind, in the most approved fashion of the horsy. He paused in his swaggeringto survey the backs of his long white delicate hands, holding them sideby side before him, as if to make sure they were the same size. He wasletting the Deacon see his ring. Then pursing his chin down, with afastidious and critical regard, he picked a long fair hair off his leftcoat sleeve. He held it high as he had seen them do on the stage of theTheatre Royal. "Sweet souvenir!" he cried, and kissed it, "most dearremembrance!" The Deacon fed on the sight. The richness of his satiric perception wastoo great to permit of speech. He could only gloat and be dumb. "Waiting for Jack Gourlay, " Aird rattled again. "He's off to Collegeagain, and we're driving in his father's trap to meet the express atSkeighan Station. Wonder what's keeping the fellow. I like a man to bepunctual. Business training, you see; yes, by Gad, two thousand parcelsa week go out of our place, and all of 'em up to time! Ah, there he is, "he added, as the harsh grind of wheels was heard on the gravel at thedoor. "Thank God, we'll soon be in civilization. " Young Gourlay entered, greatcoated and lordly, through the two halves ofthat easy-swinging door. "Good!" he cried. "Just a minute, Aird, till I get my flask filled. " "My weapon's primed and ready, " Aird ha-haed, and slapped the breastpocket of his coat. John birled a bright sovereign on the counter, one of twenty old Gourlayhad battered his brains to get together for the boy's expenses. Theyoung fellow rattled the change into his trouser pocket like a master ofmillions. The Deacon and another idler or two gathered about the steps in thedarkness, to see that royal going off. Peter Riney's bunched-up littleold figure could be seen on the front seat of the gig; Aird was alreadymounted behind. The mare (a worthy successor to Spanking Tam) pawed thegravel and fretted in impatience; her sharp ears, seen pricked againstthe gloom, worked to and fro. A widening cone of light shone out fromthe leftward lamp of the gig, full on a glistering laurel, which Simpsonhad growing by his porch. Each smooth leaf of the green bush gave back aseparate gleam, vivid to the eye in that pouring yellowness. Gourlaystared at the bright evergreen, and forget for a moment where he was. His lips parted, and--as they saw in the light from the door--his lookgrew dreamy and far-away. The truth was that all the impressions of a last day at home were bittenin on his brain as by acid, in the very middle of his swaggering gusto. That gusto was largely real, true, for it seemed a fine thing to gosplurging off to College in a gig; but it was still more largelyassumed, to combat the sorrow of departure. His heart was in his bootsat the thought of going back to accursed Edinburgh--to those lodgings, those dreary, damnable lodgings. Thus his nature was reduced to its realelements in the hour of leaving home; it was only for a swift moment heforgot to splurge, but for that moment the cloak of his swaggeringdropped away, and he was his naked self, morbidly alive to theimpressions of the world, afraid of life, clinging to the familiar andthe known. That was why he gazed with wistful eyes at that laurel clump, so vivid in the pouring rays. So vivid there, it stood for all the dearcountry round which was now hidden by the darkness; it centred his worldamong its leaves. It was a last picture of loved Barbie that wasfastening on his mind. There would be fine gardens in Edinburgh, nodoubt; but oh, that couthie laurel by the Red Lion door! It was hisfriend; he had known it always. The spell lasted but a moment, one of those moments searching a man'snature to its depths, yet flitting like a lonely shadow on the autumnwheat. But Aird was already fidgeting. "Hurry up, Jack, " he cried;"we'll need to pelt if we mean to get the train. " Gourlay started. In a moment he had slipped from one self to another, and was the blusterer once more. "Right!" he splurged. "Hover a blinktill I light my cigar. " He was not in the habit of smoking cigars, but he had bought a packet onpurpose, that he might light one before his admiring onlookers ere hewent away. Nothing like cutting a dash. He was seen puffing for a moment with indrawn cheeks, his head to oneside, the flame of the flickering vesta lighting up his face, his hatpushed back till it rested on his collar, his fair hair hanging down hisbrow. Then he sprang to the driving seat and gathered up the reins. "Ta-ta, Deacon; see and behave yourself!" he flung across his shoulder, and they were off with a bound. "Im-pidenth!" said the outraged Deacon. Peter Riney was quite proud to have the honour of driving two such bucksto the station. It lent him a consequence; he would be able to say whenhe came back that he had been "awa wi' the young mester"--for Peter said"mester, " and was laughed at by the Barbie wits who knew that "maister"was the proper English. The splurging twain rallied him and drew him outin talk, passed him their flasks at the Brownie's Brae, had himtee-heeing at their nonsense. It was a full-blooded night to thewithered little man. That was how young Gourlay left Barbie for what was to prove his lastsession at the University. * * * * * All Gourlay's swankie chaps had gone with the going of his trade; onlyPeter Riney, the queer little oddity, remained. There was a loyalsimplicity in Peter which never allowed him to question the Gourlays. Hehad been too long in their service to be of use to any other; whilethere was a hand's turn to be done about the House with the GreenShutters he was glad to have the chance of doing it. His respect for hissurly tyrant was as great as ever; he took his pittance of a wage andwas thankful. Above all he worshipped young Gourlay; to be in touch witha College-bred man was a reflected glory; even the escapades noisedabout the little town, to his gleeful ignorance, were the signs of a manof the world. Peter chuckled when he heard them talked of. "Terr'bleclever fallow, the young mester!" the bowed little man would say, sucking his pipe of an evening, "terr'ble clever fallow, the youngmester; and hardy, too--infernal hardy!" Loyal Peter believed it. But ere four months had gone Peter was discharged. It was on the dayafter Gourlay sold Black Sally, the mare, to get a little money to go onwith. It was a bright spring day, of enervating softness; a fosie day--a daywhen the pores of everything seemed opened. People's brains felt pulpy, and they sniffed as with winter's colds. Peter Riney was opening a pitof potatoes in the big garden, shovelling aside the foot-deep mould, andtearing off the inner covering of yellow straw--which seemed strange andunnatural, somehow, when suddenly revealed in its glistening dryness, beneath the moist dark earth. Little crumbles of mould trickled down, inamong the flattened shining straws. In a tree near Peter two pigeonswere gurgling and _rookety-cooing_, mating for the coming year. He fellto sorting out the potatoes, throwing the bad ones on a heapaside--"tattie-walin', " as they call it in the north. The enervatingsoftness was at work on Peter's head, too, and from time to time, as hewaled, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Gourlay watched him for a long time without speaking. Once or twice hemoistened his lips, and cleared his throat, and frowned, as one whowould broach unpleasant news. It was not like him to hesitate. But theold man, encased in senility, was ill to disturb; he was intent onnothing but the work before him; it was mechanical and soothing, andoccupied his whole mind. Gourlay, so often the trampling brute withoutknowing it, felt it brutal to wound the faithful old creature dreamingat his toil. He would have found it much easier to discharge a youngerand a keener man. "Stop, Peter, " he said at last; "I don't need you ainy more. " Peter rose stiffly from his knees and shook the mould with a pitifulgesture from his hands. His mouth was fallen slack, and showed a fewyellow tusks. "Eh?" he asked vaguely. The thought that he must leave the Gourlayscould not penetrate his mind. "I don't need you ainy more, " said Gourlay again, and met his eyesteadily. "I'm gey auld, " said Peter, still shaking his hands with that pitifulgesture, "but I only need a bite and a sup. Man, I'm willin' to takonything. " "It's no that, " said Gourlay sourly--"it's no that. But I'm giving upthe business. " Peter said nothing, but gazed away down the garden, his sunken mouthforgetting to munch its straw, which dangled by his chin. "I'm an auldservant, " he said at last, "and, mind ye, " he flashed in pride, "I'm atrue ane. " "Oh, you're a' that, " Gourlay grunted; "you have been a good servant. " "It'll be the poorhouse, it's like, " mused Peter. "Man, have ye noathingfor us to do?" he asked pleadingly. Gourlay's jaw clamped. "Noathing, Peter, " he said sullenly, "noathing;"and slipped some money into Peter's heedless palm. Peter stared stupidly down at the coins. He seemed dazed. "Ay, weel, " hesaid; "I'll feenish the tatties, at ony rate. " "No, no, Peter, " and Gourlay gripped him by the shoulder as he turnedback to his work--"no, no; I have no right to keep you. Never mind aboutthe money; you deserve something, going so suddenly after sic a longservice. It's just a bit present to mind you o'--to mind you o'----" hebroke suddenly and scowled across the garden. Some men, when a feeling touches them, express their emotion in tears;others by an angry scowl--hating themselves inwardly, perhaps, for theirweakness in being moved, hating, too, the occasion that has probed theirweakness. It was because he felt parting with Peter so keenly thatGourlay behaved more sullenly than usual. Peter had been with Gourlay'sfather in his present master's boyhood, had always been faithful andsubmissive; in his humble way was nearer the grain merchant than anyother man in Barbie. He was the only human being Gourlay had everdeigned to joke with, and that in itself won him an affection. More--thegoing of Peter meant the going of everything. It cut Gourlay to thequick. Therefore he scowled. Without a word of thanks for the money, Peter knocked the mould off hisheavy boots, striking one against the other clumsily, and shuffled awayacross the bare soil. But when he had gone twenty yards he stopped, andcame back slowly. "Good-bye, sir, " he said with a rueful smile, and heldout his hand. Gourlay gripped it. "Good-bye, Peter! good-bye; damn ye, man, good-bye!" Peter wondered vaguely why he was sworn at. But he felt that it was notin anger. He still clung to his master's hand. "I've been fifty year wi'the Gourlays, " said he. "Ay, ay; and this, it seems, is the end o't. " "Oh, gang away!" cried Gourlay, "gang away, man!" And Peter went away. Gourlay went out to the big green gate where he had often stood in hispride, and watched his old servant going down the street. Peter was sobowed that the back of his velveteen coat was halfway up his spine, andthe bulging pockets at the corners were midway down his thighs. Gourlayhad seen the fact a thousand times, but it never gripped him before. Hestared till Peter disappeared round the Bend o' the Brae. "Ay, ay, " said he, "ay, ay. There goes the last o' them. " It was a final run of ill-luck that brought Gourlay to this desperatepass. When everything seemed to go against him he tried severalspeculations, with a gambler's hope that they might do well, andretrieve the situation. He abandoned the sensible direction of affairs, that is, and trusted entirely to chance, as men are apt to do whendespairing. And chance betrayed him. He found himself of a sudden at theend of his resources. Through all his troubles his one consolation was the fact that he hadsent John to the University. That was something saved from the wreck, atany rate. More and more, as his other supports fell away, Gourlayattached himself to the future of his son. It became the sheet-anchor ofhis hopes. If he had remained a prosperous man, John's success wouldhave been merely incidental, something to disconsider in speech, atleast, however pleased he might have been at heart. But now it was thewhole of life to him. For one thing, the son's success would justify thefather's past and prevent it being quite useless; it would have produceda minister, a successful man, one of an esteemed profession. Again, thatsuccess would be a salve to Gourlay's wounded pride; the Gourlays wouldshow Barbie they could flourish yet, in spite of their present downcome. Thus, in the collapse of his fortunes, the son grew all-important in thefather's eyes. Nor did his own poverty seem to him a just bar to hisson's prosperity. "I have put him through his Arts, " thought Gourlay;"surely he can do the rest himsell. Lots of young chaps, when theywarstle through their Arts, teach the sons of swells to get a littlemoney to gang through Diveenity. My boy can surely do the like!" Againand again, as Gourlay felt himself slipping under in the world ofBarbie, his hopes turned to John in Edinburgh. If that boy would onlyhurry up and get through, to make a hame for the lassie and the auldwife! CHAPTER XXIII. Young Gourlay spent that winter in Edinburgh pretty much as he had spentthe last. Last winter, however, it was simply a weak need forcompanionship that drew him to the Howff. This winter it was more: itwas the need of a formed habit that must have its wonted satisfaction. He had a further impulse to conviviality now. It had become a habit thatcompelled him. The diversions of some men are merely subsidiary to their lives, externals easy to be dropped; with others they usurp the man. They usurpa life when it is never happy away from them, when in the midst of otheroccupations absent pleasures rise vivid to the mind, with anirresistible call. Young Gourlay's too-seeing imagination, alwaysvisioning absent delights, combined with his weakness of will, nevergripping to the work before him, to make him hate his lonely studies andlong for the jolly company of his friends. He never opened his books ofan evening but he thought to himself, "I wonder what they're doing atthe Howff to-night?" At once he visualized the scene, imagined everydetail, saw them in their jovial hours. And, seeing them so happy, helonged to be with them. On that night, long ago, when his father orderedhim to College, his cowardly and too vivid mind thought of the ploys thefellows would be having along the Barbie roads, while he was mewed up inEdinburgh. He saw the Barbie rollickers in his mind's eye, and thestudent in his lonely rooms, and contrasted them mournfully. So now, every night, he saw the cosy companions in their Howff, and shivered athis own isolation. He felt a tugging at his heart to be off and jointhem. And his will was so weak that, nine times out of ten, he made noresistance to the impulse. He had always a feeling of depression when he must sit down to hisbooks. It was the start that gravelled him. He would look round his roomand hate it, mutter "Damn it, I must work;" and then, with a heavy sigh, would seat himself before an outspread volume on the table, tugging thehair on a puckered forehead. Sometimes the depression left him, when hebuckled to his work; as his mind became occupied with other things thevision of the Howff was expelled. Usually, however, the stiffness of hisbrains made the reading drag heavily, and he rarely attained thesufficing happiness of a student eager and engrossed. At the end of tenminutes he would be gaping across the table, and wondering what theywere doing at the Howff. "Will Logan be singing 'Tam Glen'? Or isGillespie fiddling Highland tunes, by Jing, with his elbow going itmerrily? Lord! I would like to hear 'Miss Drummond o' Perth' or 'GrayDaylicht'--they might buck me up a bit. I'll just slip out for tenminutes, to see what they're doing, and be back directly. " He came backat two in the morning, staggering. On a bleak spring evening, near the end of February, young Gourlay hadgone to the Howff, to escape the shuddering misery of the streets. Itwas that treacherous spring weather which blights. Only two days ago theair had been sluggish and balmy; now an easterly wind nipped the graycity, naked and bare. There was light enough, with the lengthening days, to see plainly the rawness of the world. There were cold yellow gleamsin windows fronting a lonely west. Uncertain little puffs of wind cameswirling round corners, and made dust and pieces of dirty white papergyrate on the roads. Prosperous old gentlemen pacing home, rotund intheir buttoned-up coats, had clear drops at the end of their noses. Sometimes they stopped--their trousers legs flapping behind them--andtrumpeted loudly into red silk handkerchiefs. Young Gourlay had fled thestreets. It was the kind of night that made him cower. By eight o'clock, however, he was merry with the barley-bree, and makinga butt of himself to amuse the company. He was not quick-witted enoughto banter a comrade readily, nor hardy enough to essay it unprovoked; onthe other hand, his swaggering love of notice impelled him to some formof talk that would attract attention. So he made a point of alwayscoming with daft stories of things comic that befell him--at least, hesaid they did. But if his efforts were greeted with too loud a roar, implying not only appreciation of the stories, but also a contempt forthe man who could tell them of himself, his sensitive vanity wasimmediately wounded, and he swelled with sulky anger. And the momentafter he would splurge and bluster to reassert his dignity. "I remember when I was a boy, " he hiccupped, "I had a pet goose athome. " There was a titter at the queer beginning. "I was to get the price of it for myself, and so when Christmas drewnear I went to old MacFarlane, the poulterer in Skeighan. 'Will you buya goose?' said I. 'Are ye for sale, my man?' was his answer. " Armstrong flung back his head and roared, prolonging the loud _ho-ho!