he infused a lordly dignity, giving himself the air of a feudal ruler receiving tribute from his vassal. Always Perry had a heap of gleaming silver, often a few gleaming sovereigns and sometimes a rustling bank note to be transferred to the master's deep, hip pocket; and, when this had been effected, Brodie would run a casual eye over the list of sales casual, inasmuch as he recognised that Perry would never cheat him it would, in his own words "have been a pity for the little runt had he tried" would slap his bulging pocket, assume his hat and, with a last curt command, be off, leaving Perry to close up and shutter the shop.
But, to-night, an unusual air seemed to cling to Perry, giving him an aspect at once blurred and disconsolate. Usually he opened the cash drawer with a proud and subservient flourish, as though to say, "We may not be much, but this is what we've done for you to-day, Mr. Brodie, sir." Now, however, he pulled the drawer timidly open, with a faint deprecating twitch.
"A very quiet day, sir," he said meekly.
"The weather's been good," remonstrated Brodie testily. "What have you been playin' at? There's been plenty of folks about."
"Oh! There's been a stir on the streets," replied Perry, "but quite a number that's to say, a few have gone in " He faltered. "They had an attractive window," he concluded lamely.
Brodie looked down at the drawer. Only six, miserable silver shillings lay in the till.
IV
THE Levenford Philosophical Club was in convocation. Although to-night the session was by no means a plenary one, the room was comfortably filled by smoke and by a gathering of six members who, ranged in comfortable chairs around the cordial fire which blazed upon the hearth, philosophised in this congenial atmosphere at their ease. Of those present, two were engaged upon a silent game of draughts, easy, harmonious, relaxed, whilst the others lay back, smoked, talked, and wooed the inspiration of worthy thoughts by frequent, comforting sips of their grog.
The conversation was sporadic, the pauses, despite the choice richness of the language employed, sometimes more pregnant than the actual spoken words, the wave of a pipe more pungent than a pithy adjective, the glances of the members abstract, cogitative and intellectually remote. Wearing modestly the distinction of their higher cerebration, they sat within the hallowed precincts of the club the rallying point of all these honest burghers in Levenford who might claim to be more notable than their fellow men and, in the consciousness of their distinction, were at least content. To have achieved this club was, in itself, a feat which immediately conferred a cachet upon these happy individuals and rendered each the envy of less fortunate beings. To these the member would remark, of an evening, with, perchance, a nonchalant yawn, "Well! I think I'll away down to the club. There's a bit discussion on the night", and saunter off, whilst jealous eyes followed him down the street. To outsiders, those not of the elect, the social prestige of the club loomed largely, but so, also, did the suggestion of its profound intellectual significance, for the sonorous name Philosophical breathed of the rarer and more refined realms of pure reason.
True, a classical master who had come to the Levenford Academy, bearing the letters of a degree of Oxford University after his name, had remarked to a colleague, "I was keen to join when I heard the name but to my disgust, I discovered it was nothing more than a smoking and drinking clique."
What did he know, the ignorant English clown? Was he unaware of the six lectures, followed by lengthy debates, which took place at regular intervals during the winter? Had he not seen the neatly printed syllabus, which, like an amulet, reposed invariably in each member's top, right-hand, waistcoat pocket, containing the titles of this year's subjects of information and discussion? Had he but chosen he might have cast his grudging eyes upon such profound themes as:
"Our Immortal Bard with Readings,"
"The Homing Pigeon in Health and Sickness,"
"The Growth of Shipbuilding in the Royal Borough on the Clyde,"
"Scottish Wit and Humour with Local Anecdotes," or even,
"From Rivet-boy to Provost the Life Story of the Late Respected
Mathias Gloag of Levenford."
Such, indeed, were the weighty lectures to be delivered, but if, on these evenings when the associates' brains were not taxed by these deep matters, and their minds disengaged from solving the problems of race and nation, some trifling relaxation occurred what disgrace lay in a gossip or a smoke, a game of the dambrod or even whist? And, as Phemie's tidy house was convenient to the back door, what harm was it to send around occasionally for a bit glass or even to adjourn at times to the "wee back parlour?"
