Jess & Co./Chapter 12

AVID was lukin' like a new man when he gaed on board the boat the day," remarked Mr. Ogilvy, who, having shut his shop an hour earlier than usual, had dropped in at Hazel Cottage to discuss the happy event of the morrow with its temporary mistress.

"It wud be a peety if he had lukit like an auld yin when he wis gaun aff to bring hame his wife efter never seein' her fur near three month," returned Mrs. Wallace, pausing in the act of dusting the parlor mantel-piece. "I daur say ye wud ha'e a crack wi' him," she continued, "fur he left here faur ower shin fur the boat—no' but whit I wis gled to see him oot the hoose, fur he wis dancin' aboot like a hen on a het girdle since the time he got up i' the mornin', puir man."

"He appeared to be in a high-strung condeetion, as it were, when I seen him," said the grocer, "but, as ye say, it wud be a peety if he wasna upliftit wi' the exceedin' joyous prospec' o' the morn. He was tellin' me him an' the guidwife wud arrive aboot fower o'clock."

"Ay. An' it 'll tak' me a' ma time to be ready fur them," muttered Mrs. Wallace, resuming her dusting with great vigor.

"I—I hope I'm no' in yer road, Mistress Wallace," Mr. Ogilvy said, from the easy-chair, as the duster came near to flapping in his face.

"Ay, ye're in ma road. Awa', an' tak' a sate on the sofa. Ye had nae business sittin' doon in the easy-chair an' crumplin' the braw tidy wi' your big, silly heid. A man's waur nor a dizzen weans when ye're wantin' to mak' things nate."

"I'm shair I'm vext to ha'e incommodit ye to sic a serious extent," he said, somewhat sulkily, as he took the seat indicated.

"Man, man, ye needna be that easy offendit," she retorted, pleasantly. "Gang on wi' yer crack."

"Weel," he said, quickly recovering his good-humor—"weel, Mistress Wallace, what wud ye say if I tell't ye I had been struck by an idear?"

"I wud say ye sud be thenkfu' ye hadna been struck by onythin' harder." Mrs. Wallace chuckled, and began to polish the front of the mantel-piece as if she desired to remove the paint. "Whit wis the idear, Maister Ogilvy?"

"Maybe ye'll no' approve o' 't."

"That's likely; but tell us aboot it."

"Weel, I was thinkin' it micht be a gratifyin' thing to the freens of David an' Jess if I was to organize a deputation o' welcome to be at the pier on—"

"Organize yer Auntie Kate!" cried Mrs. Wallace.

"I was feart ye wudna approve," he said, with a sigh. "But I thocht it wud—"

"Na, na. I ken ye meant weel, Maister Ogilvy, but ma advice to you is to let Jess an' her man get aff the boat wi'oot ony—"

"Demonstration, Mistress Wallace?"

"Hullabaloo, an' let them get hame as quick an' as quate as they can. If ye like, ye can organize yersel' to luk efter the boax an' ony paircels Jess brings wi' her, an' see that they're brocht here wi'oot delay."

"'Deed, I'll dae that wi' the utmaist pleesure," said Mr. Ogilvy, brightening. "I'll bring them masel', for I want to get a word wi' Mistress Houston as shin as possible. I daur say ye 're richt aboot ha'ein' nae demonstration, Mistress Wallace. Efter a', it micht prove a complete fisco, so to speak."

"A whit?"

"A fisco—a failure, Mistress Wallace."

"Aw, ye've been at yer detective stories again! I wisht ye wud speak words that dacent folk can unnerstaun."

"I read the word in a bookie ca'ed Fashionable Society, that a leddy left in the shop the ither day, an' it struck me as a word fu' o' meanin'," said Mr. Ogilvy, with dignity. "I see nae reason why I sudna improve ma mind when I get the chance, Mistress Wallace."

"Neither dae I," she returned, dryly. "May ye get plenty chances, is a' I can say, an' no' end wi' bein' a fisco, as ye ca' it."

Mr. Ogilvy sighed. "Ye're awfu' severe on a man, Mistress Wallace," he said, despondently. "If ye kent hoo deeply I deplore ma insuffeeciency, as it were, an' hoo sairly I feel yer—yer—"

"Ye micht step ben to the kitchen, Maister Ogilvy, an' see if Katie's sleepin', an' bring me the wee brush that ye'll fin' in the middle drawer o' the dresser."

"I'll dae that," he said, rising. "There's no' mony things I wudna dae for ye," he stammered from the doorway.

