Jess & Co./Chapter 9
IX
Figures, but Not All Dry
IN the garden, David Houston, bending over a beautifully kept plot of choice pansies, whistled softly his intense satisfaction. "I've never done better," was his thought, by which he meant that he had never done so well.
In the parlor his wife, bending over the page of a neatly kept ledger, sighed and murmured, "If I could only tell him some things without telling him everything!"
In the cradle by her side her baby stirred slightly, but did not waken. Her face lightened as she stooped towards the child; then, as she rose again, her mouth took on an expression of determination.
She left the table and went quietly to the window. For a brief space she watched her man working steadily and happily in the summer even-shine. "Oh, Davie," she whispered to herself, "I'm afraid, I'm afraid.... If you had only left your heart's desire till it was ready—till you were able to take it and keep it.... Perhaps it's my fault. Perhaps I've taken too much on myself. But how could I explain everything now? You would never—"
David straightened himself in order to get a bird's-eye view of the plot, and caught sight of his wife at the window. He nodded, smiled, pointed proudly at his pansies, and beckoned her to him. She smiled faintly in return, shook her head, and signed to him to come in-doors.
He came at once, and entered the parlor gayly and eagerly. "Was ye wantin' me to tak' the wee yin for a while?" he whispered. "I'll jist wash ma hauns, an' then I'll—"
"No, no, Davie," said Jess, gently, loving him more for his warm, fatherly affection, "Katie's sleeping sound. But I've been having a look at the books, and I—I wanted to ask you about something."
"Jist that, lass," he returned, agreeably, trying not to look disappointed. "Weel, I'll shin be feenished ootbye, an' then we'll ha'e a crack aboot the books. Come awa' for a meenit an' see the pansies that 'll lift the first prize at the show on Setturday. Come awa', Jess—jist for a meenit. Ye're no' gaun ootbye enough the noo. Never heed the books. They'll keep."
"They won't keep themselves," she said, good-humoredly. "But I want to know one thing before you go out again, Davie," she went on, seriously^
"What's that?"
"Have you given Donald Binnie notice?"
"No" yet, dearie," he replied, a little uncomfortably.
"Why, Davie? You said you were going to tell him more than a week ago."
"Ay. But—but, ye see, Jess, I hadna the hert to tell him. He's a dacent man, Donald Binnie, an' he's served me weel since he cam' to Kinlochan."
"I know that," she freely allowed. "But there's no work for him just now, is there?"
"Weel, there's no' muckle, to tell ye the truth, lass," he admitted, slowly, adding, more cheerfully: "But ye never can tell when the work 'll come again. An' Donald Binnie's a dacent man. I wud be vexed to ha'e to tell him I didna need him ony mair. I wud that, Jess. An' ye like him fine yersel'—dae ye no'?"
"Of course I do, David.... But tell me—what has Donald done to-day? What was there for him to do?"
"Weel, ye see, it was kin' o' slack at the shop an' I jist tell't him he micht tak' a day aff."
"Oh! But you gave him a day off yesterday, didn't you?" said Mrs. Houston, keeping calm with an effort.
"So I did," he replied, somewhat ruefully.
For ten seconds Jess held her tongue. Then very gently she asked:
"Could you not do all the work that's going just now yourself, Davie?"
"Ay.... Ay; I daur say—if I was neglectin' the gairden," he said, thoughtfully.
"But if you started earlier in the morning?"
"What about the wee yin?"
His wife laughed against her better judgment. "Is it you that holds Katie, or Katie that holds you in the mornings?"
"Weel, weel, dearie, ye ken it's rale nice to ha'e the wee yin in yer arms," he said, half laughingly, half apologetically, as he bent over the cradle.
She was disarmed for a moment, but a glance at the ledger on the table was sufficient to bring her back to action.
"David," she said, firmly. "You must give Donald notice on Saturday."
"The wee yin's fine at the sleepin'.... Eh? What was ye sayin', lass?"
"I said you must give Donald notice on Saturday. Promise!"
