IV
Aunt Wallace at Home
"OH, it's yersel', is it?" said Mrs. Wallace, opening the door to her niece. "Whit's ado? Ye're faur ower early. Ye wis bidden to come at sax, an' it's jist new chappit five. Whaur's Davie?"
"He's coming at the proper time, Aunt Wallace; but I hurried up with my work and came along to see if I could help you with anything," Jess returned, pleasantly.
"I'm nae great believer in folk—especially young mairrit weemen—hurryin' up wi' their wark, as ye pit it, an' I'm no' whit I wud ca' in desperate need o' assistance. But seem' ye're here, ye best come in."
Mrs. Houston, with a smile, accepted the not very gracious invitation, and made to step indoors.
"Wipe yer feet! Wipe yer feet!" exclaimed her aunt, pointing to the mat. "I'm jist new done washin' the waux-cloth. Ma certy! D'ye think I want a gairden in ma lobby fur yer man to plant carnations in?... Aw, that 'll dae. Ye needna nib a hole in ma mat. Come ben the hoose."
Suppressing a laugh, Jess entered the cottage and followed Mrs. Wallace to the kitchen.
"You've been baking, Aunt Wallace," she remarked, as she unpinned her plain straw hat.
"Ay, I've been bakin'. If ye had come shinner ye micht ha'e gotten a lesson. But ye're ower late noo."
"I'm very sorry," murmured Mrs. Houston, half humbly, half defiantly. "Were you baking scones?"
"I wisna bakin' cahootchy, onywey. Ha'e ye been tryin' onythin' in that line lately, Jess? But I suppose no', fur Davie wis lukin' weel the last time I seen him. Tits! I'm jist jokin'! Ye'll be a baker yet! Keep a licht hert an' a licht haun', an' mind the sody, an' ye'll turn oot scones fit fur angels.... My! but ye're drest the nicht, lass!" Mrs. Wallace exclaimed, as the young woman removed her jacket. "Whit did ye pey fur that? A bonny penny, I'm thinkin'."
"You mean my blouse? I made it myself, aunt."
"Did ye? Weel, it's no' bad; no' bad," said Mrs. Wallace, slowly. "I'm gled to see ye've no' pit ower mony falderals aboot it, like some o' the lasses ye see here on the Sawbath. Plain claes fur plain folk—that's ma motto. 'Deed, ay! Plain claes fur—"
"I suppose you never cared about ribbons and things when you were a girl, Aunt Wallace."
"Eh? Whit's that ye're sayin'? Humph! I've nae time fur ony mair haverin'. I thocht ye said ye cam' early to help me."
"So I did. What can I do?" asked the other, checking a smile.
"Ye can gang an' set the table in the paurlor. The cloth's laid, an' ye ken whaur to get the dishes—the best yins. Be canny wi' them, Jess. I'll be efter ye in twa meenits."
Jess departed to the parlor and proceeded to lay the tea things, humming a merry tune to herself. She was in gay spirits, for less than an hour ago she had posted the money required to meet the bill due by David to Hardy & Son, the timber-merchants. It had been a terribly anxious three months for the young wife, and she was only too well aware that her husband's affairs were still far from being in a sound condition, but the first difficult steps in the direction of prosperity had been taken, and for the moment she allowed herself to rest and be thankful and glad, seeing the goal of her desire less distant, perhaps, than it really was. Hope carries a rare pair of field-glasses, and an occasional scrap of success is sufficient to keep them clean and bright.
Mrs. Wallace entered the room, bearing two plates of scones, and paused, surveying her niece's handiwork.
"Mphm!" she said at last. "That 'll dae. But did I no' tell ye Maister Ogilvy wis comin' to his tea?"
"Mr. Ogilvy?" Jess shook her head.
"Ay; Maister Ogilvy, the grocer, ye ken."
Mrs. Houston tried not to look surprised or amused. "Oh yes," she said, and retired to the cupboard.
Her aunt's voice followed her. "Is there onythin' wrang in Maister Ogilvy comin' to his tea? Or is there onythin' peculiar?"