"An' ye micht pit a bit coal on the kitchen fire when ye're at it. See an' no' mak' a noise."

"I'll endeavor to create as little disturbance as possible, Mistress Wallace," he said, solemnly, lingering in the doorway, as if making up his mind to say more.

"I'm waitin' on the brush," said Mrs. Wallace, breaking an oppressive silence.

The grocer disappeared. "Samuel Ogilvy," he said, to himself, "if it wasna that ye kep' a grocer's shop, ye wud be faur better dumb!"

On his returning with the information and the article she required, Mrs. Wallace thanked him briefly and motioned him to the sofa. Then, before he found time to make any remark, had he desired to do so, she abruptly put the question:

"D'ye think I cud keep a secret, Maister Ogilvy?"

"A secret?" he exclaimed, surprised. "What kin' o' a secret?"

"Never heed. But I wis speirin' if ye thocht I cud keep a secret?"

The grocer scratched his nose thoughtfully. "It's a queerlike question. Ha'e ye gotten a secret, Mistress Wallace?"

"Dizzens! But I want anither yin! Dae ye think I cud keep it, or dae ye believe the sayin' that a wumman canna keep a secret?"

"Some sayin's is open to improvement," he returned, slowly. "No' bein' a connoozier, as it were, o' female natures, I canna venture to gi'e ye a fixed an' definite opeenion, but—"

"I'm no' heedin' aboot yer opeenion—I want yer answer to ma first question. Dae ye think I cud keep—"

"Ay, Mistress Wallace. I ha'e nae hesitation in replyin' to yer query in the affirmative."

"I think ye've had plenty hesitation, but I'm gled ye think I cud keep a secret, fur I want ye to tell me yer ain."

"Mines!" he cried, taken aback, his countenance reddening deeply.

"Ay," said Mrs. Wallace, smiling kindly. "Yer ain secret. But ye needna be in a hurry, fur I see ye 're a bit pit aboot at me guessin' the truth. I'll jist gang on wi' ma wark till ye're ready to tell me." And she fell to with the brush.

A prey to conflicting emotions, the grocer sat bolt upright on the sofa, staring in front of him, but seeing nothing. "Samuel Ogilvy," he said, to himself, "she's gaun to gi'e ye yer chance at last! Speak oot, man, an' lay yer secret bare.... Oh, me! What 'll I say?"

He cleared his throat several times, wiped his brow, moistened his lips, and after a vain attempt or two at speech said, huskily:

"Mistress—Mistress Wallace."

"Weel, Maister Ogilvy?"—encouragingly.

Once more he coughed and moistened his lips.

"Mistress Wallace," he began, in nervous tones, "in regard to the—the state o' ma affections I micht say ma humble but sincere affections—I mean the affections o' ma secret he'rt respectin' yer—"

Mrs. Wallace let her brush fall with a clatter on the fender. "Did ye hear Katie cryin' the noo?" she asked, and without waiting for a reply from Mr. Ogilvy, who would probably have been unable to make one, she hurried from the room.

She was absent five minutes, and on her return Mr. Ogilvy, having in the interval called himself a number of uncomplimentary names, was almost recovered. Her first words, however, threw him once more into an excited condition.

"Weel, Maister Ogilvy," she said, cheerfully, "ye wis gaun to tell me aboot the siller auld Angus left to Jess. Katie's a' richt, so ye can gang on wi' the story."

"Eh?" he cried, stupidly.

"Tits, man!" she returned, looking up from her work and chuckling, "ye needna mak' a secret o' it ony langer to me, onywey."

"But—but I promised Angus no' to tell onybody but Jess. She'll tell ye hersel' a' aboot it the morn, Mistress Wallace."

"But I want to ken the nicht. I thocht ye said ye cud trust me, Maister Ogilvy."

"I did that, an' I'll say it again, Mistress Wallace, if ye like; but this is the secret I canna tell ye. Hoo did ye ken Angus Eraser had left a bit siller to yer niece?" he asked, suddenly.

"Jist because he tell't me," she replied, turning and facing him. "The puir man tell't me twa-three days afore he dee'd, an' he askit me to tak' chairge o' 't, seem' I wis the lass's auntie, but I tell't him to gi'e it to yersel', fur I ha'e nae place in ma hoose fur keepin' ither folk's siller. So, ye see, Maister Ogilvy, it wisna a' yer ain secret efter a'."

"So it seems," he admitted, nervously.

"An' a' I want to ken is hoo muckle siller he left her. It's no' jist curiosity, fur I've a wee bit siller o' ma ain, an'—an' I'm fond o' Jess."