"But—but I'll be awa' at the show on Setturday, an' so wull you, Jess."
"Then you must tell him on Friday—to-morrow. Do you know, David," she continued, solemnly, "that for weeks you've been paying Donald more than you've been making yourself?"
Houston stared. "Is that a fac'?" he exclaimed.
"Last week his wages were twice what 'll come to you."
"Mercy on us! Is that what the book says?"
"Yes. But I told you awhile ago that you couldn't afford to keep Donald."
"I ken, I ken.... I'm a stupit man an' ill to dae wi'.... But I'll see aboot gi'ein' Donald notice. It's a peety, for he's a dacent man, an'—"
"You'll tell him to-morrow?"
"Ay; I'll likely see him the morn—if he doesna tak' anither day aff. I tell't him he didna need to come in the morn unless he had naethin' better to dae. He's got a lass at Fairport, ye ken. But it's like rain the nicht, an' I think he'll be back the morn's mornin'. Are ye no' pleased, Jess?"
Mrs. Houston hesitated, but was not lost. "Davie," she said, calmly, "sit down there." She indicated the chair she had vacated some little time ago.
David smiled inquiringly, but sat down.
She laid a sheet of note-paper and a pen before him, placed the ink bottle in position, and said:
"Dear lad, will you do me a great favor?"
"What's that, Jess?"
"Something that 'll do neither of us any harm. Say you'll do it."
He picked up the pen, dipped it, and looked down at the paper. Then he looked up at his wife.
"Ye 're a great wumman, Jess," he said, in a tone of affectionate amusement. "An' what am I to say to that dacent man Donald Binnie?"
"Just the truth," she replied, with sudden relief. "The truth that we—that you can't afford to keep him on."
"Mphm. That's the truth, as ye say, Jess, an' mair's the peety. If we had got the jiner work o' thae new hooses o' Debbie's, I wudna ha'e needit to—"
"Yes, yes," said his wife, hurriedly, turning to the window and gazing at the loch. "But that wasn't your fault, Davie."
"I wisht I was shair o' that, lass. I've heard talk o' Maister Bobbie ha'ein' a spite at me, an' I canna unnerstan' it, for I never did onythin' to him, excep' maybe tak' a bit extra credit noo an' then. It was hissel' closed the accoont, ye mind. But—"
"Write your letter, Davie, like a good lad," she interposed, without turning her head. "I want to get at the books again, and I suppose you want to get back to the garden before it's dark.... I I'm proud of your pansies, Davie.... But you—you won't let Mr. Dobbie or any one else beat you, will you?"
"Nae fears!" cried David, right cheerfully. "Ha'e ye anither bit paper? I've made a muckle blot on this bit, an' I'm no' wantin' to add insult to injury when I'm dismissin' a dacent man."
Mrs. Houston placed a fresh sheet of note-paper before her husband, who, having made up his mind to the disagreeable but necessary piece of correspondence, applied his hard hand and soft heart to the same without delay.
"Jess!" he exclaimed, when he had closed and addressed it.
"Well, Davie?"
"It's no' a vera nice like letter for a lad to fin' waitin' on him when he comes hame frae seem' his lass. Is it?"
Jess looked sympathetic. "No, it isn't, Davie. But what can we do? You're paying old Angus for doing nothing, and you can't afford to pay Donald, too. Besides, Donald's a clever lad, and he'll soon get another place. If I thought old Angus would get another place," she added, with a kindly little laugh, "I would advise you to part with him."
"Puir auld Angus! I ken ye wudna pairt wi' him yersel', Jess!"
"Well, perhaps not. But sometimes I can't help feeling cross with him. He talks as if you couldn't do without him—as if the business was kept going by him. And he never does a thing, except when Aunt Wallace or I come into the shop, and then he pretends he's working hard."
"An' whiles does the wrang thing," remarked David, laughing. "But he did his work in his time, an' there 'll be a place for him in the shop as lang's the shop's mines. But he's changed a lot since the fire."
