Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 14

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 14

When Cleaver's boy reached the pavement, he dusted the water splashes

off as well as he could, and walked thoughtfully and determinedly

across Nicholson Street.

 

"It'll be an awesome savin' in lemonade," he said, "an' that dreadfu'

expensive bottle lemonade too!"

 

A tramcar was passing. A wild thought ran through his brain.

 

"Dod," he said, "I declare I'll save that muckle by giein' up Sal—I'll

risk it."

 

And he hailed the car and walked very slowly towards it when it

stopped. The conductor waved to him to come on.

 

"Could ye no hae run, man, an' no wasted a' this time?" he said, when

Cleaver's boy had at last got himself upon the platform.

 

"I was gettin' my twopence-worth," said James Annan, with dignity; "I

am an inside passenger!" And he went through the glass door and sat

beside Bailie Holden, who was going home to dinner and was already

thinking of Bogie roll.

 

The Bailie and Cleaver's boy got out at the same place. They made their

way to the same house. The Bailie let himself in by the front door.

Cleaver's boy went equally unannounced to the back. But Cleaver's boy

knew that he had pretty Janet of Inverness waiting for him, whereas the

Bailie only had his wife. And in these circumstances most people would

have preferred to enter by the back door with James Annan.

 

Janet of Inverness was standing by the kitchen-window polishing a brass

preserving pan in which she could admire her dimpled chin, and the hair

which, curling naturally, did not need the intervention of red-hot

knitting needles to be beautiful.

 

Janet ran hastily to the door.

 

"Do you want to see the maister?"

 

"No," said James Annan; "wull ye hae me, Janet?"

 

Janet of Inverness looked him a moment in the eyes. What she read

there, Janet only knows. At any rate it seemed to be satisfactory

enough, for, with all the ardour of love's young dream, she fell on

his neck, and murmured, "Aye, Jamie, when—" (here Janet of Inverness

sobbed)—"when ye get a rise!"

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XXIV.

 

THE CROOK IN THE LOT OF CLEAVER'S BOY.

 

 

I should have mentioned before that Inverness Janet's other name was

Urquhart, but for the fact that second names do not seem to matter

anywhere, except in those grades of society where persons require

calling cards to remind them of each others' names.

 

It was only a natural precisian like Mr. Cleg Kelly who always insisted

on the second name. But Cleg had a reason for that. He was himself in

the curious position of having no ascertained first name. There was

a tradition in the family that he had been baptized Bryan, but his

mother had never used the name. And since his father and everyone else

had always called him Cleg, Cleg Kelly he remained all his life—or at

least, as they say commercially, "to date."

 

But it is with Inverness Janet and the faithless and easily consoled

James Annan, late assistant to Mr. Cleaver, butcher, that we have

presently to do. Janet's conditional acceptance of his devotion seemed

in a fair way to being made absolute. For Cleaver's boy proved a

success at the night work. But in spite of this, and of his apparently

assured success, both in the fields of practical sanitation and in

those of love, James Annan was clearly not happy.

 

Judging by some past experience of his own, Cleg thought he must be

pining for his old freedom.

 

"What for do ye no rin away, if ye want to be rid o' Janet?" was Cleg's

contribution to the problem.

 

"Haud your tongue! I dinna want to get rid o' Janet!" said Cleaver's

boy, loyally, but without indignation. Such things had been, and might

be again.

 

"It's aboot Janet onyway," said wise Cleg, shaking his head; "hae Sal

or Susy been botherin' her?"

 

"Na," said Janet's lover, "they ken better. My certes, Janet wad gie

them the door in their faces and then send for a polissman."

 

"Ye had better tell me, at ony rate," said Cleg.

 

And with a little pressing, James Annan did unburden his sore heart.

 

"Ye see," he said, "Janet's bonny—or I think sae——"

 

"It is the same thing exactly!" interjected Cleg.