The grocer sat looking at his feet, his hands on his knees.

Mrs. Wallace broke the silence. "It 'll hurt naebody to tell me," she said, persuasively.

"Ye—ye're a kind wumman, Mistress Wallace.... But did Angus no' tell ye the—the amount?"

"Ay. He had it in a wee boax, an'—"

"Ye seen it?" Mr. Ogilvy gasped, and gripped his knees.

She nodded. "An' he said he thocht he wud be able to add somethin' mair afore he gaed awa', puir man. But I doot he didna manage that.... Still, I wud like to ken if—"

The anxiety had cleared from Mr. Ogilvy's face, and he rubbed his hands gently together as he interrupted Mrs. Wallace.

"'Deed, ay! He wud add somethin' efter ye seen the boax, nae doot, an' afore he gi'ed it to me. Ye can coont on that, Mistress Wallace," he went on, rapidly. "Ye see, Angus was rale economical efter his sister dee'd, an' hemaun ha'e saved faur mair siller nor onybody had a notion o'. Ay! In fac', I wudna wonder if ye was surprised at the siller he left!"

"There wis fifteen pound in the boax when I seen it," she said, "an' I thocht that wis big savin's fur puir auld Angus."

Mr. Ogilvy burst into a loud laugh that startled himself as well as his hostess.

Mrs. Wallace stared at him.

"I beg yer paurdon," he said, after a short pause, "but did ye—did ye coont the siller in the boax?"

"I did, fur Angus askit me to coont it."

Again the grocer laughed loudly, and also rather wildly. "Fifteen pound!" he cried. "I doot Angus was ha'ein' a joke wi' ye. Fifteen pound! It bates a'! I—I wonder whaur the ither hunner pound was that day."

"The whit?" shouted Mrs. Wallace.

"The ither hunner pound. The siller in the boax is a hunner' an' fifteen pound, neither mair nor less," returned the grocer, his voice beginning loud and ending faint. He leaned back on the arm of the sofa and shook with laughter.

"Say it again," she cried, coming across the floor to him.

But he could not just then. Mr. Ogilvy was suffering from a mild attack of hysteria.

For nearly a minute Mrs. Wallace regarded him inquiringly, and when she spoke her voice was well under control.

"Ye're no' deceivin' me, are ye?" she said, quietly.

"Deceivin' ye!" He started, and became grave. "Dae ye—dae ye no' believe ma word?" He wished he could meet her gaze. "Dae ye no' believe that there's a—a hunner an' fifteen pound in the boax waitin' for Mistress Houston comin' hame the morn? Wull I gang to the shop an' bring back the boax for ye to see?"

"Na, na. Ye needna dae that," she replied, after some little hesitation. "I'll tak' yer word fur 't, Maister Ogilvy. But I canna unnerstaun whaur puir Angus got a' the siller."

"Weel," said the grocer, recovering himself, "we maun jist regaird that as yin o' thae mysterious occurrences that—that occasionally occurs to baffle the highest intelligence, as it were. An' efter a' it was puir auld Angus's business, an' neither yours nor mines, Mistress Wallace. Is that no' the case?" He ventured to glance at her, but she seemed wrapt in thought.

"Moreover," he went on, gaining confidence, "whatever wey Angus cam' by the siller, he cam' by it honest-like. I'll sweer to that! An'—an', oh! Mistress Wallace, conseeder what it 'll mean to yer niece! The vera thocht o' that sud gar ye feel like a—a young lion—or, mair corre'ly, like a young lioness! Does it no'?"

Mrs. Wallace turned her back on him and went to the window, where she stood looking out on the calm, dusky loch.

"It gars me feel," she murmured, "like an auld wife that's leeved to see her dearest get her reward.... Maister Ogilvy, ye can obleege me by takin' the brush frae the fender an' pittin' it whaur ye got it in the kitchen dresser. An' say nae mair aboot the siller, man, fur—I—I canna thole the mention o' 't the noo."

"Aw, Mistress Wallace!" he sighed.

"Tak' the brush to the kitchen!" she snapped.

He crossed the room and picked up the brush, and threw it down again.

"Mistress Wallace," he cried, excitedly, "yer brush can lie there till the last trumpet for a' I care, for I tell ye I'm no' gaun to be treatit like as if I was a—a servile reptile!"

To his intense astonishment she paid no attention whatever to his outburst, but continued looking out of the window.

Stupidly he stood, gazing at her.

Suddenly he heard a faint sound and saw her hands go up quickly to her face.

