Short Story The Fool

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 19828, 30 April 1927, Page 15 (Supplement)

Short Story The Fool

(By

J. Gordon Weir)

“Well well! It's a long time since you were here last!” John Barnej croft gripped my hand with painful heartiness and, standing back in the middle of the porch, regardless of those around us, scanned me from head to foot as if to see what time had done for me. I had liked “Barney” from the first time of meeting him and had looked forward eagerly to seeing him a*ain. 1 found the years had made little change in him. He was still the same “hail-fellowwell-met,” of the short, stocky figure, the bright, darting eyes, anti the eloquent, impulsive gestures. A little greyer headed, perhaps, but otherwise the old Barney. It was the same loud, hearty voice, allowing no secrets in conversation, that greeted me, and I cnuld almost believe that it was the same shabby tweed hat that he thrust carelessly but firmly on his head as he descenrled the steps from the church door. “Well, well, well!” The words contained a volume of heartiness that warmed me more than any more apt expression of welcome could have done. He gripped my arm and, drawing me aside from the stream of worshippers moving towards the gate, led me. round the quiet paths of the churchyard. “Ten years!’’ he sighed. “Dear, dear! It’s a long time. You’ll find the place greatly changed.” He gazed meditatively towards the village, basking in the quiet of a Sunday morning. “Yes. I see a tremendous difference in the size of the place.” 1 told him, thinking so to please him. “Muirstanes must be nearly twice the siz«* ol the village I. knew. These new villas on the hillside now ” I pointed towards the opposite slopes of the valley up which the newer portion of the village stretched, tho old grey roofs and white washer! walls giving way to the garnish red brick favoured by the modern builder. But Barney croft would have none of it. Ho had just listened to a sermon of unusual excellence, anrl it had gone like wine to his head. He was above such material things. “Ah, yes, yes.” he said impatiently. “We’ve prospered in our way —we’we prospered in our way. With a scornful wave of his stick, he dismissed the entire landscape from the conversation. “Look at the change here!” he cried, pointing at the tombstones around us. “The number of old lolks that have gone, in these years! It leaves a big oap—it leaves a big gap. It makes me feel how old I am.” He paused for a moment and then, with seeming irrelevance, continued: “Sometimes, when 1 come here on a Sunday morning and think of the number of men who lie beneath these stones and the others who have ended their lives in other parts, all of them well-known at one time or other. I wonder what the world owes to Muirstanes. You may smile, but it’s no empty boast. I’m asking. There’s Barnard, the novelist, m the corner there, and beside him is Sherwood, the social reformer. That small stone at the wall commemorates Robertson, the historian. And there are o'hers scattered all over the world—all great men in their own way. 4 ‘ Yes. ’ ’ I said drily. ‘ ‘ There’s one of them lies in prison as a reward for his labours—Grant, the bank swindler. I met him the last time I was here, I think.” Barneycroft laughed.

“We have our black sheep as well as anyone else,” lie said. “We ve turned out some queer characters in our time, wise men and foolish men, good men and bad. Look there, now. ” He sat down on the low wall and pointed vrith his stick at a small tombstone that looked newer than the others. “That s where John Corrie was buried a year ago” he told me. “You won’t remember him. He was just a more nobody at that time, slaving on his father’s farm. But he made something of a name for himself afterwards.” “It does seem familiar,” I said. “Possibly,” said Barneycroft. 44 1 t was in the papers at one time —a most curious affair altogether. You’ll b© interested in the story.” And. without consulting me further, he told it to me. “De mortuis nil nisi bo num ' Hie said with all the piety of a “pater noster”). But, between you and me. although the outer world never realised it. John Corrie was a fool. It’s an old saying, but a true one. that. .it takes all sorts to make a world. We ve produced groat mon in our time like Robertson and Barnard there, and. as you know, even a great scoundrel like Grant, but in John Corrie. Muirstanes gave birth to a great fool—as great a fool as ever lived. He. was the dullard of his class as a boy, the butt of all the girls as a youth.’ and as a man he was every bit the dolt he had always promised to become. “Of course, it was scarcely to bo wondered at either. Foolishness was in the family, so to speak. His father was a. fool before him, and a lazy one to boot. Kirkbead Farm had belonged to his family for three generations be fore it came to him. It was a good farm, if a small one. when he inherited it but in a few years he had let it run to racl: and ruin by neglecting his stock and buildings. Tc crown his foolishness, he married the slatternly daughter of a. ploughman---a meet mat;* for : man whom none but a fool would marry. “A combina.tion like that of crass foolishness and stupidily could hardK nrodiu’c- anything else, than what. " did; but I will say that, while you’’--■John Corrie had all his moGier’s sti.uidity and bis father’s foolishness, he I had note of their Irwin ess. He spent his whole time slaving on that farm, am! when he became the laird on his father’s death, he did what he could to repair the results of his neglect. Kot that it did much good, of course. It would have taken more money 11,ar. ever old Corrie had to put things right. “Ono sensible thing he did do. thongh. He married Mary Sanderson of the Knowe. about a year after his father’s death. .It was a foolish enough thing for her to do —or so it seemed at the time—and her father was dead against it from the beginning. But it was the best, thing for John Corrie. “It would bv about a year later—not long before his son was born—-that Ik suddenly stumbled out of his little niche into the limelight in the guise of an amateur chemist. It all began in the pettiest way imaginable. Johnny Kerr, the son of their neighbour, fol] one day with a pain in his inside,

