The House With the Green Shutters (14 page)

She stared after him a while in large-eyed stupor, then flung herself in
her old nursing-chair by the fire, and spat blood in the ribs, hawking
it up coarsely—we forget to be delicate in moments of supremer agony.
And then she flung her apron over her head and rocked herself to and fro
in the chair where she had nursed his children, wailing, "It's a pity o'
me, it's a pity o' me! My God, ay, it's a geyan pity o' me!"

The boy was in bed, but Janet had watched the scene with a white, scared
face and tearful cries. She crept to her mother's side.

The sympathy of children with those who weep is innocently selfish. The
sight of tears makes them uncomfortable, and they want them to cease, in
the interests of their own happiness. If the outward signs of grief
would only vanish, all would be well. They are not old enough to
appreciate the inward agony.

So Janet tugged at the obscuring apron, and whimpered, "Don't greet,
mother, don't greet. Woman, I dinna like to see ye greetin'."

But Mrs. Gourlay still rocked herself and wailed, "It's a pity o' me,
it's a pity o' me! My God, ay, it's a geyan pity o' me!"

"Is he in himsell?" asked Gibson the builder, coming into the Emporium.

Mrs. Wilson was alone in the shop. Since trade grew so brisk she had an
assistant to help her, but he was out for his breakfast at present, and
as it happened she was all alone.

"No," she said, "he's no in. We're terribly driven this twelvemonth
back, since trade grew so thrang, and he's aye hunting business in some
corner. He's out the now after a carrying affair. Was it ainything
perticular?"

She looked at Gibson with a speculation in her eyes that almost verged
on hostility. Wives of the lower classes who are active helpers in a
husband's affairs often direct that look upon strangers who approach him
in the way of business. For they are enemies whatever way you take them;
come to be done by the husband or to do him—in either case, therefore,
the object of a sharp curiosity. You may call on an educated man, either
to fleece him or be fleeced, and his wife, though she knows all about
it, will talk to you charmingly of trifles while you wait for him in her
parlour. But a wife of the lower orders, active in her husband's
affairs, has not been trained to dissemble so prettily; though her face
be a mask, what she is wondering comes out in her eye. There was
suspicion in the big round stare that Mrs. Wilson directed at the
builder. What was
he
spiering for "himsell" for? What could he be up
to? Some end of his own, no doubt. Anxious curiosity forced her to
inquire.

"Would I do instead?" she asked.

"Well, hardly," said Gibson, clawing his chin, and gazing at a corded
round of "Barbie's Best" just above his head. "Dod, it's a fine ham
that," he said, to turn the subject. "How are ye selling it the now?"

"Tenpence a pound retail, but ninepence only if ye take a whole one. Ye
had better let me send you one, Mr. Gibson, now that winter's drawing
on. It's a heartsome thing, the smell of frying ham on a frosty
morning"—and her laugh went skelloching up the street.

"Well, ye see," said Gibson, with a grin, "I expect Mr. Wilson to
present me with one when he hears the news that I have brought him."

"Aha!" said she, "it's something good, then," and she stuck her arms
akimbo.—"James!" she shrilled, "James!" and the red-haired boy shot
from the back premises.

"Run up to the Red Lion, and see if your father has finished his crack
wi' Templandmuir. Tell him Mr. Gibson wants to see him on important
business."

The boy squinted once at the visitor, and scooted, the red head of him
foremost.

While Gibson waited and clawed his chin she examined him narrowly.
Suspicion as to the object of his visit fixed her attention on his face.

He was a man with mean brown eyes. Brown eyes may be clear and limpid as
a mountain pool, or they may have the fine black flash of anger and the
jovial gleam, or they may be mean things—little and sly and oily.
Gibson's had the depth of cunning, not the depth of character, and they
glistened like the eyes of a lustful animal. He was a reddish man, with
a fringe of sandy beard, and a perpetual grin which showed his yellow
teeth, with green deposit round their roots. It was more than a
grin—it was a
rictus
, semicircular from cheek to cheek; and the beady
eyes, ever on the watch up above it, belied its false benevolence. He
was not florid, yet that grin of his seemed to intensify his reddishness
(perhaps because it brought out and made prominent his sandy valance and
the ruddy round of his cheeks), so that the baker christened him long
ago "the man with the sandy smile." "Cunning Johnny" was his other
nickname. Wilson had recognized a match in him the moment he came to
Barbie, and had resolved to act with him if he could, but never to act
against him. They had made advances to each other—birds of a feather,
in short.

The grocer came in hurriedly, white-waistcoated to-day, and a
perceptibly bigger bulge in his belly than when we first saw him in
Barbie, four years ago now.

"Good-morning, Mr. Gibson," he panted. "Is it private that ye wanted to
see me on?"

"Verra private," said the sandy smiler.

"We'll go through to the house, then," said Wilson, and ushered his
guest through the back premises. But the voice of his wife recalled him.
"James!" she cried. "Here for a minute just," and he turned to her,
leaving Gibson in the yard.

"Be careful what you're doing," she whispered in his ear. "It wasna for
nothing they christened Gibson 'Cunning Johnny.' Keep the dirt out your
een."

"There's no fear of that," he assured her pompously. It was a grand
thing to have a wife like that, but her advice nettled him now just a
little, because it seemed to imply a doubt of his efficiency—and that
was quite onnecessar. He knew what he was doing. They would need to rise
very early that got the better o' a man like him!

"You'll take a dram?" said Wilson, when they reached a pokey little room
where the most conspicuous and dreary object was a large bare flowerpot
of red earthenware, on a green woollen mat, in the middle of a round
table. Out of the flowerpot rose gauntly a three-sticked frame, up which
two lonely stalks of a climbing plant tried to scramble, but failed
miserably to reach the top. The round little rickety table with the
family album on one corner (placed at what Mrs. Wilson considered a
beautiful artistic angle to the window), the tawdry cloth, the green
mat, the shiny horsehair sofa, and the stuffy atmosphere, were all in
perfect harmony of ugliness. A sampler on the wall informed the world
that there was no place like home.

Wilson pushed the flowerpot to one side, and "You'll take a dram?" he
said blithely.

"Oh ay," said Gibson with a grin; "I never refuse drink when I'm offered
it for nothing."

"Hi! hi!" laughed Wilson at the little joke, and produced a cut decanter
and a pair of glasses. He filled the glasses so brimming full that the
drink ran over on the table.

"Canny, man, for God's sake canny!" cried Gibson, starting forward in
alarm. "Don't ye see you're spilling the mercies?" He stooped his lips
to the rim of his glass, and sipped, lest a drop of Scotia's nectar
should escape him.

They faced each other, sitting. "Here's pith!" said Gibson. "Pith!" said
the other in chorus, and they nodded to each other in amity, primed
glasses up and ready. And then it was eyes heavenward and the little
finger uppermost.

Gibson smacked his lips once and again when the fiery spirit tickled his
uvula.

"Ha!" said he, "that's the stuff to put heart in a man."

"It's no bad whisky," said Wilson complacently.

Gibson wiped the sandy stubble round his mouth with the back of his
hand, and considered for a moment. Then, leaning forward, he tapped
Wilson's knee in whispering importance.

"Have you heard the news?" he murmured, with a watchful glimmer in his
eyes.

"No!" cried Wilson, glowering, eager and alert. "Is't ocht in the
business line? Is there a possibeelity for me in't?"

"Oh, there might," nodded Gibson, playing his man for a while.

"Ay, man!" cried Wilson briskly, and brought his chair an inch or two
forward. Gibson grinned and watched him with his beady eyes. "What green
teeth he has!" thought Wilson, who was not fastidious.

"The Coal Company are meaning to erect a village for five hundred miners
a mile out the Fleckie Road, and they're running a branch line up the
Lintie's Burn that'll need the building of a dozen brigs. I'm happy to
say I have nabbed the contract for the building."

"Man, Mr. Gibson, d'ye tell me that! I'm proud to hear it, sir; I am
that!" Wilson was hotching in his chair with eagerness. For what could
Gibson be wanting with
him
if it wasna to arrange about the carting?
"Fill up your glass, Mr. Gibson, man; fill up your glass. You're
drinking nothing at all. Let
me
help you."

"Ay, but I havena the contract for the carting," said Gibson. "That's
not mine to dispose of. They mean to keep it in their own hand."

Wilson's mouth forgot to shut, and his eyes were big and round as his
mouth in staring disappointment. Was it this he was wasting his drink
for?

"Where do I come in?" he asked blankly.

Gibson tossed off another glassful of the burning heartener of men, and
leaned forward with his elbows on the table.

"D'ye ken Goudie, the Company's manager? He's worth making up to, I can
tell ye. He has complete control of the business, and can airt you the
road of a good thing. I made a point of helping him in everything, ever
since he came to Barbie, and I'm glad to say that he hasna forgotten't.
Man, it was through him I got the building contract; they never threw't
open to the public. But they mean to contract separate for carting the
material. That means that they'll need the length of a dozen horses on
the road for a twelvemonth to come; for it's no only the
building—they're launching out on a big scale, and there's lots of
other things forbye. Now, Goudie's as close as a whin, and likes to keep
everything dark till the proper time comes for sploring o't. Not a
whisper has been heard so far about this village for the miners—there's
a rumour, to be sure, about a wheen houses going up, but nothing
near
the reality. And there's not a soul, either, that kens there's a big
contract for carting to be had 'ceptna Goudie and mysell. But or a
month's by they'll be advertising for estimates for a twelvemonth's
carrying. I thocht a hint aforehand would be worth something to you, and
that's the reason of my visit."

"I see," said Wilson briskly. "You're verra good, Mr. Gibson. You mean
you'll give me an inkling in private of the other estimates sent in, and
help to arrange mine according?"

"Na," said Gibson. "Goudie's owre close to let me ken. I'll speak a word
in his ear on your behalf, to be sure, if you agree to the proposal I
mean to put before you. But Gourlay's the man you need to keep your eye
on. It's you or him for the contract—there's nobody else to compete wi'
the two o' ye."

"Imphm, I see," said Wilson, and tugged his moustache in meditation. All
expression died out of his face while his brain churned within. What
Brodie had christened "the considering keek" was in his eyes; they were
far away, and saw the distant village in process of erection; busy with
its chances and occasions. Then an uneasy thought seemed to strike him
and recall him to the man by his side. He stole a shifty glance at the
sandy smiler.

"But I thought
you
were a friend of Gourlay's," he said slowly.

"Friendship!" said Gibson. "We're speaking of business. And there's
sma-all friendship atween me and Gourlay. He was nebby owre a bill I
sent in the other day; and I'm getting tired of his bluster. Besides,
there's little more to be made of him. Gourlay's bye wi't. But you're a
rising man, Mr. Wilson, and I think that you and me might work thegither
to our own advantage, don't ye see? Yes; just so; to the advantage of us
both. Oom?"

"I hardly see what you're driving at," said Wilson.

"I'm driving at this," said Gibson. "If Gourlay kens you're against him
for the contract, he'll cut his estimate down to a ruinous price, out o'
sheer spite—yes, out o' sheer spite—rather than be licked by
you
in
public competition. And if he does that, Goudie and I may do what we
like, but we canna help you. For it's the partners that decide the
estimates sent in, d'ye see? Imphm, it's the partners. Goudie has
noathing to do wi' that. And if Gourlay once gets round the partners,
you'll be left out in the cold for a very loang time. Shivering, sir,
shivering! You will that!"

"Dod, you're right. There's a danger of that. But I fail to see how we
can prevent it."

"We can put Gourlay on a wrong scent," said Gibson.

"But how, though?"

Gibson met one question by another.

"What was the charge for a man and a horse and a day's carrying when ye
first came hereaway?" he asked.

"Only four shillings a day," said Wilson promptly. "It has risen to six
now," he added.

"Exactly," said Gibson; "and with the new works coming in about the town
it'll rise to eight yet. I have it for a fact that the Company's willing
to gie that. Now if you and me could procure a job for Gourlay at the
lower rate, before the news o' this new industry gets scattered—a job
that would require the whole of his plant, you understand, and prevent
his competing for the Company's business—we would clear"—he clawed his
chin to help his arithmetic—"we would clear three hundred and
seventy-four pounds o' difference on the twelvemonth. At least
you
would make that," he added, "but you would allow me a handsome
commission of course—the odd hundred and seventy, say—for bringing the
scheme before ye. I don't think there's ocht unreasonable in tha-at. For
it's not the mere twelvemonth's work that's at stake, you understand;
it's the valuable connection for the fee-yuture. Now, I have influence
wi' Goudie; I can help you there. But if Gourlay gets in there's just a
chance that you'll never be able to oust him."