_through his big nose and open mouth long after the impulse to honestlaughter was exhausted. He always laughed with false loudness, toindicate his own superiority, when he thought a man had been guilty of apublic silliness. The laugh was meant to show the company how far abovesuch folly was Mr. Armstrong. Gourlay scowled. "Damn Armstrong!" he thought, "what did he yell likethat for? Does he think I didn't see the point of the joke againstmyself? Would I have told it if I hadn't? This is what comes of beingsensitive. I'm always too sensitive! I felt there was an awkwardsilence, and I told a story against myself to dispel it in fun, and thisis what I get for't. Curse the big brute! he thinks I have given myselfaway. But I'll show him!" He was already mellow, but he took another swig to hearten him, as washis habit. "There's a damned sight too much yell about your laugh, Armstrong, " hesaid, truly enough, getting a courage from his anger and the drink. "Nogentleman laughs like that. " "'_Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est_, '" said Tarmillan, who was on oneof his rare visits to the Howff. He was too busy and too wise a man tofrequent it greatly. Armstrong blushed; and Gourlay grew big and brave, in the backing of thegreat Tarmillan. He took another swig on the strength of it. But hisresentment was still surging. When Tarmillan went, and the threestudents were left by themselves, Gourlay continued to nag and bluster, for that blatant laugh of Armstrong's rankled in his mind. "I saw Hepburn in the street to-day, " said Gillespie, by way of adiversion. "Who's Hepburn?" snapped Gourlay. "Oh, don't you remember? He's the big Border chap who got into a rowwith auld Tam on the day you won your prize essay. " (That should surelyappease the fool, thought Gillespie. ) "It was only for the fun of thething Hepburn was at College, for he has lots of money; and, here, henever apologized to Tam! He said he would go down first. " "He was damned right, " spluttered Gourlay. "Some of these profs. Thinktoo much of themselves. They wouldn't bully _me_! There's good stuff inthe Gourlays, " he went on with a meaning look at Armstrong; "they're notto be scoffed at. I would stand insolence from no man. " "Ay, man, " said Armstrong, "would you face up to a professor?" "Wouldn't I?" said the tipsy youth; "and to you, too, if you went toofar. " He became so quarrelsome as the night went on that his comrades filledhim up with drink, in the hope of deadening his ruffled sensibilities. It was, "Yes, yes, Jack; but never mind about that! Have another drink, just to show there's no ill-feeling among friends. " When they left the Howff they went to Gillespie's and drank more, andafter that they roamed about the town. At two in the morning the othertwo brought Gourlay to his door. He was assuring Armstrong he was not agentleman. When he went to bed the fancied insult he had suffered swelled tomonstrous proportions in his fevered brain. Did Armstrong despise him?The thought was poison! He lay in brooding anger, and his mind wasfluent in wrathful harangues in some imaginary encounter of the future, in which he was a glorious victor. He flowed in eloquent scorn ofArmstrong and his ways. If I could talk like this always, he thought, what a fellow I would be! He seemed gifted with uncanny insight intoArmstrong's character. He noted every weakness in the rushing whirl ofhis thoughts, set them in order one by one, saw himself laying bare theman with savage glee when next they should encounter. He would whitenthe big brute's face by showing he had probed him to the quick. Just lethim laugh at me again, thought Gourlay, and I'll analyze each mean quirkof his dirty soul to him! The drink was dying in him now, for the trio had walked for more than anhour through the open air when they left Gillespie's rooms. Thestupefaction of alcohol was gone, leaving his brain morbidly alive. Hewas anxious to sleep, but drowsy dullness kept away. His mind began tovisualize of its own accord, independent of his will; and, one afteranother, a crowd of pictures rose vivid in the darkness of his brain. Hesaw them as plainly as you see this page, but with a differentclearness--for they seemed unnatural, belonging to a morbid world. Nordid one suggest the other; there was no connection between them; eachcame vivid of its own accord. First it was an old pit-frame on a barren moor, gaunt, against theyellow west. Gourlay saw bars of iron, left when the pit was abandoned, reddened by the rain; and the mounds of rubbish, and the scatteredbricks, and the rusty clinkers from the furnace, and the melancholyshining pools. A four-wheeled old trolley had lost two of its wheels, and was tilted at a slant, one square end of it resting on the ground. "Why do I think of an old pit?" he thought angrily; "curse it! why can'tI sleep?" Next moment he was gazing at a ruined castle, its mouldering wallsmounded atop with decaying rubble; from a loose crumb of mortar a long, thin film of the spider's weaving stretched bellying away to a tall weedwaving on the crazy brink. Gourlay saw its glisten in the wind. He saweach crack in the wall, each stain of lichen; a myriad details stampedthemselves together on his raw mind. Then a constant procession offigures passed across the inner curtain of his closed eyes. Each figurewas cowled; but when it came directly opposite, it turned and looked athim with a white face. "Stop, stop!" cried his mind; "I don't want tothink of you, I don't want to think of you, I don't want to think ofyou! Go away!" But as they came of themselves, so they went ofthemselves. He could not banish them. He turned on his side, but a hundred other pictures pursued him. Froman inland hollow he saw the great dawn flooding up from the sea, over asharp line of cliff, wave after wave of brilliance surging up theheavens. The landward slope of the cliff was gray with dew. The inlandhollow was full of little fields, divided by stone walls, and he couldnot have recalled the fields round Barbie with half their distinctness. For a moment they possessed his brain. Then an autumn wood rose on hisvision. He was gazing down a vista of yellow leaves; a long, deepslanting cleft, framed in lit foliage. Leaves, leaves; everywhere yellowleaves, luminous, burning. He saw them falling through the lucid air. The scene was as vivid as fire to his brain, though of magic stillness. Then the foliage changed suddenly to great serpents twined about theboughs. Their colours were of monstrous beauty. They glistened as theymoved. He leapt in his bed with a throb of horror. Could this be the deliriumof drink? But no; he had often had an experience like this when he wassleepless; he had the learned description of it pat and ready; it wasonly automatic visualization. Damn! Why couldn't he sleep? He flung out of bed, uncorked a bottle withhis teeth, tilted it up, and gulped the gurgling fire in the darkness. Ha! that was better. His room was already gray with the coming dawn. He went to the windowand opened it. The town was stirring uneasily in its morning sleep. Somewhere in the distance a train was shunting; _clank, clank, clank_went the wagons. What an accursed sound! A dray went past the end of hisstreet rumbling hollowly, and the rumble died drearily away. Then thefootsteps of an early workman going to his toil were heard in thedeserted thoroughfare. Gourlay looked down and saw him pass far beneathhim on the glimmering pavement. He was whistling. Why did the foolwhistle? What had he got to whistle about? It was unnatural that oneman should go whistling to his work, when another had not been able tosleep the whole night long. He took another vast glut of whisky, and the moment after was dead tothe world. He was awakened at eight o'clock by a monstrous hammering on his door. By the excessive loudness of the first knock he heard on returning toconsciousness, he knew that his landlady had lost her temper in tryingto get him up. Ere he could shout she had thumped again. He stared atthe ceiling in sullen misery. The middle of his tongue was as dry asbark. For his breakfast there were thick slabs of rancid bacon, from the topof which two yellow eggs had spewed themselves away among the coldgravy. His gorge rose at them. He nibbled a piece of dry bread anddrained the teapot; then shouldering into his greatcoat, he tramped offto the University. It was a wretched morning. The wind had veered once more, and a colddrizzle of rain was falling through a yellow fog. The reflections of thestreet lamps in the sloppy pavement went down through spiral gleams toan infinite depth of misery. Young Gourlay's brain was aching from hislast night's debauch, and his body was weakened with the want both ofsleep and food. The cold yellow mist chilled him to the bone. What afool I was to get drunk last night, he thought. Why am I here? Why am Itrudging through mud and misery to the University? What has it all gotto do with me? Oh, what a fool I am, what a fool! "Drown dull care, " said the devil in his ear. He took a sixpence from his trousers pocket, and looked down at thewhite bit of money in his hand till it was wet with the falling rain. Then he went into a flashy tavern, and, standing by a sloppy bar, dranksixpenny-worth of cheap whisky. It went to his head at once, owing tohis want of food, and with a dull warm feeling in his body he lurchedoff to his first lecture for the day. His outlook on the world hadchanged. The fog was now a comfortable yellowness. "Freedom and whiskygang thegither: tak aff your dram, " he quoted to his own mind. "Thatstuff did me good. Whisky's the boy to fettle you. " He was in his element the moment he entered the classroom. It was a beargarden. The most moral individual has his days of perversity when amalign fate compels him to show the worst he has in him. A Scottishuniversity class--which is many most moral individuals--has a similareruptive tendency when it gets into the hands of a weak professor. Itwill behave well enough for a fortnight, then a morning comes whennothing can control it. This was a morning of the kind. The lecturer, who was an able man but a weakling, had begun by apologizing for thecondition of his voice, on the ground that he had a bad cold. Instantlyevery man in the class was blowing his nose. One fellow, of a mostportentous snout, who could trumpet like an elephant, with a lasttriumphant snort sent his handkerchief across the room. When called toaccount for his conduct, "Really, sir, " he said, "er-er-oom--bad cold!"Uprose a universal sneeze. Then the "roughing" began, to the tune of"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave"--which no man seemedto sing, but every man could hear. They were playing the tune with theirfeet. The lecturer glared with white repugnance at his tormentors. Young Gourlay flung himself heart and soul into the cruel baiting. Itwas partly from his usual love of showing off, partly from the drinkstill seething within him, but largely, also, as a reaction from hismorning's misery. This was another way of drowning reflection. Themorbidly gloomy one moment often shout madly on the next. At last the lecturer plunged wildly at the door and flung it open. "Go!" he shrieked, and pointed in superb dismissal. A hundred and fifty barbarians sat where they were, and laughed at him;and he must needs come back to the platform, with a baffled andvindictive glower. He was just turning, as it chanced, when young Gourlay put his hands tohis mouth and bellowed "_Cock-a-doodle-do_!" Ere the roar could swell, the lecturer had leapt to the front of therostrum with flaming eyes. "Mr. Gourlay, " he screamed furiously--"youthere, sir; you will apologize humbly to me for this outrage at the endof the hour. " There was a womanish shrillness in the scream, a kind of hysteria on thestretch, that (contrasted with his big threat) might have provoked themat other times to a roar of laughter. But there was a sincerity in hisrage to-day that rose above its faults of manner; and an immediatesilence took the room--the more impressive for the former noise. Everyeye turned to Gourlay. He sat gaping at the lecturer. If he had been swept to the anteroom there and then, he would have beencowed by the suddenness of his own change, from a loud tormentor in thecompany of others, to a silent culprit in a room alone. And apologieswould have been ready to tumble out, while he was thus loosened bysurprise and fear. Unluckily he had time to think, and the longer he thought the moresullen he became. It was only an accident that led to his discovery, while the rest escaped; and that the others should escape, when theywere just as much to blame as he was, was an injustice that made himfurious. His anger was equally divided between the cursed mischanceitself, the teacher who had "jumped" on him so suddenly, and the otherrowdies who had escaped to laugh at his discomfiture; he had the sameburning resentment to them all. When he thought of his chucklingfellow-students, they seemed to engross his rage; when he thought of themishap, he damned it and nothing else; when he thought of the lecturer, he felt he had no rage to fling away upon others--the Snuffler took itall. As his mind shot backwards and forwards in an angry gloom, itsuddenly encountered the image of his father. Not a professor of thelot, he reflected, could stand the look of black Gourlay. And hewouldn't knuckle under, either, so he wouldn't. He came of a hardystock. He would show them! He wasn't going to lick dirt for any man. Lethim punish all or none, for they had all been kicking up a row--why, bigCunningham had been braying like an ass only a minute before. He spied Armstrong and Gillespie glinting across at him with a curiouslook: they were wondering whether he had courage enough to stand to hisguns with a professor. He knew the meaning of the look, and resented it. He was on his mettle before them, it seemed. The fellow who hadswaggered at the Howff last night about "what _he_ would do if aprofessor jumped on _him_, " mustn't prove wanting in the present trial, beneath the eyes of those on whom he had imposed his blatancy. When we think of what Gourlay did that day, we must remember that he wassoaked in alcohol--not merely with his morning's potation, but with thedregs of previous carousals. And the dregs of drink, a thorough toperwill tell you, never leave him. He is drunk on Monday with hisSaturday's debauch. As "Drucken Wabster" of Barbie put it once, "When abody's hard up, his braith's a consolation. " If that be so--and Wabster, remember, was an expert whose opinion on this matter is entitled to thehighest credence--if that be so, it proves the strength and persistenceof a thorough alcoholic impregnation, or, as Wabster called it, of "agood soak. " In young Gourlay's case, at any rate, the impregnation wasenduring and complete. He was like a rag steeped in fusel oil. As the end of the hour drew near, he sank deeper in his doggedsullenness. When the class streamed from the large door on the right, heturned aside to the little anteroom on the left, with an insolent swingof the shoulders. He knew the fellows were watching him curiously--hefelt their eyes upon his back. And, therefore, as he went through thelittle door, he stood for a moment on his right foot, and waggled hisleft, on a level with his hip behind, in a vulgar derision of them, theprofessor, and the whole situation. That was a fine taunt flung back atthem! There is nothing on earth more vindictive than a weakling. When he getsa chance he takes revenge for everything his past cowardice forced himto endure. The timid lecturer, angry at the poor figure he had cut onthe platform, was glad to take it out of young Gourlay for thewrongdoing of the class. Gourlay was their scapegoat. The lecturer hadno longer over a hundred men to deal with, but one lout only, sullen yetshrinking in the room before him. Instead of coming to the point atonce, he played with his victim. It was less from intentional crueltythan from an instinctive desire to recover his lost feeling ofsuperiority. The class was his master, but here was one of them he couldcow at any rate. "Well?" he asked, bringing his thin finger-tips together, and flingingone thigh across the other. Gourlay shuffled his feet uneasily. "Yes?" inquired the other, enjoying his discomfiture. Gourlay lowered. "Whatna gate was this to gang on? Why couldn't he let ablatter out of his thin mouth, and ha' done wi't?" "I'm waiting!" said the lecturer. The words "I apologize" rose in Gourlay, but refused to pass his throat. No, he wouldn't, so he wouldn't! He would see the lecturer far enough, ere he gave an apology before it was expressly required. "Oh, that's the line you go on, is it?" said the lecturer, nodding hishead as if he had sized up a curious animal. "I see, I see! You addcontumacy to insolence, do you?... Imphm. " Gourlay was not quite sure what contumacy meant, and the uncertaintyadded to his anger. "There were others making a noise besides me, " he blurted. "I don't seewhy _I_ should be blamed for it all. " "Oh, you don't see why _you_ should be had up, indeed? I think we'llbring you to a different conclusion. Yes, I think so. " Gourlay, being forced to stand always on the one spot, felt himselfswaying in a drunken stupor. He blinked at the lecturer like an angryowl--the blinking regard of a sodden mind, yet fiery with a spitefulrage. His wrath was rising and falling like a quick tide. He would haveliked one moment to give a rein to the Gourlay temper, and let thelecturer have it hot and strong; the next, he was quivering in acowardly horror of the desperate attempt he had so nearly made. Cursehis tormentor! Why did he keep him here, when his head was aching sobadly? Another taunt was enough to spring his drunken rage. "I wonder what you think you came to College for?" said the lecturer. "Ihave been looking at your records in the class. They're the worst I eversaw. And you're not content with that, it seems. You add misbehaviour togross stupidity. " "To hell wi' ye!" said Gourlay. There was a feeling in the room as if the air was stunned. The silencethrobbed. The lecturer, who had risen, sat down suddenly as if going at the knees, and went white about the gills. Some men would have swept the ruffianwith a burst of generous wrath, a few might have pitied in their anger;but this young Solomon was thin and acid, a vindictive rat. Unable tocow the insolent in present and full-blooded rage, he fell to thinkingof the great machine he might set in motion to destroy him. As he satthere in silence, his eyes grew ferrety, and a sleek revenge peeped fromthe corners of his mouth. "I'll show him what I'll do to him for this!"is a translation of his thought. He was thinking, with greatsatisfaction to himself, of how the Senatus would deal with youngGourlay. Gourlay grew weak with fear the moment the words escaped him. They hadbeen a thunderclap to his own ears. He had been thinking them, but--ashe pleaded far within him now--had never meant to utter them; they hadbeen mere spume off the surge of cowardly wrath seething up within him, longing to burst, but afraid. It was the taunt of stupidity that firedhis drunken vanity to blurt them forth. The lecturer eyed him sideways where he shrank in fear. "You may go, " hesaid at last. "I will report your conduct to the University. " * * * * * Gourlay was sitting alone in his room when he heard that he had beenexpelled. For many days he had drunk to deaden fear, but he was sobernow, being newly out of bed. A dreary ray of sunshine came through thewindow, and fell on a wisp of flame blinking in the grate. As Gourlaysat, his eyes fixed dully