"He's got much older looking. Is that what you mean?"
"Ay. But he's changed mair nor that. He's aye pretendin' he's hard up."
"Well, he's not too well off, is he, Davie?"
"He's gettin' the same wage as he used to get, an' he hasna his puir sister to keep noo. An' yet he's aye jist gaspin' for his siller on Setturdays, an' Ogilvy was tellin' me the ither day that he winna tak' meat even on the Sawbath, an' that he's waur nor ever at his trick o' gettin' a smoke for naethin'. Ogilvy thinks he's becomin' a miser in his auld age."
"A miser? Surely not!"
"Weel, I'm jist tellin' ye, lass. But miser or nae miser, Angus 'll draw his wage as lang as I can pay it.... That's to say, if ma pairtner has nae objections," he added, smiling at her.
"Your partner, Davie?"
"Ither wise, yersel'!"
"Am I your partner, Davie?" she asked, half seriously.
"Fine ye ken it!... D'ye agree to Angus gettin' his wage?"
"Of course! Do you think I ever grudged it, Davie?"
"Na, na! If it hadna been for you, Angus micht ha'e been hard-up wi'oot ony pretendin'; for, to tell ye the honest truth, wife, I grudged him his wage for a guid while efter the fire. But I said to masel', if Jess can forgi'e him, I maun try to dae the same. An' we were no' muckle the waur o' the fire efter a', thenks to yersel', ma dear."
Jess flushed, as she always did at any suggestion of a compliment upon her business abilities, and smiled rather tremulously at her husband. There were many other matters of which she was fain to speak to him, but it was not easy. His cheerfulness, his careless optimism, his open admiration for herself, his good-comradeship—all these made it very hard for her to discuss the sordid matters next—but not in—her heart.
"Is there onything else ye wantit to speak aboot, Jess?" inquired David, after a glance through the window at the setting sun.
"No—nothing just now, Davie. It'll keep till you get through with the pansies," she replied, after a short hesitation.
"I'll no' be lang at the pansies, an' it 'll shin be dark. If there's ony thing in the books ye want to speak aboot, I'll be ready in hauf an 'oor. But dinna fash yer bonny heid ower the books, ma lass. Come ootbye wi' me, an' we'll leave the door on the sneck, an' ye 'll shin hear if the wee yin waukens.... Are ye comin'?"
"Not to-night, Davie. I've plenty to do in the house, an'—"
"That's what ye 're aye tellin' me!"
"It's just the truth."
"Maybe that's the reason I dinna like it. I whiles think ye 're ower hard wrocht i' the hoose, Jess. If that's the case, I'll—"
"No, no, no!" she answered, lightly. "I'll complain when I'm overwrought. Away to the garden, or the light 'll be gone, and then you'll have to look after your pansies instead of Katie in the morning."
"That's exceedingly likely!" he retorted, with pleasant irony, as he left the parlor.
Jess drew forward the hood of the cradle and lit the lamp, for the daylight was failing in the room. She picked up the letter her husband had written to his assistant and carried it into the kitchen, placing it upright on the chimney-piece there so that it might not be forgotten in the morning.
"Davie's sure to see it when he's at his breakfast," she thought. "I don't want to bother him speaking about it again."
Returning to the parlor, she first soothed the child, who was showing signs of restlessness, and then seated herself at the table and resumed her examination of the ledger, from which she was drawing up a rough balance-sheet and profit-and-loss statement. Her husband's present state of affairs was vastly different from that first one which she had sighed to set on paper two years ago. The ends that no stretching of the most hopeful imagination could then bring together were now tied and with something to spare. David Houston was solvent, and not barely so.
And yet Jess considered the cheerful figures before her with anxiety. It was as if, having done all she could to make ends meet and tie the knot, she saw the knot already giving and the ends slipping slowly but surely apart. How could she secure the knot before it was too late? Had she thought and labored in vain? Was her great idea, her sweet, secret desire, her never-slumbering hope to come to nothing? What could she do to stay the dull falling-away of David's trade and bring back the recent bright prosperity?
