Jess & Co./Chapter 6

OME in to your tea, Davie," called Jess from the door of the cottage.

"I'm jist comin'," replied her husband, who was bending over a plot under the wall.

"But you said you were coming half an hour ago."

"Did I?" said David, grubbing in the earth. "D'ye like sweet-peas, Jess?"

"Yes. But I don't like cold tea and cold buttered toast," his wife returned, impatiently. "Come, Davie."

"I'll be in the hoose in twa ticks, lass. Dinna fash yersel'. The warl's no' comin' to an 'end!"

"My patience is, David."

"Nae fears! I ken yer patience better nor that! Jist think o' the show o' sweet-peas ye'll ha'e in July, Jess! An' I'll let ye pu' as mony o' them as ye like, an' welcome, dearie."

"But can't you finish planting them after you've had your tea, Davie?" she asked, partly appeased.

"'Deed, I never thocht o' that! Of coorse I can." And David Houston rose and followed his wife into the cottage. "I'm vexed for keepin' ye waitin', Jess," he said, as he joined her in the kitchen. "I doot I whiles forget things."

"Oh, never mind. It doesn't matter," she said, coldly.

"Are ye angry wi' me, Jess?" he asked, anxiously.

"Angry? Why should I be angry?"

"I—I thocht ye wasna pleased at—at somethin'," he answered, lamely. "Ye see, I forget the time when I'm at ma gairden, an'—"

"You've been at the garden since seven o'clock this morning, David," she observed, as she filled his teacup. "Your breakfast was cold before you came to it, and so was your dinner."

"I didna fin' onythin' wrang wi' either o' them," he returned, pleasantly. "Ye're a clever yin at the cookin'," he added, admiringly.

Jess looked as if she had not heard him. It was the local spring holiday, and she had made special efforts with the homely meals, each one of which had been spoiled through her husband's late appearance at table. Still, she had kept her temper so far.

"I'm sayin' ye're a clever yin at the cookin', Jess," he repeated.

"I'm glad you think so."

The tone of her voice was something new to David, and he paused in conveying half a slice of toast to his mouth, and stared at her.

Avoiding his gaze, she played with her spoon in an absent-minded fashion.

"What's wrang, lass?"

"Nothing."

"But ye're no' takin' yer tea. Are ye no' weel?"

"Oh, be quiet!"

"But I dinna like to see ye no' enj'yin' yer tea."

"Don't bother. Go on with your own tea, and get back to your garden."

Mr. Houston, with many an uncomfortable glance at his wife, who, in spite of his efforts, refused to be drawn into conversation, continued his meal with hardly his usual hearty appetite, but with an obvious desire to show her that he appreciated the buttered toast.

"I think I'll ha'e a smoke noo," he remarked, immediately he had finished, and was surprised when his wife, contrary to custom, failed to rise to fetch him his house-pipe from the mantel-piece.

After a short period of waiting, he drew his wooden pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it.

Jess rose and began to clear away the dishes, a thing she usually delayed doing until David had enjoyed a ten-minutes' smoke.

"Aren't you going to finish planting your seeds?" she inquired, abruptly, addressing the teapot in her hand.

"I was thinkin' I wud wait till ye was ready to come oot to the gairden. It's fine an' warm the nicht."

"I don't think I'll come out to-night. I've other things to do. Don't wait," she said, with her back to him.

"What are ye busy aboot the nicht, Jess?"

"A lot of things."

Houston got up, put on his cap, and moved towards the door. "Come oot, if ye can," he said, kindly. "I'm gaun to gi'e ye a great show o' sweet-peas for the summer."

She made no reply, and on the threshold he halted and turned. "Wud ye no' try a—a—a pill, dearie?" he asked, with the utmost hesitation and diffidence.

The color rushed to Mrs. Houston's face and her eyes sparkled. She stamped her foot. "David Houston!" she cried, "will you go to your garden when I ask you?"

"But, Jess—" he began.

A plate slipped from her hands and smashed to pieces on the bottom of the sink. "See what you've made me do!" she exclaimed.

"Och, never heed aboot the dish, lass," David stammered, at last. "I—I wish ye wud tell me what's troublin' ye."

"I wish you would go when I ask you," said his wife, her lip trembling.

"Weel, I'll gang to please ye," he returned, miserably, "but I wish ye wud tell me what—"

He was interrupted by the tinkle of a bell.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mrs. Houston, hopelessly.

"Wha can that be?" said her husband. "It's past postie's time. Wull I gang an' see, Jess?"

"Yes," said Jess, in a choked voice.

