Jess & Co./Chapter 1
Jess & Co.
I
Roses and Rue
DAVID HOUSTON, joiner and glazier by trade, gardener by nature, stood slackly in the July afternoon sunshine, admiring the "glory" roses that budded and bloomed on the south gable of his cottage. With lazy, loving eyes he gazed at them; and now and then he drew a puff from the brier pipe in the corner of his mouth and slowly emitted a thin stream of smoke with something like a sigh of contentment. Thrice, with an effort, he had moved away, and thrice he had retraced the few steps and returned to his roses.
The sound of an opening door caused him to start, and he grew red in the face as his wife, bearing a bundle of "washing" to be bleached, came round the corner of the cottage.
"Oh, David!" she exclaimed—she usually called him "Davie" "you've surely forgot the time! It's after three."
"Is it, Jess?" he said, with genuine enough surprise in his voice, adding, feebly, "I didna think it was as late."
The wife of two months regarded him with grave eyes, and shook her head. "I thought," she said, after a short pause—"I thought you had gone back to the shop an hour ago at least. You said you were going."
"Ay. But come an' see the roses, Jess."
"I'll see them at the right time—when your work's bye for the day, David," she replied, seriously.
"Och, lass, ye needna be that strict wi' yer man," he retorted, good-humoredly. "There's naethin' daein' at the shop this weather. Here, Jess, did ye ever see a bonnier—"
"There'll never be anything doing at the shop unless the master's there," said Mrs. Houston, firmly. "It's not right, David."
"But Angus is there."
"Angus! and what can Angus do?"
"Weel, he's no' fit for muckle work, but—but he can tak' orders."
"And forget them."
"Puir buddy, he's gettin' auld," said David, gently.
"That's just all the more reason why you should be looking after things for yourself. Oh, Davie, Davie, I doubt you're too easy-going!"
Her husband looked uncomfortable, for he felt the truth of her remark, though as a matter of fact he was not any more easy-going than the other tradesmen of little Kinlochan by the sea.
Mrs. Houston broke the awkward silence, speaking more lightly than she felt. "Off you go!" she cried, laughing, "off you go this minute, Davie lad, or I'll have to start the joinering myself!"
His pipe had gone out, and he slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Ye see, lass," he said, apologetically, "the Ardmartin show is on Saturday, an' I canna but think o' the roses."
"Yes, I know, Davie," she returned, with sudden sympathy. "You're not to think I don't care about your roses—but—but—"
"I'm a lazy, stupit fella!" he interrupted. "I'll awa' to ma work." And he hurried off as if from temptation.
He turned at the garden gate and waved his hand to her, and she waved hers to him, smiling. But as soon as he disappeared her young face grew thoughtful, and she sighed as she started to spread the items of her washing on the green. When she had laid out the last of the bundle she rose erect, stretching out her arms and forcing back her shoulders, for she was tired and stiff with the day's work, which had begun between five and six o'clock in the morning.
A short chuckle sounded behind her.
"Aunt Wallace!" she cried, turning and endeavoring to smile a cheerful welcome.
"Ye're learnin', wumman, ye're learnin'," observed her relative, staring at the white-patched green. "Nae doot ye'll dae better next time," she added, bending her elderly but still active body to examine at close quarters a specimen of her niece's washing. "An' hoo's yer guidman?" she inquired, rising at last from an inspection so lengthy, so keen, and so patronizing that the young woman could scarcely restrain her temper.
"He's quite well, thank you, aunt," she replied, controlling herself.
Mrs. Wallace smiled rather sourly. "I thocht he micht be no' vera weel, seein' that he needs aboot three 'oors to tak' his dinner in."
"Did you meet him on the road?"
"I seen him. But he never let on he seen me."
"Perhaps I—I kept him a little late to-day," said Jess.