and yelled and hollered all the evening until his mother persuaded herself he was dying. Personally. I’m willing to take on a bet with anyone that the little devil had been eating turnips stolen from the fields. It was a habit pretty common among the village chil dren at the time. Anyhow, it doesn't matter now. The doctor was away attending a case, in Dundrennoclq so Mrs Kerr went over to Kirkhead to ask Mary's help. John was in at the time, and seem©*! interested in Johnny Kerr’s case. “ ‘Wait a minute,’ he sai/l. ‘l’ll come with you.’ And with them he did go bringing a bottle of some liquid or other with him. When they reached Ms Kerr’s house he went up to th* 1 bedroom too, and stood watching the women trying to soothe Johnny, who naturally only roared the louder. “ ‘Now,’ he said after a tew minutes, ‘give him some of this.' And before the women could interfere In* had poured half the stuff in the bottle down the laddie’s throat. Johnny gulped and blinked, and stopped roaring from sheer fright. Corrie wasn’t one of your bedroom doctors by any means. ‘He’ll be all right the morn,’ he said, and left the house without another word. “Well, next morning Johnny was all right—well enough to go to school. Nothing wonderful in that, oi course. It was just that Mrs Kerr was a silly woman. But. it set the ball a rolling. You know what women are—the most infernal gossips in creation. It was all over the village in no time that Corrie had miraculously cured Johnny Kerr, and Airs Ken made such a good thing of her story that in less than a week there was scarcely a wife in the village who didon’t want John to try his hand at curing her of some ailment of other. As a matter of fad. 1 even went so far as to go and get a dose of it myself—just out of curiosity, you understand. I forgot what I said was wrong with me, ami 1 forgot how much I paid for it—sixpence. 1 think it was. It was a colourless stuff he gave me. and it didn’t taste like antthing in particular. So far as I can remember, it didn't rlo me any harm, and as there was nothing wrong with me anyhow, it naturally didn't do me any good. My opinion was that there was nothing in it at all, though be himself thought the world of it. “In spite of that it wasn’t long before he had quite a good practice. In a single month he had cured nearly every woman in the village of some ill ness or other, and the story of his doings was beginning to spread through the countryside. The funny thing was that a great many of his cures were quite genuine. I admit that 1 lauglierl at the idea of his turning doctor al first. Being in the medical way myself, although my line is cattle and nut humanity, I had heard and had experience of quack medicines before and 1 wasn’t prepared to bo impressed at once. But some of bis cures did impress me. It wasn’t that he. ever cunrl anyone of anything really serious, but ho did do peope a great deal of good in tho matter of smaller complaints. The more I thought the matter over the more I began to be convinced that there must be something in it after all. The fool had struck a good thing, though how he did it he never told us. “Well, as 1 said, once started the ball rolled merrily enough. The villagers thought tho world of his medicine, and for Vie first two or three months there r <vas quite a surprising outbreak of ill-health in Muirstanes—until the novelty of it began to wear off, I suppose. Corrie was really beginning to, take Doctor Meredith's place in the village. Meredith didn’t mind, of course, so long as he stuck to the villagers themselves. They're more trouble than they’re worth, as he told me himself, and they never pay their bills anyhow. A general practitioner can’t demand cash on delivery. But when the infection hogan to spread to the big farms and then to the lesidenters. he began to get annoyed. He spoke to me about it. He and I were always good friends, both being very much in the same line, you know. “ ‘I can’t understand it. Barneycroft,’ he said one day. ‘Here 1 am. a qualified medical man having practised for something like thirty years, and now in two months an upstart quack looked like putting me out. Are there no limits to human folly? It’s not the money side of it that matters. God knows I’m comfortable enough not to mind that! It’s being beaten by quackery that gets me!’ “Quackery Doctor!” 1 said..' 4 It depends on what you mean by quackery. I hud no more belief in it at the start than you have, but I must admit he has made some cures.” “ ‘Cures’’ ” said Meredith. ‘Rubbish! Indigestion, headacres, and suchlike—nothing that people of commonsense could’nt cure themselves of! It’s a fortunate thing for him that serious cajsee are rare in Muirstanes. Indigestion or headaches may easily be simple symptoms of something much worse. Then where would he be? Let’s look facts in Ihe face.' “ ‘Of course.’ I said. ‘And the facts as they appear to me. doctor, are simply this, that the people have a better op inion of Corrie’s medicine than of yours. ’ “ ‘Bub!’’ said Meredith, and loft mo in a rage. It. was some time before lie spoke to mi* again. Sometimes, perhaps, I am too frank with mv ' frien-Is. “Well, Corrie’s fame wasn't confined long within the bounds of Muirstanes. People talked and spread the news about and patients began to come in from all parts of th'* countryside. He was beginning to make money. Belt re the year was out. i>e had had the farm buildings all repaired and was heeinning to replenish hi' stock. Things looked well with Kirkhead Farm, and r looked as if lit th* Andrew Corrie wa»> going to bo left much bettor off than his father had been. I believe John was spending every penny he got on the farm. “That doesn’t sound like the action of a fool, does it?” You wait! Here conies the funniest part of the whole ‘ * By and by, the newspapers got hold nf it, and a whole column about it appeared. I don’t know whether it is read in London, but, anyhow, a London man happened to read about it and was interested, and I suppose, must have made inquiries. He didn '1 waste much time. Less than a fortnight after than article was published, he ar-