on the faded ray, a flash of intuition laidhis character bare to him. He read himself ruthlessly. It was not byconscious effort; insight was uncanny and apart from will. He saw thatblatancy had joined with weakness, morbidity with want of brains; andthat the results of these, converging to a point, had produced thepresent issue, his expulsion. His mind recognized how logical the issuewas, assenting wearily as to a problem proved. Given those qualities, inthose circumstances, what else could have happened? And such a weaklingas he knew himself to be could never--he thought--make effort sufficientto alter his qualities. A sense of fatalism came over him, as of onedoomed. He bowed his head, and let his arms fall by the sides of hischair, dropping them like a spent swimmer ready to sink. The suddenrevelation of himself to himself had taken the heart out of him. "I'm awaster!" he said aghast. And then, at the sound of his own voice, a fearcame over him, a fear of his own nature; and he started to his feet andstrode feverishly, as if by mere locomotion, to escape from his clingingand inherent ill. It was as if he were trying to run away from himself. He faced round at the mirror on his mantel, and looked at his own imagewith staring and startled eyes, his mouth open, the breath coming hardthrough his nostrils. "You're a gey ill ane, " he said; "you're a gey illane! My God, where have you landed yourself?" He went out to escape from his thoughts. Instinctively he turned to theHowff for consolation. With the panic despair of the weak, he abandoned hope of his characterat its first collapse, and plunged into a wild debauch, to avoidreflecting where it would lead him in the end. But he had a moredefinite reason for prolonging his bout in Edinburgh. He was afraid togo home and meet his father. He shrank, in visioning fear, before thedour face, loaded with scorn, that would swing round to meet him as heentered through the door. Though he swore every night in his cups thathe would "square up to the Governor the morn, so he would!" always, whenthe cold light came, fear of the interview drove him to his cups again. His courage zigzagged, as it always did; one moment he towered inimagination, the next he grovelled in fear. Sometimes, when he was fired with whisky, another element entered intohis mood, no less big with destruction. It was all his father's faultfor sending him to Edinburgh, and no matter what happened, it wouldserve the old fellow right! He had a kind of fierce satisfaction in hisown ruin, because his ruin would show them at home what a mistake theyhad made in sending him to College. It was the old man's tyranny, inforcing him to College, that had brought all this on his miserable head. Well, he was damned glad, so he was, that they should be punished athome by their own foolish scheme--it had punished _him_ enough, for one. And then he would set his mouth insolent and hard, and drink the morefiercely, finding a consolation in the thought that his tyrannicalfather would suffer through his degradation too. At last he must go home. He drifted to the station aimlessly; he hadceased to be self-determined. His compartment happened to be empty; so, free to behave as he liked, he yelled music-hall snatches in a tunelessvoice, hammering with his feet on the wooden floor. The noise pleasedhis sodden mind, which had narrowed to a comfortable stupor--outside ofwhich his troubles seemed to lie, as if they belonged not to him but tosomebody else. With the same sodden interest he was staring through thewindow, at one of the little stations on the line, when a boy, pointing, said, "_Flat white nose!_" and Gourlay laughed uproariously, adding atthe end, "He's a clever chield, that; my nose _would_ look flat andwhite against the pane. " But this outbreak of mirth seemed to break inon his comfortable vagueness; it roused him by a kind of reaction tothink of home, and of what his father would say. A minute after he hadbeen laughing so madly, he was staring sullenly in front of him. Well, it didn't matter; it was all the old fellow's fault, and he wasn't goingto stand any of his jaw. "None of your jaw, John Gourlay!" he said, nodding his head viciously, and thrusting out his clenched fist--"noneof your jaw; d'ye hear?" He crept into Barbie through the dusk. It had been market-day, andknots of people were still about the streets. Gourlay stole softlythrough the shadows, and turned his coat-collar high about his ears. Henearly ran into two men who were talking apart, and his heart stoppeddead at their words. "No, no, Mr. Gourlay, " said one of them; "it's quite impossible. I'm notunwilling to oblige ye, but I cannot take the risk. " John heard the mumble of his father's voice. "Well, " said the other reluctantly, "if ye get the baker and Tam Wyliefor security? I'll be on the street for another half-hour. " "Another half-hour!" thought John with relief. He would not have to facehis father the moment he went in. He would be able to get home beforehim. He crept on through the gloaming to the House with the GreenShutters. CHAPTER XXIV. There had been fine cackling in Barbie as Gourlay's men dropped awayfrom him one by one; and now it was worse than ever. When Jimmy Bain andSandy Cross were dismissed last winter, "He canna last long now, " musedthe bodies; and then when even Riney got the sack, "Lord!" they cried, "this maun be the end o't. " The downfall of Gourlay had an unholyfascination for his neighbours, and that not merely because of theirdislike to the man. That was a whet to their curiosity, of course; but, over and above it, they seemed to be watching, with bated breath, forthe final collapse of an edifice that was bound to fall. Simpleexpectation held them. It was a dramatic interest--of suspense, yetcertainty--that had them in its grip. "He's _bound_ to come down, " saidCertainty. "Yes; but _when_, though?" cried Curiosity, all the moreeager because of its instinct for the coming crash. And so they waitedfor the great catastrophe which they felt to be so near. It was as ifthey were watching the tragedy near at hand, and noting with keeninterest every step in it that must lead to inevitable ruin. Thatinvariably happens when a family tragedy is played out in the midst of asmall community. Each step in it is discussed with a prying interestthat is neither malevolent nor sympathetic, but simply curious. In thiscase it was chiefly malevolent--only because Gourlay had been such abrute to Barbie. Though there were thus two reasons for public interest, the result wasone and the same--a constant tittle-tattling. Particular spite and amore general curiosity brought the grain merchant's name on to everytongue. Not even in the gawcey days of its prosperity had the House withthe Green Shutters been so much talked of. "Pride _will_ have a downcome, " said some, with a gleg look and a smackof the lip, trying to veil their personal malevolence in a commonproverb. "He's simply in debt in every corner, " goldered the keenerspirits; "he never had a brain for business. He's had money for stuffhe's unable to deliver! Not a day gangs by but the big blue envelopesare coming. How do I ken? say ye! How do I ken, indeed? Oh-ooh, I kenperfectly. Perfectly! It was Postie himsell that telled me. " Yet all this was merely guesswork. For Gourlay had hitherto gone awayfrom Barbie for his moneys and accommodations, so that the bodies couldonly surmise; they had nothing definite to go on. And through it all thegurly old fellow kept a brave front to the world. He was thinking ofretiring, he said, and gradually drawing in his business. This offhandand lordly, to hide the patent diminution of his trade. "Hi-hi!" said the old Provost, with a cruel laugh, when he heard ofGourlay's remark--"drawing in his business, ay! It's like Lang JeanLingleton's waist, I'm thinking. It's thin eneugh drawn a'readys!" On the morning of the last market-day he was ever to see in Barbie, oldGourlay was standing at the green gate, when the postman came up with asmirk, and put a letter in his hand. He betrayed a wish to hover ingossip, while Gourlay opened his letter, but "Less lip!" said surlyJohn, and the fellow went away. Ere he had reached the corner, a gowl of anger and grief struck his ear, and he wheeled eagerly. Gourlay was standing with open mouth and outstretched arm, staring atthe letter in his clenched fist with a look of horror, as if it hadstung him. "My God!" he cried, "had _I_ not enough to thole?" "Aha!" thought Postie, "yon letter Wilson got this morning was correct, then! His son had sent the true story. That letter o' Gourlay's had theEdinburgh postmark; somebody has sent him word about his son. --Lord!what a tit-bit for my rounds. " Mrs. Gourlay, who was washing dishes, looked up to see her husbandstanding in the kitchen door. His face frightened her. She had oftenseen the blaze in his eye, and often the dark scowl, but never thisbloodless pallor in his cheek. Yet his eyes were flaming. "Ay, ay, " he birred, "a fine job you have made of him!" "Oh, what is it?" she quavered, and the dish she was wiping clashed onthe floor. "That's it!" said he, "that's it! Breck the dishes next; breck thedishes! Everything seems gaun to smash. If ye keep on lang eneugh, ye'llput a bonny end till't or ye're bye wi't--the lot o' ye. " The taunt passed in the anxiety that stormed her. "Tell me, see!" she cried, imperious in stress of appeal. "Oh, what isit, John?" She stretched out her thin, red hands, and clasped themtightly before her. "Is it from Embro? Is there ainything the matterwith _my_ boy? Is there ainything the matter with _my_ boy?" The hard eye surveyed her a while in grim contempt of her weakness. Shewas a fluttering thing in his grip. "_Every_ thing's the matter with _your_ boy, " he sneered slowly, "_every_ thing's the matter with _your_ boy. And it's your fault too, damn you, for you always spoiled him!" With sudden wrath he strode over to the famous range and threw theletter within the great fender. "What is it?" he cried, wheeling round on his wife. "The son you were sowild about sending to College has been flung in disgrace from its door!That's what it is!" He swept from the house like a madman. Mrs. Gourlay sank into her old nursing chair and wailed, "Oh, my wean, my wean; my dear, my poor dear!" She drew the letter from the ashes, butcould not read it for her tears. The words "drunkenness" and "expulsion"swam before her eyes. The manner of his disgrace she did not care tohear; she only knew her first-born was in sorrow. "Oh, my son, my son, " she cried; "my laddie, my wee laddie!" She wasthinking of the time when he trotted at her petticoat. It was market-day, and Gourlay must face the town. There was interestdue on a mortgage which he could not pay; he must swallow his pride andtry to borrow it in Barbie. He thought of trying Johnny Coe, for Johnnywas of yielding nature, and had never been unfriendly. He turned, twenty yards from his gate, and looked at the House with theGreen Shutters. He had often turned to look back with pride at thegawcey building on its terrace, but never as he looked to-day. All thathis life meant was bound up in that house--it had been the pride of theGourlays; now it was no longer his, and the Gourlays' pride was in thedust--their name a by-word. As Gourlay looked, a robin was perched onthe quiet roof-tree, its breast vivid in the sun. One of his metaphorsflashed at the sight. "Shame is sitting there too, " he muttered, andadded with a proud, angry snarl, "on the riggin' o' _my_ hoose!" He had a triple wrath to his son. He had not only ruined his own life;he had destroyed his father's hope that by entering the ministry hemight restore the Gourlay reputation. Above all, he had disgraced theHouse with the Green Shutters. That was the crown of his offending. Gourlay felt for the house of his pride even more than forhimself--rather the house was himself; there was no division betweenthem. He had built it bluff to represent him to the world. It was hischaracter in stone and lime. He clung to it, as the dull, fierce mind, unable to live in thought, clings to a material source of pride. AndJohn had disgraced it. Even if fortune took a turn for the better, GreenShutters would be laughed at the country over, as the home of aprodigal. As he went by the Cross, Wilson (Provost this long while) broke off aconversation with Templandmuir, to yell, "It's gra-and weather, Mr. Gourlay!" The men had not spoken for years. So to shout at poor Gourlayin his black hour, from the pinnacle of civic greatness, was a finestroke: it was gloating, it was rubbing in the contrast. The words wereinnocent, but that was nothing; whatever the remark, for a declaredenemy to address Gourlay in his shame was an insult: that was why Wilsonaddressed him. There was something in the very loudness of his tonesthat cried plainly, "Aha, Gourlay! Your son has disgraced you, my man!"Gourlay glowered at the animal and plodded dourly. Ere he had gone tenyards a coarse laugh came bellowing behind him. They saw the coloursurge up the back of his neck, to the roots of his hair. He stopped. Was his son's disgrace known in Barbie already? He had hopedto get through the market-day without anybody knowing. But Wilson had ason in Edinburgh; he had written, it was like. The salutation, therefore, and the laugh, had both been uttered in derision. He wheeled, his face black with the passionate blood. His mouth yawed with anger. His voice had a moan of intensity. "What are 'e laughing at?" he said, with a mastering quietness.... "Eh?... Just tell me, please, what you're laughing at. " He was crouching for the grip, his hands out like a gorilla's. The quietvoice, from the yawing mouth, beneath the steady, flaming eyes, wasdeadly. There is something inhuman in a rage so still. "Eh?" he said slowly, and the moan seemed to come from the midst of avast intensity rather than a human being. It was the question that mustgrind an answer. Wilson was wishing to all his gods that he had not insulted this awfulman. He remembered what had happened to Gibson. This, he had heard, wasthe very voice with which Gourlay moaned, "Take your hand off _my_shouther!" ere he hurled Gibson through the window of the Red Lion. Barbie might soon want a new Provost, if he ran in now. But there is always one way of evading punishment for a veiled insult, and of adding to its sting by your evasion. Repudiate the remotestthought of the protester. Thus you enjoy your previous gibe, with theadditional pleasure of making your victim seem a fool for thinking youreferred to him. You not only insult him on the first count, but sendhim off with an additional hint that he isn't worth your notice. Wilsonwas an adept in the art. "Man, " he lied blandly, but his voice was quivering--"ma-a-an, I wasn'tso much as giving ye a thoat! It's verra strange if I cannot pass a jokewith my o-old friend Templandmuir without _you_ calling me to book. It'sa free country, I shuppose! Ye weren't in my mind at a-all. I have moreimportant matters to think of, " he ventured to add, seeing he hadbaffled Gourlay. For Gourlay was baffled. For a directer insult, an offensive gesture, one fierce word, he would have hammered the road with the Provost. Buthe was helpless before the bland, quivering lie. Maybe they werenareferring to him; maybe they knew nothing of John in Edinburgh; maybe hehad been foolishly suspeecious. A subtle yet baffling check was put uponhis anger. Madman as he was in wrath, he never struck without directprovocation; there was none in this pulpy gentleness. And he was toodull of wit to get round the common ruse and find a means of getting atthem. He let loose a great breath through his nostrils, as if releasing adeadly force which he had pent within him, ready should he need tospring. His mouth opened again, and he gaped at them with a great, round, unseeing stare. Then he swung on his heel. But wrath clung round him like a garment. His anger fed on itsuncertainties. For that is the beauty of the Wilson method of insult:you leave the poison in your victim's blood, and he torments himself. "Was Wilson referring to _me_, after all?" he pondered slowly; and hisbody surged at the thought. "If he was, I have let him get awayunkilled, " and he clutched the hands whence Wilson had escaped. Suddenlya flashing thought stopped him dead in the middle of his walk, staringhornily before him. He had seen the point at last that a quicker manwould have seized on at the first. Why had Wilson thrust his damnedvoice on him on this particular morning of all days in the year, if hewas not gloating over some news which he had just heard about theGourlays? It was as plain as daylight: his son had sent word fromEdinburgh. That was why he brayed and ho-ho-hoed when Gourlay went by. Gourlay felt a great flutter of pulses against his collar; there was apain in his throat, an ache of madness in his breast. He turned oncemore. But Wilson and the Templar had withdrawn discreetly to the BlackBull; the street wasna canny. Gourlay resumed his way, his being a dumbgowl of rage. His angry thought swept to John. Each insult, and fanciedinsult, he endured that day was another item in the long account ofvengeance with his son. It was John who had brought all this flaminground his ears--John whose colleging he had lippened to so muckle. Thestaff on which he leaned had pierced him. By the eternal heavens hewould tramp it into atoms. His legs felt John beneath them. As the market grew busy, Gourlay was the aim of innumerable eyes. Hewould turn his head to find himself the object of a queer, consideringlook; then the eyes of the starer would flutter abashed, as thoughdetected spying the forbidden. The most innocent look at him was poison. "Do they know?" was his constant thought; "have they heard the news?What's Loranogie looking at me like that for?" Not a man ventured to address him about John--he had cowed them toolong. One man, however, showed a wish to try. A pretended sympathy, frombehind the veil of which you probe a man's anguish at your ease, is afavourite weapon of human beasts anxious to wound. The Deacon longed totry it on Gourlay. But his courage failed him. It was the only time hewas ever worsted in malignity. Never a man went forth, bowed down with arecent shame, wounded and wincing from the public gaze, but that oldrogue hirpled up to him, and lisped with false smoothness: "Thirce me, neebour, I'm thorry for ye! Thith ith a _terrible_ affair! It'th oneverybody'th tongue. But ye have my thympathy, neebour, ye havetha-at--my warmetht thympathy. " And all the while the shifty eyes abovethe lying mouth would peer and probe, to see if the soul within theother was writhing at his words. Now, though everybody was spying at Gourlay in the market, all weregiving