Jess & Co./Chapter 2

RS. WALLACE opened the door under the sign-board which announced in faded letters the fact that the shabby old timber building was occupied by "D. Houston, Joiner and Glazier," and entered the workshop. It was a sultry afternoon towards the end of August, and within there was neither movement nor sound save among the flies that hovered and buzzed against the dirty, small-paned windows.

"Shope!" cried Mrs. Wallace, picking up a hammer from the nearest bench and thumping violently.

Old Angus rose slowly from the bags of sawdust whereon he had been dozing, a blackened clay pipe between his teeth, and came leisurely across the floor, peering drowsily at the visitor.

"Aw, it's yersel'," he muttered, at last, recognizing Mrs. Wallace.

"Ay; it's masel'. Ye're busy the day, shairly!" she returned, with a sarcastic smile.

"Mphm! I was that busy I forgot to lock the door," he retorted, good-humoredly.

"Are ye no' feart to gang to sleep wi' yer pipe in yer mooth amang a' thae sticks an' shavin's?" she asked, severely.

"Ma pipe's toom, as ye can see, mistress. If there was onythin' in it, ye wudna catch me nappin'."

"But whit wey dae ye keep an emp'y pipe in yer mooth, man?"

"For comp'ny—jist for comp'ny. But it's no' vera entertainin' comp'ny, an' whiles I forget it. Was ye wantin' onythin' the day, mistress?"

"I wis wantin' yer maister."

"He's no' in the noo."

"I can see that fur masel'."

"Weel, ye can believe ma word a' the better."

Mrs. Wallace gave an impatient sniff. "When 'll he be in?"

"He didna say."

"Wull he be in the day?"

"He micht, an' he micht no'. Was ye wantin' him parteeclar like?"

"Ay."

"That's a great peety."

"Tits, man! When wis he in last?"

"Afore dinner."

"An' whaur did he gang then?"

"Hame to his dinner. I dinna ken what he was to get to his dinner though."

"I wisna speirin'."

"I thocht I wud save ye the trouble."

Mrs. Wallace sniffed again. "Ye're gettin' vera polite in yer auld age, Angus," she remarked, acidly.

"Ay, ay," he returned, blinking cheerfully. "A man's never ower auld to learn.... It's maybe different wi' a wumman," he added, reflectively, with an absent-minded pull at his cold pipe.

Mrs. Wallace was too well accustomed to such sparring-matches with old Angus to be deeply offended by his last observation. "Man, it's a peety ye never got mairrit," she remarked, teasingly.

"Ye're no' the first to say that, mistress," he returned, with an irritating grin.

"Well, I'm likely to be the last!" snapped Mrs. Wallace. "An' I'll bid ye guid-day, ye impiddent auld man!" And she turned to the door, her beaded mantle, which she wore out-of-doors summer and winter, shaking, half with wrath and half with amusement.

"Oh, ye better bide a wee," he said, more genially. "What's yer hurry?"

"I dinna want to keep ye aff yer work," she retorted, facing round and glancing meaningly at the bags of sawdust. "Wull David Houston be in the shope the morn's mornin'?"

"I wudna say he'll no'."

"But wull he no' be in the shope fur certain?" the old woman demanded, impatiently.

"Ay; I daursay he'll be here."

"Are ye no' shair?"

"Ay; I'm shair."

"Mercy me!" she cried. "Whit wey did ye no' say that at the beginnin', man?"

"Och, I didna ken ye was in a hurry. Ha'e ye a job for him?"

"Deed, ay! Ma coal-cellar door's wantin' a new lock. I'm shair I tell't Jess to tell him aboot it mair nor a month syne."

"Ay. I mind him speakin' aboot it. It was on the sclate, but maybe it got rubbit oot.... Mphm!" muttered Angus, taking down a cracked school-slate from the wall, "it maun ha'e got rubbit oot when he was writin' doon ither orders. Ye can see for yersel' it's no' there."

Mrs. Wallace examined the slate, upon which there were several jottings. "Weel, ye can pit it doon noo," she said, curbing her temper.

"I'll dae that, mistress," he returned, pleasantly. He drew the wristband of his flannel shirt over his fist, and in a twinkling the slate was clean.

"My! Ye've done it noo!" she exclaimed.

"What's ado?"

"Ye've rubbit oot a' the orders that wis on the sclate!"

