A Window In Thrums by James Matthew Barrie
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER I THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER II ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER III PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER IV WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER V A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER VI DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER VII THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER VIII A CLOAK WITH BEADS
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER IX THE POWER OF BEAUTY
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER X A MAGNUM OPUS
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XI THE GHOST CRADLE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XII THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XIII MAKING THE BEST OF IT
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XIV VISITORS AT THE MANSE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XV HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XVI THE SON FROM LONDON
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XVII A HOME FOR GENIUSES
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XVIII LEEBY AND JAMIE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XIX A TALE OF A GLOVE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XX THE LAST NIGHT
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XXI JESS LEFT ALONE
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XXII JAMIE’S HOME-COMING
A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XIII MAKING THE BEST OF IT
Hendry had a way of resuming a conversation where he had left off the night before. He would revolve a topic in his mind, too, and then begin aloud, “He’s a queer ane,” or, “Say ye so?” which was at times perplexing. With the whole day before them, none of the family was inclined to waste strength in talk; but one morning when he was blowing the steam off his porridge, Hendry said, suddenly—
“He’s hame again.”
The women-folk gave him time to say to whom he was referring, which he occasionally did as an after-thought. But he began to sup his porridge, making eyes as it went steaming down his throat.
“I dinna ken wha ye mean,” Jess said; while Leeby, who was on her knees rubbing the hearthstone a bright blue, paused to catch her father’s answer.
“Jeames Geogehan,” replied Hendry, with the horn spoon in his mouth.
Leeby turned to Jess for enlightenment.
“Geogehan,” repeated Jess; “what, no little Jeames ‘at ran awa?”
“Ay, ay, but he’s a muckle stoot man noo, an’ gey grey.”
“Ou, I dinna wonder at that. It’s a guid forty year since he ran off.”
“I waurant ye couldna say exact hoo lang syne it is?”
Hendry asked this question because Jess was notorious for her memory, and he gloried in putting it to the test.
“Let’s see,” she said.
“But wha is he?” asked Leeby. “I never kent nae Geogehans in Thrums.”
“Weel, it’s forty-one years syne come Michaelmas,” said Jess.
“Hoo do ye ken?”
“I ken fine. Ye mind his father had been lickin’ ‘im, an’ he ran awa in a passion, cryin’ oot ‘at he would never come back? Ay, then, he had a pair o’ boots on at the time, an’ his father ran after ‘im an’ took them aff ‘im. The boots was the last ‘at Davie Mearns made, an’ it’s fully ane-an-forty years since Davie fell ower the quarry on the day o’ the hill-market. That settles’t. Ay, an’ Jeames ‘ll be turned fifty noo, for he was comin’ on for ten year auld at that time. Ay, ay, an’ he’s come back. What a state Eppie ‘ll be in!”
“Tell’s wha he is, mother.”
“Od, he’s Eppie Guthrie’s son. Her man was William Geogehan, but he died afore you was born, an’ as Jeames was their only bairn, the name o’ Geogehan’s been a kind o’ lost sicht o’. Hae ye seen him, Hendry? Is’t true ‘at he made a fortune in thae far-awa countries? Eppie ‘ll be blawin’ aboot him richt?”
“There’s nae doubt aboot the siller,” said Hendry, “for he drove in a carriage frae Tilliedrum, an’ they say he needs a closet to hing his claes in, there’s sic a heap o’ them. Ay, but that’s no a’ he’s brocht, na, far frae a’.”
“Dinna gang awa till ye’ve telt’s a’ aboot ‘im. What mair has he brocht?”
“He’s brocht a wife,” said Hendry, twisting his face curiously.
“There’s naething surprisin’ in that.”
“Ay, but there is, though. Ye see, Eppie had a letter frae ‘im no mony weeks syne, sayin’ ‘at he wasna deid, an’ he was comin’ hame wi’ a fortune. He said, too, ‘at he was a single man, an’ she’s been boastin’ aboot that, so you may think ‘at she got a surprise when he hands a wuman oot o’ the carriage.”
“An’ no a pleasant ane,” said Jess. “Had he been leein’?”
“Na, he was single when he wrote, an’ single when he got the length o’ Tilliedrum. Ye see, he fell in wi’ the lassie there, an’ juist gaed clean aft his heid aboot her. After managin’ to withstand the women o’ foreign lands for a’ thae years, he gaed fair skeer aboot this stocky at Tilliedrum. She’s juist seventeen years auld, an’ the auld fule sits wi’ his airm round her in Eppie’s hoose, though they’ve been mairit this fortnicht.”
“The doited fule,” said Jess.
Jeames Geogehan and his bride became the talk of Thrums, and Jess saw them from her window several times. The first time she had only eyes for the jacket with fur round it worn by Mrs. Geogehan, but subsequently she took in Jeames.
“He’s tryin’ to carry’t aff wi’ his heid in the air,” she said, “but I can see he’s fell shamefaced, an’ nae wonder. Ay, I’se uphaud he’s mair ashamed o’t in his heart than she is. It’s an awful like thing o’ a lassie to marry an auld man. She had dune’t for the siller. Ay, there’s pounds’ worth o’ fur aboot that jacket.”
“They say she had siller hersel,” said Tibbie Birse.
“Dinna tell me,” said Jess. “I ken by her wy o’ carryin’ hersel ‘at she never had a jacket like that afore.”
Eppie was not the only person in Thrums whom this marriage enraged. Stories had long been alive of Jeames’s fortune, which his cousins’ children were some day to divide among themselves, and as a consequence these young men and women looked on Mrs. Geogehan as a thief.
“Dinna bring the wife to our hoose, Jeames,” one of them told him, “for we would be fair ashamed to hae her. We used to hae a respect for yer name, so we couldna look her i’ the face.”
“She’s mair like yer dochter than yer wife,” said another.
“Na,” said a third, “naebody could mistak her for yer dochter. She’s ower young-like for that.”
“Wi’ the siller you’ll leave her, Jeames,” Tammas Haggart told him, “she’ll get a younger man for her second venture.”
All this was very trying to the newly-married man, who was thirsting for sympathy. Hendry was the person whom he took into his confidence.
“It may hae been foolish at my time o’ life,” Hendry reported him to have said, “but I couldna help it. If they juist kent her better they couldna but see ‘at she’s a terrible takkin’ crittur.”
Jeames was generous; indeed he had come home with the intention of scattering largess. A beggar met him one day on the brae, and got a shilling from him. She was waving her arms triumphantly as she passed Hendry’s house, and Leeby got the story from her.
“Eh, he’s a fine man that, an’ a saft ane,” the woman said. “I juist speired at ‘im hoo his bonny wife was, an’ he oot wi’ a shillin’!”
Leeby did not keep this news to herself, and soon it was through the town. Jeames’s face began to brighten.
“They’re comin’ round to a mair sensible wy o’ lookin’ at things,” he told Hendry. “I was walkin’ wi’ the wife i’ the buryin’ ground yesterday, an’ we met Kitty McQueen. She was ane o’ the warst agin me at first, but she telt me i’ the buryin’ ground ‘at when a man mairit he should please ‘imsel. Oh, they’re comin’ round.”
What Kitty told Jess was—
“I minded o’ the tinkler wuman ‘at he gae a shillin’ to, so I thocht I would butter up at the auld fule too. Weel, I assure ye, I had nae suner said ‘at he was rale wise to marry wha he likit than he slips a pound note into my hand. Ou, Jess, we’ve ta’en the wrang wy wi’ Jeames. I’ve telt a’ my bairns ‘at if they meet him they’re to praise the wife terrible, an’ I’m far mista’en if that doesna mean five shillin’s to ilka ane o’ them.”
Jean Whamond got a pound note for saying that Jeames’s wife had an uncommon pretty voice, and Davit Lunan had ten shillings for a judicious word about her attractive manners. Tibbie Birse invited the newly-married couple to tea (one pound).
“They’re takkin’ to her, they’re takkin’ to her,” Jeames said, gleefully. “I kent they would come round in time. Ay, even my mother, ‘at was sae mad at first, sits for hours noo aside her, haudin’ her hand. They’re juist inseparable.”
The time came when we had Mr. and Mrs. Geogehan and Eppie to tea.
“It’s true enough,” Leeby ran ben to tell Jess, “‘at Eppie an’ the wife’s fond o’ ane another. I wouldna hae believed it o’ Eppie if I hadna seen it, but I assure ye they sat even at the tea-table haudin’ ane another’s hands. I waurant they’re doin’t this meenute.”
“I wasna born on a Sabbath,” retorted Jess. “Na, na, dinna tell me Eppie’s fond o’ her. Tell Eppie to come but to the kitchen when the tea’s ower.”
Jess and Eppie had half an hour’s conversation alone, and then our guests left.
“It’s a richt guid thing,” said Hendry, “‘at Eppie has ta’en sic a notion o’ the wife.”
“Ou, ay,” said Jess.
Then Hendry hobbled out of the house.
“What said Eppie to ye?” Leeby asked her mother.
“Juist what I expeckit,” Jess answered. “Ye see she’s dependent on Jeames, so she has to butter up at ‘im.”
“Did she say onything aboot haudin’ the wife’s hand sae fond-like?”
“Ay, she said it was an awfu’ trial to her, an’ ‘at it sickened her to see Jeames an’ the wife baith believin’ ‘at she likit to do’t.”