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Authors: George Douglas Brown

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Poetical quotations, however, made the Provost uncomfortable. "Ay," he
said dryly in his throat; "verra good, baker, verra good!—Who's yellow
doag'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 lamb
fair, 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 will
have 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 varying
quality. When he remembered he had been a packman in England it was
exceedingly fine. But he often forgot.

"The Skeighan Road! the Skeighan Road! Who'll he be going to see in that
airt? 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 solemn
voice, as if a man "coming down the brae" was something unusual. In a
moment 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 of
eye and mind to discover what it really was. He was giving his
profoundest 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 his
spine, so that his face was visible.

"Losh, it's Jock Gilmour, the orra man at Gourlay's! What'll
he
be
doing out on the street at this hour of the day? I thocht he was always
busy on the premises! Will Gourlay be sending him off with something to
somebody? But no; that canna be. He would have sent it with the carts."

"I'll wager ye," cried Johnny Coe quickly, speaking more loudly than
usual in the animation of discovery—"I'll wager ye Gourlay has
quarrelled 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, to
meet 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 down
the 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 condescension
was balm to the wounded feelings of Gilmour. Gourlay had lowered him,
but this reception restored him to his own good opinion. He was usually
called "Jock" (except by his mother, to whom, of course, he was "oor
Johnny"), but the best merchants in the town were addressing him as
"John." It was a great occasion. Gilmour expanded in gossip beneath its
influence benign.

He welcomed, too, this first and fine opportunity of venting his wrath
on the Gourlays.

"Oh, I just telled Gourlay what I thocht of him, and took the door ahint
me. 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 to
remember 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 hit
his ear. "There, ay; faith, she was there. It was her was the cause
o't."

"D'ye tell me that, John? Man, you surprise me. I would have thocht the
thowless 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 the
auld cock craws the young ane learns—and his mither's that daft aboot
him that ye daurna give a look! He came in my road when I was sweeping
out the close, and some o' the dirty jaups splashed about his shins. But
was I to blame for that?—ye maun walk wide o' a whalebone besom if ye
dinna want to be splashed. Afore I kenned where I was, he up wi' a dirty
washing-clout and slashed me in the face wi't! I hit him a thud in the
ear—as wha wadna? Out come his mither like a fury, skirling about
her
hoose, and
her
servants, and
her
weans. 'Your servant!' says
I—'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 out
and interfere! But I telled him to his face what I thocht of
him!
'The
best Gourlay that ever dirtied leather,' says I, "s no gaun to make
dirt of me,' says I."

"Ay, man, Dyohn!" lisped Deacon Allardyce, with bright and eagerly
inquiring eyes. "And what did he thay to that na?
That
wath a dig for
him! I'the warrant he wath angry."

"Angry? He foamed at the mouth! But I up and says to him, 'I have had
enough 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 on
my shouther and slapped the gate ahint me."

"And
did
he pay ye your wages?" Tam Wylie probed him slyly, with a
sideward glimmer in his eye.

"Ah, well, no—not exactly," said Gilmour, drawing in. "But I'll get
them right enough for a' that. He'll no get the better o'
me
." Having
grounded unpleasantly on the question of the wages, he thought it best
to be off ere the bloom was dashed from his importance, so he
shouldered 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 had
daured 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 and
their wish to believe that Gourlay had received a thrust or two. At
other times they would have been the first to scoff at Gilmour's
swagger. 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 drawled
persuasively, "he's a hardy fallow, that Gilmour. I've no doubt he gied
Gourlay a good dig or two. Let us howp they will do him good."

For many reasons intimate to the Scot's character, envious scandal is
rampant in petty towns such as Barbie. To go back to the beginning, the
Scot, as pundits will tell you, is an individualist. His religion alone
is enough to make him so; for it is a scheme of personal salvation
significantly described once by the Reverend Mr. Struthers of Barbie.
"At the Day of Judgment, my frehnds," said Mr. Struthers—"at the Day of
Judgment every herring must hang by his own tail!" Self-dependence was
never more luridly expressed. History, climate, social conditions, and
the national beverage have all combined (the pundits go on) to make the
Scot an individualist, fighting for his own hand. The better for him if
it be so; from that he gets the grit that tells.

