J. M. Barrie – A Window In Thrums

A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XX THE LAST NIGHT

“Juist another sax nichts, Jamie,” Jess would say, sadly. “Juist fower nichts noo, an’ you’ll be awa.” Even as she spoke seemed to come the last night.

The last night! Reserve slipped unheeded to the floor. Hendry wandered ben and but the house, and Jamie sat at the window holding his mother’s hand. You must walk softly now if you would cross that humble threshold. I stop at the door. Then, as now, I was a lonely man, and when the last night came the attic was the place for me.

This family affection, how good and beautiful it is. Men and maids love, and after many years they may rise to this. It is the grand proof of the goodness in human nature, for it means, that the more we see of each other the more we find that is lovable. If you would cease to dislike a man, try to get nearer his heart.

Leeby had no longer any excuse for bustling about. Everything was ready—too soon. Hendry had been to the fish-cadger in the square to get a bervie for Jamie’s supper, and Jamie had eaten it, trying to look as if it made him happier. His little box was packed and strapped, and stood terribly conspicuous against the dresser. Jess had packed it herself.

“Ye mauna trachle (trouble) yersel, mother,” Jamie said, when she had the empty box pulled toward her.

Leeby was wiser.

“Let her do’t,” she whispered, “it’ll keep her frae broodin’.”

Jess tied ends of yarn round the stockings to keep them in a little bundle by themselves. So she did with all the other articles.

“No ‘at it’s ony great affair,” she said, for on the last night they were all thirsting to do something for Jamie that would be a great affair to him.

“Ah, ye would wonder, mother,” Jamie said, “when I open my box an’ find a’thing tied up wi’ strings sae careful, it a’ comes back to me wi’ a rush wha did it, an’ am as fond o’ thae strings as though they were a grand present. There’s the pocky (bag) ye gae mi to keep sewin’ things in. I get the wifie I lodge wi’ to sew to me, but often when I come upon the pocky I sit an’ look at it.”

Two chairs were backed to the fire, with underclothing hanging upside down on them. From the string over the fireplace dangled two pairs of much-darned stockings.

“Ye’ll put on baith thae pair o’ stockin’s, Jamie,” said Jess, “juist to please me?”

When he arrived he had rebelled against the extra clothing.

“Ay, will I, mother?” he said now.

Jess put her hand fondly through his ugly hair. How handsome she thought him.

“Ye have a fine brow, Jamie,” she said. “I mind the day ye was born sayin’ to mysel ‘at ye had a fine brow.”

“But ye thocht he was to be a lassie, mother,” said Leeby.

“Na, Leeby, I didna. I kept sayin’ I thocht he would be a lassie because I was fleid he would be; but a’ the time I had a presentiment he would be a laddie. It was wi’ Joey deein’ sae sudden, an’ I took on sae terrible aboot ‘im ‘at I thocht all alang the Lord would gie me another laddie.”

“Ay, I wanted ‘im to be a laddie mysel,” said Hendry, “so as he could tak Joey’s place.”

Jess’s head jerked back involuntarily, and Jamie may have felt her hand shake, for he said in a voice out of Hendry’s hearing—

“I never took Joey’s place wi’ ye, mother.”

Jess pressed his hand tightly in her two worn palms, but she did not speak.

“Jamie was richt like Joey when he was a bairn,” Hendry said.

Again Jess’s head moved, but still she was silent.

“They were sae like,” continued Hendry, “‘at often I called Jamie by Joey’s name.”

Jess looked at her husband, and her mouth opened and shut.

“I canna mind ‘at you ever did that?” Hendry said.

She shook her head.

“Na,” said Hendry, “you never mixed them up. I dinna think ye ever missed Joey sae sair as I did.”

Leeby went ben, and stood in the room in the dark; Jamie knew why.

“I’ll just gang ben an’ speak to Leeby for a meenute,” he said to his mother; “I’ll no be lang.”

“Ay, do that, Jamie,” said Jess. “What Leeby’s been to me nae tongue can tell. Ye canna bear to hear me speak, I ken, o’ the time when Hendry an’ me’ll be awa, but, Jamie, when that time comes ye’ll no forget Leeby?”

“I winna, mother, I winna,” said Jamie. “There’ll never be a roof ower me ‘at’s no hers too.”