 

"She's bonny, an' easy to be doin' wi'. She's no sair ava' in the way

o' expense. She is a natural saver hersel', an' she's aye at me to be

puttin' by the siller. O, in some ways it is juist like heeven—nae

leemonades, nae swing rides, nae merry-go-rounds, nae shows! I declare

she cares no a buckie for Pepper's Ghost. In that respect there's no a

mair agreeabler lass in the toon. Janet is aye pleased to tak' a walk

on the Calton, or maybe in the Gardens, or to the Museum, or doon the

shore to Leith to see the ships, or, what pleases her best, juist doon

to the Waverley Station to see the Heelant train come in. O, Cleg, she

is sic a weel-dooin', couthy, kindly lass, that ony man micht hae been

prood o' her."

 

"What is't, then," said Cleg, "since she's sae perfect? Is't the

poetry?" To Cleg "the poetry" was a trouble which might seize a victim

at any moment, like the toothache. "And then where are ye?" he would

add, cogently.

 

But it was not the poetry. It was a deeper grief. It appeared from the

tale which Cleg laboriously extracted from the reluctant and deeply

wounded suitor, that Janet, though a well-doing lass in every respect,

had one grave fault.

 

All day she was at work quietly and willingly. It was the nature of

James's occupation that he should be in the neighbourhood in the

early morning. At that hour Janet, in her working gown, was all that

heart could desire. But when Cleaver's boy chanced to go round in

the afternoon, or met Janet by appointment, some malicious pixie had

wrought a sea-change in the lass of Inverness.

 

She would then tell, with the greatest candour and engaging innocence,

tales which even a faithful lover could not otherwise characterise than

as "whoppers." This mania appeared to come upon her whenever she had

taken off her morning wrapper and put on her company dress. She was

going (so she declared) to "the mistress" to ask for a few evenings

off in order to fulfil her innumerable social engagements. Every house

where at any time she had been engaged (as kitchen-maid) opened wide

its doors to her as a welcome guest. She told the cook, who listened

with unconcealed scorn, how she had been at balls and suppers galore

in "the best houses" in Melville Street and Princes Street. She must

really, she said, begin to remodel and refashion some of her many silks

and satins for the approaching season.

 

Only the evening before, she had entertained the servants' hall at

Bailie Holden's with an account of a dinner she had been at the night

before in the Grange. She had even got off early in order to have her

hair done by the hairdresser.

 

"The hairdresser, as a great favour, is going to arrange it in the

latest style for five shillings, instead of ten-and-six, his usual

charge," said Janet of Inverness, with a glance like an angel's for

innocence. Then she described her drive to the house in a four-wheeler.

"My hair would have got so blown about, or I should have gone in a

hansom, which is much more distinguished." Her former master had, it

appeared, come into the hall to receive her. Two gentlemen had almost

quarrelled as to who should see her home. A handsome and distinguished

gentleman and a member of Parliament for the city, celebrated for his

gallantry to the ladies, had, however, forestalled them both, arranged

the shawl deliciously about her shoulders with well-accustomed fingers,

and had thereafter driven home with her in a hansom.

 

"It did not matter about the hair then, you know," said gay Janet of

Inverness, looking daringly at Cleaver's boy.

 

At this the cook had laughed out loud. She then said that it was all

lies, and that she had seen Janet walking along the Bridges with

another girl at the supposed hour of the dinner. Thus was shame brought

upon Cleaver's boy and upon the pride and good name of his sweetheart.

 

"An' what do ye think I should do, Cleg?" asked James Annan.

 

"I wad gie her a lickin' and gar her stop," said Cleg, who had still

prehistoric notions as to the discipline of women.

 

"Na," said Cleaver's boy; "I hae thocht o' that. But, man, she's no

like Susy or Sal. Ye couldna lift a hand to her when she looks at ye

wi' yon e'en, an' tells ye that her faither was either a Highland Chief

or a Toon Councillor o' Inverness. I couldna do it, Cleg."

 

"Hoot," said Cleg, "then I wad try no to heed. She may grow oot o't.

An' thae Heelant folk are aye leein' onyway. Think on a' the lees they

tell aboot their Bonny Prince Chairlie!"

 

"I hae tried no to mind," answered Cleaver's boy, sadly; "but when I

see the ither yins a' laughin' at her an' her no seeing it, but gaun

straight on wi' her daft-like story, I tell ye, Cleg, it pits me fair

wild. There'll be murder dune, Cleg, gin it's no stoppit."