With an anxious look at her, David left the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Jess hid her face in her apron. "I tried to—to give him a treat to-day," she thought, bitterly, "but he thinks of nothing but his garden. The breakfast spoiled, the dinner spoiled, and the—"

She lifted her head and listened. She heard David's voice and another's.

"Miss Perk!" she groaned. "Oh, I hope Davie 'll have the sense not to ask her in.... No! She's away!"

She heard the front door shut, but the voices began again.

"He's taking her into the parlor," she sighed. "I might have known he would do it."

Presently the kitchen door opened and David looked in. "Jess," he said, in a loud whisper, "Miss Perk's in the paurlor wantin' to see ye."

"Is she?" said his wife, languidly, turning the water on to a saucer.

"Ye'll no' be lang, wull ye?"

"I don't know how long I'll be."

"But she—she's wantin' to see ye parteeclar," he said, entering the kitchen.

"What about?"

"I didna speir. But ye'll no' be lang, wull ye, Jess? I'll gang an' tell her ye're jist comin', an' then I'll get on wi' plantin' the sweet-peas. Eh, lass?"

"Seeing you asked Miss Perk into the house, you had better go and keep her company till I'm ready," said Mrs. Houston, calmly.

"But—"

"I can't be ready for half an hour. The tea was so late to-night."

"Hauf an 'oor! An' what wud I say to her for hauf an 'oor?"

"You might ask her if she likes sweet-peas," said Jess, and could have bitten out her tongue for saying it.

For a moment or two her husband regarded her with puzzled eyes, then his face reddened.

"I'm vexed if I've done the wrang thing, dearie," he said, gently. "The seeds can bide. I'll gang into the paurlor an' dae ma best to—to be pleesant an' a' the rest o' 't. If ye like, I'll pit her oot the hoose."

"No, no. You mustn't do that. Just say I won't be long."

David took a step nearer his wife, then turned abruptly and left the kitchen.

"It was too bad of me," thought Jess, the tears filling her eyes.

Once more the door opened, and her husband whispered, imploringly: "For peety's sake, dinna be mair nor hauf an 'oor." He vanished, and she heard him enter the parlor.

Mrs. Houston dropped into a chair and laughed quietly, with the tears still in her eyes. "Poor Davie! If he had only made me laugh sooner! But I must be quick and go after him."

Within ten minutes, her cheeks flushed and her eyes very bright, she opened the door of the parlor.

Miss Perk was sitting in the window, and Mr. Houston occupied an inch or two of the chair nearest the door, the length of the room lying between them.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Houston," said Miss Perk, as Jess greeted her. "Mr. Houston and I have been having quite a delightful chat. Haven't we, Mr. Houston?"

"Ay," said David, as if he were telling a lie.

"He has just promised to bring you to my lecture on Thursday week," Miss Perk resumed, smiling graciously across the room, "and also to Mr. Croker's lecture the following Monday. And he has almost promised that you will both attend all our classes and lectures next season. I'm quite charmed, Mrs. Houston."

Without daring to meet his wife's eyes, David rose, and saying, "Excuse me, I maun gang oot to the gairden," left the room with all speed.

Jess managed to hide her vexation, and made a commonplace observation on the fineness of the weather for the holiday.

Miss Perk cordially agreed with the observation, and continued:

"It must be so gratifying for you, Mrs. Houston, to notice the decided improvement in your husband."

"But he hasn't been ill," said Jess, in surprise.

"I mean in his methods—his business methods, you know."

"Oh!" exclaimed the young woman, taken aback. "I don't understand," she added, somewhat haughtily.

"Why, every one is talking about him," said the visitor, pleasantly, if patronizingly, "and saying how industrious he is becoming, and so attentive to his work. I'm sure you must have noticed a difference during the past six months."

Mrs. Houston held her tongue.

"Perhaps you don't notice things as we do," Miss Perk went on. "But I, and many of my friends, can assure you that the improvement is there, and we sincerely trust it may be permanent. I'm sure you will do all in your power to make it so. You know it is a young wife's duty to use all her influence in—in—"

"What are you going to lecture on on Wednesday week, Miss Perk?" Jess asked, with strained politeness.

"Thursday week, Mrs. Houston—Thursday week, at seven o'clock. Well, curiously—or perhaps I should say appropriately—enough, I intend to read a paper on the young wife's influence during the first year of married life. I have earnestly endeavored to treat the subject with the seriousness and deep consideration it deserves. But to return to your husband, I am sure you must be delighted by what I have told you, for, of course, you are aware that in marrying him you entered upon quite a precarious existence; and I am sure, also, that you will not take offence when I tell you that I and many of my friends have frequently trembled for your future."