him a wide berth; for they knew that he was dangerous. He was nolonger the man whom they had baited on the way to Skeighan; then he hadsome control, now three years' calamities had fretted his temper to araw wound. To flick it was perilous. Great was the surprise of thestarers, therefore, when the idle old Deacon was seen to detach himselfand hail the grain merchant. Gourlay wheeled, and waited with a levelledeye. All were agog at the sight--something would be sure to come o'this--here would be an encounter worth the speaking o'. But the Deacon, having toddled forward a bittock on his thin shanks, stopped half-roads, took snuff, trumpeted into his big red handkerchief, and then, feeblywaving, "I'll thee ye again, Dyohn, " clean turned tail and toddled backto his cronies. A roar went up at his expense. "God!" said Tam Wylie, "did ye see yon? Gourlay stopped him wi' aglower. " But the laugh was maddening to Gourlay. Its readiness, its volume, showed him that scores of folk had him in their minds, were watchinghim, considering his position, cognizant of where he stood. "They ken, "he thought. "They were a' waiting to see what would happen. They wantedto watch how Gourlay tholed the mention o' his son's disgrace. I'm akind o' show to them. " Johnny Coe, idle and well-to-pass, though he had no business of his ownto attend to, was always present where business men assembled. It was agra-and way of getting news. To-day, however, Gourlay could not findhim. He went into the cattle mart to see if he was there. For two yearsnow Barbie had a market for cattle, on the first Tuesday of the month. The auctioneer, a jovial dog, was in the middle of his roaring game. Abig red bullock, the coat of which made a rich colour in the ring, camebounding in, scared at its surroundings--staring one moment and the nextcareering. "There's meat for you, " said he of the hammer; "see how it runs! Howmuch am I offered for _this_ fine bullock?" He sing-songed, alwayssaying "_this_ fine bullock" in exactly the same tone of voice. "Thirteen pounds for _this_ fine bullock; thirteen-five; thirteen-ten;thirteen-ten for _this_ fine bullock; thirteen-ten; any further bids onthirteen-ten? why, it's worth that for the colour o't; thank ye, sir--thirteen-fifteen; fourteen pounds; fourteen pounds for _this_ finebullock; see how the stot stots[7] about the ring; that joke shouldraise him another half-sovereign; ah, I knew it would--fourteen-five;fourteen-five for _this_ fine bullock; fourteen-ten; no more thanfourteen-ten for _this_ fine bullock; going at fourteen-ten;gone--Irrendavie. " Now that he was in the circle, however, the mad, big, handsome beastrefused to go out again. When the cattlemen would drive him to the yard, he snorted and galloped round, till he had to be driven from the ringwith blows. When at last he bounded through the door, he flung up hisheels with a bellow, and sent the sand of his arena showering on thepeople round. "I seh!" roared Brodie in his coarsest voice, from the side of the ringopposite to Gourlay. "I seh, owctioner! That maun be a College-bredstot, from the way he behaves. He flung dirt at his masters, and had tobe expelled. " "Put Brodie in the ring and rowp him!" cried Irrendavie. "He roars likea bill, at ony rate. " There was a laugh at Brodie, true; but it was at Gourlay that a hundredbig red faces turned to look. He did not look at them, though. He senthis eyes across the ring at Brodie. "Lord!" said Irrendavie, "it's weel for Brodie that the ring's acqueeshthem! Gourlay'll murder somebody yet. Red hell lap out o' his e'en whenhe looked at Brodie. " Gourlay's suspicion that his son's disgrace was a matter of commonknowledge had now become a certainty. Brodie's taunt showed thateverybody knew it. He walked out of the building very quietly, pale butresolute; no meanness in his carriage, no cowering. He was an arrestingfigure of a man as he stood for a moment in the door and looked roundfor the man whom he was seeking. "Weel, weel, " he was thinking, "I maunthole, I suppose. They were under _my_ feet for many a day, and they'retaking their advantage now. " But though he could thole, his anger against John was none the less. Itwas because they had been under his feet for many a day that John'sconduct was the more heinous. It was his son's conduct that gaveGourlay's enemies their first opportunity against him, that enabled themto turn the tables. They might sneer at his trollop of a wife, theymight sneer at his want of mere cleverness; still he held his head highamongst them. They might suspect his poverty; but so far, for anythingthey knew, he might have thousands behind him. He owed not a man inBarbie. The appointments of Green Shutters were as brave as ever. Theselling of his horses, the dismissal of his men, might mean thecompletion of a fortune, not its loss. Hitherto, then, he wasinvulnerable--so he reasoned. It was his son's disgrace that gave themen he had trodden under foot the first weapon they could use againsthim. That was why it was more damnable in Gourlay's eyes than theconduct of all the prodigals that ever lived. It had enabled his foes toget their knife into him at last, and they were turning the dagger inthe wound. All owing to the boy on whom he had staked such hopes ofkeeping up the Gourlay name! His account with John was lengtheningsteadily. Coe was nowhere to be seen. At last Gourlay made up his mind to go outand make inquiries at his house, out the Fleckie Road. It was a quiet, big house, standing by itself, and Gourlay was glad there was nobody tosee him. It was Miss Coe herself who answered his knock at the door. She was a withered old shrew, with fifty times the spunk of Johnny. Onher thin wrists and long hands there was always a pair of bright redmittens, only her finger-tips showing. Her far-sunken and toothlessmouth was always working, with a sucking motion of the lips; and herround little knob of a sticking-out chin munched up and down when shespoke, a long, stiff whitish hair slanting out its middle. However muchyou wished to avoid doing so, you could not keep your eyes from staringat that solitary hair while she was addressing you. It worked up anddown so, keeping time to every word she spoke. "Is your brother in?" said Gourlay. He was too near reality in this sadpass of his to think of "mistering. " "Is your brother in?" said he. "No-a!" she shrilled--for Miss Coe answered questions with anold-maidish scream, as if the news she was giving must be a greatsurprise both to you and her. "No-a!" she skirled; "he's no-a in-a. Wasit ainything particular?" "No, " said Gourlay heavily. "I--I just wanted to see him, " and hetrudged away. Miss Coe looked after him for a moment ere she closed the door. "He'swanting to barrow money, " she cried; "I'm nearly sure o't! I mauncaution Johnny when he comes back frae Fleckie, afore he gangs east thetoon. Gourlay could get him to do ocht! He always admired the brute--I'msure I kenna why. Because he's siccan a silly body himsell, I suppose!" It was after dark when Gourlay met Coe on the street. He drew him asidein the shadows, and asked for a loan of eighty pounds. Johnny stammered a refusal. "Hauf the bawbees is mine, " his sister hadskirled, "and I daur ye to do ony siccan thing, John Coe!" "It's only for a time, " pleaded Gourlay; "and, by God, " he flashed, "it's hell in _my_ throat to ask from any man. " "No, no, Mr. Gourlay, " said Johnny, "it's quite impossible. I've alwayslooked up to ye, and I'm not unwilling to oblige ye, but I cannot takethe risk. " "Risk!" said Gourlay, and stared at the darkness. By hook or by crookhe must raise the money to save the House with the Green Shutters. Itwas no use trying the bank; he had a letter from the banker in his desk, to tell him that his account was overdrawn. And yet if the interest werenot paid at once, the lawyers in Glasgow would foreclose, and theGourlays would be flung upon the street. His proud soul must eat dirt, if need be, for the sake of eighty pounds. "If I get the baker or Tam Wylie to stand security, " he asked, "would yenot oblige me? I think they would do it. I have always felt theyrespected me. " "Well, " said Johnny slowly, fearing his sister's anger, "if ye get thebaker and Tam Wylie for security. I'll be on the street for anotherhalf-hour. " A figure, muffled in a greatcoat, was seen stealing off through theshadows. "God's curse on whoever that is, " snarled Gourlay, "creeping up tolisten to our talk!" "I don't think so, " said Johnny; "it seemed a young chap trying to hidehimself. " Gourlay failed to get his securities. The baker, though a poor man, would have stood for him, if Tam Wylie would have joined; but Tam wouldnot budge. He was as clean as gray granite, and as hard. So Gourlay trudged home through the darkness, beaten at last, mad withshame and anger and foreboding. The first thing he saw on entering the kitchen was his son--sittingmuffled in his coat by the great fender. FOOTNOTES: [7] _Stot_, a bullock; _to stot_, to bound. CHAPTER XXV. Janet and her mother saw a quiver run through Gourlay as he stood andglowered from the threshold. He seemed of monstrous bulk andsignificance, filling the doorway in his silence. The quiver that went through him was a sign of his contending angers, his will struggling with the tumult of wrath that threatened to spoilhis revenge. To fell that huddled oaf with a blow would be a poor returnfor all he had endured because of him. He meant to sweat punishment outof him drop by drop, with slow and vicious enjoyment. But the suddensight of that living disgrace to the Gourlays woke a wild desire to leapon him at once and glut his rage--a madness which only a will like hiscould control. He quivered with the effort to keep it in. To bring a beaten and degraded look into a man's face, rend manhood outof him in fear, is a sight that makes decent men wince in pain; for itis an outrage on the decency of life, an offence to natural religion, aviolation of the human sanctities. Yet Gourlay had done it once andagain. I saw him "down" a man at the Cross once, a big man with a vikingbeard, dark brown, from which you would have looked for manliness. Gourlay, with stabbing eyes, threatened, and birred, and "downed" him, till he crept away with a face like chalk, and a hunted, furtive eye. Curiously it was his manly beard that made the look such a pain, for itscontrasting colour showed the white face of the coward--and a cowardhad no right to such a beard. A grim and cruel smile went after him ashe slunk away. "_Ha!_" barked Gourlay, in lordly and pursuing scorn, andthe fellow leapt where he walked as the cry went through him. To break aman's spirit so, take that from him which he will never recover while helives, send him slinking away _animo castrato_--for that is what itcomes to--is a sinister outrage of the world. It is as bad as the rapeof a woman, and ranks with the sin against the Holy Ghost--derives fromit, indeed. Yet it was this outrage that Gourlay meant to work upon hisson. He would work him down and down, this son of his, till he was lessthan a man, a frightened, furtive animal. Then, perhaps, he would give aloose to his other rage, unbuckle his belt, and thrash the grown manlike a wriggling urchin on the floor. As he stood glowering from the door Mrs. Gourlay rose, with an appealingcry of "_John!_" But Gourlay put his eye on her, and she sank into herchair, staring up at him in terror. The strings of the tawdry cap shewore seemed to choke her, and she unfastened them with nervous fingers, fumbling long beneath her lifted chin to get them loose. She did notremove the cap, but let the strings dangle by her jaw. The silly bits ofcloth waggling and quivering, as she turned her head repeatedly from sonto husband and from husband to son, added to her air of helplessness andinefficiency. Once she whispered with ghastly intensity, "_God havemercy!_" For a length of time there was a loaded silence. Gourlay went up to the hearth, and looked down on his son from near athand. John shrank down in his greatcoat. A reek of alcohol rose fromaround him. Janet whimpered. But when Gourlay spoke it was with deadly quietude. The moan was in hisvoice. So great was his controlled wrath that he drew in great, shivering breastfuls of air between the words, as if for strength toutter them; and they quavered forth on it again. He seemed weakened byhis own rage. "Ay, man!" he breathed.... "Ye've won hame, I observe!... Dee-ee-arme!... Im-phm!" The contrast between the lowness of his voice and his steady, breathinganger that possessed the air (they felt it coming as on waves) wasdemoniac, appalling. John could not speak; he was paralyzed by fear. To have this vasthostile force touch him, yet be still, struck him dumb. Why did hisfather not break out on him at once? What did he mean? What was he goingto do? The jamb of the fireplace cut his right shoulder as he coweredinto it, to get away as far as he could. "I'm saying ... Ye've won hame!" quivered Gourlay in a deadly slowness, and his eyes never left his son. And still the son made no reply. In the silence the ticking of the bigclock seemed to fill their world. They were conscious of nothing else. It smote the ear. "Ay, " John gulped at last from a throat that felt closing. The answerseemed dragged out of him by the insistent silence. "Just so-a!" breathed his father, and his eyes opened in wide flame. Heheaved with the great breath he drew.... "Im-phm!" he drawled. He went through to the scullery at the back of the kitchen to wash hishands. Through the open door Janet and her mother--looking at each otherwith affrighted eyes--could hear him sneering at intervals, "Ay, man!"... "Just that, now!"... "Im-phm!" And again, "Ay, ay!... Dee-ee-ar me!" in grim, falsetto irony. When he came back to the kitchen he turned to Janet, and left his son ina suspended agony. "Ay, woman, Jenny, ye're there!" he said, and nipped her ear as hepassed over to his chair. "Were ye in Skeighan the day?" "Ay, faither, " she answered. "And what did the Skeighan doctor say?" She raised her large pale eyes to his with a strange look. Then her headsank low on her breast. "Nothing!" she said at last. "Nothing!" said he. "Nothing for nothing, then. I hope you didna payhim?" "No, faither, " she answered. "I hadna the bawbees. " "When did ye get back?" he asked. "Just after--just after----" Her eyes flickered over to John, as if shewere afraid of mentioning his name. "Oh, just after this gentleman! But there's noathing strange in tha-at;you were always after him. You were born after him, and considered afterhim; he aye had the best o't. --I howp _you_ are in good health?" hesneered, turning to his son. "It would never do for a man to break downat the outset o' a great career!... For ye _are_ at the outset o' agreat career; are ye na?" His speech was as soft as the foot of a tiger, and sheathed as rending acruelty. There was no escaping the crouching stealth of it. If he hadleapt with a roar, John's drunken fury might have lashed itself to rage. But the younger and weaker man was fascinated and helpless before thecreeping approach of so monstrous a wrath. "Eh?" asked Gourlay softly, when John made no reply; "I'm saying you'reat the outset o' a great career; are ye no? Eh?" Soft as his "Eh" was in utterance, it was insinuating, pursuing; it hadto be answered. "No, " whimpered John. "Well, well; you're maybe at the end o't! Have ye been studying hard?" "Yes, " lied John. "That's right!" cried his father with great heartiness. "There's mybrave fellow! Noathing like studying!... And no doubt"--he leaned oversuavely--"and no doubt ye've brought a wheen prizes home wi' ye asusual? Eh?" There was no answer. "Eh?" "No, " gulped the cowerer. "_Nae_ prizes!" cried Gourlay, and his eyebrows went up in a pretendedsurprise. "_Nae-ae_ prizes! Ay, man! Fow's that, na?" Young Gourlay was being reduced to the condition of a beaten child, who, when his mother asks if he has been a bad boy, is made to sob "Yes" ather knee. "Have you been a good boy?" she asks--"No, " he pants; and "Areyou sorry for being a bad boy?"--"Yes, " he sobs; and "Will you be a goodboy now, then?"--"Yes, " he almost shrieks, in his desire to be at onewith his mother. Young Gourlay was being equally beaten from his ownnature, equally battered under by another personality. Only he was notasked to be a good boy. He might gang to hell for anything auld Gourlaycared--when once he had bye with him. Even as he degraded his son to this state of unnatural cowardice, Gourlay felt a vast disgust swell within him that a son of his should besuch a coward. "Damn him!" he thought, glowering with big-eyed contemptat the huddled creature; "he hasna the pluck o' a pig! How can he standtalk like this without showing he's a man? When I was a child on thebrisket, if a man had used me as I'm using him, I would have flungmysell at him. He's a pretty-looking object to carry the name o' JohnGourla'! My God, what a ke-o of _my_ life I've made--that auld trollopfor my wife, that sumph for my son, and that dying lassie for mydochter! Was it I that bred him? _That!