"Of course not, Aunt Wallace," replied Jess from behind the door.
"Weel, dinna rattle ma guid dishes as if ye had the palsy. Ha'e ye no' got a' the dishes ye need yet?"
"Yes; here they are." And Jess came forth, her countenance abnormally grave but rather flushed.
"Whit ails ye, Jess?"
"Nothing—nothing."
"Ye're maybe a wee thing surprised at Maister Ogilvy comin' to his tea?"
"Well, you see, I didn't know he was such a friend of yours, aunt."
"I didna say he wis. But I'm kin' o' vexed fur the man," said Mrs. Wallace, half gently, half contemptuously. "He's aye complainin' aboot bad trade, an' that's a thing I canna thole in a man. An' yet he's no' a hard man. I wis passin' his shope the ither day, when a wean fell aff his doorstep wi' hauf a dizzen eggs she had jist bocht frae him, an' he wis oot efter her afore ye cud say 'Jack Robison,' an' tuk her back to the shope, an' efter he had wiped awa' the maist o' the mess he gi'ed her anither hauf a dizzen eggs, an' a wheen sweeties furbye, an' tell't her no' to let on to her mither that she had tummilt."
"That was good of him!" exclaimed Jess, with enthusiasm.
"Oh, he whiles dis things like that to weans, but he's a kin' o' greetin' buddy as a rule. An' I'm shair he needna be that, fur he's naebody to keep but hissel', an' his business is no' near as bad as he mak's it oot to be."
"Has he never thought of getting married?" asked Jess, seriously. "He can't be so very old."
"Auld? He's no' old ava'! He's no' muckle aulder nor masel'. But I doot he'll never get a wife, even if he ever wants yin."
"And what made you ask him to tea?" her niece inquired, boldly.
If the query contained any insinuation Mrs. Wallace failed to perceive it. "Weel, as I tell't ye afore, I'm kin' o' vexed fur him, an' when I wis in his shope the day I wis mair vexed nor or'nar'. Ye see, he bides at the back o' the shope, an' when I gaed in the day he cam' furrit, unco rid i' the face an' confused-like. An', afore he had hauf served me, an' awfu' reek an' smell begood to come frae the back room. 'Mercy me! Whit in creation's that?' I cries. 'Aw, never heed it, Mistress Wallace,' he says, tryin' to lauch. 'Never heed it?' says I. 'Man, I'm near stuffocatit!' 'I'm rale sorry. But I can assure ye there's naethin' wrang—at least, no' seriously wrang,' he says, as if he wis ashamed. 'But there's somethin' burnin',' says I. But he jist shook his heid. 'Are ye daft?' I cries. 'Awa' an' pit it oot.' But he gi'ed anither puir lauch an' says, says he, 'Dinna get alarmed, Mistress Wallace. It's jist some soup I wis tryin' to mak' fur ma dinner.' 'Soup!' says I. 'Soup! It smells liker singein' hair an' caunnle ends.' ''Deed, ay! An' I doot it 'll taste the same,' he says, wi' a groan. 'I'm jist seeck o' life, Mistress Wallace!' An' then it cam' oot that auld Mistress Neil that's cleaned his bit room an' cookit his meals fur twinty an' mair years wis lyin' badly, cryin' oot that she wud dee if onybody else got her place, an' so Maister Ogilvy wis tryin' to dae her wark hissel'."
"Poor man!" said Jess.
"Mistress Neil's been badly fur a week, an' he tell't me he wis that tired o' eatin' cauld things oot o' tins this cauld weather, an' he thocht he wud mak' hissel' a bowl o' soup the day; but everythin' gaed wrang, an'—weel,' Jess, that's the reason I askit him to his tea. An' Davie an' him 'll be here afore we're ready fur them if we're no' smairt. Come awa' to the kitchen till I learn ye to fry ham an' eggs fit fur angels."
The two men arrived together, having met on the road, and Jess was despatched from the kitchen to admit them, bearing instructions regarding the wiping of boots on the outer door-mat.
"You gang in first," whispered Mr. Ogilvy, bashfully, as the door opened.
