University of Virginia Library

A ploughman's English wife, bright-eyed, sharpspeech'd,
Plump as a pillow, fresh as clothes new-bleach'd:
The firelight dancing ruddy on her cheeks,
Irons Tom's Sunday linen as she speaks.

At three-and-forty, simple as a child,
Soft as a sheep yet curious as a daw,
Wise, cunning, in a fashion of his own,
Queer, watchful, strange, a puzzle to us all:—
That's John!

My husband's brother—seven years
Younger than Tom. When we were newly wed,
John came to dwell with Tom and me for good,
And now has dwelt beside us twenty years,
But now, at forty-three, is breaking fast,
Grows weaker, brain and body, every day.
At times he works, and earns his meat and drink,
At times is sick, and lies and moans in bed,
Beside the noisy racket up and down
He makes when he is glad. A natural!
Man-bodied, but in many things a child;
Unfinish'd somewhere—where, the Lord knows best
Who made and guards him; wiser, craftier,
Than Tom, or any other man I know,
In tiny things few men perceive at all;
No fool at cooking, clever at his work,
Thoughtful when Tom is senseless and unkind,
Kind with a grace that sweetens silentness,—
But weak when other working-men are strong,
And strong where they are weak. An angry word
From one he loves,—and off he creeps in pain—
Perhaps to ease his tender heart in tears.
But easy-sadden'd, sir, is easy-pleased!
Give him the babe to nurse, he sits him down,
Smiles like a woman, and is glad at heart.

Crazed? There's the question! Mister Mucklewraith,
Yourfriend—and John's as well—will answer ‘No!’
And often has he scolded when I seem'd
To answer ‘Yea.’ Of late the weary limbs
Have tried the weary brain, that every day
Grows feebler, duller; yet the Minister
Still stands his friend and helps him as he can.
‘Tender of heart,’ says Mister Mucklewraith,
‘Tender of heart, goodwife, is wise of head:
If John is weak, his heart is to be blamed;
And can the erring heart of mortal be
O'er gentle?’ Hey, 'tis little use to talk!
The Minister is soft at heart as he!

Talk of the. . . John! and home again so soon?
The children are at school, the dinner o'er,
Tom still is busy working at the plough.
Weary?—then sit you down and rest awhile.
John fears all strangers—is ashamed to speak—
But stares and counts his fingers o'er as now,
Yet—trust him!—when you vanish he will tell
The colour of your hair, your hat, your clothes,
The number of the buttons on your coat—
Eh, John?—he laughs—as sly as sly can be!

Now, run to Tom—as quickly as you can—
Say he is wanted by the gentleman
[Tom knows the name] from Mister Mucklewraith's.

Off, like an arrow from a bow, you see!
That's nothing! John would run until he dropt
For me, and need no thanking but a smile,
Would work and work his fingers to the bone,
Do aught I asked, without or in the house,—
And just because I cheer him merrily
And speak him kindly. Tom he little likes,
And would not budge a single step to serve,
For Tom is rough, and says I humour him,
And mocks him for his silly childish ways.
And Tom has reason to be wroth at times!
But yesterday John sat him on a stool,
And ripp'd the bellows up, to find from where
The wind came! slowly did it bit by bit,
As sage as Solomon, and when 'twas done
Just scratch'd his head, still puzzled, creeping off
To some still corner in the meadow, there
To think the puzzle out in peace alone!
There is his weakness—curiosity!
Those watchful, prying, curious eyes of his,
That like a cat's see better in the dark,
Are ne'er at rest; his hands and eyes and ears
Are eager getting knowledge,—when 'tis got
Lord knoweth in what corner of his head
He hides it, but it ne'er sees light again!

Oft he reminds me of a painter lad
Who came to Inverburn a summer since,
Went poking everywhere with pallid face,
Thought, painted, wander'd in the woods alone,
Work'd a long morning at a leaf or flower,
And got the name of clever. John and he
Made friends—a thing I never could make out;
But, bless my life! it seem'd to me the lad
Was just a John who had learnt to read and paint!

He buys a coat: what does he first, but count
The pockets and the buttons one by one—
A mighty calculation sagely summ'd;
Our eldest daughter goes to Edinglass,
Brings home a box—John eyes the box with greed,
And next, we catch him in the lassie's room,
The box wide open, John upon the floor,
And in his hand a bonnet, eyed and eyed,
Turn'd o'er and o'er, examined bit by bit,
Like something wondrous as a tumbled star!
Our youngest has a gift—a box of toys,
A penny trumpet—not a wink for John
Till he has seen the whole, or by and by
He gives the child a sixpence for the toy,
And creeps away and cuts it up to bits
In wonder and in joy. It makes me cry
For fun to watch his pranks, the natural!
But think not, sir, that he was ever so:—
Nay! twenty years ago but few could tell
That he was simpler than the rest of men—
His step was firm, he kept his head erect,
Could hold his tongue, because he knew full well
That he was not so clever as the rest.—
Now, when his wits have gone so fast asleep,
He thinks he is the wisest man of men!
Yet, sir, his heart is kindly to the core,
Tho' sensitive to touch as fly-trap flowers:
He loves them best that seem to think him wise,
Consult him, notice him, and those that mock
His tenderness he never will forgive.
Money he saves to buy the children gifts—
Clothes, toys, whate'er he fancies like to please—
And many of his ways so tender are,
So gentle and so good, it fires my blood
To see him vex'd and troubled. Just a child!
He weeps in silence, if a little ill;
A cold, a headache—he is going to die;
But then, again, he can be trusted, sir!
(Ye cannot say the like of many men!)
Tell him a secret,—torture, death itself,
Would fail to make him whisper and betray.

Nay, sit you down—and smoke? Ay, smoke your fill:
Both John and father like their cutty-pipe;
Tom will be here as fast as he can come;
And I can chat and talk as well as work.

John, simple as he is, has had his cares:
They came upon him in his younger days
When he was tougher-hearted, and I think
They help'd to make him silly as he is:
Time that has stolen all his little wits,
By just a change of chances, might have made
Our John another man and strengthen'd him;
The current gave a swirl, and caught the straw,
And John was doom'd to be a natural!
Oft when he sits and smokes his pipe and thinks,
I know by his downcast eyes and quivering lips
His heart is aching; but he ne'er complains
Of that—the sorest thought he has to bear.
I know he thinks of Jessie Glover then;
But let him be, till o'er his head the cloud
Passes, and leaves a meekness and a hush
Upon the heart it shadow'd. Jessie, sir?—
She was a neighbour's daughter in her teens,
A bold and forward huzzie, tho' her face
Was pretty in its way: a jet-black eye,
Hed cheeks, black eyebrows, and a comely shape
The petticoat and short-gown suited well.
In here she came and stood and talk'd for hours
[Her tongue was like a bell upon a sheep—
Her very motion seem'd to make it jing]
And, ere I guess'd it, John and she were friends.
She pierced the silly with her jet-black eye,
Humour'd him ever, seem'd to think him wise,
Was serious, gentle, kindly, to his face,
And, ere I guess'd, so flatter'd his conceit
That, tho' his lips were silent at her side,
He grew a mighty man behind her back,
Held up his head in gladness and in pride,
And seem'd to have an errand in the world.
At first I laugh'd and banter'd with the rest—
‘How's Jessie, John?’ and ‘Name the happy day;’
And, ‘Have ye spoken to the minister?’
Thinking it just a joke; and when the lass
Would sit by John, her arm about his neck,
Holding his hand in hers, and humour him,
Yet laugh her fill behind the silly's back,
I let it pass. I little liked her ways—
I guess'd her heart was tough as cobbler's wax—
Yet what of that?—'Twas but a piece of fun.

A piece of fun!—'Twas serious work to John!
The huzzie lured him with her wicked eyes,
And danced about him, ever on the watch,
Like pussie yonder playing with a mouse.
I saw but little of them, never dream'd
They met unknown to me; but by and by
The country-side was ringing with the talk
That John and she went walking thro' the fields,
Sat underneath the slanted harvest sheaves
Watching the glimmer of the silver moon,
Met late and early—courted night and day—
John earnest as you please, and Jess for fun.
I held my peace awhile, and used my eyes!
New bows and ribbons upon Jessie's back,
Cheap brooches, and a bonnet once or twice,
Proved that the piece of fun paid Jessie well,
And showed why John no longer spent his pence
In presents to the boys. I saw it all,
But, pitying John, afraid to give him pain
I spake to Jessie, sharply bade her heed,
Cried ‘shame’ upon her, for her heartlessness.
The huzzie laugh'd and coolly went her way,
And after that came hither nevermore
To talk and clatter. But the cruel sport
Went on, I found. One day, to my surprise,
Up came a waggon to the cottage door,
John walking by the side, and while I stared
He quickly carried to the kitchen here,
A table, chairs, a wooden stool, a broom,
Two monster saucepans, and a washing tub,
And last, a roll of blankets and of sheets.
The waggon went away, here linger'd John
Among the things, and blushing red says he,
‘I bought them all at Farmer Simpson's sale—
Ye'll keep them till I need them for myself!’
And then walk'd out. Long time I stood and stared,
Puzzled, amazed; but by-and-by I saw
The meaning of it all. Alas for John!
The droll beginning of a stock in trade
For marriage stood before me! Jessie's eyes
And lying tongue had made him fairly crazed,
And ta'en the little wits he had to spare.
With flashing face, set teeth, away I ran
To Jessie—found her washing at a tub,
Covered with soap-suds—and I told her all;
And for a while she could not speak a word
For laughter. ‘Shame upon ye, shame, shame, shame!
Thus to misuse the lad who loves ye so!
Mind, Jessie Glover, folks with scanty brains
Have hearts that can be broken!’ Still she laugh'd!
While tears of mirth ran down her crimson cheeks
And mingled with the frothy suds of soap;
But, trust me, sir, I went not home again
Till Jessie's parents knew her wickedness;
And last, I wrung a promise from her lips
From that day forth to trouble John no more,
To let him know her fondness was a joke,
Pass by him in the street without a word,
And, though perhaps his gentle heart might ache,
Shake him as one would shake a drunken man
Until his sleepy wits awoke again.

I watch'd that Jessie Glover kept her word.
That night, when John was seated here alone,
Smoking his pipe, and dreaming as I guess'd
Of Jessie Glover and a wedding ring,
I stole behind him silently and placed
My hand upon his shoulder: when he saw
The shadow on my face, he trembled, flush'd,
And knew that I was sad. I sank my voice,
And gently as I could I spake my mind,
Spake like a mother, told him he was wrong,
That Jessie only was befooling him
And laugh'd his love to scorn behind his back,
And last, to soothe his pain, I rail'd at her,
Hoping to make him angry. Here he sat,
And let his pipe go out, and hung his head,
And never answer'd back a single word.
'Twas hard, 'twas hard, to make him understand!
He could not, would not! All his heart was wrapt
In Jessie Glover; and at twenty-three
A full-grown notion thrusts its roots so deep,
'Tis hard indeed to drag it up without
Tearing the heart as well. Without a word,
He crept away to bed. Next morn, his eyes
Were red with weeping—but 'twas plain to see
He thought I wrong'd both Jessie and himself.

That morning Jessie pass'd him on the road:
He ran to speak—she toss'd her head and laugh'd—
And sneering pass'd him by. All day he wrought
In silence at the plough—ne'er had he borne
A pang so quietly. At gloaming hour
Home came he, weary: here was I alone:
Stubborn as stone he turn'd his head away,
Sat on his stool before the fire and smoked;
Then while he smoked I saw his eyes were wet:
‘John!’ and I placed my hand upon his arm.
He turn'd, seem'd choking, tried in vain to speak,
Then fairly hid his face and wept aloud,—
But never wept again.

The days pass'd on.
I held my tongue, and left the rest to time,
And warn'd both father and the boys. My heart
Was sore for John! He was so dumb and sad,
Never complaining as he did of old,
And toiling late and early. By-and-by,
‘Jenny,’ says he, as quiet as a lamb,
‘Ye'll keep the things I bought at Simpson's sale—
I do not need them now!’ and tried to smile,
But could not. Well, I thank'd him cheerily,
Nor seem'd to see his heart was aching so:
Then after that the boys got pence from John,—
The smaller playthings, and the bigger clothes:
He eased his heart by spending as of old
His money on the like.

Well may you cry
Shame, shame on Jessie! Heartless, graceless lass!
I could have whipt her shoulders with a staff!—
But One above had sorer tasks in store.
Ere long the village, like a peal of bells,
Rang out the tale that Jessie was a thief,
Had gone to Innis Farm to work a week,
And stolen Maggie Fleming's watch and chain—
They found them in her trunk with scores of things
From poorer houses. Woe to Jessie then
If Farmer Fleming had unkindly been,
Nor spared her for her sickly father's sake!
The punishment was spared—she kept the shame!
The scandal rose, with jingling-jangling din,
And chattering lasses, wives, and mothers join'd.
At first she saw not that the sin was guess'd;
But slowly, one by one, her lassie friends,
Her very bosom-gossips, shook her off:
She heard the din, she blush'd and hid her face,
Shrinking away and trembling as with cold,
Like Eve within the garden when her mouth
Was bitter with the apple of the Tree.

One night, when John returned from work and took
His seat upon the stool beside the fire,
I saw he knew the truth. For he was changed!
His look was dark, his voice was loud, his eyes
Had lost their meekness; when we spoke to him,
He flush'd and answer'd sharply. He had heard
The tale of Jessie's shame and wickedness,—
What thought he of it all? Believe me, sir,
He was a riddle still: in many things
So peevish and so simple, but in one—
His silly dream of Jessie Glover's face—
So manly and so dumb,—with power to hide
His sorrow in his heart and turn away
Like one that shuts his eyes when men pass by
But looks on Him. 'Twas natural to think
John would have taken angry spiteful joy
In Jessie's fall,—for he was ever slow
Forgetting and forgiving injuries;
But no! his voice was dumb, his eyes were fierce,
Yet chiefly when they mention'd Jessin scorn,
He seem'd confused and would not understand,
Perplext as when he breaks the children's toys.

Now, bold as Jessie was, she could not bear
The shame her sin had brought her, and whene'er
We met she tingled to the finger-tips;
And soon she fled away to Edinglass
To hide among the smoke. It came to pass,
The Sabbath after she had flitted off,
That Mister Mucklewraith (God bless him!) preach'd
One of those gentle sermons low and sad
Wherewith he gathers wheat for Him he serves:
The text—let him who is sinless cast the first
Stone at the sinner; and we knew he preach'd
Of Jessie Glover. Hey! to hear him talk
Ye would have sworn that Jessie was a saint,
An injured thing for folk to pet and coax!
But tho' ye know 'twas folly, springing up
Out of a heart so kindly to the core,
Your eyes were dim with tears while hearkening—
He spake so low and sadly. John was there.

And early down the stairs came John next day
Drest in his Sabbath clothes. ‘I'm going away,’
He whispers, ‘for a day or maybe two—
Don't be afraid if I'm away at night,
And do not speak to Tom;’ and off he ran
Ere I could question. When the evening came,
No sign of John! Night pass'd, and not a sign!
Tom sought him far and near without avai'.
The next night came, and we were sitting here
Weary and pensive, wondering, listening,
To every step that pass'd, when in stept John,
And sat beside the fire, and when we ask'd
Where he had been, he snapt us short and crept
Away to bed.

But by-and-by, I heard
The truth from John himself—a truth indeed
That was and is a puzzle, will remain
A puzzle to the end. And can ye guess
Where John had been? Away in Edinglass,
At Jessie Glover's side, holding her hand
And looking in her eyes!

‘Jessie!’ he said;
And while she stared stood scraping with his shoes,
And humm'd and haw'd and stammer'd out a speech,
Whose sense, made clear and shorten'd, came to this:
The country folk that call'd her cruel names
And mock'd her so, had done the same by him!
He did not give a straw for what they said!
He did not give a straw, and why should she?
And tho' she laugh'd before, perchance when folk
Miscall'd her, frighten'd her from home and friends,
She'd turn to simple John and marry him?
For he had money, seven pound and more,
And yonder in his home, to stock a house,
The household things he bought at Simpson's sale;
John Thomson paid him well, and he could work,
And, if she dried her eyes and married him,
Who cared for Tom and Jennie, and the folk
That thought them crazed? . . John, then and now ashamed,
Said that she flung her arms about his neck,
And wept as if her heart was like to break,
And told him sadly that it could not be.
He scratch'd his head, and stared, and answer'd nought—
His stock of words was done, but last, he forced
His money in the weeping woman's hand,
And hasten'd home as fast as he could run.

He feels it still! it haunts him night and day!
Ay, silly tho' he be, he keeps the thought
Of Jess still hidden in his heart; and now,
Wearing away like snowdrift in the sun,
If e'er he chance to see, on nights at home,
One of the things he bought at Simpson's sale
(I keep them still, tho' they are worn and old,)
His eyes gleam up, then glisten,—then are dark.