"It was very kind of your friends and yourself," said Jess, with a sweetness in her voice which would have sounded suspiciously to any one but her visitor.

"Ah, but, being Christians, we cannot but interest ourselves in our neighbors. And since you came to settle in Kinlochan, I, for one, have been keenly interested in your life, and have always hoped that nothing might occur to make you less satisfied with it than you appear to be. I thought that, perhaps, the few words I offered you some months ago might have been instrumental towards your husband's improvement, but as you say you do not notice any change in him, I conclude the improvement has come from himself, which is all the more creditable to him."

"Yes," murmured Jess, with a mildness she was far from feeling.

"I heard only the other day that Sir Archibald was simply delighted with the way in which his greenhouses had been remodelled and repaired, and that he was going to recommend your husband to Lord Montgomery, who was thinking of—"

"Lord Montgomery arranged with David yesterday," said Mrs. Houston, with the faintest note of triumph in her voice.

"Indeed. That is extremely gratifying. Well, Mrs. Houston, you must now make up your mind to encourage your husband as much as possible, so that there is no chance left for a relapse. I had thought of speaking to him myself, but no doubt the matter is safe in your hands."

"I'll think about it," said Jess, holding herself in. "Have you seen my aunt, Mrs. Wallace, lately?" she inquired, suddenly.

"No—no; not lately. Not for some time, in fact. I trust she is quite well," Miss Perk replied, with a smile that might have been misconstrued.

"Oh, Aunt Wallace is always well," the niece returned, cheerfully.

The visitor mentioned a few local topics, but in a hurried manner suggesting that she was ill at ease. "Do you expect your aunt this evening, Mrs. Houston?" she inquired, about five minutes later.

"Aunt Wallace just comes along when it suits her. She might come in any time."

Miss Perk rose. "I'm afraid I cannot wait longer on the chance of the pleasure of a chat with her, but pray give her my kind regards when you see her. I'll pop in soon again, and perhaps find her with you. Now I must really go."

Mrs. Houston conducted her visitor to the door, and in the porch the latter said: "I thought we should have found your husband in the garden. I should like to have seen him."

"He's not there," said Jess, looking about. "He'll likely have walked along the road."

"Well, perhaps you can take a message for him. You might kindly tell him that our drawing-room window is not working nicely, and ask him to come and put it right first thing in the morning. Can you remember that, Mrs. Houston?"

"I'm sorry," said Jess—she wasn't—"but he will be busy all to-morrow."

"The day after will do."

"I don't think he could attend to it for a fortnight or three weeks."

"Dear me! I didn't know he was so busy as all that," said Miss Perk, in a tone of annoyance. "However, I'll call at his workshop to-morrow and see what can be done. Good-evening, Mrs. Houston."

"Good -evening, Miss Perk."

Jess re-entered the cottage, and met David in the dusky passage.

"Is she awa'?" he whispered.

"Yes," replied his wife, smiling in spite of herself. "She wanted to see you." She delivered the message and told him what she had said to the visitor in reply.

"I wudna gang inside her hoose for five pound. She gets me to promise things I dinna mean. I'm vexed at ma stupeedity, lass."

"Never mind, Davie."

"Aw, but, Jess, I didna mean to annoy ye."

"It's all right, Davie lad. I dare say we'll be none the worse of the lectures."

"I'm vexed aboot the lectures, but I'm mair vexed aboot anither thing."

"What's that?" She felt a thrill of pleasure to think that at last he understood the cause of her annoyance earlier in the evening. After all, she had not labored for his creature comforts in vain. "What's that?" she repeated, softly and encouragingly.

"The—the pill," he stammered. "I didna mean to annoy ye when I mentioned it. Are ye feelin' quite weel noo?"

For an instant Jess felt she wanted to slap his face. Then she burst out laughing.

"I'm gled ye're no' angry wi' me ony mair," he said, and kissed her.

"Did you get the sweet-peas planted?" she inquired, as she drew him into the parlor.

He shook his head. "Ye see, I didna gang oot to the gairden efter a'. I jist sat in the kitchen waitin' for her to gang. I hadna the hert to plant onythin' when ye was angry wi' me, Jess."

"You're just a laddie, Davie," she said, not chaffingly, but with a world of affection in her voice. "And now I'm going to have an hour at the books," she added, quickly.

"Wull ye no' come for a walk, dearie?"

"I'll come afterwards. It 'll be too dark for the garden now, so you better take your paper and keep me company till I get through the accounts."

