Domesticities/Mrs. McCrae Has Her Doubts
MRS. M'CRAE HAS HER DOUBTS
“I HA'E ma doots, Mistress Murray, I ha'e ma doots,” said Mrs. M'Crae, wagging her head solemnly. Her visitor smiled placidly as she smoothed a crease from her best gown, which had wrinkled slightly at her knees. “Ye sud try anither dish o' tea, Mistress M'Crae,” she said kindly.
“I cudna tak' anither moothfu'.... But yer ain tea's oot. Gie's yer cup.... Ay, an' try anither biscuit. Thur yins is ower sweet fur me, but maybe ye like them.”
“Thenk ye,” said Mrs. Murray, helping herself. “Weel, ye wis sayin'—”
“I wis sayin' I had ma doots, Mistress Murray, I wis sayin' I had ma doots.” And Mrs. M'Crae, having laid aside her cup, stood up and carefully shook the crumbs from her lap into the fireplace. Resuming her seat she raised the skirt of her dress, and plunged her hand deep into the big pocket in her petticoat. She produced an old-fashioned and worn bag purse, from which she extracted a small slip of pinkish paper.
“There it is!” she exclaimed mournfully, unfolding the paper. “There it is! Number—. Aw, ye can read the number fur yersel', Mistress Murray. I cud never thole feegures.”
“Sax hunner an' fortytwa,” said Mrs. Murray, when she had inspected the slip.
“Mphm? Sax hunner an' forty-twa. I daursay ye'll be richt. Onywey I gi'ed a saxpense fur 't; an', as I wis tellin' ye, if it wins the prize I get an organ.”
“Weel, I'm shair I'll be rale gled if ye get the organ, Mistress M'Crae. An' yer man'll be prood.”
“I ha'e ma doots, Mistress Murray, I ha'e ma doots. Fur I ken he's no' haudin' wi' bazaurs an' rattles.”
“Raffles,” corrected Mrs. Murray, mildly.
“Aweel, it's a' yin. But as shair's I'm here, I didna ken whit I wis daein'. I gaed to the bazaur on Setturday nicht, fur I wis tell't they wis gi'ein' things awa' far hauf naethin', an' I wis wantin' to buy a bit coatie fur ma son John's wee lassie. Aw, ye never seen a bonnier wean! Aw, she's that like her fayther if he wisna beardit. Aw, she's jist like thon advertizenient fur some kin' o' sape; naw, it's no sape. it's— Aweel, I canna mind the noo, but ye never seen a bonnier wean, Mistress Murray.”
“An' did ye buy the coatie?” inquired the visitor.
“That's whit I wis jist gaun fur to tell ye. I—” Here Mrs. M'Crae rose hurriedly and went to the window. A van was rattling down the street. “Na; it's jist a mulk-cairt,” she said, half to herself, and with a sigh of relief returned to her friend. “Aweel, Mrs. Murray, I didna buy the coatie, fur the yin I wantit wis ower dear. It wis a' a big lee aboot them sellin' aff chape. But I bocht a pair o' wool booties wi' bew ribbons. My! they wis that tastey!”
“Wis they?”
“Ay; an' I bate the leddy doon ninepence.”
“D'ye tell me that, Mistress M'Crae?”
“Ay; as shair's I'm here. Weel, efter I bocht the booties I thocht I wud jist tak' a bit danner roon'; an' roon' I gaed, an' priced a guid mony things, till I cam' to a place whaur lads wis tryin' fur to trim hats an' lasses wis tryin' fur to hammer nails—maistly their ain nails, I'm thinkin'—aw, I maaun ha'e ma bit joke, Mistress Murray—in wudd! Sirs, the day! ye never seen sic a daft-like sicht, an' I lauched till I wis that warm an' short o' breith I cudna staun'. An' I had jist tooken a sate, an' wis settin' wipin' my broo an' pechin', when a vera respectable-lukin' young man cam' np to me an' says, quite genteel-like, says he: 'Wud ye like to buy a tucket fur an organ, ma'am?' Thae wis his vera words.”
“An American organ?” put in Mrs. Murray.
“I dinna mind. Onywey, it wis an organ fur playin' on. Weel, the young man tell't me if I bocht a saxpenny tucket I wud maybe get the twinty-five pun' organ the bazaur folk wis rattlin'. An'—”
“Rafflin', ye mean. Mistress M'Crae.”
“Ay; it's a' yin.... An' I says to the young man, says I: 'Whaur's the organ?' An' he tell't me it wisna in the bazaur, but he wud sweer it wis a' richt, an' if I bocht a tucket I wud ha'e as guid a chance as onybody leevin' o' gettin' it. He wis a rale saft-spoken young man, an' that genteel, an' I wis that het an' wearit, an' afore I kint whit I wis daein' he wis awa' wi' ma saxpence, an' I wis settin' alane wi' the tucket.... An' I ha'e ma doots, Mistress Murray, I hae ma doots.”