She could tell her husband everything—everything she had done, everything she had endured through the past two years. That would rouse him, she knew, to the strong effort of which she was convinced he was capable. But in what way would it rouse him? Through tender love? Through hot pride? Through pure shame?
Ah, no! She could not bear the thought of her goodman shamed before her. Nothing was worth that—not even her great idea. Moreover—it suddenly flashed on her—if she told him all, her great idea would become her ruined hope.
"I can't give in! I won't give in!" she murmured. "I don't want Davie to be sorry for me," she thought, a moment later. "I don't want him to be bitterly vexed with himself. I must rouse him without hurting him; I must be patient with him; I must try to get him to take things seriously without seeming to take them too seriously myself.... Oh! if he could only have another year like the last, I don't think I'd need to—to hide things from him any more. Only one more year, and then he— No! I don't care if it takes five years, ten years, I won't give in!... I won't give in!" she repeated, firmly, to herself, and bent steadily over her work.
She started up, listening. She fancied she heard a faint cry outside. She rose to go to the window, when David came hurriedly into the parlor.
"What is—" she began, seeing his face white.
"There's a man in the watter oot thonder!" he said, rapidly. "I'll be back in a wee while."
He was gone.
Jess hastened to the window, and saw him running out at the gate. The hedge hid him for a few seconds, and then she saw him leaping down the rocky shore. A thick haze hung heavily over the loch, and out of it came the cry she had already heard. Something seemed to grip her heart, and a sickly chill came over her body.
"Davie!" she cried, stupidly. "Come back, come back!"
She beheld him wading into the loch—deeper—deeper—and somehow she could not move.
A little cry from the cradle broke the spell of horror that seemed to have been cast upon her. She turned swiftly, caught up her baby, wrapped the tiny mortal in a heavy sofa-blanket, and fled from the house into the summer dusk, not calling but pantingly whispering her husband's name.
From the road she could see nothing, but when she reached the water's edge—how she passed over the rough beach, burdened and without stumbling, she could never afterwards tell—she perceived through the mist a dim, dark, monstrous shape like the back of a whale, and, her nerves giving way, she screamed loudly.
Some one—she does not know who it was to-day—came to her side and relieved her of her baby, patting her on the shoulder, endeavoring to soothe her.
"What's that? What's that?" she cried, wildly, peering and pointing.
"That's the boat—upside doon. Keep up yer he'rt, Mistress Houston. Yer man 'll no' get droondit."
People began to collect on the beach where Jess stood, and not far away a couple of men had launched a small boat and were pulling to the rescue.
Then, after what seemed an age to the distracted young wife and her excited and sympathetic neighbors, two heads appeared and moved towards the shore. A shout of congratulation rose from the little group, and presently David, finding the ground, rose and came safely to land, bearing the semi-conscious, almost waterlogged body of a young man.
He dropped his burden into ready arms, saying to his wife, "Dinna fash yersel', ma dear. I'll be back in a jiffy. There's anither yin hinging on to the boat." And he prepared to re-enter the water, when the voices of a dozen people informed him that the rescuers were already nearing the overturned craft. And, sure enough, there were now two dim shapes in the mist, and from one of them came the cheery shout, "We've got him!"
David took his wife's hand, and it was as if she had received an immediate and powerful stimulant.
"Come and change your clothes at once, Davie," she said. "Come at once! The young man is being taken care of."
"But wull ye no' get him up to the hoose, Jess?"
"No, no, Davie. We'll luk efter him. Ye've plenty to dae lukin' efter yersel'," put in a couple of neighbors, eying him proudly.
"Come, Davie, come! You'll get cold, if you stand here," said his wife. "Thank you, kindly," she went on, taking her baby from the woman who had been holding her. "I don't know—I don't remember how you came to have Katie, but thank you.... Davie, run to the house and strip at once!"