"Na, na. You're the stranger," returned David, with a courteous shove.
"How are you, Mr. Ogilvy?" said Mrs. Houston, in her friendliest fashion. "Davie, be sure and clean your boots," she added quickly to her husband.
"I'm weel, thenk ye," replied Mr. Ogilvy, taking a share of the door-mat. "Are ye keepin' pretty middlin' yersel'?"
"Yes, thank you. Now, come away in out of the cold."
They entered the bright lobby, disposed of their coats and caps, and followed her into the parlor, the joiner pushing the grocer before him.
"Come over to the fire, Mr. Ogilvy," said Jess, hospitably. "Won't you have the easy-chair?"
"Aw, thenk ye. Ony chair 'll dae—jist ony chair," returned Mr. Ogilvy, wiping his brow with an enormous handkerchief and rubbing his hands in a nervous way.
"Gang furrit, man, an' tak' the chair," cried David, genially. He had known Ogilvy all his life, and it was impossible to keep up any formality. Jess, however, had only met him in the way of business, and she would probably have felt shyer and tried less to make him feel at home had it not been for her aunt's recent remarks. So, having informed him that her aunt would appear presently, she did her utmost to put him at his ease, though, judging from the manner in which he continued to sit on the extreme edge of the easy-chair and repeatedly applied his handkerchief to his forehead, she could hardly be said to have succeeded brilliantly.
Her husband came to the rescue at last with the not very original inquiry:
"An' hoo's trade wi' ye?"
"Trade? Deplorable—jist deplorable! Never seen onythin' like it," said the grocer, shaking his head gloomily, but seating himself a little more comfortably in his chair. "Ye read a heap o' stories i' the papers aboot the depression o' trade, but if thae writin' chaps wants to ken what depression really is, they sud try a proveesion shop in Kinlochan. Depression isna the word for it!"
"Och, it's no' as bad as a' that," observed the joiner, with a laugh.
"Ah, David, ye're weel aff at the jinerin'," returned Mr. Ogilvy, sadly. "Ye're aye busy. But luk at me! I sit—onywey, I staun'—at the receipt o' custom, as it were, fur 'oors thegither, an' whiles I never turn a copper. The ither day—Tuesday, I think it was—there was naebody cam' ower ma doorstep frae twal' o'clock noon till three p.m. but twa weans. Yin was a laddie speirin' for a bit string; the ither was a lassie wantin' change for a penny. D'ye ca' that trade?"
"But it's not always so bad, Mr. Ogilvy," put in Mrs. Houston.
"Maybe no' jist as bad," he allowed, grudgingly. "But trade's no' what it used to be. Folk never used to get a' their proveesions frae the toon; an' there was nae cairts and vans comin' ten mile to poach on ma preserves, as it were. But noo—oh, it's jist deplorable, jist deplorable! Ay—"
He was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Wallace with a huge dish of ham and eggs, which she deposited on the table before taking any notice of her guests. "Jess," she whispered to her niece, "awa' an' bring ben the tea an' toast.... Weel, Davie, hoo's things? Gled to hear ye're busy.... Weel, Maister Ogilvy, I suppose trade's waur nor ever. But I dinna think ye sud mak' sic a lamentation aboot it in the hoose o' yer best customer. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!""
"Aw, Mistress Wallace!" murmured the grocer, with a feeble smile of apology, "nae offence, I hope."
"Haud yer tongue, man, an' draw in yer chair. Come awa', Jess, my lass. Davie, tak' the heid o' the table an' ask a blessin'.... Noo, help the ham an' eggs. If they're no' guid, ye can blame it on Maister Ogilvy."
"Ye wud aye ha'e yer bit joke, Mistress Wallace," said the guest, beginning to brighten under the cheerful influences about him.
"Sugar an' cream?"
"Thenk ye, thenk ye. As I was observin'—"
"Ha'e!" interrupted Houston, handing him a plate piled with ham and a couple of eggs.
"Aw, jist the hauf o' that, please—jist the hauf o' that," said Mr. Ogilvy, modestly.
