Martha Spreull/“When Greek meets Greek”

by Henry Johnston

CHAPTER VI.

"WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK."

AVING let my rooms in George Street to a decent tyler body wi' a guid gaun business, I flitted to a hoose o' four rooms an' kitchen i' the West-en'. I took this step pairtly under the advice o' Maister Fleming, wha said I could afford to leeve in a genteel locality, an' pairtly because I wud be better able to owertake the work o' the bursary minted in a former chapter, from being within easy reach o' the College. But let me tell ye first and foremost, when it got to the public ear that I meant to found a bursary, the thing raised an uncommon soogh, insomuch that it caused some tongues to wag at the rate o' nae allooance. I found this oot in a gey simple and natural wye. A few days efter the bursary business wis settled atween Maister Fleming an' mysel', I inveeted my auld freen' an' neebor Mrs. Warnock—wife o' the pastry baker o' that name in George Street—to come west and tak' a cup o' tea wi' me, an' gie me the news.

Bein' the first time Mrs. Warnock had been in my new hoose, and as she wis sairly troubled wi' cauld feet, I gied her a dram afore drawin' in to the tea. She wis unco cracky for a while, but efter we had puttin’ a guid wheen o’ things through hands, I saw the woman had something on her mind. I didna’ hurry her, but speert on an’ on in a general sort o’ wye, till at last I asked for Mrs. Whangy, wife o’ the leather tanner in Shuttle Street. At this the body wis sair owercome. I do believe if I hadna’ just gien her anither thimlefu’ o’ speerits at the time she might hae gane awa’ in a dwam. Hooever I gied her time to draw her breath.

“ Deed, Mrs. Warnock,” I said quite cheery-like, “ ye may say on, for that wumman an’ me never were great freen’s.” “ Ye may weel say’t,” quoth she, “ an’ had ye no pressed me I never wud hae opened my lips on the subject, I’m sure; but efter what the limmer said aboot ye, I think ye canna coont on Mrs. Whangy as a freen’.”

“ She wis aye a brazen-faced randy,” said I, somewhat excited beforehand, “ ye needna’ fear to tell onything that she may have said, Mrs. Warnock, for it’ll no* put me ae bit aboot.”

“Weel, ye see, this maitter o’ the bursary, or whatever ye ca’ it, had won to her ears, an’ she comes doon to the shop to order a dizzen cookies. She aye insists on a.penny to the shillin’. Her mither, ye ken, keepit a wee victualling shoppie i’ the Calton, an’ she minded the custom. When she had payed her sixpence and asked the thirteen cookies to be sent hame, she glowered through her gowd glesses unco kennin’-like, an’ said, ‘Ye’ll no’ hae heard o’ this new move o’ Martha Spreull’s ? ’ ‘ No,’ said I, quite innocent, ‘ I havena heard frae Miss Spreull since she flittit to the West-en’.’ ‘ Oh,’ quoth she, ‘Martha’s a great wumman noo, she has opened a bursary, nae less. She did her best to get a doctor, or at least a sticket minister in George Street, while she leeved by them; noo she’s tryin’ to mak’ her market in anither wye wi’ her cousin Jen’s siller.’

“ But, Miss Spreull, I really did not ettle to tell ye what this ill-set wumman said.”

“ Dinna fear,” quoth I, “ for I’m real interestit.”

“ ‘ Oh/ says she, ‘ having failed to get a man when her hoose wis fu’ o’ them, noo that she has siller, she has opened a bursary ’—an’ if ye’d seen hoo she lookit when she said this—‘ a bursary—bed, board, an’ washin’—in her ain hoose, mind ye; an’ she thinks that, havin’ the puir boarder a’ to hersel’, she ’ll couter him up till he offers himsel’ as her guidman. Div ye no see her dodge ? ’

‘ Weel/ quoth I, ‘ Miss Spreull has aye been real decent wi’ me, and I hinna an ill word to say against her.’ ‘ Ay, but ye maunna tell her,’ says she, ‘ for the truth is sometimes sair to bide.’

‘ Oh,’ says I, kind o’ tairtish, ‘ ye needna fear, for, to tell the truth, I never wis given to clyping a’ my days; but there’s somebody i’ the shop, an’ when the laddie comes in I ’ll send yer cookies hame.’

“ That wis just the wye I spoke till ’er.” Weel, ye may suppose, I wis mortal affrontit when I heard sic a scandaleesin’ story. I never had a great opeenion o’ Mrs. Whangy. In truth, we never were great freens; but she wis aye fair to my face, an’ I couldna jaloose the deceitfu’ duchess wud have evened sic a thing to me.

But the interesting pairt o’ the story is yet to come. The king aye fa’s i’ the cadger’s gate somehoo. I do believe my auld neebor, Mrs. Warnock, had barely time to clear the corner o’ the street, when, wha should come into my hoose but this same twa-faced tairge, Mrs. Whangy! It wis past mortal

reason and sense to believe that this wumman should ever dare

to darken my door; but there she wis in my best parlour, accordin’ to the evidence o’ my servant-wumman, wha brocht me her caird efter showin’ her ben.

“Weel,” quoth I, "this beats miracles, she’s fa’en into my ban’s i’ the nick o’ time.”

My bluid wis up, but I didna lose my temper. Hooever, it wisna the wye o’ the Spreulls to say saut when they wanted mustard. So I gaed stracht ben. There wis my leddy, wT her braw flounces spread out carefully ower my carpet, her ban’s folded before her, wi’ her nose i’ the air, glowerin’ through her gowd specks as if she wis sittin’ for her fottygraph. Thinks I, “I’ll tak the stairch oot o’ you, my wumman, or I’m dune wi’ ye.”

“ Mrs. Whangy,’’ said I, quite calmly, withoot sittin’ doon, “ this is an unexpected veesit. Maybe ye ’ll tak aff yer specks, ye ’ll feel the guid o’ them when ye gang oot.” I couldna help the remark, for the specks made her look sae grand an’ impident-like; but I pushed on.

"Weel, it’s maybe no’ worth yer while,” quoth I, “ for a’ the time ye’ll care to bide. Ye ’ve come, nae doot, to speer aboot the bursary.”

“ Miss Spreull,” she said, settin’ her teeth firm.

“Na, na,” says I, “I’ve got twa’r three things to say, an’ I ’ll no’ be interruptit i’ my ain hoose. I'm no’ used to flytin’; hooever, I can speak oot my mind braw an’ weel when it ’& needed. But it maunna be bark aboot i’ this hoose altho’ ye are a tanner’s wife. Ye’ve gotten yer ain vairsion o’ that bursary story, as I’ve heard tell, and ye’re welcome to’t for me; but I have mine. Maybe your wye is the ane ye wud have ta’en if ye’d been in my place; but I’ve reason to be thankfu’ that Providence made me wi’ a mind abune the mean and unworthy motive ye have evened to me. I daresay there ia no use o’ the like o’ me offerin’ you advice, for it ’ll be lost on ye ; only I wud just say or I’ve dune, that the next honest wumman’s character ye put through yer ban’s ye should tak’ care to judge her by a higher standard than yersel’."

“ Noo, hiv ye onything to say ? ”

“ Say ? ” she roared, jumping to her feet, flounces an’ a’, wi’ a brienge, layin’ aboot her, stampin’ an’ stutterin’ in a wye that wis alarmin’ to see. Everything wis to say, I could see that; but she hadna twenty throats, and eveiything and mair wanted sayin’ at the same moment o’ time.

I wis mortal feared she wud fa’ doon in an apoplexy fit, or burst a bluid-vessel. So I didna gie her time, but rang the bell.

"Jenny,” quoth I, geyan calmly, “wud ye show this wumman to the door ? She has gotten hersel’ heated awee, an’ I think she will be the better o’ the caller air.”

Noo I set this doon here wi’ great pain, for, I admit, sic scenes canna tend to edification. Nevertheless, in this wicked worl’ the best o’ motives are whiles misunderstood; an’ the lesson I try to learn for mysel’ is this—that folk shouldna be driven aside frae the path o’ duty for the sake o’ ill tongues.