Such arguments were, of course, unanswerable! It was in addition, the function and practice of this unofficial town council to discuss in detail and sit in deliberation upon the people of the Borough and their affairs. The ramifications of this subsidiary branch of their philosophising ranged from such diverse matters as the shrewish temper of Gibson's wife to the appropriate remonstration to be made to Blair of the Main's Farm regarding the insanitary propensities of his cows upon the public highway; and a singularly reassuring feature, speaking volumes for Levenford equity, was the fact that the very members themselves had no prerogative or privilege immunising them from discussion by their fellow commentators. To-night, James Brodie was the subject of the discussion initiated by a chance glance at the empty chair in the corner, a contemplative pause, and the remark:
"Brodie's late to-night. I wonder will he be comin'."
"He'll be here, right enough," remarked Provost Gordon. "I've never known him so regular. He maun keep up his morale, ye ken."
He looked round for approval at the use of this appropriate and noble-sounding word. "What I mean to infer," he explained, "is that he's got to put a face on things now, or else go under a' thegether."
The others sucked at their pipes and nodded silently. One of the draughts players moved a man, then looked up reflectively into the warm aromatic air, and said:
"Dod! time passes like a flash! It must be nearly a year now since he flung out that daughter o' his, on the night o' the big storm."
Paxton, who had the reputation of a head for figures, remarked:
"It'll be a year exactly in a fortnight's time; but it micht be a single day for all that Levenford's seen o' Mary Brodie since then. I aye maintained, and I still maintain, that it was a bitter cruel thing that James Brodie did that night."
"Where is the lassock now?" queried some one.
"Weel," responded Paxton, "the story was that the Foyles of Darroch got her a position; but that's a' nonsense. She went off all by herself. The doctor wished to help her but she just up and away. It's said now that she's got a post in a big house in London nothin’ more nor less than a servant she would be puir thing. The Foyles didna do a thing for her afore they went back to Ireland."
"That's right' said the second draughts player; "old Foyle was fair broken up by the loss o' that boy o' his. 'Twas an awfu' thing, and no mistake, that Tay Bridge disaster. I'll never forget that night. I had been out at the guid sister's and had to get back hame in the teeth o' the wind, when a flyin' slate skiffed my ear by an inch. It nearly took ma heid off."
"That wad have been a worse calamity to the town than the loss o' the bridge, John," sniggered Grierson from his corner. "We would need to ha' put ye up a braw monument at the Cross, like the braw new Livingstone statue in George Square up in the city. Think what ye've missed. If it had struck ye, man, ye would have been another o' Scotland's heroes."
"Weel, the new bridge maun be a bit stronger before they get me to gang across it. 'Twas a perfect scandal that a' they good lives were flung awa'. I contend there should have been a punishment for them that was to blame," said the first draughts player, covering the discomfiture of his companion.
"Man! Ye canna punish the Almighty," drawled Grierson: " 'twas an act of God, and ye canna claim damages off Him at least not successfully."
"Wheesht, man, Grierson," admonished the Provost by virtue of his position. "Watch that tong
ue o' yours; that's downright blasphemy ye're talkin'."
"Na! Na! Provost," soothed Grierson. "It's juist the law a wee bit o' the law, ye ken. No offence to the company, or the Almighty, or yourself," he added, with a leer.
There was an uncomfortable pause, when it looked as if the harmony of the discussion might be destroyed, but eventually the Provost continued:
"Brodie maun be losing trade hand over fist these days. I never see a soul in his shop."
"The prices the Mungo Company's sellin' at wad empty anybody's shop that tried to compete wi' them," said Paxton, with some show of sympathy. "They've made up their minds to feenish him first and make their profits after. He's got on the wrang side o' the fence a' thegether. It looks to me gey like ruin."
"Ruin is the richt word," drawled Grierson, who from his corner looked knowingly as if he could, if he chose, disclose a large, ripe plum of information on the subject.