"Ye micht ken better nor dae that, Jessie. He's lazy enough wi'oot you keepin' him. But his fayther, puir man, wis jist the same. It bates me to ken hoo his bit business hauds thegither! I never seen his mither—she wis deid afore I cam' to Kinlochan—I've heard she had a sair time wi' her lazy man. Ay! an' I doot it's yersel' 'll be haein' a—"
"Come into the house, and I'll make you a cup of tea, aunt," said Jess, hastily. "You've had a warm walk."
Mrs. Wallace lived in a cottage about a mile along the shore, to which she had retired, on a small annuity, on the death of her husband some ten years ago. But she was Glasgow born and bred, and had never really got into sympathy with the Kinlochan natives and their ways. It was during the not infrequent visits to her aunt, however, that Jess had come to know David Houston, and although the old lady was fond of holding up the man's obvious faults to the girl, she had never actually attempted to interfere with the course of true love. "Efter a', he's a dacent lad," she would say to herself, "an' maybe Jess 'll male' a man o' him. There's naethin' peely-wally aboot him, onywey."
Mrs. Houston conducted her aunt indoors and into the parlor, with its old-fashioned furniture of her husband's parents, relieved by the modern daintinesses which she had provided just before and since her marriage, and by the flowers which the garden, small though it was, generously afforded.
"Ye're the yin fur falderals," observed Mrs. Wallace, with a critical stare round the room. "Ye're like yer mither wi' yer e'e fur useless things an' yer fine wey o' speakin'. That's the warst o' a lassie takin' a man's job in an office, an' gaun' oot at nicht to classes. Mphm! But every lass nooadays is a young leddy, an' ower fine fur the things that wis guid enough fur her fayther an' mither. 'Deed, ye sud hae mairrit yin o' thon fancy chaps that dae naethin' but pu' doon their cuffs an' dance aboot the flure o' the big drapers in Glesca. Yin o' thon chaps wud shairly please ye better nor a plain jiner."
Jess, having heard all this before, laughed good-naturedly, and left the room to prepare tea.
When she returned with the neatly spread tray, her aunt was still in her critical humor.
"I suppose ye ca' this efternune tea!" she said, with a sniff. "I'm extremely vexed I didna bring ma veesitin' cairds wi' me, yer ladyship! But I left them in ma cairriage."
"You can send the footman up afterwards," retorted Jess, calmly, as she poured out the tea.
"Ye're ower smairt, wumman," said Mrs. Wallace, with her short chuckle. "Weel, weel, seein' ye've made the tea, I suppose I'll need to tak' it." And she took it with considerable relish.
"An' hoo dae ye like keepin' a hoose efter keepin' books?" she inquired, presently. "It's a change fur ye. Eh?"
"Yes," said her niece, softly. "Of course I like it, aunt," she added, somewhat sharply.
"Mphm! They a' say that at the stairt. Yer hauns 'll no' be as genteel-like as they wis in the office."
"I don't mind that," said Jess, not absolutely truthfully.
"Ye canna rub an' scrub an' dae yer ain washin' an' keep yer hauns like a doochess's. Whit wey did Davie no' get some puir buddy to dae the bit washin' fur ye?"
"He wanted to, but I wouldn't let him. I can manage it fine myself. It isn't such a big job, you know."
"Weel, I'm shair I'm gled ye're pleased. Thenk ye, jist hauf a cup. But I doot ye're daein' mair nor yer share. Ye're daein' mair nor yer man to keep the hoose gaun."
"Oh no, Aunt Wallace; Davie works very hard."
"Ay—when he yinst gets stairtit," said the old lady, shutting her mouth with a snap. "He's jist like a' the ither men in Kinlochan—"
"He's not!"