"Come awa', man!" urged Houston.
"Ay, come awa', Maister Ogilvy. Hoo can ye expec' trade to be flourishin' when ye winna eat yer ain proveesions?" added the hostess, with a chuckle.
David laughed also as he selected some titbits for his wife. "'Deed, Ogilvy, ye've got to dae as ye're bid in this hoose."
"Ay, an' naebody kens that better nor Davie," remarked Mrs. Wallace, smartly.
Whereupon every one laughed heartily, including Mrs. Houston, who, however, first glanced at her husband to make sure that his feelings had not been hurt.
The meal proceeded, and altogether it was a very pleasant one. Mr. Ogilvy, who had been famishing, finished his ham and eggs and, after a deal of pressing, consented to take a second helping.
"Jist a wee tate," he said, diffidently. "Jist a sma' sensation. It's rale nice ham," he remarked to Mrs. Wallace. Then, noticing a twinkle in her eye, "I mean it's rale nicely cookit. In fac', I micht say, I never tastit ham near as nicely cookit, Mistress Wallace."
At this point David winked guardedly at his wife, who attempted to look severe, but smiled faintly.
"As fur yer scones," said the grocer, a little later, "I'm no' exaggeratin' when I tell ye they're the finest I ever encountered in a' ma born days!"
Such enthusiastic language from the mouth of Mr. Ogilvy was so unprecedented that a solemn pause ensued for several seconds.
"I'm shair I'm gled ye like the scones," returned Mrs. Wallace, recovering herself and breaking the silence, which would otherwise have been broken by a snigger from David. "Is Mistress Neil no' a guid haun' at the bakin'?"
"Until the nicht I thocht she was," came the gallant reply, whereat Houston gave his wife the gentlest of gentle kicks under the table.
"I doot ye're an unco blether, Maister Ogilvy," said the hostess, with a dry smile.
Mr. Ogilvy was suddenly abashed, realizing that he had allowed the unaccustomed comfort and cheer to carry him away.
Jess came to the rescue. "Have you heard how poor Mrs. Neil is to-night?" she inquired.
"Weel, Mistress Houston, I seen the doctor jist afore I left the shop, an' he said she was a lump better, an' wud maybe be back at her wark on Monday. But she's gettin' auld, ye ken, an' I doot she's no' lang for this life, puir buddy!"
"Wud ye no' be better to get some ither yin in her place?" asked David.
"No' as lang's she's leevin'. She cudna thole it. An' I dinna ken onybody in Kinlochan that wud be carin' aboot the job."
"Of course, there's twa weys o' gettin' a hoosekeeper," said David, teasingly.
For an instant the grocer looked puzzled; then he took a long drink from his empty cup, and tried to look as if he had not heard the remark at all.
"Are ye a' satisfied?" The hostess glanced round the table and rose. "Jess," she said, briskly, "you an' me 'll clear the dishes, an' Maister Ogilvy an' Davie can ha'e a smoke."
"Och, we'll jist wait an' ha'e a smoke in the kitchen efter ye 're through wi' the dishes," said David, who had never yet lit his pipe in Mrs. Wallace's parlor.
"I'm tellin' ye, ye can smoke here," she assured him. "Yer pipes 'll be naethin' to the ceegaurs o' ma ludgers in the simmer. Ye can smell the ceegaurs yet. I doot they wis chape yins. So ye can smoke yersel's black i' the face, an' maybe the new smell 'll help to kill the auld yin. Draw yer chairs in to the fire."
Aunt and niece speedily cleared the table and retired to the kitchen to wash up, for the former had a theory that the longer a dish was left soiled the more difficult it was to cleanse.
The two men drew their chairs towards the hearth, filled and lit their pipes, and for fully ten minutes puffed in solemn silence.
"It's a bonny paurlor this," Mr. Ogilvy ventured, after he had taken in every detail of the room, which was a model of orderliness and cleanliness, yet somewhat solidly furnished and primly arranged.