_" He leapt to his feet in devilish merriment. "Set out the spirits, Jenny!" he cried; "set out the spirits! My son andI must have a drink together--to celebrate the occeesion; ou ay, " hesneered, drawling out the word with sharp, unfamiliar sound, "just tocelebrate the occeesion!" The wild humour that seized him was inevitable, born of a vicious effortto control a rage that was constantly increasing, fed by the sight ofthe offender. Every time he glanced across at the thing sitting there hewas swept with fresh surges of fury and disgust. But his viciousconstraint curbed them under, and refused them a natural expression. They sought an unnatural. Some vent they must have, and they found it ina score of wild devilries he began to practise on his son. Wrath fed andchecked in one brings the hell on which man is built to the surface. Gourlay was transformed. He had a fluency of speech, a power of banter, a readiness of tongue, which he had never shown before. He was beyondhimself. Have you heard the snarl with which a wild beast arrests theescaping prey which it has just let go in enjoying cruelty? Gourlay wasthat animal. For a moment he would cease to torture his son, feed hisdisgust with a glower; then the sight of him huddled there would wake adesire to stamp on him; but his will would not allow that, for it wouldspoil the sport he had set his mind on; and so he played with the victimwhich he would not kill. "Set out the speerits, Jenny, " he birred, when she wavered in fear. "What are ye shaking for? Set out the speerits--just to shelebrate thejoyful occeesion, ye know--ay, ay, just to shelebrate the joyfulocceesion!" Janet brought a tray, with glasses, from the pantry. As she walked, therims of the glasses shivered and tinkled against each other, from hertrembling. Then she set a bottle on the table. Gourlay sent it crashing to the floor. "A bottle!" he roared. "A bottlefor huz twa! To hell wi' bottles! The jar, Jenny, the jar; set out thejar, lass, set out the jar. For we mean to make a night of it, thisgentleman and me. Ay, " he yawed with a vicious smile, "we'll make anight o't--we two. A night that Barbie'll remember loang!" "Have ye skill o' drink?" he asked, turning to his son. "No, " wheezed John. "No!" cried his father. "I thought ye learned everything at College!Your education's been neglected. But I'll teach ye a lesson or _this_nicht's by. Ay, by God, " he growled, "I'll teach ye a lesson. " Curb his temper as he might, his own behaviour was lashing it to frenzy. Through the moaning intensity peculiar to his vicious rage there leaptat times a wild-beast snarl. Every time they heard it, it cut the veinsof his listeners with a start of fear--it leapt so suddenly. "Ha'e, sir!" he cried. John raised his dull, white face and looked across at the bumper whichhis father poured him. But he felt the limbs too weak beneath him to goand take it. "Bide where ye are!" sneered his father, "bide where ye are! I'll waiton ye; I'll wait on ye. Man, I waited on ye the day that ye were bo-orn!The heavens were hammering the world as John Gourla' rode through thestorm for a doctor to bring hame his heir. The world was feared, but_he_ wasna feared, " he roared in Titanic pride, "_he_ wasna feared; no, by God, for he never met what scaured him!... Ay, ay, " he birred softlyagain, "ay, ay, ye were ushered loudly to the world, serr! Verraappropriate for a man who was destined to make such a name!... Eh?... Verra appropriate, serr; verra appropriate! And you'll be ushered justas loudly out o't. Oh, young Gourlay's death maun make a splurge, yeknow--a splurge to attract folk's attention!" John's shaking hand was wet with the spilled whisky. "Take it off, " sneered his father, boring into him with a vicious eye;"take it off, serr; take off your dram! Stop! Somebody wrote somethingabout that--some poetry or other. Who was it?" "I dinna ken, " whimpered John. "Don't tell lies now. You do ken. I heard you mention it to Loranogie. Come on now--who was it?" "It was Burns, " said John. "Oh, it was Burns, was it? And what had Mr. Burns to say on the subject?Eh?" "'Freedom and whisky gang thegither: tak aff your dram, '" stammeredJohn. "A verra wise remark, " said Gourlay gravely. "'Freedom and whisky gangthegither;'" he turned the quotation on his tongue, as if he weresavouring a tit-bit. "That's verra good, " he approved. "You're a greatadmirer of Burns, I hear. Eh?" "Yes, " said John. "Do what he bids ye, then. Take off your dram! It'll show what a finefree fellow you are!" It was a big, old-fashioned Scotch drinking-glass, containing more thanhalf a gill of whisky, and John drained it to the bottom. To him it hadbeen a deadly thing at first, coming thus from his father's hand. He hadtaken it into his own with a feeling of aversion that was strangelyblended of disgust and fear. But the moment it touched his lips, desireleapt in his throat to get at it. "Good!" roared his father in mock admiration. "God, ye have thethrapple! When I was your age that would have choked me. I must have alook at that throat o' yours. Stand up!... _Stand up when I tall 'ee!_" John rose swaying to his feet. Months of constant tippling, culminatingin a wild debauch, had shattered him. He stood in a reeling world. Andthe fear weakening his limbs changed his drunken stupor to aheart-heaving sickness. He swayed to and fro, with a cold sweat oozingfrom his chalky face. "What's ado wi' the fellow?" cried Gourlay. "Oom? He's swinging like asaugh-wand. I must wa-alk round this and have a look!" John's drunken submissiveness encouraged his father to new devilries. The ease with which he tortured him provoked him to more torture; hewent on more and more viciously, as if he were conducting an experiment, to see how much the creature would bear before he turned. Gourlay wasenjoying the glutting of his own wrath. He turned his son round with a finger and thumb on his shoulder, ininsolent inspection, as you turn an urchin round to see him in his newsuit of clothes. Then he crouched before him, his face thrust close tothe other, and peered into his eyes, his mouth distent with an infernalsmile. "My boy, Johnny, " he said sweetly, "my boy, Johnny, " and pattedhim gently on the cheek. John raised dull eyes and looked into hisfather's. Far within him a great wrath was gathering through his fear. Another voice, another self, seemed to whimper, with dull iteration, "I'll _kill_ him; I'll _kill_ him; by God, I'll _kill_ him--if he doesnastop this--if he keeps on like this at me!" But his present and materialself was paralyzed with fear. "Open your mouth!" came the snarl--"_wider, damn ye! wider!_" "Im-phm!" said Gourlay, with a critical drawl, pulling John's chin aboutto see into him the deeper. "Im-phm! God, it's like a furnace! What'sthe Latin for throat?" "Guttur, " said John. "Gutter, " said his father. "A verra appropriate name! Yours stinks likea cesspool! What have you been doing till't? I'm afraid ye aren't invery good health, after a-all.... Eh?... Mrs. Gourla', Mrs. Gourla'!He's in very bad case, this son of yours, Mrs. Gourla'! Fine I ken whathe needs, though. --Set out the brandy, Jenny, set out the brandy, " heroared; "whisky's not worth a damn for him! Stop; it was you gaed thelast time--it's _your_ turn now, auld wife, it's _your_ turn now! Gangfor the brandy to your twa John Gourla's. We're a pair for a woman to beproud of!" He gazed after his wife as she tottered to the pantry. "Your skirt's on the gape, auld wife, " he sang; "your skirt's on thegape; as use-u-al, " he drawled; "as use-u-al. It was always like that;and it always scunnered me, for I aye liked things tidy--though I nevergot them. However, I maunna compleen when ye bore sic a braw son to myname. He's a great consolation! Imphm, he is that--a great consolation!" The brandy bottle slipped from the quivering fingers and was smashed topieces on the floor. "Hurrah!" yelled Gourlay. He seemed rapt and carried by his own devilry. The wreck and ruin strewnabout the floor consorted with the ruin of his fortunes; let all gosmash--what was the use of caring? Now in his frenzy, he, ordinarily socareful, seemed to delight in the smashings and the breakings; theysuited his despair. He saw that his spirit of destruction frightened them, too, and that wasanother reason to indulge it. "To hell with everything, " he yelled, like a mock-bacchanal. "_We_'rethe hearty fellows! We'll make a red night now we're at it!" And withthat he took the heel of a bottle on his toe and sent it flying amongthe dishes on the dresser. A great plate fell, split in two. "Poor fellow!" he whined, turning to his son; "poo-oor fellow! I fear hehas lost his pheesic. For that was the last bottle o' brandy in myaucht; the last John Gourlay had, the last he'll ever buy. What am I todo wi' ye now?... Eh?... I must do something; it's coming to the bitnow, sir. " As he stood in a heaving silence the sobbing of the two women was heardthrough the room. John was still swaying on the floor. Sometimes Gourlay would run the full length of the kitchen, and standthere glowering on a stoop; then he would come crouching up to his sonon a vicious little trot, pattering in rage, the broken glass crunchingand grinding beneath his feet. At any moment he might spring. "What do ye think I mean to do wi' ye now?" he moaned.... "Eh?... Whatdo ye think I mean to do wi' ye now?" As he came grinning in rage his lips ran out to their full width, andthe tense slit showed his teeth to their roots. The gums were white. Thestricture of the lips had squeezed them bloodless. He went back to the dresser once more and bent low beside it, glancingat his son across his left shoulder, with his head flung back sideways, his right fist clenched low and ready from a curve of the elbow. Itswung heavy as a mallet by his thigh. Janet got to her knees and cameshuffling across the floor on them, though her dress was tripping her, clasping her outstretched hands, and sobbing in appeal, "Faither, faither; O faither; for God's sake, faither!" She clung to him. Heunclenched his fist and lifted her away. Then he came crouching andquivering across the floor slowly, a gleaming devilry in the eyes thatdevoured his son. His hands were like outstretched claws, and shiveredwith each shiver of the voice that moaned, through set teeth, "What doye think I mean to do wi' ye now?... What do ye think I mean to do wi'ye now?... Ye damned sorrow and disgrace that ye are, what do ye think Imean to do wi' ye now?" "Run, John!" screamed Mrs. Gourlay, leaping to her feet. With a huntedcry young Gourlay sprang to the door. So great had been the fixity ofGourlay's wrath, so tense had he been in one direction, as he movedslowly on his prey, that he could not leap to prevent him. As Johnplunged into the cool, soft darkness, his mother's "Thank God!" rangpast him on the night. His immediate feeling was of coolness and width and spaciousness, incontrast with the hot grinding hostility that had bored so closely in onhim for the last hour. He felt the benignness of the darkened heavens. Atag of some forgotten poem he had read came back to his mind, and, "Come, kindly night, and cover me, " he muttered, with shaking lips; andfelt how true it was. My God, what a relief to be free of his father'seyes! They had held him till his mother's voice broke the spell. Theyseemed to burn him now. What a fool he had been to face his father when empty both of food anddrink! Every man was down-hearted when he was empty. If his mother hadhad time to get the tea, it would have been different; but the fire hadbeen out when he went in. "He wouldn't have downed me so easy if I hadhad anything in me, " he muttered, and his anger grew as he thought ofall he had been made to suffer. For he was still the swaggerer. Now thatthe incubus of his father's tyranny no longer pressed on him directly, agreat hate rose within him for the tyrant. He would go back and have itout when he was primed. "It's the only hame I have, " he sobbed angrilyto the darkness; "I have no other place to gang till! Yes, I'll go backand have it out with him when once I get something in me, so I will. " Itwas no disgrace to suck courage from the bottle for that encounter withhis father, for nobody could stand up to black Gourlay--nobody. YoungGourlay was yielding to a peculiar fatalism of minds diseased: all thataffects them seems different from all that affects everybody else; theyare even proud of their separate and peculiar doom. Young Gourlay notthought but felt it--he was different from everybody else. The heavenshad cursed nobody else with such a terrible sire. It was no cowardice tofill yourself with drink before you faced him. A drunkard will howl you an obscene chorus the moment after he has weptabout his dead child. For a mind in the delirium of drink is no longer acoherent whole, but a heap of shattered bits, which it shows one afterthe other to the world. Hence the many transformations of thatsemi-madness, and their quick variety. Young Gourlay was showing themnow. His had always been a wandering mind, deficient in application andcontrol, and as he neared his final collapse it became more and morevariable, the prey of each momentary thought. In a short five minutes oftime he had been alive to the beauty of the darkness, cowering beforethe memory of his father's eyes, sobbing in self-pity and angry resolve, shaking in terror--indeed he was shaking now. But his vanity cameuppermost. As he neared the Red Lion he stopped suddenly, and thedarkness seemed on fire against his cheeks. He would have to facecurious eyes, he reflected. It was from the Red Lion he and Aird hadstarted so grandly in the autumn. It would never do to come slinkingback like a whipped cur; he must carry it off bravely in case the usualbusybodies should be gathered round the bar. So with his coat flappinglordly on either side of him, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, and his hat on the back of his head, he drove at the swing-doors with anoutshot chest, and entered with a "breenge. " But for all his swagger hemust have had a face like death, for there was a cry among the idlers. Aman breathed, "My God! What's the matter?" With shaking knees Gourlayadvanced to the bar, and, "For God's sake, Aggie, " he whispered, "giveme a Kinblythmont!" It went at a gulp. "Another!" he gasped, like a man dying of thirst, whom his first sipmaddens for more. "Another! Another!" He had tossed the other down his burning throat when Deacon Allardycecame in. He knew his man the moment he set eyes on him, but, standing at thedoor, he arched his hand above his brow, as you do in gazing at a dearunexpected friend, whom you pretend not to be quite sure of, sosurprised and pleased are you to see him there. "Ith it Dyohn?" he cried. "It _ith_ Dyohn!" And he toddled forward withoutstretched hand. "Man Dyohn!" he said again, as if he could scarcebelieve the good news, and he waggled the other's hand up and down, withboth his own clasped over it. "I'm proud to thee you, thir; I am that. And tho you're won hame, ay! Im-phm! And how are ye tummin on?" "Oh, _I_'m all right, Deacon, " said Gourlay with a silly laugh. "Have awet?" The whisky had begun to warm him. "A wha-at?" said the Deacon, blinking in a puzzled fashion with hisbleary old eyes. "A dram--a drink--a drop o' the Auld Kirk, " said Gourlay, with astertorous laugh down through his nostrils. "Hi! hi!" laughed the Deacon in his best falsetto. "Ith that what yecall it up in Embro? A wet, ay! Ah, well, maybe I will take a littledrope, theeing you're tho ready wi' your offer. " They drank together. "Aggie, fill me a mutchkin when you're at it, " said Gourlay to thepretty barmaid with the curly hair. He had spent many an hour with herlast summer in the bar. The four big whiskies he had swallowed in thelast half-hour were singing in him now, and he blinked at her drunkenly. There was a scarlet ribbon on her dark curls, coquettish, vivid, andGourlay stared at it dreamily, partly in a drunken daze, and partlybecause a striking colour always brought a musing and self-forgettinglook within his eyes. All his life he used to stare at things dreamily, and come to himself with a start when spoken to. He forgot himself now. "Aggie, " he said, and put his hand out to hers clumsily where it restedon the counter--"Aggie, that ribbon's infernal bonny on your dark hair!" She tossed her head, and perked away from him on her little high heels. Him, indeed!--the drunkard! She wanted none of his compliments! There were half a dozen in the place by this time, and they all staredwith greedy eyes. "That's young Gourlay--him that was _expelled_, " washeard, the last an emphatic whisper, with round eyes of awe at theoffence that must have merited such punishment. "_Expelled_, mindye!"--with a round shake of the head. "Watch Allardyce. We'll see fun. " "What's this 'expelled' is, now?" said John Toodle, with a veryconsidering look and tone in his uplifted face--"properly speaking, thatis, " he added, implying that of course he knew the word in its ordinarysense, but was not sure of it "properly speaking. " "Flung oot, " said Drucken Wabster, speaking from the fullness of his ownexperience. "Whisht!" said a third. "Here's Tam Brodie. Watch what _he_ does. " The entrance of Brodie spoiled sport for the Deacon. He had nothing ofthat malicious _finesse_ that made Allardyce a genius at nicking men onthe raw. He went straight to his work, stabbing like an awl. "Hal-lo!" he cried, pausing with contempt in the middle of the word, when he saw young Gourlay. "Hal-lo! _You_ here!--Brig o' the Mains, miss, if _you_ please. --Ay, man! God, you've been making a name up inEmbro. I hear you stood up till him gey weel, " and he winked openly tothose around. Young Gourlay's maddened nature broke at the insult. "Damn you, " hescreamed, "leave _me_ alone, will you? I have done nothing to _you_, have I?" Brodie stared at him across his suspended whisky glass, an easy andassured contempt curling his lip. "Don't greet owre't, my bairn, " saidhe, and even as he spoke John's glass shivered on his grinning teeth. Brodie leapt on him, lifted him, and sent him flying. "That's a game of your father's, you damned dog, " he roared. "Butthere's mair than him can play the game!" "Canny, my freendth, canny!" piped Allardyce, who was vexed at a finechance for his peculiar craft being spoiled by mere brutality ofhandling. All this was most inartistic. Brodie never had the finestroke. Gourlay picked himself bleeding from the floor, and holding ahandkerchief to his mouth, plunged headlong from the room. He heard thederisive roar that came after him stop, strangled by the sharp swing-toof the door. But it seemed to echo in his burning ears as he strodemadly on through the darkness. He uncorked his mutchkin and drank itlike water. His swollen lip smarted at first, but he drank till it was amere dead lump to his tongue, and he could not feel the whisky on thewound. His mind at first was a burning whirl through drink and rage, withnothing determined and nothing definite. But thought began to shapeitself. In a vast vague circle of consciousness his mind seemed to sitin the centre and think with preternatural clearness. Though all aroundwas whirling and confused, drink had endowed some inner eye of the brainwith unnatural swift vividness. Far within the humming circle of hismind he saw an instant and terrible revenge on Brodie, acted it, andlived it now. His desires were murderers, and he let them slip, gloatingin the cruelties that hot fancy wreaked upon his enemy. Then he suddenlyremembered his father. A rush of fiery blood seemed to drench all hisbody as he thought of what had passed between them. "But, by Heaven, " heswore, as he threw away his empty bottle, "he won't use me like thatanother time; I have blood in me now. " His maddened fancy began buildinga new scene, with the same actors, the same conditions, as the other, but an issue gloriously diverse. With vicious delight he heard hisfather use the same sneers, the same gibes, the same brutalities; thenhe turned suddenly and had him under foot, kicking, bludgeoning, stamping the life out. He would do it, by Heaven, he would do it! Thememory of what had happened came fierily back, and made the pressingdarkness burn. His wrath was brimming on the edge, ready to burst, andhe felt proudly that it would no longer ebb in fear. Whisky had killedfear, and left a hysterical madman, all the more dangerous because hewas so weak. Let his father try it on now; he was ready for him! And his father was ready for him, for he knew what had happened at theinn. Mrs. Webster, on her nightly hunt for the man she had sworn tohonour and obey, having drawn several public-houses blank, ran him toearth at last in the bar-room of the Red Lion. "Yes, yes, Kirsty, " hecried, eager to prevent her tongue, "I know I'm a blagyird; but oh, theterrible thing that has happened!" He so possessed her with his graphictale that he was allowed to go chuckling back to his potations, whileshe ran hot-foot to the Green Shutters. "Eh, poo-oor Mrs. Gourlay; and oh, your poo-oor boy, too; and eh, thatbrute Tam Brodie----" Even as she came through the door the volubleclatter was shrilling out the big tidings, before she was aware ofGourlay's presence. She faltered beneath his black glower. "Go on!" he said, and ground it out of her. "The damned sumph!" he growled, "to let Brodie hammer him!" For amoment, it is true, his anger was divided, stood in equipoise, evendipped "Brodie-ward. " "I've an account to sattle wi' _him_!" he thoughtgrimly. "When _I_ get my claw on his neck, I'll teach him better than tohit a Gourlay! I wonder, " he mused, with a pride in which was neitherdoubt nor wonder--"I wonder will he fling the father as he flang theson!" But that was the instinct of his blood, not enough to make himpardon John. On the contrary, here was a new offence of his offspring. On the morrow Barbie would be burning with another affront which he hadput upon the name of Gourlay. He would waste no time when he came back, be he drunk or be he sober; he would strip the flesh off him. "Jenny, " he said, "bring me the step-ladder. " He would pass the time till the prodigal came back--and he was almostcertain to come back, for where could he go in Barbie?