David obeyed, and she followed him as swiftly as she could. Near the gate she encountered Mrs. Wallace.
The latter neither asked questions nor offered any observations.
"I'll haud the wean. Awa' to yer man," she said, briskly.
Mrs. Houston resigned her charge gratefully, and flew after her husband. She found him in front of the kitchen fire lighting a clay pipe.
"It's a guid thing I hadna on ma coat"—he had been gardening in his shirt-sleeves—"or I wudna ha'e had a bit dry tobacco left," he remarked. "Ye wasna feart, was ye, dearie?"
"Get off your wet clothes," she cried; "quick, quick, quick!" and stamped her foot.
The next moment his pipe lay shattered on the floor and she was in his arms, crying tearlessly, as if her heart would break. "Oh, Davie, you—you splendid man!" she sobbed.... "But change your clothes!" she cried, freeing herself.
"I doot ye 'll ha'e to change yer ain noo," he said, with a laugh, pointing to her wet blouse. "Quick, quick, quick!" he mocked her gently, and stamped his foot so that the dishes on the dresser rattled.
"Saut watter winna hurt onybody," he observed, when he had got his dry garments and set his other pipe agoing. "Dinna fash yersel', Jess. I'm as richt's the mail! Whaur's the wee yin?"
"Aunt Wallace has got her in the parlor. I've put a fire on there, so go and get toasted."
"A fire this time o' the year?"
"Tits! Davie, don't ask questions and you'll be told no lies!" she cried, with affected impatience. "Away to the parlor till I get you some supper."
"But I've had ma supper."
"Well, you've got to take it again. Go when I ask you, Davie!"
"I think I'll gang roon to Dugald McCall's an' see hoo the twa chaps is gettin' on. The yin I brocht ashore was gey faur through, puir lad."
"You're not to go out to-night, Davie. Just ask Aunt Wallace to get word for you. Away and see if Katie's sleeping."
"'Deed, ay," he returned, agreeably, and left the kitchen.
Jess dropped into a chair and sat bowed and motionless for five minutes. Her nerves were in a horrid jangle, and when at last she rose to prepare the supper, she felt as if she had lived many years in the past hour.
And all at once a dreadful terror seized her, and she fled from the kitchen to the parlor door.... Ah, thank God! all was well! Davie was there safe and sound—talking and laughing to the "wee yin."
She went back to the kitchen, took up a plate, let it slip from her fingers, and laughed softly over the ruin.... But when she spied the remains of David's pipe, the tears filled her eyes, and overflowed, and fell and fell and fell... mercifully.
When David expressed himself anxious as to the condition of the victims of the boating accident, Mrs. Wallace readily offered to step along the road to make inquiries, and accepted David's apology for not going himself, with the remark:
"Haud yer tongue, man! Ye're better mindin' the wean whaur ye are. Ye're no' wantin' to get the newmania, or whitever they ca' it, an' ha'e Jess rookin' Maister Ogilvy o' a' his mustard fur plaisters fur the new twa-three weeks. Na, na! Ye've had plenty gallivantin' fur yin day, David!... Whit's that ye say? Feart fur the dark? Me? Havers! Them as isna feart fur the licht isna feart fur the dark—espaycially when they cairry a wee parasole like this yin." Here she smiled grimly and flourished a large and heavy-looking umbrella. "Mind the wean an' mind yersel', David, an' I'll bring ye word as quick as ma legs can cairry me. I'll see Jess when I get back."
Mrs. Wallace had scarcely passed the garden gate when she was hailed with the inquiry:
"Hoo's David, Mistress Wallace?"
"Mercy me! Is that you, Maister Ogilvy. Ye aye turn up like a bad saxpence! David's fine, thenk ye fur speirin', but he's fashin' hissel' aboot the lads that got near droondit, an' I'm jist awa' to see hoo they're keepin'. The stupit fellas deservit to be droondit, but I hope they'll no' get the cauld, puir lads. Weel, guid-nicht to ye, Maister Ogilvy." And she hurried on.