fixed in Muirstanes. Tom gha.w drove I linn up from the. statrmi tn his trap, | A dapper man he was. a pleasant lookImg iellovx—but hi' wasn’t looking ! pleasant when he came back three . hours later. 1 saw him. and I’vo never | seen a man in such a rage before. He ; took the next train back, and wo never j saw him again. j "We heard all about it next day. He . was a financier, it seemed, and he | want".', to exploit John's medicine. He ’ mid everything prepared, from a contract giving him a generous share of I Hie profits to specimen labels for the botth-t —‘Corrie’s Cure, shake before »sing -and half a dozen full size adI vertisements, all complete. Ail he | wante,! was the secret, and he would I get Started. lie was going to adverI . IM ' 11 a " o'er the country, make his -<>rtu"e for him—and Corrie refused. j ■' told ) Hni t j lat a |j he wantc( j wns to 1 | V ” 1 v . lls 1 ,lrni peace, hummed and [imwi'd. and mumbled as none but CorI ''' That Jrnndon chap argue i or'two and a half hours without umKmg any impression on his denseness. i hen Im called him a fool, ami -ind that was that. Corrie never said any more about it. It was Ins wife who told us. I here s not much more to tell ex11 pt I ie giund climax of his foolishI , ()n *‘ evening, two or three months later, he went out to inspeet some charges 1,,. I,ad made on the farm lie sat dreaming in the dusk for over an hour, thinking, no doubt, of the mighty things he had done. Next day he was m Ins bed with a chill. He may nave tried Ins own medicine, but if he ' 11 ‘ b,i hin ‘ n<> B ood - Doctor Mereu:th was called in during the night, tind a wei k ] atPr hp di(y] of pneumo^ia ’ that is the end. He said good-bve to Ins wife, but never a word about Ins secret. It died with him. He had a fortune in his hands, and he refused to make use of it or even to let anyone • •Ise have it. He left behind him a good •uni. aijfl that. I suppose, complete© his ambition. lie might have left a lortune. His wife is up there still working the farm for her boy, and prosperous enough. But, if John Corri< hail been other than a crass fool and a 1 lod, they would have been rich today.” Bajneyeroft rose slowly and turned down the path towards the gate. I'uniiy lite, isn’t it?’’ he remarked apropos of nothing. • ‘ But is that all? ’’ I asked. “ What else can you expect?” he “aid. “In real life you don’t get every story neatly rounded and polished off like a novel. If you’re interested you can see Dr. Meredith. He attended <’orrie at his death. But I don’t exi poet he II have any more to tell you I than 1 have. Naturally, it’s not a I stibjeri lie’s keen to talk about.” I left him soon after and walked 1 thoughttully back to the house where F | was staying. Barneycroft’s storv did interest me. I had seen that paragraph in tho Lowland Chronicle, and I ha/l wondered what had become of it. I determined to see Meredith that afternoon. He was an old friend of mine, and I felt sure that if he know anything more he would toll mo. Meredith was pleased to see m« when I called, although I was shocked to see how old and shaky ho had be '•orue. Ton years makes a difference. We talked over old times, and it was easy to turn the conversation round to Corrie. “By tho way.’’ f said, “what became of his medicine?” Meredith looked at me sharply. “Who’s boon speaking to vou about him?” he asked. ‘‘Oh. I road about it in the papers at the time.” I replied hastily. “ Barneycroft was just telling me the story this morning. I wa.s interested in the mystery nf it. and wonderol if you knew anything more about it. Of course.you’d rather not speak of “Oh. I’m past all that now.” ho said. “People said at tho time that Corrie lold mo tho secret, and that I kept it to myself for my own ends.” ‘*l assure you, J heard nothing of that! ’ I cried. “And I don’t he- “ 1 know.’’ ho said. “I know that. Barnoycroft’s a goo>'l friend.” , lie sat silent for a while. Then, suddenly, he turned to mo. “You’re an old friend, Jim,’’ ho said, “and I’m going to tell you what I have told no one else. John Corrie never told me his secret, but, as a matter of fact, I found it out for myself.” In the silence that followed, I could find nothing to say. “I was there when he died,” tho doctor went on. “1 knew he had said nothing of his secret to anyone, and when it was all over 1 went into the little room where he usually worked—his consulting-room, if you like. It. was still just as he had loft it. but I eouid see nothing of importance except a , small glass containing the dregs of a colourless liquid—his medicine. I know you will believe me when I say that T took that away with the purest intentions of doing my duty by bis widow and child.” I nodded in silence, and he resumed. “I had it anaylsed. and it was found Io bo noth ing more than water with a little chalk in it. I was glad then that 1 had told no one of what. I had done.” He sat gazing dreamily out of the widow, while I could do nothing but stare at him in amazement. I ‘‘That’s the truth about. John Cor- ! rie, ’ ’ he said —“for what it’s worth. It ; explains why he was so careful that * people shoud take his stuff on the spot. 1 He had better reason than most people • thought for guarding his secret. Faith can work wonders in healing. It’s one of the first maxims of the. medical profession. 1 don’t deny that I myself have to rely in most cases on the will of the patient rather than the medicine prescribed. A’ot. while 1. like most of my fellows, only manage to creep along in mv own prosaic way an ignorant quack can make a sensation of it in a few weeks.” “He seems to have been more a knave than a fool.” I commented. “I don’t know.” he said. “I think myself that it was his passion to retrieve the fortunes of Kirkhoad Farm that made him start the scheme rather than innate knavishness. Human nature is very complicated when you come to seek for motives. “All tho same.” I said, “it’s still very puzzling. Where did he get the i.-iea of starting a quack medicine, of tall things ?’ ’ Th«‘ doctor laughed. “There's no one can tell you that.” ho said. Riches. “There soems to be a lot more* fust made over Miss Jones’ singing than over Miss Brown’s, and I’m sure Miss Brown has the richer voice.” “Yes. but Miss Jones has the richer f ather.’ ’