The House With the Green Shutters (13 page)

"Verra well," he said shortly, and rose to get his hat.

When Gourlay put on his hat the shallow meanness of his brow was hid,
and nothing was seen to impair his dark, strong gravity of face. He was
a man you would have turned to look at as he marched in silence by the
side of Templandmuir. Though taller than the laird, he looked shorter
because of his enormous breadth. He had a chest like the heave of a
hill. Templandmuir was afraid of him. And fretting at the necessity he
felt to quarrel with a man of whom he was afraid, he had an unreasonable
hatred of Gourlay, whose conduct made this quarrel necessary at the same
time that his character made it to be feared; and he brooded on his
growing rage that, with it for a stimulus, he might work his cowardly
nature to the point of quarrelling. Conscious of the coming row, then,
he felt awkward in the present, and was ignorant what to say. Gourlay
was silent too. He felt it an insult to the House with the Green
Shutters that the laird should refuse its proffered hospitality. He
hated to be dragged to a meeting he despised. Never before was such
irritation between them.

When they came to the hall where the meeting was convened, there were
knots of bodies grouped about the floor. Wilson fluttered from group to
group, an important man, with a roll of papers in his hand. Gourlay,
quick for once in his dislike, took in every feature of the man he
loathed.

Wilson was what the sentimental women of the neighbourhood called a
"bonny man." His features were remarkably regular, and his complexion
was remarkably fair. His brow was so delicate of hue that the blue veins
running down his temples could be traced distinctly beneath the
whiteness of the skin. Unluckily for him, he was so fair that in a
strong light (as now beneath the gas) the suspicion of his unwashedness
became a certainty—"as if he got a bit idle slaik now and than, and
never a good rub," thought Gourlay in a clean disgust. Full lips showed
themselves bright red in the middle between the two wings of a very
blonde and very symmetrical moustache. The ugly feature of the face was
the blue calculating eyes. They were tender round the lids, so that the
white lashes stuck out in little peaks. And in conversation he had a
habit of peering out of these eyes as if he were constantly spying for
something to emerge that he might twist to his advantage. As he talked
to a man close by and glimmered (not at the man beside him, but far away
in the distance of his mind at some chance of gain suggested by the
other's words) Gourlay heard him say musingly, "Imphm, imphm, imphm!
there might be something
in
that!" nodding his head and stroking his
moustache as he uttered each meditative "imphm."

It was Wilson's unconscious revelation that his mind was busy with a
commercial hint which he had stolen from his neighbour's talk. "The
damned sneck-drawer!" thought Gourlay, enlightened by his hate; "he's
sucking Tam Finlay's brains, to steal some idea for himsell!" And still
as Wilson listened he murmured swiftly, "Imphm! I see, Mr. Finlay;
imphm! imphm! imphm!" nodding his head and pulling his moustache and
glimmering at his new "opportunity."

Our insight is often deepest into those we hate, because annoyance fixes
our thought on them to probe. We cannot keep our minds off them. "Why do
they do it?" we snarl, and wondering why, we find out their character.
Gourlay was not an observant man, but every man is in any man somewhere,
and hate to-night driving his mind into Wilson, helped him to read him
like an open book. He recognized with a vague uneasiness—not with fear,
for Gourlay did not know what it meant, but with uneasy anger—the
superior cunning of his rival. Gourlay, a strong block of a man cut off
from the world by impotence of speech, could never have got out of
Finlay what Wilson drew from him in two minutes' easy conversation.

Wilson ignored Gourlay, but he was very blithe with Templandmuir, and
inveigled him off to a corner. They talked together very briskly, and
Wilson laughed once with uplifted head, glancing across at Gourlay as he
laughed. Curse them, were they speaking of him?

The hall was crammed at last, and the important bodies took their seats
upon the front benches. Gourlay refused to be seated with the rest, but
stood near the platform, with his back to the wall, by the side of
Templandmuir.

After what the Provost described "as a few preliminary remarks"—they
lasted half an hour—he called on Mr. Wilson to address the meeting.
Wilson descanted on the benefits that would accrue to Barbie if it got
the railway, and on the needcessity for a "long pull, and a strong pull,
and a pull all together"—a phrase which he repeated many times in the
course of his address. He sat down at last amid thunders of applause.