"Bide a meenit, if ye please, Mistress Wallace. I've jist been at McCall's wi' a botle o' the best, for I thocht the lads wud be the better o' a wee—"
"Whit wey did ye no' tell me that afore? Weel? Whit aboot the lads?" she demanded.
"I discovered they was teetotalers, but Dugald McCall mislaid the botle, as it were, an' I had to come awa' wi'oot it. Ay, an'—"
"But are the puir lads gettin' better?"
"They was eatin' toastit cheese when I left, no' ha'ein' had their suppers afore they gaed oot in the boat; an' frae the quantity o' the toastit cheese bein' conshumed, I was disposed to form the opeenion that—"
"Never heed yer opeenion the noo. The lads is no' muckle the waur o' their drookin'? Is that whit ye mean?" Eh?"
"Jist that. That 'll be aboot it, onywey. But, Mistress Wallace—"
"Weel?" she inquired, impatiently, as the grocer paused and smiled mysteriously.
"Mistress Wallace, what dae ye think I fun' oot the nicht?"
"Yersel', I suppose."
"Na; but I'm serious."
"Weel, whit are ye grinnin' at?"
"I'm smilin' seriously, as it—"
"Weel, ye sudna."
"It's wi' serious satisfaction," said Mr. Ogilvy, good-naturedly. "Wha dae ye think the twa young men happen to be?" he asked, not without excitement.
"Wha?"
"They're the twa new jiners frae Paisley that are gaun to set up in opposeetion to David Houston! What think ye o' that?"
"Are ye shair?"
"I'll sweer to it! They arrived at Kinlochan the day, an' celebrated the occasion wi' an' evenin' cruise, so to speak, in a sma' boat, but Paisley no' bein' what ye wud ca' a seafarin' place, they didna ken hoo—"
"I'll awa' an' tell David an' Jess," said Mrs. Wallace, interrupting the grocer's flow of detail. "But I wud like to ha'e a crack wi' ye the morn, Maister Ogilvy," she added, pleasantly.
"I'll bide here for ye the nicht," he returned, eagerly.
"I said the morn."
"A" I can say is that I'll bide here till ye come oot frae Hazel Cottage, for it's ower late for ye to gang hame yersel', Mistress Wallace," he replied, stoutly.
"Then a' I can say, Maister Ogilvy," she retorted, "is jist yin word guid-nicht!"
"But—but—"
Mrs. Wallace, however, merely nodded and entered the gate.
Mr. Ogilvy walked away rapidly—and came back slowly.
Mrs. Wallace went straight to the kitchen and found Jess about to dish a tempting little hot supper. She told her niece what she had heard, but told it without comment, for there was something about the young woman's face that disturbed her and made her wish to get home and consider matters. So when Jess pressed her to stay to supper, she refused, briefly, and said she would find her way from the house alone. The supper being at a critical stage in the dishing thereof, Jess could not leave it, and her aunt, after bidding her good-night much less tenderly than she felt, left the kitchen and made her way to the front door.
But she halted at the door of the parlor and, opening it softly, peeped in. Katie was newly asleep, and David was still by the cradle. Mrs. Wallace beckoned him to her, and he came stealthily.
"The lads are gettin' on fine," she whispered. "Nae doot ye'll hear mair aboot them the morn," she went on, adding, to herself, "an" fur a while to come. But they're no' muckle the waur."
"I'm glad o' that," he said, looking pleased. "D'ye ken what lads they are?" he asked. "I didna ken their faces, an' there wasna a great deal o' time for us gettin' acquaint."
"Jess 'll tell ye aboot them. I maun gang hame. But, Davie, Davie—" her voice softened wonderfully—"I'm rale prood o' ye, man! An'—an' tak' unco' guid care—dinna say I said it, mind!—but tak' unco' guid care o' yer wife, Davie."
Before he could speak, she closed the door quietly between them, and a moment later left the cottage.
The grocer, at a discreet distance, walked behind her until she reached her home.