"It's a' that," returned David, agreeably. "But when I come in I'm aye feart at first that I dae the wrang thing. I yinst knockit ower a vaze, an' though it's twa year syne, I can hear the smash it made on the fender yet. It's no' a nice thing to knock ower a vaze belongin' to the aunt wha's niece ye're coortin'."
"I daursay that's true. It pits ye in what ye micht ca' an awkward poseetion. At least, I sud presoome that the poseetion wudna be a'thegither pleesant, though it's no' for me to say, seein' I'm no' vera fameeliar wi' the paurlors o' weemen folk."
"Ah, but it wis gey awkward, I tell ye. But I may say that Mistress Wallace never referred to the vaze efter that nicht, no' but what she referred kin' o' freely to it at the time. If it hadna been for Jess I wud ha'e said there was mair talk nor a dizzen vazes was worth."
"Ye—ye 're weel aff wi' yer wife, David," observed the grocer, staring at the fire.
"Ay," said David, briefly, but not coldly.
"Ye'll be gey cheery alang at Hazel Cottage thae lang nichts," continued the older man. "It's a—a rale fine thing to ha'e a—agreeable comp'ny, as it were. Eh?"
"Ay," said David, softly, pushing down the threads of glowing tobacco with a hardened forefinger.
"An'—an' yer wife's gey weel aff wi' her aunt," said the other, after some hesitation.
"Ay, Mistress Wallace is jist a fine auld wumman," said the joiner, heartily.
"She's no' that auld."
"I didna mean that exac'ly. But, of course, she's a guid bit aulder nor Jess an' me. I wudna say but what she's jist at her best."
"In her prime, as it were."
"Jist that."
"Weel, I'm shair there's naebody I like better to see coming ower ma doorstep," said Mr. Ogilvy, warmly, "even if it's for nae mair nor a penny's worth."
"Ye've kent her longer nor me."
"Och, ay! she's been a reg'lar customer o' mines since she cam' to Kinlochan, and I'm prood to say I've never had a complaint frae her, except yinst, an' that was when I sent her dog biscuits in mistake for abernethies; an' it was the laddie in the shop that done it, because she had cuffed him for roarin' 'Scots wha ha'e!' at her door instead o' ringin' the bell like an or'nar' Christian. But that was the only complaint I ever had, David." And the grocer proceeded to relight his pipe.
"That's vera satisfactory, I'm shair," said David.
"I think it is," said Mr. Ogilvy, puffing with the air of a man who is quite pleased with himself. "I was rale prood to be invited to ma tea the nicht. Nae doot I lost a bit custom shuttin' up ma shop earlier nor usual; but what's a shillin' or twa when ye're enj'yin' yersel'?"
"Mphm," murmured the younger man, checking a laugh.
After a considerable pause the grocer resumed the conversation.
"I was gaun to gi'e ye a hint, David, aboot a job that 'll likely be stairtit efter the New Year. Are ye near feenished up at Arden?"
"It 'll be twa-three weeks yet afore I'm through. It's been a big job."
"The bigger the better! Weel, the job I was gaun to tell ye aboot is a boat-hoose that Mr. Colman wants built—nane o' yer wee boat-hooses, but a big yin to haud three or fewer boats, an' it's to be done up in the best style."
"Hoo dae ye get to hear o' things?" exclaimed David, sitting up in his chair.
"Aw, never you mind aboot that! But if ye want the job, tak' ma advice an' gang to Mistress Colman first. She's the manager o' the establishment. But she's a kind leddy, an'—an' ye can mention that I sent ye, if ye like."
"Ach, I see it noo!" cried Houston. "It was her wee lassie that ye pickit oot frae among the horses' feet at—"
"Whisht, man, whisht! That's naethin' to dae wi' 't," cried Mr. Ogilvy, confused. "Jist you tak' ma hint, and dinna tell onybody."
"'Deed, I'm greatly obleeged to ye, but—"
Just then the aunt and niece entered the parlor, and the conversation became general. The grocer expanded wonderfully, and it was soon discovered that he was the possessor of a stock of old and chiefly weird local legends with which he regaled the company until Mrs. Wallace started up and informed her visitors that they could not remain in her house another minute. Without feeling in the least offended, but in the best of spirits, they shortly took their departure, David carrying a lantern, for the night was dark.