"There's no needcessity for me to make a loang speech," said the
Provost.

"Hear, hear!" said Gourlay, and the meeting was unkind enough to laugh.

"Order, order!" cried Wilson perkily.

"As I was saying when I was grossly interrupted," fumed the Provost,
"there's no needcessity for me to make a loang speech. I had thoat we
were a-all agreed on the desirabeelity of the rileway coming in our
direction. I had thoat, after the able—I must say the very able—speech
of Mr. Wilson, that there wasn't a man in this room so shtupid as to
utter a word of dishapproval. I had thoat we might prosheed at woance to
elect a deputation. I had thoat we would get the name of everybody here
for the great petition we mean to send the Pow-ers. I had thoat it was
all, so to shpeak, a foregone conclusion. But it seems I was mistaken,
ladies and gentlemen—or rather, I oat to say gentlemen, for I believe
there are no ladies present. Yass, it seems I was mistaken. It may be
there are some who would like to keep Barbie going on in the oald way
which they found so much to their advantage. It may be there are some
who regret a change that will put an end to their chances of
tyraneezin'. It may be there are some who know themselves so shtupid
that they fear the new condeetions of trade the railway's bound to
bring."—Here Wilson rose and whispered in his ear, and the people
watched them, wondering what hint J. W. was passing to the Provost. The
Provost leaned with pompous gravity toward his monitor, hand at ear to
catch the treasured words. He nodded and resumed.—"Now, gentlemen, as
Mr. Wilson said, this is a case that needs a loang pull, and a stroang
pull, and a pull all together. We must be unanimous. It will
noat
do
to show ourselves divided among ourselves. Therefore I think we oat to
have expressions of opinion from some of our leading townsmen. That will
show how far we are unanimous. I had thoat there could be only one
opinion, and that we might prosheed at once with the petition. But it
seems I was wroang. It is best to inquire first exactly where we stand.
So I call upon Mr. John Gourlay, who has been the foremost man in the
town for mainy years—at least he used to be that—I call upon Mr.
Gourlay as the first to express an opinion on the subjeck."

Wilson's hint to the Provost placed Gourlay in a fine dilemma. Stupid as
he was, he was not so stupid as not to perceive the general advantage of
the railway. If he approved it, however, he would seem to support Wilson
and the Provost, whom he loathed. If he disapproved, his opposition
would be set down to a selfish consideration for his own trade, and he
would incur the anger of the meeting, which was all for the coming of
the railway, Wilson had seized the chance to put him in a false
position. He knew Gourlay could not put forty words together in public,
and that in his dilemma he would blunder and give himself away.

Gourlay evaded the question.

"It would be better to convene a meeting," he bawled to the Provost, "to
consider the state of some folk's back doors."—That was a nipper to
Wilson!—"There's a stink at the Cross that's enough to kill a cuddy!"

"Evidently not," yelled Wilson, "since you're still alive!"

A roar went up against Gourlay. All he could do was to scowl before him,
with hard-set mouth and gleaming eyes, while they bellowed him to scorn.

"I would like to hear what Templandmuir has to say on the subject," said
Wilson, getting up. "But no doubt he'll follow his friend Mr. Gourlay."

"No, I don't follow Mr. Gourlay," bawled Templandmuir with unnecessary
loudness. The reason of his vehemence was twofold. He was nettled (as
Wilson meant he should) by the suggestion that he was nothing but
Gourlay's henchman. And being eager to oppose Gourlay, yet a coward, he
yelled to supply in noise what he lacked in resolution.

"I don't follow Mr. Gourlay at all," he roared; "I follow nobody but
myself! Every man in the district's in support of this petition. It
would be absurd to suppose anything else. I'll be glad to sign't among
the first, and do everything I can in its support."

"Verra well," said the Provost; "it seems we're agreed after all. We'll
get some of our foremost men to sign the petition at this end of the
hall, and then it'll be placed in the anteroom for the rest to sign as
they go out."

"Take it across to Gourlay," whispered Wilson to the two men who were
carrying the enormous tome. They took it over to the grain merchant, and
one of them handed him an inkhorn. He dashed it to the ground.

The meeting hissed like a cellarful of snakes. But Gourlay turned and
glowered at them, and somehow the hisses died away. His was the high
courage that feeds on hate, and welcomes rather than shrinks from its
expression. He was smiling as he faced them.

"Let
me
pass," he said, and shouldered his way to the door, the
bystanders falling back to make room. Templandmuir followed him out.

"I'll walk to the head o' the brae," said the Templar.

He must have it out with Gourlay at once, or else go home to meet the
anger of his wife. Having opposed Gourlay already, he felt that now was
the time to break with him for good. Only a little was needed to
complete the rupture. And he was the more impelled to declare himself
to-night because he had just seen Gourlay discomfited, and was beginning
to despise the man he had formerly admired. Why, the whole meeting had
laughed at his expense! In quarrelling with Gourlay, moreover, he would
have the whole locality behind him. He would range himself on the
popular side. Every impulse of mind and body pushed him forward to the
brink of speech; he would never get a better occasion to bring out his
grievance.

They trudged together in a burning silence. Though nothing was said
between them, each was in wrathful contact with the other's mind.
Gourlay blamed everything that had happened on Templandmuir, who had
dragged him to the meeting and deserted him. And Templandmuir was
longing to begin about the quarry, but afraid to start.

That was why he began at last with false, unnecessary loudness. It was
partly to encourage himself (as a bull bellows to increase his rage),
and partly because his spite had been so long controlled. It burst the
louder for its pent fury.

"Mr. Gourlay!" he bawled suddenly, when they came opposite the House
with the Green Shutters, "I've had a crow to pick with you for more than
a year."

It came on Gourlay with a flash that Templandmuir was slipping away from
him. But he must answer him civilly for the sake of the quarry.

"Ay, man," he said quietly, "and what may that be?"

"I'll damned soon tell you what it is," said the Templar. "Yon was a
monstrous overcharge for bringing my ironwork from Fleckie. I'll be
damned if I put up with that!"

And yet it was only a trifle. He had put up with fifty worse impositions
and never said a word. But when a man is bent on a quarrel any spark
will do for an explosion.

"How do ye make that out?" said Gourlay, still very quietly, lest he
should alienate the quarry laird.

"Damned fine do I make that out," yelled Templandmuir, and louder than
ever was the yell. He was the brave man now, with his bellow to hearten
him. "Damned fine do I make that out. You charged me for a whole day,
though half o't was spent upon your own concerns. I'm tired o' you and
your cheatry. You've made a braw penny out o' me in your time. But curse
me if I endure it loanger. I give you notice this verra night that your
tack o' the quarry must end at Martinmas."

He was off, glad to have it out and glad to escape the consequence,
leaving Gourlay a cauldron of wrath in the darkness. It was not merely
the material loss that maddened him. But for the first time in his life
he had taken a rebuff without a word or a blow in return. In his desire
to conciliate he had let Templandmuir get away unscathed. His blood
rocked him where he stood.

He walked blindly to the kitchen door, never knowing how he reached it.
It was locked—at this early hour!—and the simple inconvenience let
loose the fury of his wrath. He struck the door with his clenched fist
till the blood streamed on his knuckles.

It was Mrs. Gourlay who opened the door to him. She started back before
his awful eyes.

"John!" she cried, "what's wrong wi' ye?"

The sight of the she-tatterdemalion there before him, whom he had
endured so long and must endure for ever, was the crowning burden of his
night. Damn her, why didn't she get out of the way? why did she stand
there in her dirt and ask silly questions? He struck her on the bosom
with his great fist, and sent her spinning on the dirty table.

She rose from among the broken dishes and came towards him, with slack
lips and great startled eyes. "John," she panted, like a pitiful
frightened child, "what have I been doing?... Man, what did you hit me
for?"

He gaped at her with hanging jaw. He knew he was a brute—knew she had
done nothing to-night more than she had ever done—knew he had vented on
her a wrath that should have burst on others. But his mind was at a
stick; how could he explain—to
her
? He gaped and glowered for a
speechless moment, then turned on his heel and went into the parlour,
slamming the door till the windows rattled in their frames.