He went ben and shut the door. I do not know what he and Leeby said. Many a time since their earliest youth had these two been closeted together, often to make up their little quarrels in each other’s arms. They remained a long time in the room, the shabby room of which Jess and Leeby were so proud, and whatever might be their fears about their mother, they were not anxious for themselves. Leeby was feeling lusty and well, and she could not know that Jamie required to be reminded of his duty to the folk at home. Jamie would have laughed at the notion. Yet that woman in London must have been waiting for him even then. Leeby, who was about to die, and Jamie, who was to forget his mother, came back to the kitchen with a happy light on their faces. I have with me still the look of love they gave each other before Jamie crossed over to Jess.

“Ye’ll gang anower, noo, mother,” Leeby said, meaning that it was Jess’s bed-time.

“No yet, Leeby,” Jess answered, “I’ll sit up till the readin’s ower.”

“I think ye should gang, mother,” Jamie said, “an’ I’ll come an’ sit aside ye after ye’re i’ yer bed.”

“Ay, Jamie, I’ll no hae ye to sit aside me the morn’s nicht, an’ hap (cover) me wi’ the claes.”

“But ye’ll gang suner to yer bed, mother.”

“I may gang, but I winna sleep. I’ll aye be thinkin’ o’ ye tossin’ on the sea. I pray for ye a lang time ilka nicht, Jamie.”

“Ay, I ken.”

“An’ I pictur ye ilka hour o’ the day. Ye never gang hame through thae terrible streets at nicht but I’m thinkin’ o’ ye.”

“I would try no to be sae sad, mother,” said Leeby. “We’ve ha’en a richt fine time, have we no?”

“It’s been an awfu’ happy time,” said Jess. “We’ve ha’en a pleasantness in oor lives ‘at comes to few. I ken naebody ‘at’s ha’en sae muckle happiness one wy or another.”

“It’s because ye’re sae guid, mother,” said Jamie.

“Na, Jamie, am no guid ava. It’s because my fowk’s been sae guid, you an’ Hendry an’ Leeby an’ Joey when he was livin’. I’ve got a lot mair than my deserts.”

“We’ll juist look to meetin’ next year again, mother. To think o’ that keeps me up a’ the winter.”

“Ay, if it’s the Lord’s will, Jamie, but am gey dune noo, an’ Hendry’s fell worn too.”

Jamie, the boy that he was, said, “Dinna speak like that, mother,” and Jess again put her hand on his head.

“Fine I ken, Jamie,” she said, “‘at all my days on this earth, be they short or lang, I’ve you for a staff to lean on.”

Ah, many years have gone since then, but if Jamie be living now he has still those words to swallow.

By and by Leeby went ben for the Bible, and put it into Hendry’s hands. He slowly turned over the leaves to his favourite chapter, the fourteenth of John’s Gospel. Always, on eventful occasions, did Hendry turn to the fourteenth of John.

“Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in Me.

“In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.”

As Hendry raised his voice to read there was a great stillness in the kitchen. I do not know that I have been able to show in the most imperfect way what kind of man Hendry was. He was dense in many things, and the cleverness that was Jess’s had been denied to him. He had less book-learning than most of those with whom he passed his days, and he had little skill in talk. I have not known a man more easily taken in by persons whose speech had two faces. But a more simple, modest, upright man, there never was in Thrums, and I shall always revere his memory.

“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto Myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

The voice may have been monotonous. I have always thought that Hendry’s reading of the Bible was the most solemn and impressive I have ever heard. He exulted in the fourteenth of John, pouring it forth like one whom it intoxicated while he read. He emphasized every other word; it was so real and grand to him.

We went upon our knees while Hendry prayed, all but Jess, who could not. Jamie buried his face in her lap. The words Hendry said were those he used every night. Some, perhaps, would have smiled at his prayer to God that we be not puffed up with riches nor with the things of this world. His head shook with emotion while he prayed, and he brought us very near to the throne of grace. “Do thou, O our God,” he said, in conclusion, “spread Thy guiding hand over him whom in Thy great mercy Thou hast brought to us again, and do Thou guard him through the perils which come unto those that go down to the sea in ships. Let not our hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid, for this is not our abiding home, and may we all meet in Thy house, where there are many mansions, and where there will be no last night. Amen.”

It was a silent kitchen after that, though the lamp burned long in Jess’s window. By its meagre light you may take a final glance at the little family; you will never see them together again.

A WINDOW IN THRUMS CHAPTER XXI JESS LEFT ALONE

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