"Haud yer tongue! I've leeved here fur ten year come Martinmas, an' I ken whit I'm talkin' aboot. Gi'e a Kinlochan man a job to dae, an' if he's his ain maister—like yer ain man—he'll footer aboot an' footer aboot till he has to dae't or loss it a' thegither. Ay; an' mony a job here's been lost a' thegither! Whisht! I'm no feenished yet. I grant ye, the job's dune quick an' weel when yinst it's stairtit—but mercy me! it's got to wait fur that! Did I ever tell ye aboot auld Maister McDonald's gate? Na, I didna. Weel, it's a parable fur the guidwife o' ony Kinlochan man—especially if he's a jiner—an' there's jist the yin jiner in Kinlochan the noo—mind, I'm sayin' the noo—fur I'm thinkin' there's room fur anither, if he's got ony spunk ava', in the future. Och, ye needna flee up! Weel, auld Maister McDonald bided in the big hoose next to ma wee yin, an' he wis a rale kind auld man, an' mony's the basket o' frit I had frae his gairden, fur naethin'. Weel, it wisna lang efter I cam' to Kinlochan that his gate gaed wrang—it was auld like hissel'—an' needit repairin'. So he sent fur the jiner—it was Davie's fayther—an' efter twa-three weeks the jiner cam' an' lukit at the gate, an' said he wud get it repaired wi'oot delay. But the time gaed bye, an' the jiner never cam', an' the gate got waur an' waur. Maister McDonald sent fur the jiner again, an' the jiner cam'—no' in a hurry, ye ken—an' said he wud sort it wi'oot delay. An' then aboot sax month gaed bye, Maister McDonald writin' to the jiner or ca'in' at his shope, an' the jiner aye sayin' he wud sort the gate wi'oot delay. I mind fine auld Maister McDonald speakin' to me ower the wa', an' me speirin' efter his health, fur I thocht he wis lukin' gey frail, an' him say in', 'Deed, Mistress Wallace, I'm no' feelin' whit ye cud ca' extra herty, but a creakin' gate hings a lang while.' That wis in the simmer, an' a wee bit while efter the New Year he deid in his sleep, in an' awfu' stormy nicht; an' when I gaed oot in the mornin'—no' kennin' he wis deid—I seen the gate lyin' across the road, an' Davie's fayther comin' alang the road whustlin' wi' his bag o' tools. He didna loss the job, but he never had the face to send in the accoont. I dinna think he ever said onythin' to Davie aboot it, so ye can tell him the story when he's no' ower busy. Ha, ha!"
"I'm sure I'll do nothing of the sort," cried Jess, indignantly. "A story like that is always exaggerated."
"That's ower big a word fur an auld wife like me, lassie. But every word I've tell't ye's as true as I'm sittin' here. An' efter a', when ye get to ken the Kinlochan folk ye'll no' wunner at onythin'. I cud tell ye hoo Sandy Stewart the penter tuk twa year to come to whitewash Mistress Dowie's washin'-hoose, an' then near gaed daft when he fun' her laddie had dune it hissel'. An' I cud tell ye— Na! I'll no' say ony mair. But mind, Jess, an' keep yer man's nose on the grindstane. He's ower fond o' growin' roses' an' pansies an' so on—a' vera fine in their ain wey, I grant ye—but no' the kin' o' things that 'll gi'e ye saut to yer kail. Na, na; ye maun luk efter yer man. Business afore pleesure, as the wise wumman said when she whuppit her wean afore gi'ein' it gundy. I'll jist tak' anither moothfu' o' tea. I hope ye can bile tatties as weel as ye mak' tea. Haud yer tongue! I wudna tak' yer tea if I didna like it."
Her niece burst out laughing, for she was not afraid of the old lady, though some of the latter's remarks—not any of those about herself—had made her hot with anger. "I'll tell Davie all you've said, Aunt Wallace," she said presently, with assumed gravity.
"Vera likely! Wait till ye've been mairrit a year or twa afore ye tell yer man whit ither folk says aboot him. Maybe by that time I'll hae somethin' guid to say. But it depends on yersel', Jess, ma lass. Whitever ye dae or say, keep him awa' frae the roses an' pansies. Weel, it's time I wis aff. I've twa ludgers comin' the morn, so I'll maybe no' see ye for a whiley. Ma respec's to yer guidman, an' ye micht tell him I'm needin' a new lock on the coal-cellar door, but there's nae hurry fur twa-three year. Guid-bye to ye, ma dearie." And Mrs. Wallace kissed her niece quite affectionately, if hurriedly, and made for the door.
Jess accompanied her to the garden gate, watched her along the road, and then slowly retraced her steps to the cottage. Instead, however, of entering the house at once, she went round to the south gable and spent a couple of minutes lingering beside the roses. All her life she had loved flowers, but at a distance—loved them without understanding them as her husband did—and just before her marriage, fagged with the effort of a city existence, she had dreamed and told herself how beautiful and peaceful it would be in the little garden by the sea with the man of her choice. And now heavily upon her mind lay the conviction that it was her duty to discourage Davie in his flower-growing, and to persuade him, or even force him, to regard his business as paramount.
Her aunt's allegations and insinuations she realized were based on truth. Jess had seen things for herself since she settled in Kinlochan, although she had at first shut her eyes to the easy-going ways of Davie, or excused them to herself in a sweet, illogical fashion. She was further aware that her husband—he felt neither shame nor anxiety in the fact—had never saved a penny. When money was necessary he would render accounts to the people who he thought could pay them, and send old Angus round a day or two later to collect what he could. If his financial affairs were not managed according to the best business methods, they were at least managed simply. He merely asked his own from Peter and gave it to Paul, when the latter asked his own. David Houston had never had any friction with debtor or creditor, and perhaps that was one reason why he had never noticed that a deal of his substance had been frittered away. If his books had been a hundredth part as carefully kept and watched over as his roses and pansies, his wife need never have worried her pretty head, but, as it was, she had even more reason to do so than she knew. In the ledger of one of the big city wood-merchants with whom David Houston dealt, the word "caution" was pencilled against his name, and an agent's report in red ink read: "Decent, sober young man, but lazy, and business going steadily back, through sheer neglect."
When David strolled into the cottage shortly after five o'clock that evening, he found his wife busy ironing in the kitchen.
"Surely it's not six yet, Davie," she said, smiling at him. "But I'll get your tea at once. You'll have to take it in the parlor to-night, this table's engaged."
"Och, there's nae hurry, lassie," he said, sitting down in the plain wood arm-chair and lighting his pipe.
"Anything doing at the shop to-day?" asked Jess, folding a handkerchief and passing the iron over it.
Davie hesitated, and choked slightly on a puff of smoke. "Weel, ye see, I was jist gaun into the shop efter I left ye, when I met Sir Archibald's gairdener, an' he wud ha'e me to gang up to the castle an' see Sir Airchibald's new orchids. He's got some rare yins—forty pound a-piece, some o' them—an' the time gaed by when we was crackin' thegither, an' then I didna think it was worth while gaun back to the shop. So I jist cam' hame, Jess."
Jess picked up a limp handkerchief, spread it on the board, and smoothed it methodically; then folded it and ironed it, and laid it aside.
"I wish ye cud see the orchids, lass," David continued, smoking contemplatively. "I dinna think I wud ever gae daft aboot orchids, but they're wunnerfu' things. Ye'll ha'e seen some in the Botanic Gairdens in the toon, I suppose, but they wudna be onythin' to Sir Archibald's."
He paused, but still his wife made no remark.
"Ye had yer Aunt Wallace here the day. John tell't me he seen her gaun in the gate." John was the postman.
"Yes," said Jess, in a strained voice, though she strove to speak naturally.
"What's ado?" he asked, suddenly.
His wife said nothing, and went on with her ironing.
He got up and went beside her. "What's vexin' ye?" he inquired, with great gentleness.
She kept silence, setting the iron on the stand.
"Jess, what's vexin ye?" he repeated.
"I—I'm tired," she said, at last.
"Tired—an' it's nae wunner, puir lass. Ye've had a lang day. What wey did ye no' get Mistress Moodie in to dae yer washin'? Yer no' used to coorse wark, Jess."
"I like it—I want to learn," she said, bravely, soothed a little by his solicitude for her. "But I think I'll stop now and get the tea ready. Will you bring in some coals, Davie?" She wanted him away for a minute.
"Ay," said Davie, readily; and, picking up the bucket from the side of the hearth, he went off on his errand.
On his return he found her moving about briskly, preparing the evening meal.
"Can I dae onythin'?" he asked, looking at her. "I'm vexed ye're tired, Jess."
"Oh, I'm all right now, Davie," she said, cheerfully. "I'll be ready for you in five minutes."
He appeared pleased to see her herself again. "Weel, I'll get oot yer road till ye're ready," he said. "I'll ha'e a dauner roon the gairden."
When she went to the door to call him, he was bending affectionately over a clump of pansies. Looking up with a laugh, he cried, "If I dinna get a first prize on Saturday I'll—"
"Come, Davie," she interrupted.
"Ye'd like me to get a first prize, wud ye no', dearie?" he asked, as he followed her into the parlor.
"Of course," she promptly replied. "But—" and halted.
"But ye think I dinna deserve it? Eh?"
"I'm sure you do deserve it," she said, feeling useless. She had meant to be so stern.
"I wunner what I'll buy ye, if I get the first prize," he said, gazing at her admiringly as she poured out his tea. "Ye deserve braw things," he added, a little shyly.
"I don't want anything," she murmured.
"Wud ye like a brooch, Jess?" he ventured, while he carefully buttered his toast.
"Oh, Davie, I tell you I don't want anything," she insisted, softly. "You mustn't think of spending your money on me. I'm sure we can't afford it."
"Havers! We're no' jist at that length yet," he said, laughing. "An' whether I get the prize or no' ye're to get a brooch."
Mrs. Houston looked at her plate. Her duty was becoming more difficult every minute. She felt she must make an effort without delay or remain helpless forever.
She raised her head suddenly, looked him in the face for a second, and laughed with well-feigned amusement.
"Whaur's the joke, lassie?" asked her husband, reddening, but smiling good-humoredly.
"I—I was wondering," she began, and stopped.
"An' what were ye wunnerin'? What kin' o' brooch ye wud like? Eh?"
"No, Davie; I was wondering what the baker and butcher and grocer would think if I went into their shops wearing a fine new brooch."
"I dinna see—"
"Well, Davie, I'm afraid the baker and butcher and grocer would think, if they didn't say it, that Mrs. Houston should pay her accounts before she got new jewelry from her man."
Her husband stared. "The accoonts are no' that auld," he said. "Nane o' them abin sax month."
"Oh, David!" exclaimed Jess, paling. "D'you mean to tell me the accounts have been running all that time—months before we were married?"
"Weel, if ony o' them wantit their money they wud ha'e askit for it," he returned, calmly. "I was meanin' to pey up everything afore we got mairrit, but I clean forgot. Ye're no' angry, are ye, Jess?"
"No, I'm not angry, but I am sorry. Did your sister, when she kept your house, not like to pay everybody quickly?"
"She never fashed hersel', dearie. An' ye needna fash yersel' either. I mind ye said jist afore we got mairrit ye wud like to pey everything when ye got it, but—"
"Every Saturday, Davie."
"Weel, ye see, that's no' easy arranged."
"But why?"
"Because I canna get my accoonts peyed every week."
"No; but if you were once to get in some of your big accounts, you would surely have enough to go on with, and after that you could get people to pay you regularly and keep things going. Don't you see, Davie?" she said, softly.
"Ay," said David, slowly. "I see what ye mean, but—"
"David," she said, earnestly, "you must try it, to please me." Jess, in her old home, had known what overdue accounts were.
"But, lass," said her husband, passing her his cup. He got no further, and watched her anxiously.
She filled his cup before she spoke. Then she said, kindly but deliberately: "I want you to send out all your accounts—the ones due, I mean—to-morrow. Please, Davie."
"I'll ha'e a look through the book to please ye," he said, after a pause. "But I'm no' jist in the humor for accoonts, Jess."
"Bring your books home, and I'll send out the accounts. I'm used to that." And she laughed, for she felt she was now on the path to victory.
"Ye're owre guid to me. I—I doot ye'll no' think muckle o' ma book-keepin'. An' ye'll no' ha'e time to—"
"Never mind about that. Will you bring me the books to-morrow?"
"'Deed, ay. I'll be glad to ha'e yer help, Jess, for I never cud thole feegures."
"Dear lad!" cried Jess, laughing, with a tear in her eye, and got up hastily and kissed him.
At dinner-time next day David brought home his two books, and in a shamefaced fashion laid them on the kitchen dresser. In the afternoon he had a job to do which he could not possibly postpone, and when he had left the cottage, his wife, having hastily put the kitchen straight, settled herself at the parlor table, and proceeded to investigate the books.
"Oh, my!" she whispered, when she opened the first. The exclamation was one of sheer dismay, and for a couple of minutes her heart was hopeless.
But she pulled herself together and plunged into the work she had set herself. In a couple of hours she had a sheaf of papers covered with jottings, and, later, when David settled down with his pipe for the evening, she overwhelmed him with queries.
"You'll have to help me, Davie," she said, pleasantly. "There are some things I don't quite understand about the ledger."
"'Deed, ay. There's a wheen things I dinna understaun' masel'," he returned, with a laugh.
"Well, I'll ask you some questions, and you'll answer them?"
"A' richt, lass."
"Well—a—have you had no work since the middle of March, Davie?"
"Plenty."
"But there's nothing about it in the ledger."
"I must ha'e forgot to pit it in. But I've got it a' here." He produced some scraps of paper and handed them to her. "There ye are, Jess."
Mrs. Houston looked over the papers and then busied herself for nearly an hour making entries in the ledger.
"Is that all?" she asked, at last.
"Ay, that 'll be everything."
"But—but what about the new paling along at Mr. Morgan's?"
"I must ha'e forgot to pit it doon."
"Well, I'll put it down now. Tell me how much wood, and time, and money."
He told her.
She wrinkled her brows as she made a jotting. "You're charging four shillings too little," she said, presently.
"So I am," he admitted, sheepishly, after some consideration.
"To-morrow you must walk through Kinlochan slowly and see if you can remember anything else you've forgotten to charge."
"To-morrow's the show."
Jess checked an impatient word or two. "On Monday then, David," she said, quietly. Then she returned to the ledger again. "Here's an account for £3 15s. 41⁄2d. against Mr. McFarlane, Seaview, that's been standing for two years. Why isn't it paid?"
"Mr. McFarlane's deid."
"Oh! But still, his wife's there."
"But she's no' vera weel aff, puir buddy."
"Surely she might have paid something."
"Maybe."
Jess turned to another page. "Here's more than two pounds owing by Mrs. Fitzgerald. It's nearly as old."
"Weel, ye see, she gaed awa' kin' o' sudden."
"But you should have got her address, David."
"Ay; I daursay, lassie. I aye intendit to get it."
"H'm! Then there's about thirty pounds owing by Sir Archibald more than a year. He should have paid you long ago. Why, here's a letter dated February asking you to send the account!"
"I'll see aboot it next week, Jess."
"I'll see about it to-night," she said, a trifle sharply.
"Och, dinna fash yersel', dearie. I wish I hadna brocht ye the books."
"I'm glad you did, Davie," she replied, more kindly. "I—I like a little of this work, you know, and I've made up my mind to keep your books for you in future. I know it's not very easy for a man with your sort of work to do clerking."
"'Deed, I never cud thole it," he said, looking at her so gratefully that she smiled in her trouble.
Although she had a hundred more questions to ask him, she refrained, and asked but a few—one very particularly.
"Did you ever make up a balance-sheet, Davie?"
"A balance-sheet?"
"Well, an account to show how much you owed and how much was owing to you, and how much you possessed altogether?"
He shook his head.
"Well, well," she said, "don't bother about it. I'm your clerk now, so you can go on with your newspaper."
"Oh, ye 're a great wumman!" he cried. "I think I'll tak' a dauner roon the gairden. I hope it's no' gaun to rain. Come, Jess."
But she refused quietly, and he went out alone to inspect the roses and pansies which would so soon increase or mar his reputation at the Ardmartin annual show.
David hardly slept a wink that night, for he was troubled about the weather. Before five o'clock he rose, dressed, and went out-of-doors. The west wind was blowing in soft puffs and threatened to increase in force, while the skies suggested a rainy day. By six o'clock David had cut his contributions to the flower show and placed them in the shallow tin tanks which had carried his blooms to the Ardmartin show since he was a lad of seventeen, nearly twelve years ago.
At seven o'clock the weather broke completely—strong wind and lashing rain. Jess was not sorry, though she pretended she was, that it was out of the question for her to attempt the road to Ardmartin, four miles distant. David was sadly disappointed. He wanted her to be with him at his expected triumph. The roses and pansies were taken away in a covered cart which collected the flowers of several other Kinlochan gardens and greenhouses, and David in his oil-skins set out with a neighboring gardener.
"Ye'll be pleased if I get a first prize, will ye no', Jess?" he asked, ere he left the house.
"Surely, Davie," she replied, honestly. And she almost prayed for his success, though she felt it would be against all her plans.
Early in the forenoon she set to work once more on the books, and made out the accounts due, or rather overdue. After that she turned to the pages devoted to her husband's creditors. And there she received a shock.
"Oh, Davie, Davie!" she said, half aloud, and nerved herself to make up a rough balance-sheet. Her husband had provided her with an approximate valuation of his stock-in-trade, "as near as he could guess."
The old clock in the kitchen struck again and again, but she did not hear it. Not till nearly five o'clock did she rise from the table, too weary to feel hungry, and put the books away in a safe place.
She laid the tea things, and sat down to wait for her husband, wondering how she would break the bad news to him. For, looking at matters in the most favorable light, David Houston was insolvent—nearly a hundred pounds on the wrong side.
Jess heard him bidding good-bye to a friend at the gate, laughing merrily. Then the gate clicked, and he came running up to the house, calling upon her ere he was through the door-way.
"Jess, Jess! I've got twa firsts, I've got twa firsts! Whaur are ye, lass?"
He stood before her, six feet of health and strength, a goodly man to look at, proud, blithe, and loving.
He poured forth his story, picked her out of the chair and hugged her, put her back, and dropped three greasy pound notes into her lap.
"There, ma lass! Twa first prizes! An' every penny's yer ain! My! I wish ye had been there! Ye wud ha'e been the prood wumman."
He ran on, while she tried to smile back to him in spite of the thing that repeated itself in her mind—"Three pounds for a hundred pounds, three pounds for a hundred—"
"Wait a minute," she gasped at last, and fled from the parlor. "I'm afraid the kettle's boiling."
She ran into the kitchen, shut the door, and laid her face in her arms against the panel....
Five minutes later she went back to the parlor and kissed Davie. "I'm real glad, Davie," she said.
"Ye've been greetin', lass!" he cried, alarmed.
"No wonder! Two first prizes! You'll be a gardener yet, lad!" she added, almost solemnly.
During the evening he asked her how she had got on with the books.
But she was ready for the question—she was ready for anything now. "The books are mine now, Davie. I'll look after the books, and—and you'll look after the work that fills them."
"Ye're a great wumman, Jess!" he cried, admiringly. "I'll tak' ye to the next show, wat or dry!"