"But he maun be a warm man though, Brodie. He's aye free o' his money splashin' it about like water, spendin' it on onything that might take his fancy. He has the best o' everything, and then ye wad think that wasna good enough for him. Look at his dress, look at his braw new tie-pin and signet ring, and besides," the speaker looked around cautiously before he uttered the next words, "look at his graund country castle." A slight smirk seemed to traverse the entire party and covert glances of well-subdued amusement were exchanged.
"Look at his auld wife's boots, her elegant clothes and braw appearance," replied Grierson. "Look at his bank balance his wee Nessie was a fortnight late wi' her fees at the Academy this quarter. Look at the flicker in his proud eye when he thinks ye Ye not watchin' him. I tell you that the big, big man that he thinks he is is beginnin' to feel a wee bittie vexed about things." An intense undercurrent of innuendo lay behind the words as he continued, "I may be wrong but, in my humble opinion, I consider that James Brodie is goin' through the worst time o' his life. And if he's not careful, he'll be down where he's flung many another man right down in the gutter!"
"Ay, he's an awfu' man to make enemies. Speakin' o' the gutter, though, I maun tell you this one." Paxton took a few reflective draws at his pipe. "I was passin' Brodie's shop the other Saturday night when a kind o' commotion stopped me." He puffed again twice. "There was a big, drunken street worker in the shop, fu' as a whelk, and fu' o' his week's wages - in the mood to fling out the pound notes like a harrier's trail I saw the roll o' notes in his hand and he stood there swayin' afore Brodie, ordering a couple o' hats and a couple o' bonnets, and this and that and goodness knows a' what. He was in the mood to buy up the whole shop, ay and pay for 't too. Brodie, and God knows he must have needed the money sorely, stood glarin' at him out o' his starin' red eye." Reaching the climax of his story he sucked interminably at his pipe, before removing it, pointing it emphatically, and proceeding. " 'If ye can't say 'please’ when ye address me,' Brodie was snarlin', 'then ye'll get nothing here. Other places,' he sneered, 'might stand that style o' thing. Go there if ye choose, but if ye come to me ye'll behave yourself or get out.' I didna hear what the other said in reply, but it must have outraged Brodie frightful, for he louped the counter and gripped the other's neck, and before ye could say knife had flung him out o' the shop right into the dirty gutter, where he lay, knocked stupid, at my feet."
A pregnant pause succeeded the anecdote.
"Ay," sighed the first draughts player at last, "he has an uncommon temper. His pride is fair terrifyin’ now. It's his worst enemy. He used no' to be so conspicuous in that respect, but of late years it's fair run awa' wi' him. He's as proud as Lucifer."
"And 'tis my belief he'll have the same fall," inserted Grierson. "He's bloated with his own vanity ! It's worked on him till it's like a very mania."
"And the rideeclous cause o't too!" said Paxton, in a low cautious tone; "that claimin' kinship wi' the Wintons! I'll swear he thinks he should be the Earl himself. 'Tis strange too, the way he hides it, yet feasts on it."
"They wouldna own him. Brodie may have the name. He may look like the Wintons. But what's in a name and what's in a likeness?" said the first draughts player. "He hasna a shadow o' proof."
"I'm afeared what proof there was had a big, black bar through it," remarked Grierson judicially; "for I'm gey and certain that onything that might have happened lang back took place the wrang side o' the blanket. That's why our friend willna blatter it out. That's maybe the bonnie kinship."
"'Tis not only kinship that he claims," said Provost Gordon slowly. "Na! Na! The disease has swelled beyond that. I hardly like to come over it to ye and 'deed I'm hardly sure myself, but I’ll mention no names and ye mustna repeat it. I had it from a man who saw James Brodie when he was the worse o' liquor, mad ravin’
drunk. There's no' many has seen that," he continued, "for he's a close man in they things. But this night his dour tongue was loosed and he talked and "
"Another time, Provost," cried Paxton suddenly. "Wheesht, man, wheesht."
"Talk o' the deevil."
"About that new trap o' yours now, Provost, will ye "
Brodie had entered the room. He came in heavily, blinking at the sudden transition from the darkness to the lighted room and frowning from the bitter suspicion that he had been at the moment of his entry the object of their backbiting tongues. His dour, hard face had to-night a pale grimness, as he looked around the company, nodding his head silently several times in salutation, more in the manner of a challenge than a greeting.