From their individualism, however, comes inevitably a keen spirit of
competition (the more so because Scotch democracy gives fine chances to
compete), and from their keen spirit of competition comes, inevitably
again, an envious belittlement of rivals. If a man's success offends
your individuality, to say everything you can against him is a
recognized 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 his
neighbour'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 when
their hearts are big they are big to hypertrophy)—"I have grand news
the day! Man, Jock Goudie has won the C.B."—"Jock Goudie"—an envious
bodie 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, a
brother o'—eh" (tit-tit-titting on his brow)—"oh, just a brother o'
Drucken Will Goudie o' Auchterwheeze! Oo-ooh, I ken
him
fine. His
grannie keepit a sweetie-shop in Strathbungo." There you have the
"nesty" Scotsman.

Even if Gourlay had been a placable and inoffensive man, then, the
malignants 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 when
spite wings his intuition), and Gourlay's thickness of wit and pride of
place would in any case have drawn their sneers. So, too, on lower
grounds, would his wife's sluttishness. But his repressiveness added a
hundredfold 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 but
had felt the weight of his tongue—for edge it had none. He walked among
them like the dirt below his feet. There was no give and take in the
man; he could be verra jocose with the lairds, to be sure, but he never
dropped in to the Red Lion for a crack and a dram with the town-folk; he
just glowered as if he could devour them! And who was he, I should like
to 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 idea
how to meet it—except by driving slowly down the brae in his new gig
and never letting on when the Provost called to him. That was a wipe in
the eye for the Provost! The "bodies," on their part, could rarely get
near enough Gourlay to pierce his armour; he kept them off him by his
brutal dourness. For it was not only pride and arrogance, but a
consciousness also that he was no match for them at their own game, that
kept Gourlay away from their society. They were adepts at the under
stroke, and they would have given him many a dig if he had only come
amongst them. But, oh no, not he; he was the big man; he never gave a
body a chance! Or if you did venture a bit jibe when you met him, he
glowered 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 caused
by Gourlay's black pride that it perverted a dozen characters. The
"bodies" of Barbie may have been decent enough men in their own way, but
against him their malevolence was monstrous. It showed itself in an
insane desire to seize on every scrap of gossip they might twist against
him. That was why the Provost lowered municipal dignity to gossip in the
street with a discharged servant. As the baker said afterwards, it was
absurd for a man in his "poseetion." But it was done with the sole
desire of hearing something that might tell against Gourlay. Even
countesses, we are told, gossip with malicious maids about other
countesses. Spite is a great leveller.

"Shall we adjourn?" said Brodie, when they had watched Jock Gilmour out
of sight. He pointed across his shoulder to the Red Lion.

"Better noat just now," said the Provost, nodding in slow
authority—"better noat just now! I'm very anxious to see Gourlay about
yon matter we were speaking of, doan't ye understa-and? But I'm
determined not to go to his house! On the other hand, if we go into the
Red Lion the now, we may miss him on the street. We'll noat have loang
to wait, though; he'll be down the town directly, to look at the horses
he has at the gerse out the Fechars Road. But
I'm
talling ye, I simply
will noat go to his house—to put up with a wheen damned insults!" he
puffed in angry recollection.

"To tell the truth," said Wylie, "I don't like to call upon Gourlay
either. I'm aware of his eyes on my back when I slink beaten through his
gate, and I feel that my hurdies are wanting in dignity!"

"Huh!" spluttered Brodie, "that never affects me. I come stunting out in
a 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 to
consider 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 a
matter of importance to the town, doan't ye see, and if he refuses we
simply can-noat proceed wi' the improvement."

"It was Gilmour's jibe at the House wi' the Green Shutters that would
anger 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 the
word! They say he has verra little lying cash! And I shouldna be
surprised at all. For, ye see, Gibson the builder diddled him owre the
building o't."

BOOK: The House With the Green Shutters
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