She laid ink and pen on the table, and brought her husband's ledger from the bookcase. She seated herself, thinking how much more cheerful the figures before her were to-night than six months ago. Among the neatly kept accounts she forgot the worries of the day, and now and then fell to dreaming of how, in the not very distant future, she would present David with a balance-sheet (which she would have to explain) showing him the reward of his labor in black and white.

"Donald Binnie is to get a rise next Setturday," remarked Mr. Houston, settling himself in the easy-chair and glancing admiringly at his wife.

"How much, Davie?"

"Twa shullin's. He's worked for it."

"All right. Anything else?" asked Mrs. Houston, making a note in a small book.

"I gi'ed auld Angus five shullin's yesterday. He wantit it for his sister. She's vera badly the noo, puir buddy."

"I'll go and see her to-morrow, Davie. But you would have been better to have told me first, for Angus always buys the wrong things for his sister. She's far too old and frail for tinned salmon and cream cheeses."

"But she likes them better nor onythin' else, Angus tell't me. She likes tasty things, ye ken.... But I'm aye daein' the wrang thing, Jess," he muttered, sadly. "I sudna ha'e gi'ed him the five shullin's."

"Yes, you should. But you shouldn't have given it till I had a chance of telling the poor man what to buy. It's a pity he won't let any one help to nurse his sister. Aunt Wallace made some grand soup the other day and took it to Angus, and—"

"Did he no' tak' it to his sister? I'll ha'e to speak to him. He's gay dour, is Angus."

"I think he took it to his sister, Davie, but the next morning he brought it back to Aunt Wallace, and said his sister was terribly obliged but she couldn't eat it to please the king. And you never saw better soup. I wish I could make soup like Aunt Wallace. So, Davie, don't give Angus any more extra money without telling me. He and I won't quarrel, you know. We're great friends."

"I ken that, Jess. Angus wud dae onythin' for you. Weel, I'll mind what ye say.... Here's three pound fifteen I got frae Maister Granger yesterday. He tuk aff five per cent, for prompt payment." David got up, laid the money on the table, and resumed his seat.

"Prompt payment!" said Jess, laughing, and turning up page 139 in the ledger. "The account has been owing about fifteen months. Doesn't Mr. Granger keep a footman and a butler?"

"He does that," said David. "An' a page forbye."

"Well, he should try keeping a penny diary. But I'm glad the account's paid. I was afraid it was going to be a bad debt. He's welcome to the five per cent. It 'll likely be the only thing he keeps that doesn't cost him anything!"

"Ye're rale smairt, Jess," her husband remarked, smiling. "I daur say if ye hadna been lukin' efter the books, the accoont wud ha'e been staunin' yet. I cud never ask thae gentry for money."

"It seems to be the only way of getting it from a lot of them," said Mrs. Houston, slowly turning over the pages of the ledger. "They're not all like Sir Archibald of Arden and Mr. Colman."

"That's true, lass. They're gentlemen though they're gentry."

"That's not bad, Davie!"

"What, Jess?"

"Oh, nothing.... Well, is that all?"

"Ay. I'll gi'e ye a list o' odd jobs the morn to pit in the book. I'm shair I dinna ken hoo I managed things afore ye cam' to help me, Jess. I was aye a puir haun at the books. I—I think ye're jist a great wumman."

"You're havering, Davie!"

"I'm no'! But I like to hear ye speak a word like that. Ye've got sic a genteel wey o' speakin', dearie."

"I can't help it. Father spoke like Aunt Wallace, but mother wouldn't let us follow his example. And then, when I was in the office, I—"

"I ken fine. I wud speak like ye if I cud manage it—but I canna."

"I don't want you to speak like any one but yourself, Davie. Really, I don't. I I couldn't believe you if you spoke differently."

There was a short silence.

"Davie," said Jess, breaking it, "have you ever put the lock on Aunt Wallace's coal-cellar door?"

"I clean forgot," he replied, dejectedly.

"Oh, Davie! It's such an old story!" she said, reproachfully.

Mr. Houston groaned. "I'm that used to it that I aye forget it. It's jist like askin' a blessin' on wur meat."

"But you always ask a blessing, Davie."

"Ye aye remind me, Jess."

Mrs. Houston bit at the end of her penholder before she replied. "You must see about the lock to-morrow."

"Ay; I'll see aboot it." David got up from his chair and came close to her. "Jess, Jess!" he cried. "Are ye ever sorry ye mairrit me?"

"Davie!"