 

"Weel, Cleaver," said Cleg philosophically, "I think I see the reason

on't. She disna gang to shows an' theaytres, to save the siller; but

she says she gangs, an' that costs naething. I dinna see what ye hae to

compleen o'!"

 

"If that's a' ye can tell me," said Cleaver's boy indignantly, "I wadna

hae missed muckle if ye had stayed at hame."

 

"Hoots, butcher," said Cleg, with indulgence, "dinna gang a aff like

the fuff o' a match. There's little sense and nae siller in that. But

I'll tell ye what, butcher: I'll speak to Miss Celie. She will ken what

ye had better do."

 

It was thus indirectly that Providence was appealed to in the Sooth

Back.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XXV.

 

A COMELY PROVIDENCE IN A NEW FROCK.

 

 

Cleg was as good as his word. He went that very night to call on Miss

Tennant at Aurelia Villa. He found her in a philanthropic frame of

mind. She had received from the dressmaker a dress of the latest mode,

and she was conscious that the new fashion suited her like a garment

fashioned by the fairies in a dream. Also (what was even better) that

it would make other girls whose shoulders were not so good and whose

figure was less slim and graceful, look perfectly hideous. Yet they

would have to wear it. Celie felt that evening that there was little

left to wish for in this sinful world. She looked out of the window

toward the west. There was also (it seemed on purpose) a beautiful

sunset which glorified the purple cliffs of Arthur's Seat—a quiet,

providential sunset, for it went so well with the colour of her new

dress. Besides, here was Mr. Donald Iverach walking slowly up the

Avenue. And yet some people complained that this was not a good world!

What would folk say next?

 

But Cleg forestalled the Junior Partner. He came by the back door, and

when in a strait betwixt two, a serving maid will always answer a knock

at the back before a ring at the front door. The back door is more

variously interesting.

 

So Cleg had the floor of the house, and was just finishing his tale,

when Mr. Donald Iverach was announced.

 

Celie held out her hand to him, with a motion which signified at once

a welcome and a desire that he should not interrupt. So the Junior

Partner, who had for some time been accustomed to devote more time to

the study of her moods than he had ever done to his Bible (and he had

not neglected that either when nobody saw him), sat down upon a sofa

and became interested in the pattern of some crochet work, which Miss

Celie had tossed on a chair with characteristic impetuosity when she

had rushed across the room to greet Cleg.

 

"Are ye gaun to pit on that dress on Sabbath at the Sunday school?"

asked Cleg, when he had time to think a little about his own affairs.

 

Celie looked at him with a small start of ingenuous wonder. It was a

good little start in its way, and expressed amazement that anyone

should notice so plain and simple a thing as her new dress. It is an

undoubted fact that she was a truthful girl, and it is also a fact that

she was quite aware how instantly the summer dress had riveted the

attention of both Cleg and the Junior Partner. Yet the little start

expressed as plainly as words her surprise, even her sorrow, that in

the midst of so serious a world the minds of men and boys should dwell

upon so vain a thing as a girl's gown. Perhaps Celie's little start was

her way of telling stories. For the sage sayeth that all women tell

stories habitually and unintentionally, whereas men tell them only

occasionally but intentionally.

 

At any rate, whether it was the start or whether it was merely owing

to her sympathetic nature, after a moment's consideration of the sad

failing of Janet of Inverness, Celie lifted her eyes to those of the

Junior Partner.

 

"Poor girl," she said, "I quite understand; don't you?"

 

"You see, I have not heard," said the Junior Partner, hesitating.

 

Celie instantly withdrew her eyes from his. She looked at once hurt

and disappointed. He set up for being sympathetic and kind, and he

had failed to understand a simple thing like this. He was clearly

unworthy of confidence. Celie Tennant turned to Cleg for assistance.

He was looking at her with wide eyes of boyish adoration. Cleg at any

rate understood. She turned half round in her chair and the profile

which she presented to Mr. Donald Iverach struck a chill through the

room like that part of Greenland which looks towards the Pole. Celie's

lovers did not lack varied interests in their life; and perhaps that

was why she had so many. For in the affairs of the heart most men like

good sport and a run for their money.

 

"Come, Cleg," she said, rising, "I want to speak to you. My father is

in the garden, Mr. Iverach!" she added, pointedly.

