The House With the Green Shutters (8 page)

To him, indeed, reading was never more than a means of escape from
something else; he never thought of a book so long as there were things
to see. Some things were different from others, it is true. Things of
the outer world, where he swaggered among his fellows and was thrashed,
or bungled his lessons and was thrashed again, imprinted themselves
vividly on his mind, and he hated the impressions. When Swipey Broon was
hot the sweat pores always glistened distinctly on the end of his
mottled nose—John, as he thought angrily of Swipey this afternoon, saw
the glistening sweat pores before him and wanted to bash them. The
varnishy smell of the desks, the smell of the wallflowers at Mrs.
Manzie's on the way to school, the smell of the school itself—to all
these he was morbidly alive, and he loathed them. But he loved the
impressions of his home. His mind was full of perceptions of which he
was unconscious, till he found one of them recorded in a book, and that
was the book for him. The curious physical always drew his mind to hate
it or to love. In summer he would crawl into the bottom of an old hedge,
among the black mould and the withered sticks, and watch a red-ended
beetle creep slowly up a bit of wood till near the top, and fall
suddenly down, and creep patiently again—this he would watch with
curious interest and remember always. "Johnny," said his mother once,
"what do you breenge into the bushes to watch those nasty things for?"

"They're queer," he said musingly.

Even if he
was
a little dull wi' the book, she was sure he would come
to something, for, eh, he was such a noticing boy.

But there was nothing to touch him in "The Wooing of Angeline;" he was
moving in an alien world. It was a complicated plot, and, some of the
numbers being lost, he was not sharp enough to catch the idea of the
story. He read slowly and without interest. The sounds of the outer
world reached him in his loneliness and annoyed him, because, while
wondering what they were, he dared not look out to see. He heard the
rattle of wheels entering the big yard; that would be Peter Riney back
from Skeighan with the range. Once he heard the birr of his father's
voice in the lobby and his mother speaking in shrill protest, and
then—oh, horror!—his father came up the stair. Would he come into the
garret? John, lying on his left side, felt his quickened heart thud
against the boards, and he could not take his big frighted eyes from the
bottom of the door. But the heavy step passed and went into another
room. John's open mouth was dry, and his shirt was sticking to his back.

The heavy steps came back to the landing.

"Whaur's
my
gimlet?" yelled his father down the stair.

"Oh, I lost the corkscrew, and took it to open a bottle," cried his
mother wearily. "Here it is, man, in the kitchen drawer."

"
Hah!
" his father barked, and he knew he was infernal angry. If he
should come in!

But he went tramping down the stair, and John, after waiting till his
pulses were stilled, resumed his reading. He heard the masons in the
kitchen, busy with the range, and he would have liked fine to watch
them, but he dared not go down till after four. It was lonely up here by
himself. A hot wind had sprung up, and it crooned through the keyhole
drearily; "
oo-woo-oo
," it cried, and the sound drenched him in a vague
depression. The splotch of yellow light had shifted round to the
fireplace; Janet had kindled a fire there last winter, and the ashes had
never been removed, and now the light lay, yellow and vivid, on a red
clinker of coal and a charred piece of stick. A piece of glossy white
paper had been flung in the untidy grate, and in the hollow curve of it
a thin silt of black dust had gathered—the light showed it plainly. All
these things the boy marked and was subtly aware of their
unpleasantness. He was forced to read to escape the sense of them. But
it was words, words, words, that he read; the subject mattered not at
all. His head leaned heavy on his left hand and his mouth hung open, as
his eye travelled dreamily along the lines. He succeeded in hypnotizing
his brain at last, by the mere process of staring at the page.

At last he heard Janet in the lobby. That meant that school was over. He
crept down the stair.

"
You
were playing the truant," said Janet, and she nodded her head in
accusation. "I've a good mind to tell my faither."

"If ye wud—" he said, and shook his fist at her threateningly. She
shrank away from him. They went into the kitchen together.

The range had been successfully installed, and Mr. Gourlay was showing
it to Grant of Loranogie, the foremost farmer of the shire. Mrs.
Gourlay, standing by the kitchen table, viewed her new possession with a
faded simper of approval. She was pleased that Mr. Grant should see the
grand new thing that they had gotten. She listened to the talk of the
men with a faint smile about her weary lips, her eyes upon the sonsy
range.

"Dod, it's a handsome piece of furniture," said Loranogie. "How did ye
get it brought here, Mr. Gourlay?"

"I went to Glasgow and ordered it special. It came to Skeighan by the
train, and my own beasts brought it owre. That fender's a feature," he
added complacently; "it's onusual wi' a range."

The massive fender ran from end to end of the fireplace, projecting a
little in front; its rim, a square bar of heavy steel, with bright,
sharp edges.

"And that poker, too; man, there's a history wi' that. I made a point of
the making o't. He was an ill-bred little whalp, the bodie in Glasgow. I
happened to say till um I would like a poker-heid just the same size as
the rim of the fender! 'What d'ye want wi' a heavy-heided poker?' says
he; 'a' ye need's a bit sma' thing to rype the ribs wi'.' 'Is that so?'
says I. 'How do
you
ken what
I
want?' I made short work o'
him!
The poker-heid's the identical size o' the rim; I had it made to fit."

Loranogie thought it a silly thing of Gourlay to concern himself about a
poker. But that was just like him, of course. The moment the body in
Glasgow opposed his whim, Gourlay, he knew, would make a point o't.

The grain merchant took the bar of heavy metal in his hand. "Dod, it's
an awful weapon," he said, meaning to be jocose. "You could murder a man
wi't."

"Deed you could," said Loranogie; "you could kill him wi' the one lick."

The elders, engaged with more important matters, paid no attention to
the children, who had pushed between them to the front and were looking
up at their faces, as they talked, with curious watching eyes. John,
with his instinct to notice things, took the poker up when his father
laid it down, to see if it was really the size of the rim. It was too
heavy for him to raise by the handle; he had to lift it by the middle.
Janet was at his elbow, watching him. "You could kill a man with that,"
he told her, importantly, though she had heard it for herself. Janet
stared and shuddered. Then the boy laid the poker-head along the rim,
fitting edge to edge with a nice precision.

"Mother," he cried, turning towards her in his interest, "mother, look
here! It's exactly the same size!"

"Put it down, sir," said his father with a grim smile at Loranogie.
"You'll be killing folk next."

"Are ye packit, Peter?" said Gourlay.

"Yes, sir," said Peter Riney, running round to the other side of a cart,
to fasten a horse's bellyband to the shaft. "Yes, sir, we're a' ready."

"Have the carriers a big load?"

"Andy has just a wheen parcels, but Elshie's as fu' as he can haud. And
there's a gey pickle stuff waiting at the Cross."

The hot wind of yesterday had brought lightning through the night, and
this morning there was the gentle drizzle that sometimes follows a heavy
thunderstorm. Hints of the farther blue showed themselves in a lofty sky
of delicate and drifting gray. The blackbirds and thrushes welcomed the
cooler air with a gush of musical piping, as if the liquid tenderness of
the morning had actually got into their throats and made them softer.

"You had better snoove away then," said Gourlay. "Donnerton's five mile
ayont Fleckie, and by the time you deliver the meal there, and load the
ironwork, it'll be late ere you get back. Snoove away, Peter; snoove
away!"

Peter shuffled uneasily, and his pale blue eyes blinked at Gourlay from
beneath their grizzled crow nests of red hair.

"Are we a' to start thegither, sir?" he hesitated. "D'ye mean—d'ye mean
the carriers too?"

"Atweel, Peter!" said Gourlay. "What for no?"

Peter took a great old watch, with a yellow case, from his fob, and,
"It wants a while o' aicht, sir," he volunteered.

"Ay, man, Peter, and what of that?" said Gourlay.

There was almost a twinkle in his eye. Peter Riney was the only human
being with whom he was ever really at his ease. It is only when a mind
feels secure in itself that it can laugh unconcernedly at others. Peter
was so simple that in his presence Gourlay felt secure; and he used to
banter him.

"The folk at the Cross winna expect the carriers till aicht, sir," said
Peter, "and I doubt their stuff won't be ready."

"Ay, man, Peter," Gourlay joked lazily, as if Peter was a little boy.
"Ay, man, Peter. You think the folk at the Cross winna be prepared?"

"No, sir," said Peter, opening his eyes very solemnly, "they winna be
prepared."

"It'll do them good to hurry a little for once," growled Gourlay, humour
yielding to spite at the thought of his enemies. "It'll do them good to
hurry a little for once. Be off, the lot of ye!"

After ordering his carriers to start, to back down and postpone their
departure, just to suit the convenience of his neighbours, would
derogate from his own importance. His men might think he was afraid of
Barbie.

He strolled out to the big gate and watched his teams going down the
brae.

There were only four carts this morning because the two that had gone to
Fechars yesterday with the cheese would not be back till the afternoon;
and another had already turned west to Auchterwheeze, to bring slates
for the flesher's new house. Of the four that went down the street two
were the usual carriers' carts, the other two were off to Fleckie with
meal, and Gourlay had started them the sooner since they were to bring
back the ironwork which Templandmuir needed for his new improvements.
Though the Templar had reformed greatly since he married his birkie
wife, he was still far from having his place in proper order, and he had
often to depend on Gourlay for the carrying of stuff which a man in his
position should have had horses of his own to bring.

As Gourlay stood at his gate he pondered with heavy cunning how much he
might charge Templandmuir for bringing the ironwork from Fleckie. He
decided to charge him for the whole day, though half of it would be
spent in taking his own meal to Donnerton. In that he was carrying out
his usual policy—which was to make each side of his business help the
other.

As he stood puzzling his wits over Templandmuir's account, his lips
worked in and out, to assist the slow process of his brain. His eyes
narrowed between peering lids, and their light seemed to turn inward as
he fixed them abstractedly on a stone in the middle of the road. His
head was tilted that he might keep his eyes upon the stone; and every
now and then, as he mused, he rubbed his chin slowly between the thumb
and fingers of his left hand. Entirely given up to the thought of
Templandmuir's account, he failed to see the figure advancing up the
street.

At last the scrunch of a boot on the wet road struck his ear. He turned
with his best glower on the man who was approaching; more of the
"Wha-the-bleezes-are-you?" look than ever in his eyes—because he had
been caught unawares.

The stranger wore a light yellow overcoat, and he had been walking a
long time in the rain apparently, for the shoulders of the coat were
quite black with the wet, these black patches showing in strong contrast
with the dryer, therefore yellower, front of it. Coat and jacket were
both hanging slightly open, and between was seen the slight bulge of a
dirty white waistcoat. The newcomer's trousers were turned high at the
bottom, and the muddy spats he wore looked big and ungainly in
consequence. In this appearance there was an air of dirty and
pretentious well-to-do-ness. It was not shabby gentility. It was like
the gross attempt at dress of your well-to-do publican who looks down on
his soiled white waistcoat with complacent and approving eye.

"It's a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay," simpered the stranger. His air was
that of a forward tenant who thinks it a great thing to pass remarks on
the weather with his laird.

Gourlay cast a look at the dropping heavens.

"Is that
your
opinion?" said he. "I fail to see't mysell."

It was not in Gourlay to see the beauty of that gray, wet dawn. A fine
morning to him was one that burnt the back of your neck.

The stranger laughed: a little deprecating giggle. "I meant it was fine
weather for the fields," he explained. He had meant nothing of the kind,
of course; he had merely been talking at random in his wish to be civil
to that important man, John Gourlay.

"Imphm," he pondered, looking round on the weather with a wise air;
"imphm; it's fine weather for the fields."

"Are
you
a farmer, then?" Gourlay nipped him, with his eye on the
white waistcoat.

"Oh—oh, Mr. Gourlay! A farmer, no. Hi—hi! I'm not a farmer. I dare
say, now, you have no mind of
me
?"

"No," said Gourlay, regarding him very gravely and steadily with his
dark eyes. "I cannot say, sir, that I have the pleasure of remembering
you
."

"Man, I'm a son of auld John Wilson of Brigabee."