Angus stared ruefully at his handiwork. "Sirs, the day! I maun be gettin' auld," he said, dismally, at last. "I hope the maister 'll mind what was on the sclate."

Mrs. Wallace refrained from making an unkind remark. After all, she argued to herself, David ought to attend to his business personally, and he was the one to blame.

"What did ye say ye wantit, mistress?" asked Angus, in a humbled voice. "A door for yer coal-cellar?"

"Na, na! Jist a lock fur the door o' the cellar."

"Jist that.... Maybe ye wud write it doon yersel', mistress," he said, handing her the slate and pencil, as he always did to customers after offering to take down their orders.

Mrs. Wallace took the pencil and flung back the right wing of her mantle. "Whit 'll I pit doon?" she asked, laying the slate on the bench and bending over it.

"Aw, jist write 'Lock—Wallace.' He'll ken what that means."

"Man, I wunner at ye keepin' sic a bad pincil," she remarked, as she scrawled laboriously to the accompaniment of a hideous screeching. "It's near as bad as playin' the fiddle!... Weel, see an' no' rub this oot, Angus," she said, rising and adjusting her mantle.

"I'll tak' care, mistress," the old man replied, in a subdued voice. He was very much ashamed of himself, and had no heart for further chaff.

"Has yer maister been busy the week?" inquired Mrs. Wallace.

"Ou ay. Gey busy."

"Whit's he workin' at the noo?"

"I think it's his carnations the noo," he answered, and could have bitten off his tongue the next instant. "Ye muckle sumph! Ye auld eediot!" he said to himself, "what did ye tell her for?"... Then, pulling himself together, he said aloud: "An' he's had a wheen jobs aboot the place. 'Deed ay, he's been gey busy the week, mistress."

Mrs. Wallace, after a short pause, said, cuttingly: "I'll tell ye somethin', Angus. Yer maister ocht to think shame o' hissel'!"

"Hoo daur ye!" he roared, in a sudden passion.

But the visitor, as though she had not heard him, hurried from the shop, banging the door behind her.

Full of indignation, the old fellow leaned trembling against the bench, drawing furiously at his empty pipe. "Hoo daur she say sic a thing!" he muttered again and again. For the admiration of his existence was centred in David Houston. Angus had room in his heart for only one other person besides David, the other person being his sister, a year younger than himself but ten years frailer—in fact, an invalid. Hence the emptiness of his pipe. His modest supply of tobacco, purchased on Saturday, invariably gave out by Wednesday night, unless supplemented, as now and then it was, by a gift from his master. His weekly wage was small, but he did little for it except make an occasional mistake, and David could not afford to pay him more.

Mrs. Wallace had not intended visiting her niece that afternoon, but she changed her mind on leaving the joiner's shop, and set out in the direction of the cottage, filled with the idea of surprising David at his gardening and delivering him a lecture on "sticking to his last."

Passing through the village, she caught sight of the grocer, who was standing at his door, moodily surveying a dozen or so fowls that were scraping, pecking, or bathing in the warm dust of the road. He appeared to be the only wakeful personage in the locality, the other shops in the row having their doors partly or wholly closed and their blinds drawn down—for the afternoon steamer, the arrival of which always created a stir, was not due for half an hour. It was too hot for cycling or walking, and the adult summer visitors remained indoors or, at any rate, in the shadiest nooks of their gardens. From the shore came the chatter and laughter of tireless children—the only human sound to be heard.

Mrs. Wallace could seldom resist a little chat with the grocer, the reputed oracle of Kinlochan, and she halted at his door, remarking, briefly,

"Warm the day, Maister Ogilvy."

"Ye never said a truer word, Mistress Wallace. Are ye keepin' middlin'?"

"Oh, I canna complain. Hoo's trade?"

"Bad—extraornar' bad! Never seen onythin' like it."

"It maun be gey bad, fur I've heard ye sayin' the same fur near ten year. It's a guid job ye've no' a wife an' weans."

"It is that! If I hadna been a single man I wud ha'e been in the puir-hoose lang syne. Ay!" And Mr. Ogilvy stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat arm-holes, half-shut his eyes, drew a long breath of misery, and—looked the very picture of ease and prosperity.

"Havers, man! Ye maun be daein' a graun' trade wi' a' thae simmer veesitors. I'm tell't every hoose on the shore's let, an—"

"Simmer veesitors! Guidsake! I wish ye kent the simmer veesitors as weel as I dae, an' ye wudna be speakin' aboot graun' trade! No' but what there's a pickle dacent folk amang them. But if you was in ma poseetion, Mistress Wallace, an' seen the boaxes an' boaxes o' groceries comin' aff every boat frae the big grocers i' the toon to the—the simmer veesitors, ye wud—ye wud—oh, I dinna ken what ye wud dae! It's jist hert-rendin'! An' me keepin' the best proveesions to be got! Ach! Whiles I think the stuff I keep's ower guid for the—the simmer veesitors."

"Dae they get their proveesions chaper frae the toon?" put in Mrs. Wallace.

"I'll no' deny that they maybe get twa-three things a ha'penny or a penny chaper nor I can sell them. Botled peas, for instance—thae 'pettit poys,' ye ken. Ay, the 'pettit poys' is a guid example. Maybe ye'll ha'e noticed a vera stylish leddy that's been bidin' in The Grange since the beginnin' o' July? She's aye fleein' aboot in a cairriage an' pair, an'—"

"Aw, ye mean Mistress Spright. I heard her man wis unco wealthy."

"That's her! Aweel, she never cam' ower ma doorstep till the day afore yesterday—na, it was the day afore that an' she left her cairriage an' pair at the door an' walkit in as if she was gaun to buy a' I had. An' I tell ye, I was rale pleased to see her, for I kent hers wud be a graun' account. So I says, 'It's a fine day,' an' got ready ma book an' pincil."

"Wis she jist wantin' change?" asked Mrs. Wallace.

"Na, na. But efter takin' a luk roon the place, she speirt if I had ony o' thae 'pettit poys' at least I kent that was what she was efter, though she said it in a kin' o' high-falutin' style—'Pettee Poas' I think she said."

"That 'll be Italian, maybe."

"Weel, I dinna ken. But onyway I had them, an' showed them to her, an' spiert hoo mony botles I wud send—for, of coorse, yin botle o' peas is naethin' to thae gentry.... An' wud ye believe it, Mistress Wallace, she speirt the price, an' when I tell't her, she said she cud get them frae the toon a penny a botle chaper."

"Weel, I never!"

"I was vexed at that, but I didna want to loss her custom, an' I said if she was takin' ither proveesions—an' some o' them's chaper wi' me nor in the toon—I wad tak the penny aff the peas. But she said she didna want onythin' else, an' the peas was ower dear; but she had been passin', an' thocht she wud gi'e me a trial. An' seein' she was gaun to buy naethin' ava', I got kin' o' wild, an' I says: Deed, mum, it's a trial that's gey hard to bear!' But she gaed oot to her cairriage wi' her nose i' the air, as if she hadna heard me. An' she's'' yin o' yer simmer veesitors that brings trade to Kinlochan! Humph!"

But this was not the information which Mrs. Wallace had hoped she might gain from Mr. Ogilvy, who was generally a day before his neighbors with the true news—not the mere gossip and rumors—of the district. Mrs. Wallace had heard a certain rumor, and she was anxious to have it confirmed, if possible, ere she went to the cottage. But Mr. Ogilvy, in his position of oracle, was not always in the humor for consultation, and she felt it would be vain to ask the question at the moment, for just then the steamer appeared in the distance, and the grocer seemed to be suffering from visions of heavy consignments that held no profit for himself.

So, with a brief adieu, she was turning away, when he said, abruptly, "If ye're for Hazel Cottage, ye can tell Da vie Houston that Maister Mathieson, o' Arden Hoose, 'll shin be wantin' estimates for repairin' a' his greenhouses—a fine big job—ower big for Davie, I doot. But ye best gi'e him the hint, for I heard the jiners in Kilmabeg and Fairport was efter it. Weel, guid-day to ye. Ye'll no' be needin' onythin' the noo?" concluded Mr. Ogilvy, who never forgot business.

"I'll maybe see ye on ma road hame," returned Mrs. Wallace, as she bustled off with her desired information. After some consideration by the way she decided, though it did go against the grain, to tell Jess, and not David, about the repairing of the Arden greenhouses.

She entered the garden of Hazel Cottage to find the owner bending over a clump of carnations as if he loved them, as indeed he did. At the sight of him her expression softened somewhat; for, after all, it was one thing to speak severely of David Houston, and quite another to speak severely to him.

"Weel, Davie," she said, advancing towards him.

