to take it from me,' he cried aloud, raising up his fist; 'let them all come! I'll wipe them out like I destroy all who offend me. There was a rotten branch on the tree of my name,' he shouted loudly, 'and I cut it off. I'll smash everybody that interferes with me. I am James Brodie and be damned to everybody and everything. Let them try to hinder me, to thieve my trade from me, try to take all I've got; let them do it! Whatever comes, I am still myself.'
He subsided in his chair, unconscious of the fact that he had arisen, unaware that he had shouted to the empty room, but hugging only, with a gloating satisfaction, that last precious thought. He was himself James Brodie no one but he understood, could ever comprehend, the full comfort, the delicious pride which that possession gave him. His thoughts rioted away from his present vicissitudes into a land of exalted dreams and longings, and, with his head sunk in his chest, he lost himself in the sublime contemplation of some future day when, unchecked, he would unleash the uncontrolled desires of his pride, when he would appease to satiation his craving for eminence and homage.
At last he sighed and, like a man awakening from the dreams of a drugged sleep, he blinked and shook himself. He looked at his watch, realised with a start that the end of this day, and of his self-ordained seclusion, was approaching. He arose slowly, yawned prodigiously, stretched himself, and, banishing from his features all traces of his recent indulgent reverie, stiffened his face again into a mask of hard indifference and went into the shop to review, as was his custom, the business of the day. This was invariably a pleasant duty, into which
he infused a lordly dignity, giving himself the air of a feudal ruler receiving tribute from his vassal. Always Perry had a heap of gleaming silver, often a few gleaming sovereigns and sometimes a rustling bank note to be transferred to the master's deep, hip pocket; and, when this had been effected, Brodie would run a casual eye over the list of sales casual, inasmuch as he recognised that Perry would never cheat him it would, in his own words 'have been a pity for the little runt had he tried' would slap his bulging pocket, assume his hat and, with a last curt command, be off, leaving Perry to close up and shutter the shop.
But, to-night, an unusual air seemed to cling to Perry, giving him an aspect at once blurred and disconsolate. Usually he opened the cash drawer with a proud and subservient flourish, as though to say, 'We may not be much, but this is what we've done for you to-day, Mr. Brodie, sir.' Now, however, he pulled the drawer timidly open, with a faint deprecating twitch.
'A very quiet day, sir,' he said meekly.
'The weather's been good,' remonstrated Brodie testily. 'What have you been playin' at? There's been plenty of folks about.'
'Oh! There's been a stir on the streets,' replied Perry, 'but quite a number that's to say, a few have gone in ' He faltered. 'They had an attractive window,' he concluded lamely.
Brodie looked down at the drawer. Only six, miserable silver shillings lay in the till.
IV
THE Levenford Philosophical Club was in convocation. Although to-night the session was by no means a plenary one, the room was comfortably filled by smoke and by a gathering of six members who, ranged in comfortable chairs around the cordial fire which blazed upon the hearth, philosophised in this congenial atmosphere at their ease. Of those present, two were engaged upon a silent game of draughts, easy, harmonious, relaxed, whilst the others lay back, smoked, talked, and wooed the inspiration of worthy thoughts by frequent, comforting sips of their grog.
The conversation was sporadic, the pauses, despite the choice richness of the language employed, sometimes more pregnant than the actual spoken words, the wave of a pipe more pungent than a pithy adjective, the glances of the members abstract, cogitative and intellectually remote. Wearing modestly the distinction of their higher cerebration, they sat within the hallowed precincts of the club the rallying point of all these honest burghers in Levenford who might claim to be more notable than their fellow men and, in the consciousness of their distinction, were at least content. To have achieved this club was, in itself, a feat which immediately conferred a cachet upon these happy individuals and rendered each the envy of less fortunate beings. To these the member would remark, of an evening, with, perchance, a nonchalant yawn, 'Well! I think I'll away down to the club. There's a bit discussion on the night', and saunter off, whilst jealous eyes followed him down the street. To outsiders, those not of the elect, the social prestige of the club loomed largely, but so, also, did the suggestion of its profound intellectual significance, for the sonorous name Philosophical breathed of the rarer and more refined realms of pure reason.
True, a classical master who had come to the Levenford Academy, bearing the letters of a degree of Oxford University after his name, had remarked to a colleague, 'I was keen to join when I heard the name but to my disgust, I discovered it was nothing more than a smoking and drinking clique.'
What did he know, the ignorant English clown? Was he unaware of the six lectures, followed by lengthy debates, which took place at regular intervals during the winter? Had he not seen the neatly printed syllabus, which, like an amulet, reposed invariably in each member's top, right-hand, waistcoat pocket, containing the titles of this year's subjects of information and discussion? Had he but chosen he might have cast his grudging eyes upon such profound themes as:
'Our Immortal Bard with Readings,'
'The Homing Pigeon in Health and Sickness,'
'The Growth of Shipbuilding in the Royal Borough on the Clyde,'
'Scottish Wit and Humour with Local Anecdotes,' or even,
'From Rivet-boy to Provost the Life Story of the Late Respected
Mathias Gloag of Levenford.'
Such, indeed, were the weighty lectures to be delivered, but if, on these evenings when the associates' brains were not taxed by these deep matters, and their minds disengaged from solving the problems of race and nation, some trifling relaxation occurred what disgrace lay in a gossip or a smoke, a game of the dambrod or even whist? And, as Phemie's tidy house was convenient to the back door, what harm was it to send around occasionally for a bit glass or even to adjourn at times to the 'wee back parlour?'
Such arguments were, of course, unanswerable! It was in addition, the function and practice of this unofficial town council to discuss in detail and sit in deliberation upon the people of the Borough and their affairs. The ramifications of this subsidiary branch of their philosophising ranged from such diverse matters as the shrewish temper of Gibson's wife to the appropriate remonstration to be made to Blair of the Main's Farm regarding the insanitary propensities of his cows upon the public highway; and a singularly reassuring feature, speaking volumes for Levenford equity, was the fact that the very members themselves had no prerogative or privilege immunising them from discussion by their fellow commentators. To-night, James Brodie was the subject of the discussion initiated by a chance glance at the empty chair in the corner, a contemplative pause, and the remark:
'Brodie's late to-night. I wonder will he be comin'.'
'He'll be here, right enough,' remarked Provost Gordon. 'I've never known him so regular. He maun keep up his morale, ye ken.'
He looked round for approval at the use of this appropriate and noble-sounding word. 'What I mean to infer,' he explained, 'is that he's got to put a face on things now, or else go under a' thegether.'
The others sucked at their pipes and nodded silently. One of the draughts players moved a man, then looked up reflectively into the warm aromatic air, and said:
'Dod! time passes like a flash! It must be nearly a year now since he flung out that daughter o' his, on the night o' the big storm.'
Paxton, who had the reputation of a head for figures, remarked:
'It'll be a year exactly in a fortnight's time; but it micht be a single day for all that Levenford's seen o' Mary Brodie since then. I aye maintained, and I still maintain, that it was a bitter cruel thing that James Brodie did that night.'
'Where is the lassock now?' queried some one.
'Weel,' responded Paxton, 'the story was that the Foyles of Darroch got her a position; but that's a' nonsense. She went off all by herself. The doctor wished to help her but she just up and away. It's said now that she's got a
