by Unknown
There was a terrible want of spirit about Grinder Queery. Boys used to climb on to his stone roof with clods of damp earth in their hands, which they dropped down the chimney. Mysy was bedridden by this time, and the smoke threatened to choke her; so Cree, instead of chasing his persecutors, bargained with them. He gave them fly-hooks which he had busked himself, and when he had nothing left to give he tried to flatter them into dealing gently with Mysy by talking to them as men. One night it went through the town that Mysy now lay in bed all day listening for her summons to depart. According to her ideas this would come in the form of a tapping at the window, and their intention was to forestall the spirit. Dite Gow’s boy, who is now a grown man, was hoisted up to one of the little windows, and he has always thought of Mysy since as he saw her then for the last time. She lay sleeping, so far as he could see, and Cree sat by the fireside looking at her.
Every one knew that there was seldom a fire in that house unless Mysy was cold. Cree seemed to think that the fire was getting low. In the little closet, which, with the kitchen, made up his house, was a corner shut off from the rest of the room by a few boards, and behind this he kept his peats. There was a similar receptacle for potatoes in the kitchen. Cree wanted to get another peat for the fire without disturbing Mysy. First he took off his boots, and made for the peats on tiptoe. His shadow was cast on the bed, however, so he next got down on his knees and crawled softly into the closet. With the peat in his hands, he returned in the same way, glancing every moment at the bed where Mysy lay. Though Tammy Gow’s face was pressed against a broken window he did not hear Cree putting that peat on the fire. Some say that Mysy heard, but pretended not to do so for her son’s sake, that she realized the deception he played on her, and had not the heart to undeceive him. But it would be too sad to believe that. The boys left Cree alone that night.
The old weaver lived on alone in that solitary house after Mysy left him, and by and by the story went abroad that he was saving money. At first no one believed this except the man who told it, but there seemed after all to be something in it. You had only to hit Cree’s trouser pocket to hear the money chinking, for he was afraid to let it out of his clutch. Those who sat on dykes with him when his day’s labour was over said that the weaver kept his hand all the time in his pocket, and that they saw his lips move as he counted his hoard by letting it slip through his fingers. So there were boys who called “Miser Queery” after him instead of Grinder, and asked him whether he was saving up to keep himself from the workhouse.
But we had all done Cree wrong. It came out on his deathbed what he had been storing up his money for. Grinder, according to the doctor, died of getting a good meal from a friend of his earlier days after being accustomed to starve on potatoes and a very little oatmeal indeed. The day before he died this friend sent him half a sovereign, and when Grinder saw it he sat up excitedly in his bed and pulled his corduroys from beneath his pillow. The woman who, out of kindness, attended him in his last illness, looked on curiously, while Cree added the sixpences and coppers in his pocket to the half-sovereign. After all they only made some two pounds, but a look of peace came into Cree’s eyes as he told the woman to take it all to a shop in the town. Nearly twelve years previously Jamie Lownie had lent him two pounds, and though the money was never asked for, it preyed on Cree’s mind that he was in debt. He payed off all he owed, and so Cree’s life was not, I think, a failure.
CHAPTER VIII
THE COURTING OF T’NOWHEAD’S BELL
For two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam’l Dickie was thinking of courting T’nowhead’s Bell, and that if little Sanders Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation of Alexander Alexander) went in for her he might prove a formidable rival. Sam’l was a weaver in the Tenements, and Sanders a coal-carter whose trade mark was a bell on his horse’s neck that told when coals were coming. Being something of a public man, Sanders had not perhaps so high a social position as Sam’l, but he had succeeded his father on the coal-cart, while the weaver had already tried several trades. It had always been against Sam’l, too, that once when the kirk was vacant he had advised the selection of the third minister who preached for it on the ground that it came expensive to pay a large number of candidates. The scandal of the thing was hushed up, out of respect for his father, who was a Godfearing man, but Sam’l was known by it in Lang Tammas’s circle. The coal-carter was called Little Sanders to distinguish him from his father, who was not much more than half his size. He had grown up with the name, and its inapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam’l’s mother had been more far-seeing than Sanders’s. Her man had been called Sammy all his life because it was the name he got as a boy, so when their eldest son was born she spoke of him as Sam’l while still in his cradle. The neighbours imitated her, and thus the young man had a better start in life than had been granted to Sammy, his father.
It was Saturday evening — the night in the week when Auld Licht young men fell in love. Sam’l Dickie, wearing a blue glengarry bonnet with a red ball on the top, came to the door of a one-storey house in the Tenements and stood there wriggling, for he was in a suit of tweed for the first time that week, and did not feel at one with them. When his feeling of being a stranger to himself wore off he looked up and down the road, which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking his way over the puddles, crossed to his father’s henhouse and sat down on it. He was now on his way to the square.
Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dyke knitting stockings, and Sam’l looked at her for a time.
“Is’t yersel, Eppie?” he said at last
“It’s a’ that,” said Eppie.
“Hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” asked Sam’l.
“We’re juist aff an’ on,” replied Eppie, cautiously.
There was not much more to say, but as Sam’l sidled off the henhouse he murmured politely, “Ay, ay.” In another minute he would have been fairly started, but Eppie resumed the conversation.
“Sam’l,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, “ye can tell Lisbeth Fargus I’ll likely be drappin’ in on her aboot Mununday or Teisday.”
Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Tammas McQuhatty, better known as T’nowhead, which was the name of his farm. She was thus Bell’s mistress.
Sam’l leant against the henhouse as if all his desire to depart had gone.
“Hoo d’ye kin I’ll be at the T’nowhead the nicht?” he asked, grinning in anticipation.
“Ou, I’se warrant ye’ll be after Bell,” said Eppie.
“Am no sae sure o’ that,” said Sam’l, trying to leer. He was enjoying himself now.
“Am no sure o’ that,” he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in stitches.
“Sam’l?”
“Ay.”
“Ye’ll be speirin’ her sune noo, I dinna doot?”
This took Sam’l, who had only been courting Bell for a year or two, a little aback.
“Hoo d’ye mean, Eppie?” he asked.
“Maybe ye’ll do’t the nicht.”
“Na, there’s nae hurry,” said Sam’l.
“Weel, we’re a’ coontin’ on’t, Sam’l.”
“Gae wa wi’ ye.”
“What for no’?”
“Gae wa wi’ ye,” said Sam’l again.
“Bell’s get an’ fond o’ ye, Sam’l.”
“Ay,” said Sam’l.
“But am dootin’ ye’re a fell billy wi’ the lasses.”
“Ay, oh, I d’na kin, moderate, moderate,” said Sam’l, in high delight.
“I saw ye,” said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth, “gae’in on terr’ble wi Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday.”
“We was juist amoosin’ oorsels,” said Sam’l.
“It’ll be nae amoosement to Mysy,” said Eppie, “gin ye brak her heart.”
“Losh, Eppie,” said Sam’l, “I didna think o’ that.”
“Ye maun kin weel, Sam’l, ‘at there’s mony a lass wid jump at ye.”
“For ye’re a dainty chield to look at, Sam’l.”
“Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d’na kin am onything by the ordinar.”
“Ye mayna be,” said Eppie, “but lasses doesna do to be ower partikler.”
Sam’l resented this, and prepared to depart again.
“Ye’ll no tell Bell that?” he asked, anxiously.
“Tell her what?”
“Aboot me an’ Mysy.”
“We’ll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam’l.”
“No ‘at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna think twice o’ tellin her mysel.”
“The Lord forgie ye for leein’, Sam’l,” said Eppie, as he disappeared down Tammy Tosh’s close. Here he came upon Henders Webster.
“Ye’re late, Sam’l,” said Henders.
“What for?”
“Ou, I was thinkin’ ye wid be gaen the length o’ T’nowhead the nicht, an’ I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin’s wy there an oor syne.”
“Did ye?” cried Sam’l, adding craftily, “but it’s naething to me.”
“Tod, lad,” said Henders, “gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders’ll be carryin’ her off.”
Sam’l flung back his head and passed on.
“Sam’l!” cried Henders after him.
“Ay,” said Sam’l, wheeling round.
“Gie Bell a kiss frae me.”
The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam’l began to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came upon Henders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then he slapped his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to Will’um Byars, who went into the house and thought it over.
There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square, which was lit by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger’s cart. Now and again a staid young woman passed through the square with a basket on her arm, and if she had lingered long enough to give them time, some of the idlers would have addressed her. As it was, they gazed after her, and then grinned to each other.
“Ay, Sam’l,” said two or three young men, as Sam’l joined them beneath the town clock.
“Ay, Davit,” replied Sam’l.
This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, and it was not to be expected that they would let this opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam’l joined them he knew what was in store for him.
“Was ye lookin’ for T’nowhead’s Bell, Sam’l?” asked one.
“Or mebbe ye was wantin’ the minister?” suggested another, the same who had walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not married her after all.
Sam’l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughed good-naturedly.
“Ondoobtedly she’s a snod bit crittur,” said Davit, archly.
“An’ michty clever wi’ her fingers,” added Jamie Deuchars.
“Man, I’ve thocht o’ makkin’ up to Bell mysel,” said Pete Ogle. “Wid there be ony chance, think ye, Sam’l?”
“I’m thinkin’ she widna hae ye for her first, Pete,” replied Sam’l, in one of those happy flashes that come to some men, “but there’s nae sayin’ but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi.’”
The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Though Sam’l did not set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was notorious that he could say a cutting thing once in a way.
“Did ye ever see Bell reddin up?” asked Pete, recovering from his overthrow. He was a man who bore no malice.
“It’s a sicht,” said Sam’l, solemnly.
“Hoo will that be?” asked Jamie Deuchars.