"Oh, me!" he whispered to himself, awe-stricken, "she—she's cryin'."

He took a step towards her, checked himself, turned, picked up the brush, and stole noiselessly to the kitchen. "Samuel Ogilvy," he muttered, "ye best gang stracht hame an' pit yer ugly heid in yer stootest broon-paper poke, for ye 're the maist meeserable specimen o' the human race—nae guid to onybody an' nae guid to yersel'!"

There was a slate and pencil lying on the dresser, and he picked up the latter and wrote:

He placed the slate where she would see it on entering the kitchen, and departed quietly by the back door.

But as he passed round the front of the cottage, Mrs. Wallace tapped on the window and threw it open.

"Maister Ogilvy!"

He halted, and was relieved to see her countenance wearing its usual expression.

"Weel, Mistress Wallace?" he replied, awkwardly.

"Ye'll be at the pier the morn?"

"Certaintly. "

"I'll bide here wi' Katie an' ha'e the tea ready. An'—an', Maister Ogilvy—"

"Weel, Mistress Wallace?"

"Davie's shair to get the nursery noo?"

"Shair! At least, Jess 'll ha'e the siller."

"Ay. But there's nae fear o' it bein' ower late? There's nae fear o' Maister Davison ha'ein' sell't it to anither pairty?"

"Na, na. I seen aboot that. Ye see, when I kent aboot the legacy, as it were, I jist gaed an' had a bit crack wi' Davison, an' tell't him he wasna to pairt wi' his nursery for three month, an' he wasna to ask ony questions."

"My! ye've a neck on ye!" exclaimed Mrs. Wallace, admiringly. "Whit did he say?"

"He tell't me to gang awa' an' droon masel'. But I said I wud prefer to wait an' see him hanged. An' efter a wheen mair compliments o' the same nature, we cam' to business. I gi'ed him ma bill at three month."

"Ye mean ye've bocht his place?"

"Weel," said the grocer, smiling, "I'll ha'e to tak' it, if Davie doesna. So dinna gang an' advise Jess to pit her siller in the bank. I've a grocer's shop to keep, an' that's bad enough wi'oot ha'ein' a white elephant as weel."

"A whit?"

"A white elephant, Mistress Wallace. It's a feegure o' speech, ye ken, meanin'—"

"I thocht it wis a beast. But never heed the meanin'. I maun say, Maister Ogilvy, that ye've been an unco guid freen to ma Jess an' her man. But I doot when they hear whit ye've done for them, they'll—"

"Whisht, Mistress Wallace! Ye—ye maun keep that secret. Oh, ye maun keep that secret!" he implored.

"It 'll come oot whether I tell them or no'," she said. "But I'll no' tell," she added, gently.

"Thenk ye, thenk ye," he returned, gratefully. "Noo the hale show's gaun to turn oot fine! The Wilkie lads 'll be makin' David an offer for the business as shin as they get the chance," he went on, jubilantly, "an' then it 'll a' gang merry like a marriage bell, as the poet says." Here Mr. Ogilvy became red and confused. "It 'll be a' richt, onywey," he supplemented, hurriedly.

"'Deed, ay!" murmured Mrs. Wallace, softly. "An' d'ye ken, Maister Ogilvy, anither thing that's pleased me fine the day? I heard Maister Dobbie wisna comin' to Kinlochan ony mair."

"An' it's true! There's anither man comes in his place noo to inspec' the hooses. Dobbie cudna thole Tousie Tam aye meetin' him at the boat an' rinnin' efter him near a' day, an' seein' him on to the boat again, an' forever speirin' the rent. Tarn had a rhyme, ye ken, aboot:

an' a' the weans tuk it up an' cried it efter him."

"Mphm! I've heard it," said Mrs. Wallace, chuckling. "An' I've heard furbye that Tam gets a heap o' sweeties at Maister Ogilvy's shop nooadays."

The grocer hung his head. "The warld is fu' o' strange coincidences," he stammered, "an' Kinlochan's nae exception.... Weel, it's time I was awa' hame. I'll see ye the morn's efternune when I come wi' the boax an' the paireels."

"Ay. An' I've got ma wark to dae, so I'll bid ye guid-nicht, Maister Ogilvy. But bide a meenit. Eh—wis there no' a paper in the boax wi' the siller ye got frae Angus—a kin' o' wull?" she asked.

He started, but controlled himself. "There was a paper, Mistress Wallace, an' nae doot ye'll see it in the morn. It 'll no' be the same as the yin ye seen yersel', I preshume."