--he would passthe time by trying to improve the appearance of the house. He had spentmoney on his house till the last, and even now had the instinct toembellish it. Not that it mattered to him now; still he could carry outa small improvement he had planned before. The kitchen was ceiled indark timber, and on the rich brown rafters there were wooden pegs andbars, for the hanging of Gourlay's sticks and fishing-rods. His gun wasup there, too, just above the hearth. It had occurred to him about amonth ago, however, that a pair of curving steel rests, that would catchthe glint from the fire, would look better beneath his gun than the dullpegs, where it now lay against a joist. He might as well pass the timeby putting them up. The bringing of the steps, light though they were, was too much forJanet's weak frame, and she stopped in a fit of coughing, clutching theladder for support, while it shook to her spasms. "Tuts, Jenny, this'll never do, " said Gourlay, not unkindly. He tookthe ladder away from her and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Away toyour bed, lass. You maunna sit so late. " But Janet was anxious for her brother, and wanted to sit up till he camehome. She answered, "Yes, " to her father, but idled discreetly, toconsume the time. "Where's my hammer?" snarled Gourlay. "Is it no by the clock?" said his wife wearily. "Oh, I remember, Iremember! I gied it to Mrs. Webster to break some brie-stone, to rub thefront doorstep wi'. It'll be lying in the porch. " "Oh, ay, as usual, " said Gourlay--"as usual. " "John!" she cried in alarm, "you don't mean to take down the gun, doye?" "Huts, you auld fule, what are you skirling for? D'ye think I mean toshoot the dog? Set back on your creepie and make less noise, will ye?" Ere he had driven a nail in the rafter John came in, and sat down by thefire, taking up the great poker, as if to cover his nervousness. IfGourlay had been on the floor he would have grappled with him there andthen. But the temptation to gloat over his victim from his presentheight was irresistible. He went up another step, and sat down on thevery summit of the ladder, his feet resting on one of the lower rounds. The hammer he had been using was lying on his thigh, his hand clutchedabout its haft. "Ay, man, you've been taking a bit walk, I hear. " John made no reply, but played with the poker. It was so huge, owing toGourlay's whim, that when it slid through his fingers it came down onthe muffled hearthstone with a thud like a pavior's hammer. "I'm told you saw the Deacon on your rounds? Did he compliment you onyour return?" At the quiet sneer a lightning-flash showed John that Allardyce hadquizzed him too. For a moment he was conscious of a vast self-pity. "Damn them, they're all down on me, " he thought. Then a vindictive rageagainst them all took hold of him, tense, quivering. "Did you see Thomas Brodie when ye were out?" came the suave inquiry. "I saw him, " said John, raising fierce eyes to his father's. He wasproud of the sudden firmness in his voice. There was no fear in it, noquivering. He was beyond caring what happened to the world or him. "Oh, you saw him, " roared Gourlay, as his anger leapt to meet the angerof his son. "And what did he say to you, may I speir?... Or maybe Ishould speir what he did.... Eh?" he grinned. "By God, I'll kill ye, " screamed John, springing to his feet, with thepoker in his hand. The hammer went whizzing past his ear. Mrs. Gourlayscreamed and tried to rise from her chair, her eyes goggling in terror. As Gourlay leapt, John brought the huge poker with a crash on thedescending brow. The fiercest joy of his life was the dirl that went uphis arm as the steel thrilled to its own hard impact on the bone. Gourlay thudded on the fender, his brow crashing on the rim. At the blow there had been a cry as of animals from the two women. Therefollowed an eternity of silence, it seemed, and a haze about the place;yet not a haze, for everything was intensely clear; only it belonged toanother world. One terrible fact had changed the Universe. The air wasdifferent now--it was full of murder. Everything in the room had a newsignificance, a sinister meaning. The effect was that of an unholyspell. As through a dream Mrs. Gourlay's voice was heard crying on her God. John stood there, suddenly weak in his limbs, and stared, as ifpetrified, at the red poker in his hand. A little wisp of grizzled hairstuck to the square of it, severed, as by scissors, between the sharpedge and the bone. It was the sight of that bit of hair that roused himfrom his stupor--it seemed so monstrous and horrible, sticking all byitself to the poker. "I didna strike him so hard, " he pleaded, staringvaguely, "I didna strike him so hard. " Now that the frenzy had left him, he failed to realize the force of his own blow. Then with a horrid fearon him, "Get up, faither, " he entreated; "get up, faither! O man, youmicht get up!" Janet, who had bent above the fallen man, raised an ashen face to herbrother, and whispered hoarsely, "His heart has stopped, John; you havekilled him!" Steps were heard coming through the scullery. In the fear of discoveryMrs. Gourlay shook off the apathy that held her paralyzed. She sprangup, snatched the poker from her son, and thrust it in the embers. "Run, John; run for the doctor, " she screamed. --"O Mrs. Webster, Mrs. Webster, I'm glad to see ye. Mr. Gourlay fell from the top o' theladder, and smashed his brow on the muckle fender. " CHAPTER XXVI. "Mother!" came the startled whisper, "mother! O woman, waken and speakto me!" No comforting answer came from the darkness to tell of a human beingclose at hand; the girl, intently listening, was alone with her fear. All was silent in the room, and the terror deepened. Then the far-offsound in the house was heard once more. "Mother--mother, what's that?" "What is it, Janet?" came a feebly complaining voice; "what's wrong wi'ye, lassie?" Janet and her mother were sleeping in the big bedroom, Janet in theplace that had been her father's. He had been buried through the day, the second day after his murder. Mrs. Gourlay had shown a feverishanxiety to get the corpse out the house as soon as possible; and therehad been nothing to prevent it. "Oh, " said Doctor Dandy to the gossips, "it would have killed any man to fall from such a height on to the sharpedge of yon fender. No; he was not quite dead when I got to him. Heopened his eyes on me, once--a terrible look--and then life went out ofhim with a great quiver. " Ere Janet could answer her mother she was seized with a racking cough, and her hoarse bark sounded hollow in the silence. At last she sat upand gasped fearfully, "I thocht--I thocht I heard something moving!" "It would be the wind, " plained her mother; "it would just be the wind. John's asleep this strucken hour and mair. I sat by his bed for a langwhile, and he prigged and prayed for a dose o' the whisky ere he wonaway. He wouldna let go my hand till he slept, puir fallow. There's anunco fear on him--an unco fear. But try and fa' owre, " she soothed herdaughter. "That would just be the wind ye heard. " "There's nae wind!" said Janet. The stair creaked. The two women clung to each other, gripping tightfingers, and their hearts throbbed like big separate beings in theirbreasts. There was a rustle, as of something coming; then the dooropened, and John flitted to the bedside with a candle in his hand. Abovehis nightshirt his bloodless face looked gray. "Mother, " he panted, "there's something in my room!" "What is it, John?" said his mother, in surprise and fear. "I--I thocht it was himsell! O mother, I'm feared, I'm feared! O mother, I'm _feared_!" He sang the words in a hysterical chant, his voice risingat the end. The door of the bedroom clicked. It was not a slamming sound, only thedoor went to gently, as if some one closed it. John dropped the candlefrom his shaking hand, and was left standing in the living darkness. "_Save me!_" he screamed, and leaped into the bed, burrowing downbetween the women till his head was covered by the bedclothes. Hetrembled so violently that the bed shook beneath them. "Let me bide wi' ye!" he pleaded, with chattering jaws; "oh, let me bidewi' ye! I daurna gang back to that room by mysell again. " His mother put her thin arm round him. "Yes, dear, " she said; "you maybide wi' us. Janet and me wouldna let anything harm you. " She placed herhand on his brow caressingly. His hair was damp with a cold sweat. Hereeked of alcohol. Some one went through the Square playing a concertina. That sound ofthe careless world came strangely in upon their lonely tragedy. Bycontrast the cheerful, silly noise out there seemed to intensify theirdarkness and isolation here. Occasional far-off shouts were heard fromroisterers going home. Mrs. Gourlay lay staring at the darkness with intent eyes. What horrormight assail her she did not know, but she was ready to meet it for thesake of John. "Ye brought it on yoursell, " she breathed once, as ifdefying an unseen accuser. It was hours ere he slept, but at last a heavy sough told her he hadfound oblivion. "He's won owre, " she murmured thankfully. At times hemuttered in his sleep, and at times Janet coughed hoarsely at his ear. "Janet, dinna hoast sae loud, woman! You'll waken your brother. " Janet was silent. Then she choked--trying to stifle another cough. "Woman, " said her mother complainingly, "that's surely an unco hoast yehae!" "Ay, " said Janet, "it's a gey hoast. " Next morning Postie came clattering through the paved yard in histackety boots, and handed in a blue envelope at the back door with abusiness-like air, his ferrety eyes searching Mrs. Gourlay's face as shetook the letter from his hand. But she betrayed nothing to hiscuriosity, since she knew nothing of her husband's affairs, and had nofear, therefore, of what the letter might portend. She received themissive with a vacant unconcern. It was addressed to "John Gourlay, Esquire. " She turned it over in a silly puzzlement, and, "Janet!" shecried, "what am I to do wi' this?" She shrank from opening a letter addressed to her dead tyrant, unlessshe had Janet by her side. It was so many years since he had allowed herto take an active interest in their common life (indeed he never had)that she was as helpless as a child. "It's to faither, " said Janet. "Shall I waken John?" "No; puir fellow, let him sleep, " said his mother. "I stole in to lookat him enow, and his face was unco wan lying down on the pillow. I'llopen the letter mysell; though, as your faither used to tell me, I neverhad a heid for business. " She broke the seal, and Janet, looking over her shoulder, read aloud toher slower mind:-- "GLASGOW, _March 12, 18--. _ "SIR, --We desire once more to call your attention to the fact that the arrears of interest on the mortgage of your house have not been paid. Our client is unwilling to proceed to extremities, but unless you make some arrangement within a week, he will be forced to take the necessary steps to safeguard his interests. --Yours faithfully, BRODIE, GURNEY, & YARROWBY. " Mrs. Gourlay sank into a chair, and the letter slipped from her upturnedpalm, lying slack upon her knee. "Janet, " she said, appealingly, "what's this that has come on us? Doesthe house we live in, the House with the Green Shutters, not belong tous ainy more? Tell me, lassie. What does it mean?" "I don't ken, " whispered Janet, with big eyes. "Did faither never tellye of the bond?" "He never telled me about anything, " cried Mrs. Gourlay, with a suddenpassion. "I was aye the one to be keepit in the dark--to be keepit inthe dark and sore hadden doon. Oh, are we left destitute, Janet--and uswas aye sae muckle thocht o'! And me, too, that's come of decent folk, and brought him a gey pickle bawbees--am I to be on the parish in myauld age? Oh, _my_ faither, _my_ faither!" Her mind flashed back to the jocose and well-to-do father who had beenbut a blurred thought to her for twenty years. That his daughter shouldcome to a pass like this was enough to make him turn in his grave. Janetwas astonished by her sudden passion in feebleness. Even the murder ofher husband had been met by her weak mind with a dazed resignation. Forher natural horror at the deed was swallowed by her anxiety to shieldthe murderer; and she experienced a vague relief--felt but notconsidered--at being freed from the incubus of Gourlay's tyranny. Itseemed, too, as if she was incapable of feeling anything poignantly, deadened now by these quick calamities. But that _she_, thatTenshillingland's daughter, should come to be an object of commoncharity, touched some hidden nerve of pride, and made her writhe inagony. "It mayna be sae bad, " Janet tried to comfort her. "Waken John, " said her mother feverishly--"waken John, and we'll gangthrough his faither's desk. There may be something gude amang hispapers. There may be something gude!" she gabbled nervously; "yes, theremay be something gude! In the desk--in the desk--there may be somethinggude in the desk!" John staggered into the kitchen five minutes later. Halfway to the tablewhere his mother sat he reeled and fell over on a chair, where he laywith an ashen face, his eyes mere slits in his head, the upturned whitesshowing through. They brought him whisky, and he drank and wasrecovered. And then they went through to the parlour, and opened thegreat desk that stood in the corner. It was the first time they had everdared to raise its lid. John took up a letter lying loosely on the topof the other papers, and after a hasty glance, "This settles it!" saidhe. It was the note from Gourlay's banker, warning him that his accountwas overdrawn. "God help us!" cried Mrs. Gourlay, and Janet began to whimper. Johnslipped out of the room. He was still in his stocking-feet, and thewomen, dazed by this sudden and appalling news, were scarcely aware ofhis departure. He passed through the kitchen, and stood on the step of the back door, looking out on the quiet little paved yard. Everything there wasremarkably still and bright. It was an early spring that year, and thehot March sun beat down on him, paining his bleared and puffy eyes. Thecontrast between his own lump of a body, drink-dazed, dull-throbbing, and the warm, bright day came in on him with a sudden sinking of theheart, a sense of degradation and personal abasement. He realized, however obscurely, that he was an eyesore in nature, a blotch on thesurface of the world, an offence to the sweet-breathing heavens. Andthat bright silence was so strange and still; he could have screamed toescape it. The slow ticking of the kitchen clock seemed to beat upon his raw brain. Damn the thing, why didn't it stop--with its monotonous tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack? He could feel it inside his head, where it seemedto strike innumerable little blows on a strained chord it was bent onsnapping. He tiptoed back to the kitchen on noiseless feet, and cocking his ear tolisten, he heard the murmur of women's voices in the parlour. There wasa look of slyness and cunning in his face, and his eyes glittered withdesire. The whisky was still on the table. He seized the bottlegreedily, and tilting it up, let the raw liquid gurgle into him likecooling water. It seemed to flood his parched being with a new vitality. "Oh, I doubt we'll be gey ill off!" he heard his mother whine, and atthat reminder of her nearness he checked the great, satisfied breath hehad begun to blow. He set the bottle on the table, bringing the glassnoiselessly down upon the wood, with a tense, unnatural precisionpossible only to drink-steadied nerves--a steadiness like the hummingtop's whirled to its fastest. Then he sped silently through thecourtyard and locked himself into the stable, chuckling in drunkentriumph as he turned the key. He pitched forward on a litter of dirtystraw, and in a moment sleep came over his mind in a huge wave ofdarkness. An hour later he woke from a terrible dream, flinging his arms up toward off a face that had been pressing on his own. Were the eyes thathad burned his brain still glaring above him? He looked about him indrunken wonder. From a sky-window a shaft of golden light came slantinginto the loose-box, living with yellow motes in the dimness. The worldseemed dead; he was alone in the silent building, and from without therewas no sound. Then a panic terror flashed on his mind that those eyeshad actually been here--and were here with him still--where he waslocked up with them alone. He strained his eyeballs in a horrified stareat vacancy. Then he shut them in terror, for why did he look? If helooked, the eyes might burn on him out of nothingness. The innocent airhad become his enemy--pregnant with unseen terrors to glare at him. Tobreathe it stifled him; each draught of it was full of menace. With ashrill cry he dashed at the door, and felt in the clutch of his ghostlyenemy when he failed to open it at once, breaking his nails