“It’s weel worth yer while,” said Pete, “to ging atower to the T’nowhead an’ see. Ye’ll mind the closed-in beds i’ the kitchen? Ay, weel, they’re a fell spoilt crew, T’nowhead’s litlins, an’ no that aisy to manage. Th’ ither lasses Lisbeth’s hae’n had a michty trouble wi’ them. When they war i’ the middle o’ their reddin up the bairns wid come tumlin’ about the floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash lang wi’ them. Did she, Sam’l?”
“She did not,” said Sam’l, dropping into a fine mode of speech to add emphasis to his remark.
“I’ll tell ye what she did,” said Pete to the others. “She juist lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an’ flung them into the coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an’ keepit them there till the floor was dry.”
“Ay, man, did she so?” said Davit, admiringly.
“I’ve seen her do’t mysel,” said Sam’l.
“There’s no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o’ Fetter Lums,” continued Pete.
“Her mither tocht her that,” said Sam’l; “she was a gran’ han’ at the bakin’, Kitty Ogilvy.”
“I’ve heard say,” remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as not to tie himself down to anything, “‘at Bell’s scones is equal to Mag Lunan’s.”
“So they are,” said Sam’l, almost fiercely.
“I kin she’s a neat han’ at singein’ a hen,” said Pete.
“An’ wi’t a’,” said Davit, “she’s a snod, canty bit stocky in her Sabbath claes.”
“If onything, thick in the waist,” suggested Jamie.
“I dinna see that,” said Sam’l.
“I d’na care for her hair either,” continued Jamie, who was very nice in his tastes; “something mair yallowchy wid be an improvement.”
“A’body kins,” growled Sam’l, “‘at black hair’s the bonniest.”
The others chuckled.
“Puir Sam’l!” Pete said.
Sam’l not being certain whether this should be received with a smile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This was position one with him for thinking things over.
Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing a helpmate for themselves. One day a young man’s friends would see him mending the washing tub of a maiden’s mother. They kept the joke until Saturday night, and then he learned from them what he had been after. It dazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the idea, and they were then married. With a little help he fell in love just like other people.
Sam’l was going the way of the others, but he found it difficult to come to the point. He only went courting once a week, and he could never take up the running at the place where he left off the Saturday before. Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. His method of making up to Bell had been to drop in at T’nowhead on Saturday nights and talk with the farmer about the rinderpest.
The farm kitchen was Bell’s testimonial. Its chairs, tables, and stools were scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus’s sawmill boards, and the muslin blind on the window was starched like a child’s pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as energetic. Once Thrums had been overrun with thieves. It is now thought that there may have been only one, but he had the wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his repute that there were weavers who spoke of locking their doors when they went from home. He was not very skilful, however, being generally caught, and when they said they knew he was a robber he gave them their things back and went away. If they had given him time there is no doubt that he would have gone off with his plunder. One night he went to T’nowhead, and Bell, who slept in the kitchen, was wakened by the noise. She knew who it would be, so she rose and dressed herself, and went to look for him with a candle. The thief had not known what to do when he got in, and as it was very lonely he was glad to see Bell. She told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and would not let him out by the door until he had taken off his boots so as not to soil the carpet.
On this Saturday evening Sam’l stood his ground in the square, until by and by he found himself alone. There were other groups there still, but his circle had melted away. They went separately, and no one said goodnight. Each took himself off slowly, backing out of the group until he was fairly started.
Sam’l looked about him, an
d then, seeing that the others had gone, walked round the townhouse into the darkness of the brae that leads down and then up to the farm of T’nowhead.
To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know her ways and humour them. Sam’l, who was a student of women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he went through the rather ridiculous ceremony of knocking. Sanders Elshioner was also aware of this weakness of Lisbeth’s, but, though he often made up his mind to knock, the absurdity of the thing prevented his doing so when he reached the door. T’nowhead himself had never got used to his wife’s refined notions, and when any one knocked he always started to his feet, thinking there must be something wrong.
Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in.
“Sam’l,” she said.
“Lisbeth,” said Sam’l.
He shook hands with the farmer’s wife, knowing that she liked it, but only said, “Ay, Bell,” to his sweetheart, “Ay, T’nowhead,” to McQuhatty, and “It’s yersel, Sanders,” to his rival.
They were all sitting round the fire, T’nowhead, with his feet on the ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a stocking, while Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes.
“Sit into the fire, Sam’l,” said the farmer, not, however, making way for him.
“Na, na,” said Sam’l, “I’m to bide nae time.” Then he sat into the fire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke he answered her without looking round. Sam’l felt a little anxious. Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bell questions out of his own head, which was beyond Sam’l, and once he said something to her in such a low voice that the others could not catch it. T’nowhead asked curiously what it was, and Sanders explained that he had only said, “Ay, Bell, the morn’s the Sabbath.” There was nothing startling in this, but Sam’l did not like it. He began to wonder if he was too late, and had he seen his opportunity would have told Bell of a nasty rumour that Sanders intended to go over to the Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer.