Jess & Co./Chapter 5

N' a botle o' furniture polish," continued Mrs. Wallace.

"A botle o' furniture polish," repeated the grocer, moistening the point of a stumpy pencil and applying it to the dog-eared page of a dilapidated order-book.

"Ay. An' see an' no' send a botle o' Complexion Cream, the wey ye done the last time."

"Complexion Cream?"

"Jist that! That wis whit ye sent the last time—it's a while syne—I ordered furniture polish. I presoome it wisna your fau't, Maister Ogilvy, fur I perceived an evil smile, as the stories say, on the face o' the laddie that brocht the messages. But it wisna an evil smile, nor ony ither kin' o' smile, when I got the haud o' him the next mornin'. Na!"

"Oh, Mistress Wallace, "exclaimed Mr. Ogilvy, in unaffected distress, "I'm vexed ye was insultit by thon laddie. He was jist a wee deevil! An" I'm gled I sent him awa'. 'Deed, I wish I had sent him awa' shinner. In fac', I wish I had never seen his impiddent face! I was near dementit wi' his pranks an' tricks. He thocht naethin' o' pittin' saut in sift it sugar, an' yin time he mixed up pepper in puir auld Maister Bowie's snuff an' near kilt the puir buddy wi' sneezin' an' greetin'. An' at the New Year, what dae ye think he done to Mistress Mason's paircel—the biggest order I've had for mony a lang day—what dae ye think he done?"

"I cudna say."

"Aweel, I sud explain that the paircel contained, as it were, a heap o' luxuries; in fac', it was maistly composed o' luxuries—a' sorts o' guid things an' sweet things, ye ken."

"Mphm."

"I'm tellin' ye aboot the luxuries so as ye may perceive the full meanin' o' the wee deevil's prank."

"I see."

"Weel, the paircel was sent awa', an' the day efter Mistress Mason's servant lass cam' in to the shop an' said I cud get the paircel back as shin as I liket to send for it. An' she said, forbye, that I needna tell the laddie to ca' for further orders. An' wi' that she walkit oot the shop, leavin' me completely dumfoonert. But there was naethin' for it but to get back the paircel an' solve the mystery, as it were."

"An' whit wis the mystery, as it wis?" inquired Mrs. Wallace, a little impatiently.

"The mystery," said Mr. Ogilvy, solemnly, "was a lairge-size botle o' castor-ile wi' 'A Happy New Year' written on it. An' Mistress Mason hadna ordered the ile."

Mrs. Wallace chuckled. "I furgi'e the laddie—I furgi'e the laddie!" she cried.

"I didna dae that, Mistress Wallace," said the grocer, shortly. "But I gi'ed him a week's notice."

"It wis a peety to loss sic a smairt laddie," she remarked, still chuckling.

"He was ower smairt for me! He was that, I tell ye! An' I tell't him he was ower smairt for runnin' ma messages—I tell't him that when I peyed him his wages for the last time. But he jist made a face at me an' gaed awa' lauchin' like to hurt hissel'. It was the Setturday nicht, an' when I had seen him aff the premises I cam' back here, whaur I'm the noo, for to mak' up ma books. An' I made to sit doon on ma stool—the stool ye see there, Mistress Wallace—but the stool gaed birlin' awa' an' I cam' doon wi' an' awfu' crash on the flure.... I was thenkfu' there was nae customers in the shop. An' when I cam' to ma senses, I discovered three nutmegs o' the vera best quality that the wee deevil had pitten unner the legs o' ma stool—which accoontit for the accident, as it were. So, ye see—"

"An' ye can send hauf-a-pun' o' yer best ham," interrupted Mrs. Wallace.

"Hauf-a-pun' o' the best ham," repeated Mr. Ogilvy. "But what wey," he suddenly asked, "did ye no' return the Complexion Cream, Mistress Wallace?"

"Weel, to tell ye the truth, I tried it on ma mahogany chiffoneer, an' the result wis first-rate; only the cream wis ower dear fur frequent application, as it said on the labbel. Ha'e ye got doon the ham?"

"The ham is duly registered, Mistress Wallace. But I'm vexed aboot the—"

"An' ye micht send three o' yer best fresh eggs—jist three, mind ye."

"Three best fresh eggs," echoed Mr. Ogilvy, after remoistening the point of his pencil.

"Ye sent fower the last time," said Mistress Wallace.

"Did I?" said the grocer, somewhat flustered.

"Ay, did ye! An' I didna want fower."

"It's jist three in the book, Mistress Wallace."

"Weel, the shinner ye mak' it fower the better fur yer profits."

"Are—are ye shair it was fower ye got?"

"As shair's daith. Man, dae ye think I wud cheat masel' oot the price o' an egg—at yin an' ten the dizzen?" she demanded, severely, while Mr. Ogilvy perspired with his mental agony. "I doot the laddie ye've got noo is nae better nor the yin we wis speakin' aboot, an' he hasna hauf the fun in him. He's jist wastin' yer substance, Maister Ogilvy, in a maist unexcitin' fashion, an'—"

"Aw, the laddie's honest, I can tell ye. Ay; he's honest."

"Weel, he's no' ready to quit the schule if he canna tell three frae fower. An egg's an egg!"

"Ye never said a truer word, Mistress Wallace, but—"

"An' I'll tak' a pun' o' bakin'-sody."

"A pun' o' bakin'-sody," he repeated, aloud, but to himself he groaned: "Oh, me! Can I no' send her an extra egg noo an' then wi'oot her detectin' it?"

Mrs. Wallace picked up her umbrella and prepared to depart.

"Wull that be a' the day?" the grocer asked, in a tone which suggested regret at her going.

"That's the lot. An' see an' tie up the three eggs yersel', an' no' trust to yer laddie till he's better up in the coontin'."

"I'll attend to that," returned Mr. Ogilvy, checking a sigh. "Are ye for Mistress Houston's noo?" he inquired, adding: "There was a strange young man in the shop jist afore ye cam' in, speirin' the road to Hazel Cottage. I had it on ma tongue to tell ye, but—"

"A young man? Whit like a young man?"

"Aw, a weel-dressed, genteel-lukin' young man. He cam' aff the twa-o'clock boat. He was that polite, I thocht at first he micht be in the jam and jelly line, or maybe traivellin' for yin o' thae new patent infants'-foods, ye ken. Thae infants'-foods is jist—"

"Nae doot! But whit wis he wantin' at Hazel Cottage?"

"I cudna say, Mistress Wallace. I tell't him Davie Houston—if it was him he was wantin'—was awa' workin' at Maister Colman's new boat-house an' wudna likely be at hame; an', if he had ony business wi' Davie, he cud leave a message at the shop wi' auld Angus."

"An" whit did he say?"

"He jist said he was greatly obleeged, an' gaed awa'."

"I wunner whit he wis wantin'," muttered Mrs. Wallace. "There wis a young man cam' aff the twa-o'clock boat yin day last week an' speirt at the pier the road to Hazel Cottage, but he never gaed there."

"That was queer," said Mr. Ogilvy. "It cudna ha'e been the same young man, for he wudna ha'e needit to speir twice. But dootless some of the merchants in the city 'll ha'e been hearin' aboot the big jobs that Davie's gettin', an' they'll be wantin' to share in his prosperity, as it—"

"That 'll be it. The wudd merchants an' ithers 'll be wantin' to dae business wi' him. I maun say that mairrage has been the makin' o' Davie Houston—though I wudna tell Jess that."

"She's a clever lass, yer niece, Mistress Wallace," remarked the grocer. "I'm thinkin' she tak's efter her aunt," he added, with an effort which brought the perspiration to his brow.

"Eh?" she demanded.

"It—it was jist a sma' compliment, as it were," he stammered.

"Humph! Compliment! We'll be hearin' next that ye're takin' lessons in dancin' an' deportment. 'Deed, Maister Ogilvy, ye fairly surprise me whiles! Ye seem to be renewin' yer youth like the eagle. Ha-ha!"

Poor Mr. Ogilvy certainly did not look much like an eagle as he mumbled sadly—"Oh, Mistress Wallace, if—if ye jist kent ma feelin's—ma inmost fee—"

"Are ye no' weel?" she exclaimed.

The grocer gave her a look that would have melted a flint. "Pheesically I ha'e nae infirmity, but—"

"I near furgot to order a bit emery-paper."

"Emery-paper?"

"Ay, emery-paper, man!"

"Of coorse, of eoorse," said Mr. Ogilvy, recovering himself. "Emery-paper," and he moistened his pencil.

"Weel, I maun gang. Guid-day to ye, Maister Ogilvy. Mind, it's three eggs ye're to send." She left the shop, and turned in the direction of Hazel Cottage.

For a minute Mr. Ogilvy watched her from behind a pile of wooden cheeses in the window. Then he turned away with a groan, knocking over a large pot of gooseberry-jam. Surveying the mess at his feet, he sighed:

"Samuel Ogilvy, ye're jist an eediot! Ye've nae mair sense nor that puir jaur o' jam."

When, about half-past two, the bell rang, Jess, who had just settled down to an afternoon's baking, murmured impatiently. "If it's that Miss Perk again, I've a good mind not to let her in. She's always coming when I'm busy. If I only knew it was her I'd let her ring. I'll wait a minute, anyway."

She waited till the bell rang a third time, and then, without removing the flour from her arms, she went to the door, saying to herself, "She'll surely see I'm busy."

But the ringer was not the person whose advent Mrs. Houston dreaded. On the doorstep stood a man of perhaps thirty-two, fashionably dressed, gloved, and with a hot-house flower in his button-hole.

"Don't you remember me?" he asked, smiling, and holding out his hand.

The flush on her face deepened, and for a moment she hesitated. "Mr. Dobbie," she said, shyly.

"Yes; but won't you shake hands—er—Mrs. Houston?"

Jess dusted her hand on her white apron and gave it to him, though not willingly. In spite of a kindness recently received from this man, she wished her visitor had, after all, been the troublesome Miss Perk.

"You have a pretty place here," he observed, eying her averted face in an amused fashion. "One can believe in spring in your garden."

"Yes," she returned, feeling that she was behaving and looking foolishly. "The snow-drops and crocuses are doing very well."

"What about the roses?" he said, softly, with a glance at her face. "And the lilies?" he added, his eyes falling to her arms.

"Oh, we don't have them for a while yet," she answered him, simply.

"I thought you would have them all the year round. Eh?"

"We don't have any forced flowers, Mr. Dobbie."

"I can see that."

But his meaning was fortunately lost on her, and presently he smacked his gloved hands together, stamped his pointed shoes on the step, and with an affected shiver said:

"Yes, Mrs. Houston, the garden is a pretty place, but at this season of the year it's a cold place for talking in. Aren't you afraid of getting a chill, standing at the door?"

Jess shook her head. She felt awkward, and wished he would go away.

"You are not very hospitable," he said, with a light laugh. "Don't you think you might invite me inside for a few minutes. I came from Glasgow to-day especially to see you—to have a little chat on business, you know."

"I beg your pardon," said Jess, nervously. "Will you come into the parlor, Mr. Dobbie?"

"'Will you walk into my parlor?'" he quoted, with an air of originality, as he followed her. "‘'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy,'" he continued, on entering the room.

"Will you sit down, Mr. Dobbie?" she asked, gravely, placing a chair near the fire.

"Don't look so serious, Mrs. Houston," he said, stretching his hands and feet towards the grate. "We needn't talk business unless you like."

"But you've come from Glasgow," she began, and halted lamely.

"Won't you sit down yourself, Mrs. Houston?" he inquired politely, rising.

"No—no, thank you."

"How shy she is," he said to himself, resuming his seat. Then aloud: "I have come from Glasgow to see you because you have not come from Kinlochan to see me."

"I—I didn't know you wanted to see me, Mr. Dobbie. I thought the—the business was settled for three months. It's only five weeks since you were—since you were so kind to me."

He smiled in a way that many of his town lady friends considered quite fascinating. "I've been hoping you would call as you promised—well, perhaps it was not a definite promise—to let me know how affairs were progressing. You gave me so much of your confidence during one call that I think I was almost justified in expecting another. Can't you understand how deeply I was disappointed, Mrs. Houston?"

"Perhaps I should have let you know how things were going on," said Jess, somewhat coldly. "But they were going on well, and I knew I could manage your account in the three months, and so I didn't see the need of writing. I haven't been in Glasgow since the day you were so kind to me about the glass."

"But you will be coming soon. You must find it rather dull here in the dead season."

"No."

"But it must be appallingly quiet."

"It is quiet."

"I think you said you were brought up in the city, Mrs. Houston."

"Yes."

"And don't you weary for a little gayety now and then?"

"No."

"Do you mean to tell me that you are quite contented with life here?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Would you not prefer to have less work and worry, Mrs. Houston?"

"No."

Her curt answers amused rather than annoyed him. "I wish I were so easily pleased," he sighed. "But you can bring some pleasure into my unsatisfactory existence by coming to see me, say, this day week."

"Oh, I can't, Mr. Dobbie."

"This day week," he repeated, gently. "You owe me something, don't you?"

"The money will be paid on the day you said," she replied, feeling at a loss.

"Is that all you think of me?"

"I—I cannot thank you any more than I've done," she said, praying that he might depart.

"Do you know that I came to see you last week?" he asked, suddenly.

"It was you? I heard that some one had asked the way to the cottage. But I didn't think—"

"I found the cottage, but I noticed your husband was busy in his garden—which is more to his credit than to that of his bank-account, I'm afraid—so I passed the gate reluctantly. I don't suppose you would have welcomed me in the presence of your husband."

Jess paled slightly, but held her peace.

"Mr. Houston has no idea of our little secret?" he continued. "You are quite certain he suspects nothing?... It's just as well, for he might take it badly if he knew."

"There's nothing wrong," she gasped.

"Oh no," he answered, lightly. "Nothing seriously wrong. Still, you know, a man doesn't like to find out that he is being managed. You understand? And, as you told me, you are very anxious to manage Mr. Houston's affairs without his knowing what is going on. It's a pretty idea, but apt to lead to trouble. A woman can take too much upon herself. Even an incapable man has his dignity."

"I—I don't understand." For the moment she felt that she had taken too much upon herself.

"Well, I'll put it plainly, Mrs. Houston," he said, rising slowly and turning his back to the fire. "Suppose some one told Mr. Houston that his wife knew his financial position—pardon the long words—and concealed it from him."

"Oh!"

"Suppose some one told him that his wife was treating him like a child. Would he like it? Would he appreciate her self-sacrifice?"

"But no one knows but you. I had to tell you, Mr. Dobbie. You were so kind, and I was desperate that day.... But nobody knows but you about David." Speaking her husband's name seemed to strengthen her. She looked him straight in the face.

He hesitated, but only for an instant. "Nobody knows but myself.... And nobody else need know," he said, deliberately.

Jess felt herself turning cold; her hand tightened on the back of the chair she had been holding during the past five minutes. "Why—why do you say that?" she asked in a whisper.

He smiled. "Did it frighten you.... Jessie?"

"How dare you!" she exclaimed.

Still smiling, he took a step forward.

"Don't move!" she cried, gripping the back of the chair with both hands.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear girl. I sha'n't move. I wouldn't spoil the picture you make on any account. But I want to talk to you. Why are you angry? Let's be friends. Eh?"

The look of contempt on her white face stung him to the quick.

"Then I'll leave you in the mean time, but this day week you'll come to my office and persuade me to make it up," he said, harshly.... "Won't you?" he asked, with a sudden change of tone. "Won't you?" he repeated, this time in the appealing notes of a lover.

Jess made no sound.

"Why not?" he inquired, softly.

She remained silent, and he could no longer endure her eyes upon him.

"Good-bye just now—er—Mrs. Houston," he said, taking his hat and gloves from the table. "I hope we'll have a pleasanter chat this day week. At what hour may I expect you?... What on earth are you doing?"

Jess, still holding the chair, had slipped back to the door and turned the key.

"So you don't want me to go yet?" said Mr. Dobbie, with an uncomfortable laugh.

Mrs. Houston moistened her dry lips. "You must wait till David comes home," she said, quietly.

For the moment her words literally took his breath away. But only for the moment. "Are you mad?" he demanded. "You'll make me lose my steamer, and it's the last to-night."

She paid no attention.

"I was only joking, Mrs. Houston. You've made me feel an awful ass," he said, presently, trying to laugh. "Let us part in peace, as the hymn says."

Her face, if anything, grew more determined. "You must wait, Mr. Dobbie, till I have explained matters to Mr. Houston."

"You intend to tell him everything?"

"Everything."

The man considered, and when he spoke again his smile was ugly. "Do you wish to make your husband a bankrupt, Mrs. Houston?"

"You wouldn't—" she began.

"Would you?"

"You said three months, Mr. Dobbie."

"Did I?"

"Oh, you—you—"

He, knowing the situation was his, advanced towards her, saying, politely, "Kindly open the door."

She turned the key mechanically.

"Till this day week," he said, pleasantly, as he passed into the lobby. "Hullo!"

"Hullo, yersel'!" said the aggrieved voice of Mrs. Wallace, who had just come from the kitchen, having entered by the back door. "Whit's ado? Wha's this?"

"It's all right, Aunt Wallace," said Jess, trying to steady her voice as she followed her unwelcome visitor from the parlor.

"Guidsake, lassie! ye luk as if ye had been seein' a ghaist! Wha's this?" Mrs. Wallace demanded, in a loud whisper, pointing to Mr. Dobbie, who was struggling with the patent lock on the door.

"Oh, never mind, aunt, never mind," murmured her niece, ready to collapse.

Mrs. Wallace looked sharply at Jess. "Is he a freen o' yours?" she asked, quickly. "Is he a freen o' Davie's?"

"No, no!" said the young woman, wildly.

"Sich bein' the case, he's nae freen o' mines," muttered Mrs. Wallace. "Young man!" she suddenly roared, "quit spilin' the sneck o' that door, an' pey attention to me."

"Confound this lock!" grunted Mr. Dobbie, with another wrench at the handle.

"Bad language 'll no' help ye," cried Mrs. Wallace.

"Who's the old party?" he exclaimed, angrily, turning to Jess.

"Auld pairty!" the aunt almost shrieked. "I'll auld pairty ye, ye tailor's dummy! Ye penny masher! Ye—"

"Aunt, aunt!" protested Mrs. Houston.

"Haud yer tongue, lassie! I'm jist beginnin'. Whit has the man stolen, Jess?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing!"

"I'm gled to hear ye catched him in time. But I'll pit the polis on his track, onywey.... Weel, Maister Burgular, whit ha'e ye got to say fur yersel'? Eh?"

White with wrath, the glass-merchant turned on her. "Show me how to open this cursed door, or—"

"Whisht, man! Ye're bad enough wi'oot sweerin'."

"Aunt Wallace, for my sake let him go," whispered Jess.

"Let him gang? Nae fears! Wait till Davie comes hame an' he'll mak' collops o' this braw bit o' mankind. I'm no' feart fur him. I'll stab him wi' ma umbrella as shin as luk at him."

The enraged man spoke again. "Do you know who I am?" he roared.

"Wha?" said Mrs. Wallace.

"My name is Dobbie."

"I'm mair curious to ken whit yer natur' is."

"And I'll tell you now that Mrs. Houston has foolishly compromised herself—"

"Whit?" For a brief space the elderly woman hesitated. Then she strode forward and struck him over the head with her umbrella, splitting his felt hat and crushing it over his eyes. "That's yin fur you!" she cried.

At that moment he succeeded in opening the door.

"Mr. David Houston will go bankrupt for this!" he yelled. "I'll show him no mercy."

"An' ye'll get nane, either!" cried Mrs. Wallace, making a dash at him. "Yin!... Twa!... Three!... Fower!" And she rushed down the garden-path after him, belaboring him with her umbrella till it broke at the handle. It was an utter rout, so far as Mr. Dobbie was concerned.

"I doot I've been whit the gentry ca' vulgar," she panted to he'rself as she returned to the cottage.

She found her niece on the verge of fainting, and made speed to soothe and comfort her both physically and mentally.

"Jess, ma dear," she said, when the young woman had somewhat recovered, "I doot ye'll ha'e to trust yer auld auntie. Ye canna dae everythin' yersel'. Naebody can. Dinna mak' a lang story aboot it, but jist tell me whit I can dae to help ye."

"I ken ye've done yer best," said Mrs. Wallace, a little later. "An" ye'll dae better yet, lass," she added. "I'll keep it a secret to please ye, but I'm feart ye're takin' ower big a responsibeelity."

"But it's only for a few months now, Aunt Wallace," Jess pleaded. "I was so proud to think I could put David's affairs right without troubling him. I couldn't bear to give in now."

"Weel, weel, a wilfu' wumman 'll ha'e her ain wey. But mind an' trust me. I ha'ena the ready money ye need, but I'll get it fur ye the morn, an' ye'll pey aff Dobbie, no' furgettin' to keep back the price o' ma guid umbrella. An' ye can pey back the money when ye can.... An' noo I'm gaun to help ye get Davie's tea ready, an' ye maun gang early to yer bed the nicht an' ha'e a guid sleep, puir lass."

On her way home Mrs. Wallace dropped into the grocer's shop.

"Hoo's trade, Mr. Ogilvy?"

"Deplorable! Waur nor ever, Mistress Wallace. Did ye forget somethin' when ye was in afore?"

"Na. But I cam' back to see if ye cud tell me whaur I cud get the len' o' forty pound the morn's mornin'."