on thebaffling lock. He mowed and chattered and stamped, and tore at the lock, frustrate in fear. At last he was free! He broke into the kitchen, wherehis mother sat weeping. She raised her eyes to see a dishevelled thing, with bits of straw scattered on his clothes and hair. "Mother!" he screamed, "mother!" and stopped suddenly, his starting eyesseeming to follow something in the room. "What are ye glowering at, John?" she wailed. "Thae damned een, " he said slowly, "they're burning my soul! Look, look!" he cried, clutching her thin wrist; "see, there, there--cominground by the dresser! A-ah!" he screamed, in hoarse execration. "Wouldye, then?" and he hurled a great jug from the table at the pursuingunseen. The jug struck the yellow face of the clock, and the glass jangled onthe floor. Mrs. Gourlay raised her arms, like a gaunt sibyl, and spoke to herMaker, quietly, as if He were a man before her in the room. "Ruin andmurder, " she said slowly, "and madness; and death at my nipple like achild! When will Ye be satisfied?" Drucken Wabster's wife spread the news, of course, and that night itwent humming through the town that young Gourlay had the horrors, andwas throwing tumblers at his mother! "Puir body!" said the baker, in the long-drawn tones of an infinitecompassion--"puir body!" "Ay, " said Toddle dryly, "he'll be wanting to put an end to _her_ next, after killing his faither. " "Killing his faither?" said the baker, with a quick look. "What do youmean?" "Mean? Ou, I just mean what the doctor says! Gourlay was that mad at thedrucken young swine that he got the 'plexies, fell aff the ladder, andfelled himsell deid! That's what I mean, no less!" said Toddle, nettledat the sharp question. "Ay, man! That accounts for't, " said Tam Wylie. "It did seem queerGourlay's dying the verra nicht the prodigal cam hame. He was a heavyman too; he would come down with an infernal thud. It seems uncanny, though, it seems uncanny. " "Strange!" murmured another; and they looked at each other in silentwonder. "But will this be true, think ye?" said Brodie--"about the horrors, Imean. _Did_ he throw the tumbler at his mother?" "Lord, it's true!" said Sandy Toddle. "I gaed into the kitchen onpurpose to make sure o' the matter with my own eyes. I let on I wantedto borrow auld Gourlay's keyhole saw. I can tell ye he had a' hisorders--his tool-chest's the finest I ever saw in my life! I mean to bidfor some o' yon when the rowp comes. Weel, as I was saying, I let on Iwanted the wee saw, and went into the kitchen one end's errand. Thetumbler (Johnny Coe says it was a bottle, however; but I'm no avised o'that--I speired Webster's wife, and I think my details are correct)--thetumbler went flying past his mother, and smashed the face o' theeight-day. It happened about the mid-hour o' the day. The clock hadstoppit, I observed, at three and a half minutes to the twelve. " "Hi!" cried the Deacon, "it'th a pity auld Gourlay wathna alive thithday!" "Faith, ay, " cried Wylie. "_He_ would have sorted him; _he_ would havetrimmed the young ruffian!" "No doubt, " said the Deacon gravely--"no doubt. But it wath scarcelythat I wath thinking of. Yah!" he grinned, "thith would have been athlap in the face till him!" Wylie looked at him for a while with a white scunner in his face. Hewore the musing and disgusted look of a man whose wounded mind retireswithin itself to brood over a sight of unnatural cruelty. The Deacongrew uncomfortable beneath his sideward, estimating eye. "Deacon Allardyce, your heart's black-rotten, " he said at last. The Deacon blinked and was silent. Tam had summed him up. There was noappeal. * * * * * "John dear, " said his mother that evening, "we'll take the big sofa intoour bedroom, and make up a grand bed for ye, and then we'll be companyto one another. Eh, dear?" she pleaded. "Winna that be a fine way? Whenyou have Janet and me beside you, you winna be feared o' ainythingcoming near you. You should gang to bed early, dear. A sleep wouldrestore your mind. " "I don't mean to go to bed, " he said slowly. He spoke staringly, withthe same fixity in his voice and gaze. There was neither rise nor fallin his voice, only a dull level of intensity. "You don't mean to go to bed, John! What for, dear? Man, a sleep wouldcalm your mind for ye. " "Na-a-a!" he smiled, and shook his head like a cunning madman who haddetected her trying to get round him. "Na-a-a! No sleep for me--no sleepfor me! I'm feared I would see the red een, " he whispered, "the red een, coming at me out o' the darkness, the darkness"--he nodded, staring ather and breathing the word--"the darkness, the darkness! The darkness isthe warst, mother, " he added, in his natural voice, leaning forward asif he explained some simple, curious thing of every day. "The darknessis the warst, you know. I've seen them in the broad licht; but in thelobby, " he whispered hoarsely--"in the lobby when it was dark--in thelobby they were terrible. Just twa een, and they aye keep thegither, though they're aye moving. That's why I canna pin them. And it's becauseI ken they're aye watching me, watching me, watching me that I get sofeared. They're red, " he nodded and whispered--"they're red--they'rered. " His mouth gaped in horror, and he stared as if he saw them now. He had boasted long ago of being able to see things inside his head; inhis drunken hysteria he was to see them always. The vision he beheldagainst the darkness of his mind projected itself and glared at him. Hewas pursued by a spectre in his own brain, and for that reason there wasno escape. Wherever he went it followed him. "O man John, " wailed his mother, "what are ye feared for your faither'seen for? He wouldna persecute his boy. " "Would he no?" he said slowly. "You ken yoursell that he never liked me!And naebody could stand his glower. Oh, he was a terrible man, _my_faither! You could feel the passion in him when he stood still. He couldthrow himsell at ye without moving. And he's throwing himsell at _me_frae beyond the grave. " Mrs. Gourlay beat her desperate hands. Her feeble remonstrance was asnowflake on a hill to the dull intensity of this conviction. Socolossal was it that it gripped herself, and she glanced dreadfullyacross her shoulder. But in spite of her fears she must plead with himto save. "Johnnie dear, " she wept passionately, "there's no een! It's just thedrink gars you think sae. " "No, " he said dully; "the drink's my refuge. It's a kind thing, drink--it helps a body. " "But, John, nobody believes in these things nowadays. It's just fancy inyou. I wonder at a college-bred man like you giving heed to a wheennonsense!" "Ye ken yoursell it was a byword in the place that he would haunt theHouse with the Green Shutters. " "God help me!" cried Mrs. Gourlay; "what am I to do?" She piled up a great fire in the parlour, and the three poor creaturesgathered round it for the night. (They were afraid to sit in the kitchenof an evening, for even the silent furniture seemed to talk of themurder it had witnessed. ) John was on a carpet stool by his mother'sfeet, his head resting on her knee. They heard the rattle of Wilson's brake as it swung over the townheadfrom Auchterwheeze, and the laughter of its jovial crew. They heard thetown clock chiming the lonesome passage of the hours. A dog was barkingin the street. Gradually all other sounds died away. "Mother, " said John, "lay your hand alang my shouther, touching myneck. I want to be sure that you're near me. " "I'll do that, my bairn, " said his mother. And soon he was asleep. Janet was reading a novel. The children had their mother's silly gift--agift of the weak-minded, of forgetting their own duties and their ownsorrows in a vacant interest which they found in books. She had wrappeda piece of coarse red flannel round her head to comfort a swollen jaw, and her face appeared from within like a tallowy oval. "I didna get that story finished, " said Mrs. Gourlay vacantly, staringat the fire open-mouthed, her mutch-strings dangling. It was the remarkof a stricken mind that speaks vacantly of anything. "Does HerbertMontgomery marry Sir James's niece?" "No, " said Janet; "he's killed at the war. It's a gey pity of him, isn'tit?--Oh, what's that?" It was John talking in his sleep. "I have killed my faither, " he said slowly, pausing long between everyphrase--"I have killed my faither ... I have killed my faither. And he'sfoll-owing me ... He's foll-owing me ... He's foll-owing me. " It was thevoice of a thing, not a man. It swelled and dwelt on the "follow, " as ifthe horror of the pursuit made it moan. "He's foll-owing me ... He'sfoll-owing me ... He's foll-owing me. A face like a dark mist--and eenlike hell. Oh, they're foll-owing me ... They're foll-owing me ... They're foll-owing me!" His voice seemed to come from an infinitedistance. It was like a lost soul moaning in a solitude. The dog was barking in the street. A cry of the night came from faraway. That voice was as if a corpse opened its lips and told of horrors beyondthe grave. It brought the other world into the homely room, and made itall demoniac. The women felt the presence of the unknown. It was theirown flesh and blood that spoke the words, and by their own quiet hearth. But hell seemed with them in the room. Mrs. Gourlay drew back from John's head on her lap, as from somethingmonstrous and unholy. But he moaned in deprivation, craving her support, and she edged nearer to supply his need. Possessed with a devil or no, he was her son. "Mother!" gasped Janet suddenly, the white circles of her eyes staringfrom the red flannel, her voice hoarse with a new fear--"mother, suppose--suppose he said that before anybody else!" "Don't mention't, " cried her mother with sudden passion. "How daur ye?how daur ye? My God!" she broke down and wept, "they would hang him, sothey would! They would hang _my_ boy--they would take and hang _my_boy!" They stared at each other wildly. John slept, his head twisted over onhis mother's knee, his eyes sunken, his mouth wide open. "Mother, " Janet whispered, "you must send him away. " "I have only three pounds in the world, " said Mrs. Gourlay; and she puther hand to her breast where it was, but winced as if a pain had bittenher. "Send him away wi't, " said Janet. "The furniture may bring something. And you and me can aye thole. " In the morning Mrs. Gourlay brought two greasy notes to the table, andplaced them in her son's slack hand. He was saner now; he had slept offhis drunken madness through the night. "John, " she said, in pitiful appeal, "you maunna stay here, laddie. Ye'll gie up the drink when you're away--will ye na?--and then thae eenye're sae feared of'll no trouble you ony mair. Gang to Glasgow and seethe lawyer folk about the bond. And, John dear, " she pleaded, "ifthere's nothing left for us, you'll try to work for Janet and me, willye no? You've a grand education, and you'll surely get a place as ateacher or something; I'm sure you would make a grand teacher. Yewouldna like to think of your mother trailing every week to the like ofWilson for an awmous, streeking out her auld hand for charity. The folkwould stand in their doors to look at me, man--they would that--theywould cry ben to each other to come oot and see Gourlay's wife gaunslinkin' doon the brae. Doon the brae it would be, " she repeated, "doonthe brae it would be"--and her mind drifted away on the sorrowful futurewhich her fear made so vivid and real. It was only John's going thatroused her. Thomas Brodie, glowering abroad from a shop door festooned in boots, hisleather apron in front, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, as befitted an important man, saw young Gourlay pass the Cross with hisbag in his hand, and dwindle up the road to the station. "Where's _he_ off to now?" he muttered. "There's something at the boddomo' this, if a body could find it out!" CHAPTER XXVII. When John had gone his mother roused herself to a feverish industry. Even in the early days of her strength she had never been so busy in herhome. But her work was aimless and to no purpose. When tidying she wouldtake a cup without its saucer from the table, and set off with itthrough the room, but stopping suddenly in the middle of the floor, would fall into a muse with the dish in her hand; coming to herself longafterwards to ask vaguely, "What's this cup for?... Janet, lassie, whatwas it I was doing?" Her energy, and its frustration, had the samereason. The burden on her mind constantly impelled her to do somethingto escape from it, and the same burden paralyzed her mind in everythingshe did. So with another of her vacant whims. Every morning she rose atan unearthly hour, to fish out of old closets rag-bags bellied big withthe odds and ends of thirty years' assemblage. "I'll make a patchworkquilt o' thir!" she explained, with a foolish, eager smile; and shespent hours snatching up rags and vainly trying to match them. But thequilt made no progress. She would look at a patch for a while, with herhead on one side, and pat it all over with restless hands; then shewould turn it round, to see if it would look better that way, only totear it off when it was half sewn, to try another and yet another. Oftenshe would forget the work on her lap, and stare across the room, open-mouthed, her fingers plucking at her withered throat. Janet becameafraid of her mother. Once she saw her smiling to herself, when she thought nobody waswatching her--an uncanny smile as of one who hugged a secret to herbreast--a secret that, eluding others, would enable its holder to eludethem too. "What can _she_ have to laugh at?" Janet wondered. At times the haze that seemed gathering round Mrs. Gourlay's mind wouldbe dispelled by sudden rushes of fear, when she would whimper lest herson be hanged, or herself come on the parish in her old age. But thatwas rarely. Her brain was mercifully dulled, and her days were passed ina restless vacancy. She was sitting with the rags scattered round her when John walked in onthe evening of the third day. There were rags everywhere--on the table, and all about the kitchen; she sat in their midst like a witch among theautumn leaves. When she looked towards his entrance the smell of drinkwas wafted from the door. "John!" she panted, in surprise--"John, did ye not go to Glasgow, boy?" "Ay, " he said slowly, "I gaed to Glasgow. " "And the bond, John--did ye speir about the bond?" "Ay, " he said, "I speired about the bond. The whole house is sunk in't. " "Oh!" she gasped, and the whole world seemed to go from beneath her, soweak did she feel through her limbs. "John, " she said, after a while, "did ye no try to get something to do, that you might help me and Janet now we're helpless?" "No, " he said; "for the een wouldna let me. Nicht and day they follow mea'where--nicht and day. " "Are they following ye yet, John?" she whispered, leaning forwardseriously. She did not try to disabuse him now; she accepted what hesaid. Her mind was on a level with his own. "Are they following ye yet?"she asked, with large eyes of sympathy and awe. "Ay, and waur than ever too. They're getting redder and redder. It'snot a dull red, " he said, with a faint return of his old interest in thecurious physical; "it's a gleaming red. They lowe. A' last nicht theywouldna let me sleep. There was nae gas in my room, and when the candlewent out I could see them everywhere. When I looked to one corner o' theroom, they were there; and when I looked to another corner, they werethere too--glowering at me; glowering at me in the darkness; gloweringat me. Ye mind what a glower he had! I hid from them ablow the claes;but they followed me--they were burning in my brain. So I gaed oot andstood by a lamp-post for company. But a constable moved me on; he said Iwas drunk because I muttered to mysell. But I wasna drunk then, mother;I wa-as _not_. So I walkit on, and on, and on the whole nicht; but I ayekeepit to the lamp-posts for company. And than when the public-housesopened I gaed in and drank and drank. I didna like the drink, for whiskyhas no taste to me now. But it helps ye to forget. "Mother, " he went on complainingly, "is it no queer that a pair of eenshould follow a man? Just a pair of een! It never happened to onybodybut me, " he said dully--"never to onybody but me. " His mother was panting open-mouthed, as if she choked for air, bothhands clutching at her bosom. "Ay, " she whispered, "it's queer;" andkept on gasping at intervals with staring eyes, "It's gey queer; it'sgey queer; it's gey queer. " She took up the needle once more and tried to sew; but her hand wastrembling so violently that she pricked the left forefinger which upheldher work. She was content thereafter to make loose stabs at the cloth, with a result that she made great stitches which drew her seam togetherin a pucker. Vacantly she tried to smooth them out, stroking them overwith her hand, constantly stroking and to no purpose. John watched theaimless work with dull and heavy eyes. For a while there was silence in the kitchen. Janet was coughing in theroom above. "There's just ae thing'll end it!" said John. "Mother, give me threeshillings. " It was not a request, and not a demand; it was the dull statement of aneed. Yet the need appeared so relentless, uttered in the set fixity ofhis impassive voice, that she could not gainsay it. She felt that thiswas not merely her son making a demand; it was a compulsion on himgreater than himself. "There's the money!" she said, clinking it down on the table, andflashed a resentful smile at him, close upon the brink of tears. She had a fleeting anger. It was scarcely at him, though; it was at thefate that drove him. Nor was it for herself, for her own mood was, "Well, well; let it gang. " But she had a sense of unfairness, and aflicker of quite impersonal resentment, that fate should wring the lastfew shillings from a poor being. It wasna fair. She had the emotion ofit; and it spoke in the strange look at her son, and in the smilingflush with the tears behind it. Then she sank into apathy. John took up the money and went out, heedless of his mother where shesat by the table; he had a doom on him, and could see nothing that didnot lie within his path. Nor did she take any note of his going; she wascallous. The tie between them was being annulled by misery. She wasceasing to be his mother, he to be her son; they were not younger andolder, they were the equal victims of necessity. Fate set each of themapart to dree a separate weird. In a house of long years of misery the weak become callous to theirdearest's agony. The hard, strong characters are kindest in the end;they will help while their hearts are breaking. But the weak fallasunder at the last. It was not that Mrs. Gourlay was thinking ofherself rather than of him. She was stunned