"Come away in, come away in," remarked Grierson smoothly; "we were just wonderin' if the rain that was threatenin' had come on yet."
"It's still dry," said Brodie gruffly. His voice was flat, had lost its old resonant timbre, was, like the brooding mask of his face, inexpressive of anything but stoic endurance. He took out his pipe and began to fill it. An old man, the messenger and factotum of the club, dignified as such by a green baize apron, put his head around the door in speechless enquiry, and to him Brodie shortly remarked,
"The usual."
A momentary silence descended upon the group whilst the old man retreated, was absent, returned shamblingly with a large whisky for Brodie, then finally departed. The Provost felt it his duty to break the awkward stillness which had descended upon the group and, looking at Brodie, he said, in a kindly tone, moved in spite of himself by the other's ghastly look:
"Well, Brodie man, how are things with ye? How's the world waggin' now?"
"Oh! Fair, Provost! very fair," replied Brodie slowly, "Nothing to complain about." The grim assumption of indifference in his tone was almost tragic and deceived none of the assembly, but Gordon, with an assumption of heartiness, retorted:
"That's fine! That's the ticket! We're expectin' every day to see the Mungo Company wi' the shutters up.”
Brodie accepted this polite fiction and the spurious murmur of assent from the group which followed it, not with the blatant satisfaction which it would have provoked six months ago but, in the face of his present position, with a blank indifference which the others did not fail to observe. They might discuss him freely in his absence, criticise, condemn, or even vilify him, but when he was in their midst their strongly expressed feelings weakened sensibly under the shadow of his actual presence and they were impelled, often against their wish, to make some flattering remark which they did not mean and which they had not intended to utter.
He was a man whom they thought wiser to humour; better to keep on the right side of, safer to propitiate than to enrage; but now, as they noted his moody humour and slyly watched his oppressed demeanour, they wondered if his iron control might be at last beginning to fail him.
A gentle, insinuating voice from the corner, addressing the company at large, broke into their general air of meditation.
"If you Ye thinkin' o' the Company's shutters goin' up you'll a' have to bide a wee na, na, they'll not be shuttin' up shop for a bit, anyway not for a bittie," drawled Grierson.
"How's that?" queried some one.
; "Oh! Just a little private information," answered Grierson complacently, pursing his lips, placing his finger tips together and beaming on the company, especially upon Brodie, with an aspect of secret yet benevolent comprehension. Brodie looked up quickly from beneath his tufted eyebrows, not fearing the man but dreading, from his past experience, the sly, meek attitude which betokened in the other a deep and calculating venom.
"What is it then, man?" asked Paxton. "Out with it!"
But now that he had thoroughly aroused their curiosity, Grierson was in no haste to divulge his secret information and still smiled sleekly, keeping them on tenterhooks, tantalising them with the plum which would not drop from his lips until it was juicy with ripeness.
"Odd! You wouldna be interested," he purred. " Tis just a lettle piece o' local news I happened to get wind o' privately."
"Do you know yourself, Brodie?" asked Paxton, in an effort to terminate the irritating procrastination.
Brodie shook his head mutely, thinking bitterly how Grierson got his finger first into every pie, how he was always the last to remove it.
"It's just a wee, insignificant bit of information," Grierson said, with increased satisfaction.
"Then out with it, ye sly deevil!"
"Well, if you must know, the district manager o' Mungo's is goin' away, now that they're so firmly established. I'm told they're doin’ uncommon weel." He smiled blandly at Brodie and continued, "Ay! They've made a clever move too, in offering the vacant post and a real fine post it is an' all to a Levenford man. He's been offered it and he's accepted it."
"Who is 't then?" cried several voices.
"Oh, he's a real deservin' chap, is the new local manager o' the Mungo Company."
"What's his name then?"
"It's our friend's assistant, none other than young Peter Perry," drawled Grierson, with a triumphant wave of his hand towards Brodie.
Hatter's Castle Page 28