"Davie," whispered Jess, as they went through the garden-gate, "tell Mr. Ogilvy you want him to come to tea to-morrow night."
"'Deed, ay, lass. That was weel thocht o'!" he returned, and passed the invitation on to the grocer.
"Thenk ye, thenk ye," said Mr. Ogilvy, coughing loudly. "I'll be jist deelighted. Thenk ye, thenk ye!"
When they had parted with him, opposite his shop, David began to laugh softly.
"What is it?" Jess asked.
"Ogilvy's efter yer aunt Wallace."
"Oh, Davie! I—I believe he is."
"Has he ony chance, think ye, Jess?"
"I'm afraid not. Poor Mr. Ogilvy! Aunt won't marry again."
"A wumman's got to be askit first, onywey. But I wud like to see him weel lukit efter, for he's a dacent man and a guid freen' to you an' me, lass." And David told his wife of the new work in prospect.
"That's fine!" she cried, softly. "Oh, Davie, it was such a relief to get that awful bill off our minds to-day! Wasn't it?"
"'Deed, ay," he assented, lightly.
"But there's a lot to be done yet," she said, seriously, after a moment. "I mean, we must keep it up, mustn't we?" she added, hastily, lest he should suspect more than she wanted him to know.
"Jist that," he said, gayly. "Dinna fash yersel', dearie. We're daein' fine. I only wish Dobbie wud send that gless I ordered the ither day."
"Has it not come?" she asked, in sudden alarm.
"Oh, it 'll likely be here the morn. But I was thinkin' o' takin' the day to gang an' see the duke's chrysanthemums, an' I thocht ye micht like to come wi' me."
"That would be grand, but—but—"
"But what?"
"Shouldn't you be at Arden to-morrow?"
"I'm waitin' on the gless."
"But there's a lot of odd jobs waiting."
"Weel, dearie, if I dinna gang to see the duke's chrysanthemums the morn, I'll maybe no' manage anither day. An' it's time ye had a day aff, Jess."
She spoke little more during the remainder of the walk, but her husband chatted cheerfully. An ugly presentiment assailed her, and she could not get quit of it. She was convinced that she—she did not intend that David should see it first—would find a letter in a business envelope under the door of the cottage, deposited there by old Angus, who usually waited in the shop for the evening post.
David, whistling merrily, turned his key in the door of Hazel Cottage.
"Did you shut the gate properly, Davie?" she said, trembling.
"Ay. But I'll gang back an' see," he returned, obligingly, and ran down the path, swinging the lantern.
Jess pushed the door partly open, bent down, and felt over the triangle of flooring.
Her fingers closed on a letter. "Oh, Davie!" she sighed, and crushed it within her blouse.
"Jess, lass, ye're lukin' wearit," he said, tenderly, a little later.
"Oh, I'm all right," she replied, trying to smile.
"Ye'll be the better o' a day aff the morn. An' I ken ye'll enjye seein' the duke's chrysanthemums. My! if I had jist the time and money, Jess!"
"Keep hoping, Davie," she said, very gently. "But I—I don't think I'll come with you to-morrow. I think I'll go to the town instead. You see, it's a long time since—"
Her husband looked so disappointed that her will nearly gave way. "I wantit ye wi' me," he said, slowly. "But I daursay ye're needin' things frae the toon, an', as ye say, it's a guid while since ye was there. I suppose ye'll be hame in time for Ogilvy?"
"Oh yes. You're not vexed, are you, Davie?"
"Na, na, ma dear. I believe ye wud come wi' me if ye hadna somethin' important to dae in the toon. Eh, Jess?"
"That's just it. And maybe you'll ask me another time."
"That I wull, lass!"
"And you'll bring home some flowers if you can. I like to see our own ones growing." Then she added, very casually: "I might as well look in at Dobbie's and tell them to send the glass on at once."
"Ay; jist dae that, Jess." And, with a laugh, he added: "Ye can tell them ye're ma pairtner!"