"I didna say I seen ony paper," she returned, quietly. "But, as ye say, I'll see it the morn. Guid-nicht to ye—soon' sleep—an'—an' may ye get yer reward."

She shut the window, and watched him as he went down the path.

"A guid man, but a bad leear," she said, to herself. "I'll see he gets his money back some day."

Mr. Ogilvy had prepared a somewhat elaborate speech of welcome, but when Jess Houston and her husband stepped from the gangway, it was reduced to, "My! I'm rale gled to see ye back. Gang on to the hoose, an' I'll luk efter yer luggage."

It was a dull day, but Jess thought she had never seen Kinlochan looking so lovely, and she told her husband so, as they went along the road, after having returned the kindly greetings of many of the village folk.

"Ay; the place is lukin' fine, noo," said David, gravely. "Oh, wife, I'll be gled to see ye in the hoose again!"

"And I'll be glad to be there, Davie," she answered, with a smile and a sigh.

The remainder of the way was passed in silence, for they had discussed many things on the journey, everything, indeed, except the thing which lay like an ache on her heart, and which did not seem to affect him in the least. Only she appeared to have any bitter recollection of the sweet, brief triumph of three months ago. She had been the one to gather up the fragments of the cup—the loving-cup—which had slipped between them ere they had more than sipped its sweetness, while he had been content, or, at least, resigned, to let them lie as they fell. The regret, the companion of the longing that had been with Jess through the weeks of convalescence, came with her to the very gate of her home.

But there it met with a check.

David pushed open the gate, and put his hand on her arm.

"Are ye happy, Jess?" he whispered.

She looked up at him for an instant, and saw his eyes as she had never seen them before. Happy? Here was her man; her child and her home were within a few yards of her. Why, woman alive! it was the happiest of all her hours!

He patted her shoulder. "Haste ye to the wee yin," he said, smiling.

Mrs. Wallace met her at the door, kissed her, muttered, "Ye're no' lukin' sae bad, ma lass," and gave her a push in the direction of the kitchen, whence a small voice was heard babbling merrily. As Mr. Ogilvy subsequently observed, "There's no' anither female in existence but wud ha'e sp'iled the hale show by ha'ein' the wean in her airms at the door. I'll back her for tact, the Royal Faym'ly no' exceptit. Ay!"

After a discreet delay the grocer arrived in his cart with the box and parcels.

Mr. Ogilvy, who was wearing his tight felt hat in honor of the occasion, was puffing with excitement and heat, but refused to take a seat and wait for a cup of tea.

"I maun flee awa' back to the receipt o' custom, as it were," he explained, "or the simmer veesitors 'll be thinkin' I jist keep a shop for fun—which is a thing naebody but weans an' loonattics wud dae. But I'll see ye shin, I hope, an'—an', Mistress Houston, here's a wee paircel for yersel'—parteeclars within, so to speak. Ye can open it later on. It 'll no' spile. An' here twa-three sticks o' baurley sugar for Katie, wi' ma respec's. An'—weel, guid fortune attend ye a'—an' guid-bye the noo."

He shook hands heartily with Mr. and Mrs. Houston, looked for a moment as if he would kiss Katie, but lacked the courage, and was going to shake hands with Mrs. Wallace when he noticed that she, too, was preparing to depart. Jess and David had cordially invited the aunt to remain, but she had stoutly refused.

"Na, na! Thenk ye a' the same. Ye'll get plenty o' me yet. An', furbye, I'm wearyin' fur ma ain hoose.... David Houston," she went on, raising her voice, "did I ever mention to ye that ma coal-cellar door wis wantin' a lock?"

"Ye did, Mistress Wallace," said David, reddening.

Mrs. Wallace chuckled, and held out her hand. "Never heed, Davie. It's the last time I'll speak aboot it. You an' Jess 'll come to yer tea the morn's nicht, an' ha'e a crack aboot—ha! ha! ha!—ither maitters. Eh, Maister Ogilvy? Ha! ha!"

The grocer slid to the door. "I wud be pleased to tak' yer paircels in the cairt, Mistress Wallace," he said.

"Thenk ye," she returned, following him.

"You should go in the cart, too, aunt," put in Jess, from the doorstep, with her daughter in her arms.

"Deed, ay!" said David, winking at his wife.

"I—I'll be rale prood," said the grocer, bashfully.

Mrs. Wallace looked from one to the other. Her eyes twinkled, and she smiled faintly.

"Weel, weel," she said, as she stepped on to the path, "seein' that Maister Ogilvy an' me are gaun the same road, we micht jist as weel gang thegither."