"But I'm askin' ye. I'm aye daein' things that vexes an' displeases ye. Ye ken that fine. But I'm askin' if ye're ever sorry ye mairrit me." He laid his big hand on her shoulder, and bent down, trying to look into her face. "Jess, are ye ever sorry?"

"Davie, dear!" was all she could say.

"But tell me—tell me! For God's sake tell me!"

Somehow she did not answer him at once.

He dropped on his knees beside her, and his hand slipped down to her waist.

"Jess, ma dear," he whispered, "if I ever hurt ye—if I ever hurt ye in the least wee thing, forgi'e me!—for I didna mean it. I cudna mean it, lass."

"Don't, Davie!" she sobbed.

"But ye ken what I mean. Oh, Jess, tell me, tell me, are ye ever sorry ye mairrit me?"

She found her voice. "Never—never—never!" she cried, and her arms went round his neck.

The bell rang violently, and there was a savage hammering at the cottage door.

They hastened from the parlor together, clinging to each other in the moment of mingled happiness and apprehension.

A small boy stood in the porch, his face perspiring, his breath gasping.

"The shop's on fire," he spluttered.

"What shop?"

"The jiner's shop. Your shop. Ye better come quick if ye want to see ony o' it left." And he disappeared in the darkness.

"Davie!"

"Jess!"

"Here's your cap, lad... I've got a shawl.... Of course, I'm coming with you."

They hurried from the cottage, and along the road. The glare of the fire—not so huge, after all—shone ahead of them, and was reflected in a little bay of the loch.

"Oh, Jess," gasped David.

"Never mind, dear," panted Jess.

They were running through a dark avenue, when a figure seemed to come into being before David, threw up its arms, and dropped on its knees at his feet, so suddenly that David nearly fell over it.

"Angus!" cried husband and wife at once.

The old man clutched David's knees. "I served yer fayther faithful," he cried. "I served him faithful! An' I've served his son—I've served—"

"Angus, man. What are ye cooryin' there for?" cried David. He caught the poor soul by one arm, while Jess caught him by the other, and the twain dragged him to his feet. "What is it, Angus?"

"I served yer fayther, an' I've served his son as weel as ma auld age wud let me. Ay, I've served—"

"What am I to dae wi' him, Jess?" whispered Houston, hoarsely. "He's seen the fire, an'—"

"The fire! the fire!" wailed Angus. "It was masel' done that. I gaed to sleep, an' Maister Ogilvy had gi'ed me a bit tobacco, an'— Oh, maister, maister, I served yer fayther, an' I've served his—"

"Davie," said Jess, "you run on, and I'll follow you Run on, and see if you can do anything."

"Wull ye be safe, wife?"

"Yes, yes! I'll be after you in no time."

Houston ran off, and his wife turned to the old man who was clinging to her hand.

"Oh, Mistress Houston," he began, "I served his fayther faithful, an' I served—"

"Would you serve me, Angus?" she asked, quietly, her free hand on her heart.

"Serve you, mistress?" It meant more than a great oath.

"Well, Angus," she said, steadily, "you'll serve me—and David, too—very well, if you'll try to forget about the fire at the shop, and go along and attend to the fire at Hazel Cottage.... No, no! the cottage isn't on fire. I meant the kitchen fire. You'll find the door open. Look after the fire—the kitchen fire—and have the kettle ready to the boil. D'you understand, Angus?"

"Ay, mistress."

"And you won't leave the cottage till we get back?"

"Na, na!"

"What about your sister?"

"She's sleepin' lang syne. But, oh, mistress, d'ye think he'll pit me awa'? I've served his fayther, an—"

"No, Angus. David won't put you away, whatever happens. Now, go to the cottage. I'm depending on you."

Old Angus did a queer thing. He kissed her hand before he let it go.

A joiner's-shop, especially if it be twenty miles from a fire-station, makes a merry blaze, but a short one. Fortunately, the wind blew kindly, and David Houston's wood-yard escaped. Otherwise it was ruin, and blackest of black ruin.

Before midnight all was over, but it was after one in the morning when David and Jess walked slowly home together through the calm, sweet air. For half the distance they walked in silence, the woman gripping her husband's arm, for he was dead beat with much exertion. His face and hands were filthy with soot and charred wood.

He heaved a great sigh. "Jess, lass, ye'll be sorry ye mairrit me noo. We've naethin' left."

"No, I'm not sorry, Davie lad."

"But I deserve it," he groaned. "I clean forgot to pey ma insurance twa-three weeks syne. Oh, Jess, ye've a stupit, stupit man!"

"It's me that's stupid!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Davie, you've been suffering all this time about the insurance, and I forgot to tell you I paid it a fortnight ago."