“Oh, but ye needna be feart, Mistress MCrae. They'll no' cheat ye,” said her friend soothingly. “The bazaur wis fur a kirk, wis 't no'?”
“Ay. But that's no' whit's vexin' me. I'm no' feart o' bein' cheatit. They best no' try that gemm wi' me! Na!... But, ye see, Mistress Murray, ma man didna ken I gaed to the bazaur, au' I wudna ha'e been there if it hadna been I wis wantin' a coatie fur ma son John's wee lassie, an' ma man's no' haudin' wi' bazaurs, faur less rattles, an'—an, oh! Mistress Murray, whit wud I say to him if they brocht the organ to the hoose?”
“Hoots, toots! Mistress M'Crae,” said the other cheerfully. “I'm shair yer man's no' that parteeclar.”
“Ah, ye dinna ken him, Mistress Murray. I never kent a man as stric' as hissel'. D'ye no' mind hoo be left Maister M'Cubbin's kirk twal' year syne because they wis gaun to ha'e a bazaur? An' ye never met a better man nor Maister M'Cubbin—never!”
“Ay; but yer man's maybe no' jist as strict as he wis, Mistress M'Crae?”
“Is he no'? I ha'e ma doots, Mistress Murray, I ha'e ma doots. Ay; an' mony's the time I've heard him say he wud as shin pit money on a horserace as intil a disruption sale.”
“Subscription sale.”
“Aweel ,it's a' yin. An' whit's a rattle but a disruption sale? It's jist the same; ah, there's no' a hair o' difference 'twixt the twa. Oh!—oh, there a cairt stoppin' at the close!” And again Mrs. M'Crae hastened lo the window to find that it was only the baker.
“Mercy me! ye're a trimlin',” said Mrs. Murray when her hostess returned to her. “Whit's ado?”
“I thocht it wis the organ,” gasped Mrs. M'Crae. “Every cairt comin' alang the street gars ma hert loup to ma mooth. Ye see, the prizes wis to be decidet the day. Miss Paurley tell't me. Ma man's her fayther's foresman, ye ken, an' we a' gang to Doctor Jamieson's kirk. An' when we wis comin' oot the kirk on Sawbath she cam' up to me—fur she's rale nice an' free—an' she says, says she: 'I seen ye at the bazaur.' An' says I: 'Whisht, fur ony favor, Miss Paurley.' John was ahint me speakin' to yin o' the elders. An' Miss Paurley gi'ed a bit smile an' whispers: 'I hope ye get the organ, Mistress M'Crae. I'm on the commytee, an' the drawin' o' prizes is on Wensday, so I'll gi'e ye a ca' i' the efternune an' tell ye if ye've gotten it.' An' then she gaed aff, an' John cam' furrit. An' I cudna mind a word o' the discoorse fur thinkin' o' the organ.”
“Oh, ye've tooken it ower muckle to hert, Mistress M'Crae! Efter a', ye'll maybe no' get the organ. I'm thinkin' it's a guid sign when Miss Paurley hasna came.“
“It's no' vera late yet. An' she's maybe furgot to come, an' they'll send the organ wi'oot warnin'. An whit'll I dae? They'll pit the organ in, an' it'll be a judgment on me fur gam'lin'.”
“Na, na. It's no' as bad as a' that—if ye get the organ. 'Deed, I wud be richt thankfu' to get an organ fur saxpence. An'—here! Listen to me, Mistress M'Crae,” cried her visitor, struck by an idea.
“Eh?”
“Ye wudna need to tak' the organ in the hoose. Ye cud get them to tak' it back to the shope, an' ye cud sell it back to them chape, an' ye cud buy—oh, Mistress M'Crae, think whit ye cud buy fur yer son John's wee lassie!”
“Weel, I never!” gasped Mrs. M'Crae.
“Whit think ye o' that?” asked her friend gaily. “There a notion fur ye!”
Mrs. M'Crae's highly moral feelings were quite swamped by the flood of joyous possibilities. “I'll dae 't!” she cried at last, “I'll dae 't! When the organ comes I'll—”
“There somebody at the dure,” said Mrs. Murray.
“It'll be Miss Paurley,” cried Mrs. M'Crae, and fled to hear the news.
“Weel? Ha'e ye gotten the organ?” inquired Mrs. Murray three minutes later.
Mrs. M'Crae silently shook her head, choked slightly, and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes.
“That's an unco peety,” said Mrs. Murray, gently.
“Miss Paurley brocht me a rale braw shawl in a present,” faltered Mrs. M'Crae, “but—but she tell't me a man in P—P—Paisley had gotten the organ. Sirs, the day! An' ma son John's wee lassie—.”
Her friend looked sympathetic.
“Weel, weel, it's a' by noo. An' we canna blame onybody. Thae things is aye dune fair, as fair can be, so we—.”
“I ha'e ma doots, Mistress Murray, I ha'e ma doots.” sighed Mrs. M'Crae.