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 post in a big house in London nothin’ more nor less than a servant she would be puir thing. The Foyles didna do a thing for her afore they went back to Ireland."
"That's right' said the second draughts player; "old Foyle was fair broken up by the loss o' that boy o' his. 'Twas an awfu' thing, and no mistake, that Tay Bridge disaster. I'll never forget that night. I had been out at the guid sister's and had to get back hame in the teeth o' the wind, when a flyin' slate skiffed my ear by an inch. It nearly took ma heid off."
"That wad have been a worse calamity to the town than the loss o' the bridge, John," sniggered Grierson from his corner. "We would need to ha' put ye up a braw monument at the Cross, like the braw new Livingstone statue in George Square up in the city. Think what ye've missed. If it had struck ye, man, ye would have been another o' Scotland's heroes."
"Weel, the new bridge maun be a bit stronger before they get me to gang across it. 'Twas a perfect scandal that a' they good lives were flung awa'. I contend there should have been a punishment for them that was to blame," said the first draughts player, covering the discomfiture of his companion.
"Man! Ye canna punish the Almighty," drawled Grierson: " 'twas an act of God, and ye canna claim damages off Him at least not successfully."
"Wheesht, man, Grierson," admonished the Provost by virtue of his position. "Watch that tongue o' yours; that's downright blasphemy ye're talkin'."
"Na! Na! Provost," soothed Grierson. "It's juist the law a wee bit o' the law, ye ken. No offence to the company, or the Almighty, or yourself," he added, with a leer.
There was an uncomfortable pause, when it looked as if the harmony of the discussion might be destroyed, but eventually the Provost continued:
"Brodie maun be losing trade hand over fist these days. I never see a soul in his shop."
"The prices the Mungo Company's sellin' at wad empty anybody's shop that tried to compete wi' them," said Paxton, with some show of sympathy. "They've made up their minds to feenish him first and make their profits after. He's got on the wrang side o' the fence a' thegether. It looks to me gey like ruin."
"Ruin is the richt word," drawled Grierson, who from his corner looked knowingly as if he could, if he chose, disclose a large, ripe plum of information on the subject.