"Mistress Wallace!" he exclaimed, in a tone that suggested he was glad to see her; and he rose and shook hands with her with the queer mixture of dignity and easiness that had always attracted her in the days when he was courting her niece. Mrs. Wallace had many a time admitted to herself—only to herself—that there "wis somethin' aboot Davie Houston she cudna get ower."

"Jess 'll be richt pleased to see ye," he went on, "an' ye've jist come in time for a few o' ma carnations. Jess was for takin' them to ye hersel', but I tell't her I wud be prooder to gi'e ye them jist oot the gairden.... Ha'e! Smell that, Mistress Wallace," said David, with pride in his voice, handing her a bunch of his blooms.

"Mphm! It's no' a bad scent that," she admitted, after a short inhalation. "It's near as nice as cloves," she added, endeavoring to be gracious, and wondering how she could introduce the subject of the lock for her coal-cellar door.

"But ye'll be wantin' to see Jess," said David.

"Ay. Is she in the hoose?" Being answered in the affirmative, she nodded to David and left him, deciding that, after all, it might be better to mention her complaint to her niece.

She found the young woman in the kitchen with her print sleeves rolled up and her arms up to the elbows in flour.

"Preserve us! Are ye tryin' yer haun' at the bakin' noo?" she exclaimed, seating herself in the arm-chair.

"Scones," replied Jess, with a somewhat rueful smile.

"Ye're the yin fur tryin'!"

"D'you think I never succeed, aunt?"

"Whiles. Ye canna expec' to ken muckle aboot keep in' a hoose efter workin' in an office. But nae doot ye'll learn. Let's see yin o' yer scones, lassie."

Jess, with even more color in her face than the fire had given it, passed one of her productions to the old lady, and awaited her verdict with dire forebodings.

Mrs. Wallace fingered the scone, bit it, swallowed the fragment with exaggerated effort and much facial contortion, and solemnly laid the remainder on the table.

Her verdict was delivered in a single word, "Cahootchy!"

Jess tried to smile, but her lip trembled. "I didn't think they were quite so tough as all that," she said, recovering herself, and refraining from mentioning the fact that five or ten minutes before her aunt's arrival her husband had eaten a couple with apparently supreme satisfaction.

"Aw, ye'll maybe dae better next time," remarked Mrs. Wallace, doubtfully. "Dinna work wi' yer scones as if they wis clay. Dinna press heavy upon them, fur ye micht as well pit them through a patent mangle. Be awfu' carefu' wi' the sody, an' no' let it gang in lumps, for a lump o' sody in a scone's as bad's a rid nose on a teetotaler."

Mrs. Houston laughed. "I'm much obliged, Aunt Wallace. I'll try and mind your advice, and maybe some night when you come to your tea, I'll have scones for you to try."

"'Deed, ay. Dinna be dooncast. Try, try, try again! Ye're young yet.... An' hoo's Davie gettin' on?" she inquired, suddenly.

"Fine," replied Jess; "he's had a lot of work this week."

"In the gairden?" said Mrs. Wallace, glancing at the carnations lying in her lap.

"No. This is the first afternoon he's had time for the garden this week. It was me that kept him at home this afternoon, for I knew he was wearying to look after his carnations. They're beauties, aren't they?"

"Ye didna notice if he was wearyin' to pit that new lock on ma coal-cellar door?"

"Oh, Aunt, has he—" For a moment Jess was confused. Then she said, "I'm sorry I forgot to tell him about the lock. It was my fault."

"Ye didna furget to tell him. I wis speakin' to Angus the day, an' he said it had been doon on the sclate, but got rubbit oot. So ye needna blame yersel.' I pit it doon on the sclate again masel', so he'll maybe mind afore the year's oot."

"I'll remind him myself," said Jess. She experienced a feeling of disappointment, for during the week she had been elated to observe the regular and almost willing fashion in which her husband had been attending to his work.

"There's anither thing ye can tell him." Mrs. Wallace proceeded to retail the information received from the grocer, concluding with—"I doot it's ower big a job fur yer man, but it 11 be a peety if a jiner ootside Kinlochan gets it. I've heard talk o' anither jiner settin' up in Kinlochan, an' if the greenhoose job was gaun by yer man, it micht come to mair nor talk, an' that wud be a bad thing fur David Houston—an' yersel', Jess.... Weel, I maun be aff."

"Wait, Aunt Wallace, and I'll get you a cup of tea."