by fate--as was he--andcould think of nothing. Ten minutes later John came out of the Black Bull with a bottle ofwhisky. It was a mellow evening, one of those evenings when Barbie, the mean anddull, is transfigured to a gem-like purity, and catches a radiance. There was a dreaming sky above the town, and its light less came to theearth than was on it, shining in every path with a gracious immanence. John came on through the glow with his burden undisguised, wrapped in atissue paper which showed its outlines. He stared right before him likea man walking in his sleep, and never once looked to either side. Atword of his coming the doors were filled with mutches and bald heads, keeking by the jambs to get a look. Many were indecent in their haste, not waiting till he passed ere they peeped--which was their usual way. Some even stood away out in front of their doors to glower at himadvancing, turning slowly with him as he passed, and glowering behindhim as he went. They saw they might do so with impunity; that he did notsee them, but walked like a man in a dream. He passed up the street andthrough the Square, beneath a hundred eyes, the sun shining softly roundhim. Every eye followed till he disappeared through his own door. He went through the kitchen, where his mother sat, carrying the bottleopenly, and entered the parlour without speaking. He came back and askedher for the corkscrew, but when she said "Eh?" with a vague wildness inher manner, and did not seem to understand, he went and got it forhimself. She continued making stabs at her cloth and smoothing out thepuckers in her seam. John was heard moving in the parlour. There was the sharp _plunk_ of acork being drawn, followed by a clink of glass. And then came a heavythud like a fall. To Mrs. Gourlay the sounds meant nothing; she heard them with her ear, not her mind. The world around her had retreated to a hazy distance, sothat it had no meaning. She would have gazed vaguely at a shell about toburst beside her. In the evening, Janet, who had been in bed all the afternoon, came downand lit the lamp for her mother. It was a large lamp which Gourlay hadbought, and it shed a rich light through the room. "I heard John come in, " she said, turning wearily round; "but I was tooill to come down and ask what had happened. Where is he?" "John?" questioned her mother--"John?... Ou ay, " she panted, vaguelyrecalling, "ou ay. I think--I think ... He gaed ben the parlour. " "The parlour!" cried Janet; "but he must be in the dark! And he cannathole the darkness!" "John!" she cried, going to the parlour door, "John!" There was a silence of the grave. She lit a candle, and went into the room. And then she gave a squeallike a rabbit in a dog's jaws. Mrs. Gourlay dragged her gaunt limbs wearily across the floor. By thewavering light, which shook in Janet's hand, she saw her son lying deadacross the sofa. The whisky-bottle on the table was half empty, and of asmaller bottle beside it he had drunk a third. He had taken all thatwhisky that he might deaden his mind to the horror of swallowing thepoison. His legs had slipped to the floor when he died, but his body waslying back across the couch, his mouth open, his eyes staring horridlyup. They were not the eyes of the quiet dead, but bulged in frozen fear, as if his father's eyes had watched him from aloft while he died. "There's twa thirds of the poison left, " commented Mrs. Gourlay. "Mother!" Janet screamed, and shook her. "Mother, John's deid! John'sdeid! Don't ye see John's deid?" "Ay, he's deid, " said Mrs. Gourlay, staring. "He winna be hanged now!" "Mother!" cried Janet, desperate before this apathy, "what shall we do?what shall we do? Shall I run and bring the neebours?" "The neebours!" said Mrs. Gourlay, rousing herself wildly--"theneebours! What have _we_ to do with the neebours? We are byourselves--the Gourlays whom God has cursed; we can have no neebours. Come ben the house, and I'll tell ye something, " she whispered wildly. "Ay, " she nodded, smiling with mad significance, "I'll tell ye something... I'll tell ye something, " and she dragged Janet to the kitchen. Janet's heart was rent for her brother, but the frenzy on her motherkilled sorrow with a new fear. "Janet!" smiled Mrs. Gourlay, with insane soft interest, "Janet! D'yemind yon nicht langsyne when your faither came in wi' a terrible look inhis een and struck me in the breist? Ay, " she whispered hoarsely, staring at the fire, "he struck me in the breist. But I didna ken whatit was for, Janet.... No, " she shook her head, "he never telled me whatit was for. " "Ay, mother, " whispered Janet, "I have mind o't. " "Weel, an abscess o' some kind formed--I kenna weel what it was, but itgathered and broke, and gathered and broke, till my breist's near eatenawa wi't. Look!" she cried, tearing open her bosom, and Janet's headflung back in horror and disgust. "O mother!" she panted, "was it that that the wee clouts were for?" "Ay, it was that, " said her mother. "Mony a clout I had to wash, andmony a nicht I sat lonely by mysell, plaistering my withered breist. ButI never let onybody ken, " she added with pride; "na-a-a, I never letonybody ken. When your faither nipped me wi' his tongue it nipped me wi'its pain, and, woman, it consoled me. 'Ay, ay, ' I used to think; 'gibeawa, gibe awa; but I hae a freend in my breist that'll end it some day. 'I likit to keep it to mysell. When it bit me it seemed to whisper I hada freend that nane o' them kenned o'--a freend that would deliver me!The mair he badgered me, the closer I hugged it; and when my he'rt wasbr'akin I enjoyed the pain o't. " "O my poor, poor mother!" cried Janet with a bursting sob, her eyesraining hot tears. Her very body seemed to feel compassion; it quiveredand crept near, as though it would brood over her mother and protecther. She raised the poor hand and kissed it, and fondled it between herown. But her mother had forgotten the world in one of her wild lapses, andwas staring fixedly. "I'll no lang be a burden to onybody, " she said to herself. "It shouldsune be wearing to a heid now. But I thought of something the day Johngaed away; ay, I thought of something, " she said vaguely. "Janet, whatwas it I was thinking of?" "I dinna ken, " whispered Janet. "I was thinking of something, " her mother mused. Her voice all throughwas a far-off voice, remote from understanding. "Yes, I remember. Ye'reyoung, Jenny, and you learned the dressmaking; do ye think ye could sew, or something, to keep a bit garret owre my heid till I dee? Ay, it wasthat I was thinking of; though it doesna matter much now--eh, Jenny?I'll no bother you for verra lang. But I'll no gang on the parish, " shesaid in a passionless voice, "I'll no gang on the parish. I'm MissRichmond o' Tenshillingland. " She had no interest in her own suggestion. It was an idea that hadflitted through her mind before, which came back to her now in feeblerecollection. She seemed not to wait for an answer, to have forgottenwhat she said. "O mother, " cried Janet, "there's a curse on us all! I would work myfingers raw for ye if I could, but I canna, " she screamed, "I canna, Icanna! My lungs are bye wi't. On Tuesday in Skeighan the doctor telledme I would soon be deid; he didna say't, but fine I saw what he washinting. He advised me to gang to Ventnor in the Isle o' Wight, " sheadded wanly; "as if I could gang to the Isle of Wight. I cam hametrembling, and wanted to tell ye; but when I cam in ye were ta'en up wi'John, and, 'O lassie, ' said you, 'dinna bother me wi' your complaintsenow. ' I was hurt at that, and 'Well, well, ' I thocht, 'if she doesnawant to hear, I'll no tell her. ' I was huffed at ye. And then my faithercame in, and ye ken what happened. I hadna the heart to speak o't afterthat; I didna seem to care. I ken what it is to nurse daith in my breistwi' pride, too, mother, " she went on. "Ye never cared verra much for me;it was John was your favourite. I used to be angry because you neglectedmy illness, and I never telled you how heavily I hoasted blood. 'She'llbe sorry for this when I'm deid, ' I used to think; and I hoped you wouldbe. I had a kind of pride in saying nothing. But, O mother, I didna ken_you_ were just the same; I didna ken _you_ were just the same. " Shelooked. Her mother was not listening. Suddenly Mrs. Gourlay screamed with wild laughter, and, laughing, eyedwith mirthless merriment the look of horror with which Janet wasregarding her. "Ha, ha, ha!" she screamed, "it's to be a clean sweep o'the Gourlays! Ha, ha, ha! it's to be a clean sweep o' the Gourlays!" There is nothing uglier in life than a woman's cruel laugh; but Mrs. Gourlay's laugh was more than cruel, it was demoniac--the skirl of ahuman being carried by misery beyond the confines of humanity. Janetstared at her in speechless fear. "Mother, " she whispered at last, "what are we to do?" "There's twa-thirds of the poison left, " said Mrs. Gourlay. "Mother!" cried Janet. "Gourlay's dochter may gang on the parish if she likes, but his wifenever will. _You_ may hoast yourself to death in a garret in thepoorhouse, but _I_'ll follow my boy. " The sudden picture of her own lonely death as a pauper among strangers, when her mother and brother should be gone, was so appalling to Janetthat to die with her mother seemed pleasanter. She could not bear to beleft alone. "Mother, " she cried in a frenzy, "I'll keep ye company!" "Let us read a chapter, " said Mrs. Gourlay. She took down the big Bible, and "the thirteent' chapter o' FirstCorinthians, " she announced in a loud voice, as if giving it out fromthe pulpit, "the thirteent'--o' the First Corinthians:"-- "_'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have notcharity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. _ "_'And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could removemountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. '_" Mrs. Gourlay's manner had changed: she was in the high exaltation ofmadness. Callous she still appeared, so possessed by her general doomthat she had no sense of its particular woes. But she was listless nomore. Willing her death, she seemed to borrow its greatness and becomeone with the law that punished her. Arrogating the Almighty's functionto expedite her doom, she was the equal of the Most High. It was herfeebleness that made her great. Because in her feebleness she yieldedentirely to the fate that swept her on, she was imbued with its demoniacpower. "_'Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charityvaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, _ "_'Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easilyprovoked, thinketh no evil;_ "_'Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;_ "_'Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endurethall things. _ "_'Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shallfail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there beknowledge, it shall vanish away. _ "_'For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. _ "_'But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in partshall be done away. '_" Her voice rose high and shrill as she read the great verses. Her largeblue eyes shone with ecstasy. Janet looked at her in fear. This was morethan her mother speaking; it was more than human; it was a voice frombeyond the world. Alone, the timid girl would have shrunk from death, but her mother's inspiration held her. "_'And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three: but the greatestof these is charity. '_" Janet had been listening with such strained attention that the "Amen"rang out of her loud and involuntary, like an answer to a compellingDeity. She had clung to this reading as the one thing left to her beforedeath, and out of her nature thus strained to listen the "Amen" came, assped by an inner will. She scarcely knew that she said it. They rose, and the scrunt of Janet's chair on the floor, when she pushedit behind her, sent a thrilling shiver through her body, so tense washer mood. They stood with their hands on their chair backs, and lookedat each other, in a curious palsy of the will. The first step to theparlour door would commit them to the deed; to take it was to take thepoison, and they paused, feeling its significance. To move was to givethemselves to the irrevocable. When they stirred at length they felt asif the ultimate crisis had been passed; there could be no return. Mrs. Gourlay had Janet by the wrist. She turned and looked at her daughter, and for one fleeting moment sheceased to be above humanity. "Janet, " she said wistfully, "_I_ have had a heap to thole! Maybe theLord Jesus Christ'll no' be owre sair on me. " "O mother!" Janet screamed, yielding to her terror when her motherweakened. "O mother, I'm feared! I'm feared! O mother, I'm feared!" "Come!" said her mother; "come!" and drew her by the wrist. They wentinto the parlour. * * * * * The post was a square-built, bandy-legged little man, with a bristle ofgrizzled hair about his twisted mouth, perpetually cocking up anill-bred face in the sight of Heaven. Physically and morally he had inhim something both of the Scotch terrier and the London sparrow--theshagginess of the one, the cocked eye of the other; the one's snarlingtemper, the other's assured impudence. In Gourlay's day he had never gotby the gateway of the yard, much as he had wanted to come further. Gourlay had an eye for a thing like him. "Damn the gurly brute!" Postiecomplained once; "when I passed a pleasand remark about the weather theother morning, he just looked at me and blew the reek of his pipe in myface. And that was his only answer!" Now that Gourlay was gone, however, Postie clattered through the yardevery morning, right up to the back door. "A heap o' correspondence _thir_ mornin's!" he would simper, his greedylittle eye trying to glean revelations from the women's faces as theytook the letters from his hand. On the morning after young Gourlay came home for the last time, Postiewas pelting along with his quick thudding step near the head of theSquare, when whom should he meet but Sandy Toddle, still unwashed andyawning from his bed. It was early, and the streets were empty, exceptwhere in the distance the bent figure of an old man was seen hirplingoff to his work, first twisting round stiffly to cock his eye right andleft at the sky, to forecast the weather for the day. From the chimneys the fair white spirlies of reek were rising in thepure air. The Gourlays did not seem to be stirring yet; there was nosmoke above their roof-tree to show that there was life within. Postie jerked his thumb across his shoulder at the House with the GreenShutters. "There'll be chynges there the day, " he said, chirruping. "Wha-at!" Toddle breathed in a hoarse whisper of astonishment, "sequesteration?" and he stared, big-eyed, with his brows arched. "Something o' that kind, " said the post carelessly. "I'm no' weelacquaint wi' the law-wers' lingo. " "Will't be true, think ye?" said Sandy. "God, it's true, " said the post. "I had it frae Jock Hutchison, theclerk in Skeighan Goudie's. He got fou yestreen on the road to Barbieand blabbed it--he'll lose his job, yon chap, if he doesna keep hismouth shut. True! ay, it's true! There's damn the doubt o' that. " Toddle corrugated his mouth to whistle. He turned and stared at theHouse with the Green Shutters, gawcey and substantial on its terrace, beneath the tremulous beauty of the dawn. There was a glorious sunrise. "God!" he said, "what a downcome for that hoose!" "Is it no'?" chuckled Postie. "Whose account is it on?" said Toddle. "Oh, I don't ken, " said Postie carelessly. "He had creditors a' owre thecountry. I was ay bringing the big blue envelopes from different airts. Don't mention this, now, " he added, his finger up, his eye significant;"it shouldn't be known at a-all. " He was unwilling that Toddle shouldget an unfair start, and spoil his own market for the news. "_Nut_ me!" Toddle assured him grandly, shaking his head as who shouldconduct of that kind a thousand miles off--"_nut_ me, Post! I'll nobreathe it to a living soul. " The post clattered in to Mrs. Gourlay's back door. He had a heavyunder-stamped letter on which there was threepence to pay. He might pickup an item or two while she was getting him the bawbees. He knocked, but there was no answer. "The sluts!" said he, with a humph of disgust; "they're still on theirbacks, it seems. " He knocked again. The sound of his knuckles on the door rang outhollowly, as if there was nothing but emptiness within. While he waitedhe turned on the step and looked idly at the courtyard. The inwalledlittle place was curiously still. At last in his impatience he turned the handle, when to his surprise thedoor opened, and let him enter. The leaves of a Bible fluttered in the fresh wind from the door. A largelamp was burning on the table. Its big yellow flame was unnatural in thesunshine. "H'mph!" said Postie, tossing his chin in disgust, "little wondereverything gaed to wreck and ruin in this house! The slovens have leftthe lamp burning the whole nicht lang. But less licht'll serve them now, I'm thinking!" A few dead ashes were sticking from the lower bars of the range. Postiecrossed to the fireplace and looked down at the fender. That bright spotwould be the place, now, where auld Gourlay killed himself. The womenmust have rubbed it so bright in trying to get out the blood. It was anuncanny thing to keep in the house that. He stared at the fatal spottill he grew eerie in the strange stillness. "Guidwife!" he cried, "Jennet! Don't ye hear?" They did not hear, it seemed. "God!" said he, "they sleep sound after all their misfortunes!" At last--partly in impatience, and partly from a wish to pry--he openedthe door of the parlour. "_Oh, my God!_" he screamed, leaping back, andwith his bulky bag got stuck in the kitchen door, in his desperate hurryto be gone. He ran round to the Square in front, and down to Sandy Toddle, who wasinforming a bunch of unshaven bodies that the Gourlays were"sequestered. " "Oh, my God, Post, what have you seen, to bring that look to your eyes?What have you seen, man? Speak, for God's sake! What is it?" The post gasped and stammered; then "Ooh!" he shivered in horror, andcovered his eyes, at a sudden picture in his brain. "Speak!" said a man solemnly. "They have--they have--they have a' killed themselves, " stammered thepostman, pointing to the Gourlays. Their loins were loosened beneath them. The scrape of their feet on theroad, as they turned to stare, sounded monstrous in the silence. No mandared to speak. They gazed with blanched faces at the House with theGreen Shutters, sitting dark there and terrible beneath the radiant archof the dawn. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.