 

What Mr. Iverach said under his breath of his excellent friend Mr.

Robert Greg Tennant at that moment, it is perhaps better not to write

down. He rose and went to the window. From the wide space of its oriel,

he watched with furtive sidelong gloom the confabulation of Celie and

Cleg. Celie was explaining something with great animation to the boy,

who looked down and seemed a little doubtful. Then with inimitable

archness, which seemed thrown away upon an Arab of the city (if it were

intended for him), Celie explained the whole matter over again from the

top of the steps. She went a little way back towards the house.

 

"Now you quite understand?" she cried with impressive emphasis. And

lest he should not yet comprehend, she turned ere she reached the door,

ran to Cleg at the gate with still more inimitable daintiness, and,

with her hand upon his arm, she explained the whole thing all over

again. The Junior Partner felt a little string tighten somewhere about

the region in which (erroneously) he believed his heart to lie. He

clenched his fist at the sight.

 

"O confound it!" he remarked, for no very obvious reason, as he turned

away.

 

But Celie was full of the most complete unconsciousness. Yet (of course

without knowing it) she quite spoilt the game of two young men, who

were playing lawn tennis on the court of a neighbouring house. Their

returns grew wilder and their services were beneath contempt. Their

several partners (attractive young women whom the new style of dress

did not suit) met casually at the net, and one of them remarked to the

other, "Isn't she a minx? And her pretending to be good and all that!"

Which was perhaps their way of clenching fists and saying, "Confound

it!" Or worse.

 

Then in a little while Cleg went down the Avenue with a sense that the

heavens had fallen, and that angels were getting quite common about the

garden gates of the South Side. He carried the arm on which Celie had

laid her hand a little apart from him. It was as blissfully sensitive

as if he had been ten years older.

 

Celie stood a moment at the gate looking after him. She shaded her eyes

from the sunset and looked down the long street. It is a charming pose

when one is sure of one's arms and shoulders. At this moment one of

the young men in the garden sent a ball over the house, and the eyes

of his partner met those of the other girl. Peace was upon the earth

at that sweet hour of sunset, but good-will to women was not in their

two hearts. Celie felt that the light summer silk had already paid for

itself.

 

"I don't believe a bit in religion—so there!" said the girl next door

to her friend over the net.

 

At that moment Celie gave a little sigh to think that her first night

in the new garment was so nearly over. "And father wanted to give me a

black silk," said Celie Tennant to herself. Celie felt that she had not

wasted her time nor her father's money.

 

So to show her gratitude she went and found her father. He was slowly

walking up and down the little plot of garden, meditatively smoking his

large evening pipe. He stopped now before a favourite row of cabbages,

and now at the end of the strawberry bed. He regarded them equally with

the same philosophical and meditative attention. He was a practical man

and insisted on growing vegetables in his own private domains at the

back, leaving his daughter to cultivate roses and the graces in the

front garden.

 

Celie elevated her nose and sniffed as she came out. "O father, what a

horrid smell of tobacco you are making!"

 

"It is almost inevitable," he said, apologetically; "you see it is

tobacco I am smoking."

 

If it had been asafœtida, Celie could not have appeared more disgusted.

 

"I thought your young thieves smoked at that club of yours," said her

father.

 

"Oh, yes; but that is different," she answered.

 

"Yes, it _is_ different," chuckled her parent, thinking of what his

tobacco cost him.

 

Then Celie went on to explain all about Cleaver's boy and his trouble,

telling the sad tale of the "failing" of Janet of Inverness, as,

well—as I should like to have the tale of my weaknesses told, if it

were necessary that they should be told at all.

 

Her father smoked and listened. Sometimes he lifted a snail from the

leaf of a cabbage with care. Anon he kicked a stone sideways off the

path, and ever he smoked, listened, and nodded without comment.

 

"These are all your orders, ma'am?" he asked slowly, when his daughter

had finished.

 

"I'll pull your ears, father, now I will," said she, with equal want of

connection.

 

And did it.

 

"Oh, I had forgotten Mr. Iverach!" she cried, running off towards the

house with a little gesture of despair; "what shall I do?"

 

"Give him his orders, too!" her father called after her, as the last

flutter of the new dress flashed through the twinkling poplars.