"Na, na. Never heed the tea. I've got ma ludgers to luk efter. Never tak' in ludgers, ma lassie. They're jist a torment. I never done it afore this year, an' I'll never dae't again—never! It's hard-earned siller. I thocht I wud like to mak' a poun' or twa extra, but—"

"What have they been doing now?"

"Aw, naethin' new. Jist the same auld gemm—comin' doon wi' the late boat when I've got their teas ready fur the early yin, an' comin' wi' the early yin when I'm no' lukin' fur them till the late yin; an' sleepin' in i' the mornin', an' sweerin' I never waukened them when ma haun's sair wi' chappin' at the bedroom doors; an' cryin' oot fur suppers—hot suppers, mind ye!—at eleeven o'clock at nicht; an' hammerin' their hired piany, an' singin' an' smokin" an' playin' cairds till twa i' the mornin'; an'—weel, their time's up at the end o' the month, an' I'll no' be greetin' to see their backs. Guid kens when I'll get the smell o' smoke oot ma paurlor. Nae mair ludgers fur me!"

A minute later Mrs. Wallace took her departure, and Jess set about tidying up, and preparing the evening meal.

Afterwards, as she and David sat in the garden enjoying the cool breeze that had risen at last, Jess referred to her aunt's visit and the subjects connected with it.

"You know, Davie," she said, "I don't blame Angus. He's getting old, and you can't expect him to be very brisk. But you'll have to look after the orders yourself. It'll never do to put things on the slate if he's going to rub them out."

"Puir auld Angus," said David, with a lenient smile. "He does his best. Onywey, I think I can mind a' that was on the sclate the day. Dinna fash yersel' aboot it, lass."

"I'm glad you can mind the orders, Davie. But it isn't the first time it has happened. Angus told aunt that her order for a lock for her coal-cellar door had been rubbed out some time ago."

"Oh, ye're no' to blame Angus for that, Jess, for I rubbit it oot masel'."

"Well, you see, you've forgotten about the lock."

"But I didna want to mind aboot the lock. Yer aunt's no' needin' a lock on her cellar door. Wha's gaun to steal her coals?"

"Oh, Davie, you're the queerest man!" she cried, half laughing. "It doesn't matter to us what people need; it's what they ask for."

"But I—we dinna keep a lock on oor cellar door. Yer aunt has a snib on hers, an' that's a' she needs.... Are ye wantin' me to pit a lock on her cellar door, Jess?"

"Of course. It's business, Davie."

"Aweel, I'll see abootit," he returned, in a tone of resignation.

"To-morrow, Davie?"

"Ay, maybe the morn."

With which answer Jess had to be content. At any rate, in her eagerness to tell him about the Arden House greenhouses, she let the matter drop. She told him briefly.

To her delight he became enthusiastic at once.

"I maun get that job!" he cried. "My! ye sud see the gairdens at Arden Hoose! I wud tak' the job jist to be workin' there."

"But you mustn't run away and offer to do it for nothing," she said, smiling.

"Nae fears, Jess. You'll keep me richt when we mak' up the estimate."

"I'll try to," said Jess, quietly, but looking pleased. It was sweet to think that already he recognized in her a little more than the mere housewife.

"I'll gang to Arden the morn," he went on. "I ken the heid-gairdener, an' he'll no' let his maister gang past a Kinlochan man if he can help it.... Ay, I think I'll get the job, lass, an' then ye 'll no' be aye thinkin' we're gaun bankrupt."

"I'm sure I never—" she began.

"Weel, whiles when ye're workin' at the books ye luk unco serious. No' but what I used to luk that way masel' afore ye tuk chairge o' the books."

"The books are getting cheerier every day, lad," she said. And so they were, but very, very little. There was a big account due to David's principal timber-merchant which sometimes kept her awake at night. Still, there was an improvement, and if David got the Arden job, she felt he would be well on his way out of the wood which he did not know he was wandering in.

"I'm shair I dinna ken what I wud dae wantin' ye, Jess," he murmured.

A fortnight later David Houston's estimate was accepted.

"I'm to get twa men to help me," he told his wife. "It's the best peyin' job I ever had. 'Deed, ye're the wumman to mak' up an estimate! An' noo ye micht jist write to Hardy & Son for the wudd. I'll tell ye what to say."

So Jess, in her best business hand, wrote to the great timber-merchants.

And two days went past.

And on the third morning David Houston was sitting in the arm-chair, his face in his hands, crushed and miserable.

Jess, pale but firm, was reading for the third time the following typewritten words: