COURTIN’
CHRISTINA
J. J. BELL
COURTIN’ CHRISTINA
BY
J. J. BELL
AUTHOR OF
“WEE MACGREGOR,” “JIM,”
“OH! CHRISTINA,” ETC.
[Illustration: Printer’s Logo]
HODDER & STOUGHTON
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1913
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
TO
J. E. HODDER WILLIAMS
WHO SUGGESTED IT
COURTIN’ CHRISTINA
CHAPTER ONE
Mrs. Robinson conveyed sundry dishes from the oven, also the teapot
from the hob, to the table.
“Come awa’,” she said briskly, seating herself. “We’ll no’ wait for
Macgreegor.”
“Gi’e him five minutes, Lizzie,” said Mr. Robinson.
“I’m in nae hurry,” remarked Gran’paw Purdie, who had come up from the
coast that afternoon.
“I’m awfu’ hungry, Maw,” piped a young voice.
“Whisht, Jimsie,” whispered daughter Jeannie.
Said Mrs. Robinson, a little impatiently: “Come awa’, come awa’, afore
everything gets spiled. Macgreegor has nae business to be that late.”
She glanced at the clock. “He’s been the same a’ week. Haste ye,
John.”
John opened his mouth, but catching his wife’s eye, closed it again
without speech.
Excepting Jimsie, they came to the table rather reluctantly.
“Ask a blessin’, fayther,” murmured Lizzie.
“Shut yer eyes,” muttered Jeannie to her little brother, while she
restrained his eager paw from reaching a cookie.
Mr. Purdie’s white head shook slightly as he said grace; he had passed
his five and seventieth birthday, albeit his spirit was cheerful as of
yore; in his case old age seemed to content itself with an occasional
mild reminder.
John distributed portions of stewed finnan haddie, Lizzie poured out
the tea, while Jeannie methodically prepared a small feast for the
impatient Jimsie. Gran’paw Purdie beamed on the four, but referred
surreptitiously at brief intervals to his fat silver watch.
* * * * *
It is eight years since last we saw the Robinson family. Naturally we
find the greatest changes in the younger members. Jimsie from an
infant has become a schoolboy; he is taller, more scholarly, less
disposed to mischief, more subdued of nature than was Macgregor at the
same age; yet he is the frank, animated young query that his brother
was, though, to be sure, he has a sister as well as parents to puzzle
with his questions. At thirteen Jeannie is a comely, fair-haired
little maid, serious for her years, devoted to Jimsie, very proud of
Macgregor, and a blessing to her parents who, strangely enough, rarely
praise her; her chief end seems to be to serve those she loves without
making any fuss about it.
As for John, he has grown stouter, and to his wife’s dismay a bald
spot has appeared on his crown; his laughter comes as readily as ever,
and he is just as prone to spoil his children. But by this time Lizzie
has become assured that her man’s light-hearted, careless ways do not
extend to his work, that his employers have confidence in their
foreman, and that while he is not likely to rise higher in his trade,
he is still less likely to slip back. She is proud of the three-roomed
modern flat in which she and hers dwell, and her sense for orderliness
and cleanliness has not lost its keenness. In person she is but little
altered: perhaps her features have grown a shade softer.
* * * * *
“Ye see, Maister Purdie,” John was explaining, “Macgreegor’s busy the
noo at a job in the west-end, an’ that’s the reason he’s late for his
tea.”
“’Deed, ay. It’s a lang road for him to come hame,” said the old man.
“An’ is he still likin’ the pentin’ trade?”
“Ay, ay. An’ he’s gettin’ on splendid――jist splendid!”
“It’s time enough to be sayin’ that,” Lizzie interposed. “He’s no’ ony
furder on nor a lad o’ his age ought to be. I’m no’ sayin’ he’s daein’
badly, fayther; but there’s nae sense in boastin’ aboot what’s jist
or’nar’?――Na, Jimsie! it’s no’ time for jeelly yet. Tak’ what Jeannie
gi’es ye, laddie.――Ay, the least said――――”
“But his employer’s pleased wi’ him; he tell’t me as much, wife,” said
John. “An’ if ye compare Macgreegor wi’ that young scamp, Wullie
Thomson――――”
“Oh, if ye compare a man wi’ a monkey, I daresay it’s no’ sae bad for
the man. But, really, John――――”
“Maw, where was the man wi’ the monkey?” enquired Jimsie through bread
and butter.
“I’ll tell ye after,” whispered Jeannie, and forthwith set her mind to
improvise a story involving a human being and his ancestor.
“It’s easy seen,” said Gran’paw, once more consulting his watch, “that
Macgreegor’s workin’ for his wages. Surely he’ll be gettin’ overtime
the nicht. I hope his employer’s a kind man.”
“I’ve nae doot aboot that,” Lizzie returned. “He gi’es Macgreegor
money for the car when he’s workin’ in the west-end.”
“That’s a proper maister!” cried Mr. Purdie, while John smiled as much
as to say, “Ay! he kens Macgreegor’s value!”
“An’ I’m thinkin’,” Lizzie continued, “that Macgreegor walks hame an’
keeps the pennies to buy ceegarettes.”
“What?” exclaimed the old man; “has the laddie commenced the smokin’
a’ready?”
“Oh, naething to speak aboot,” said John, a trifle apologetically.
“They commence earlier than they did in your day, I suppose, Maister
Purdie. No’ that I wud smoke a ceegarette if I was paid for ’t.”
“He’s far ower young for the smokin’,” observed Lizzie.
“_I_ can smoke,” declared Jimsie indiscreetly. Jeannie pressed his
arm.
John guffawed, Gran’paw looked amused until Lizzie demanded: “What’s
that ye’re sayin’, Jimsie?”
“But I’m no’ a reg’lar smoker,” mumbled Jimsie, crestfallen.
“Ay,” said John, with a jocular wink at his father-in-law, “ye’re
feart ye singe yer whiskers, ma mannie.”
“John,” said Lizzie, “it’s naething to joke aboot.... Jimsie, if ever
I catch ye at the smokin’, I’ll stop yer Seturday penny, an’ gi’e ye
castor ile instead. D’ye hear?”
“Hoots!” cried Gran’paw, “that’s a terrible severe-like punishment,
Lizzie!”
“I wud rayther tak’ ile twicet an’ get ma penny,” quoth Jimsie.
“Hear, hear!” from John.
Lizzie was about to speak when the bell rang.
Jeannie slipped from her chair. “I’ll gang, Maw,” she said, and went
out.
“It’s Macgreegor,” remarked John. “Ha’e ye kep’ his haddie hot for
him, Lizzie?”
“What for wud I dae that?” retorted Mrs. Robinson in a tone of irony,
going over to the oven and extracting a covered dish.
“Haw!” laughed John. “I kent ye had something there!”
“What for did ye ask then?”
She came back to the table as her son entered, a very perceptible
odour of his trade about him――an odour which she still secretly
disliked though nearly three years had gone since her first whiff of
it. “What kep’ ye?” she enquired, pleasantly enough.
It is possible that Macgregor’s dutiful greeting to his grandfather
prevented his answering the question. He appeared honestly glad to see
the old man; yet compared with his own the latter’s greeting was
boisterous. He returned his father’s smile, glanced at his mother who
was engaged in filling his cup, winked at his young brother, and took
his place at the table, between the two men.
“Ye’ll be wearied,” remarked John.
“No’ extra,” he replied, stretching his tired legs under cover of the
table.
“Did ye walk?” his mother asked, passing him his tea.
“Ay.”
“It’ll be three mile,” said John.
Jeannie came from the fire and put a fresh slice of toast on his
plate. He nodded his thanks, and she went to her place satisfied and
assisted Jimsie who had got into difficulties with a jam sandwich that
oozed all round.
“What way did ye no’ tak’ the car, laddie?” enquired Lizzie.
“I’d as sune walk,” he replied, shortly.
“It’s fine to save the siller――eh, Macgreegor?” said Mr. Purdie.
Macgregor reddened.
“It’s something new for Macgreegor to dae that,” Lizzie quietly
observed.
“Tits, wumman!” muttered John.
“Wi’ their cheap cars,” put in Mr. Purdie, “Glesga folk are like to
loss the use o’ their legs. It’s terrible to see the number o’ young
folk that winna walk if they’ve a bawbee in their pooch. I’m gled to
see Macgreegor’s no’ yin o’ them.” He patted Macgregor’s shoulder as
he might have done ten years ago, and the youth moved impatiently.
“I’m no’ complainin’ o’ Macgreegor walkin’ when he micht tak’ the
car,” said Lizzie, “but I wud like to see him puttin’ his savin’s to
some guid purpose.”
At these words Macgregor went a dull red, and set down his cup with a
clatter.
“Ha’e ye burnt yer mooth?” asked John, with quick sympathy.
“Naw,” was the ungracious reply. “It’s naebody’s business whether I
tak’ the car or tramp it. See’s the butter, Jeannie.”
There was a short silence. An outbreak of temper on Macgregor’s part
was not of frequent occurrence. Then John turned the conversation to a
big fire that had taken place in Glasgow the previous night, and the
son finished his meal in silence.
At the earliest possible moment Macgregor left the kitchen. For some
reason or other the desire to get away from his elders was paramount.
A few minutes later he was in the little room which belonged to him
and Jimsie. On the inside of the door was a bolt, screwed there by
himself some months ago. He shot it now. With a towel that hung on the
door he rubbed his wet face savagely. He had washed his hands in
turpentine ere leaving the scene of his work.
He donned a clean collar. As he was fixing his Sunday tie a summons
came to the door. He went and opened it, looking cross.
“Weel, what are ye wantin’, Jimsie?”
“Did ye bring ma putty, Macgreegor?”
“Och, I clean forgot.”
Jimsie’s face fell. “Ye promised,” he complained.
Macgregor patted the youngster’s head. “I’ll bring it the morn’s
nicht, as sure as death,” he said. “I’m sorry, Jimsie,” he added
apologetically.
“See an’ no’ forget again,” said Jimsie, and retired.
Macgregor closed the door and attended to his tie. Then he looked
closely at his face in the mirror hanging near the window. He was not
a particularly good-looking lad, yet his countenance suggested nothing
coarse or mean. His features as features, however, did not concern him
now. From his vest pocket he brought a knife, with a blade thinned by
stone and polished by leather. He tried its keen edge on his thumb,
shook his head, and applied the steel to his boot. Presently he began
to scrape his upper lip. It pained him, and he desisted. Not for the
first time he wished he had a real razor.
Having put the knife away, he looked at his watch――his grandfather’s
prize for “good conduct” of eight years ago――and proceeded hastily to
brush his hair. His hair, as his mother had often remarked during his
childhood, was “awfu’ ill to lie.” For a moment or two he regarded his
garments. He would have changed them had he had time――or was it
courage?
Finally he took from his pockets a key and two pennies. He opened a
drawer in the old chest, and placed the pennies in a disused tobacco
tin, which already contained a few coins. He knew very well the total
sum therein, but he reckoned it up once more. One shilling and
sevenpence.
Every Saturday he handed his wages to his mother, who returned him
sixpence. His present hoard was the result of two weeks’ abstinence
from cigarettes and walking instead of taking the car. He knew the job
in the west-end would take at least another week, which meant another
sixpence, and the coming Saturday would bring a second sixpence. Total
in the near future:――two shillings and sevenpence. He smiled
uncertainly, and locked up the treasure.
A minute later he slipped quietly into the passage and took his cap
from its peg.
The kitchen door opened. “Whaur are ye gaun, Macgreegor?” his mother
asked.
“Oot,” he replied briefly, and went. Going down the stairs he felt
sorry somehow. Sons often feel sorry somehow, but mothers may never
know it.
When Lizzie, hiding her hurt, had shut the kitchen door, Mr. Purdie
said softly: “That question an’ that answer, ma dear, are as auld as
human natur’.”
* * * * *
As Macgregor turned out of the tenement close he encountered his
one-time chum, Willie Thomson. Macgregor might not have admitted it to
his parents, but during the last few weeks he had been finding
Willie’s company less and less desirable.
Willie now put precisely the same question that Mrs. Robinson had put
a minute earlier.
“I’ll maybe see ye later,” was Macgregor’s evasive response, delivered
awkwardly. He passed on.
“Ha’e ye a ceegarette on ye?” cried Willie, taking a step after him.
“Na.”
“Ye’re in a queer hurry.”
“I’ll maybe see ye later,” said Macgregor again, increasing his speed
in a curious guilty fashion.
Willie made no attempt to overtake him. He, too, had been finding a
certain staleness in the old friendship――especially since Macgregor
had stopped his purchases of cigarettes. Willie was as often out of
employment as in it, but he did not realise that he was in danger of
becoming a mere loafer and sponge. Yet he was fond of Macgregor.
Macgregor passed from the quiet street wherein he lived into one of
Glasgow’s highways, aglow with electric light, alive with noise out of
all proportion to its traffic. He continued to walk swiftly, his alert
eyes betraying his eagerness, for the distance of a couple of blocks.
Then into another quiet street he turned, and therein his pace became
slower and slower, until it failed altogether. Beneath a gas lamp he
questioned his watch, his expression betokening considerable anxiety.
It was a fine October night, but chilly――not that he gave any sign of
feeling cold. For a space he remained motionless, gazing up the
street. Possibly he would have liked a cigarette just then.
As though rousing himself, he moved abruptly and proceeded slowly to
the next lamp post, turned about and came back to his first
halting-place, where he turned about again. For a long half-hour he
continued to stroll between the two posts. Few persons passed him, and
he did not appear to notice them. Indeed, it may as well be frankly
admitted that he shamefully avoided their glances. When at last he did
stop, it was with a sort of jerk.
From one of the closes a girl emerged and came towards him.
CHAPTER TWO
Macgregor’s acquaintance with Jessie Mary was almost as old as
himself; yet only within the last three months had he recognised her
existence as having aught of importance to do with his own. This
recognition had followed swift on the somewhat sudden discovery that
Jessie Mary was pretty.
The discovery was made at a picnic, organised by a section of the
great drapery store wherein Jessie Mary found employment, Macgregor’s
presence at the outing being accounted for by the fact that in a weak
moment he had squandered a money gift from his grandparents on the
purchase of two tickets for Katie, his first love (so far as we know),
and himself. The picnic was a thorough success, but neither Macgregor
nor Katie enjoyed it. It was not so much that anything came between
them, as that something that had been between them departed――evaporated.
There was no quarrel; merely a dulness, a tendency to silence,
increasing in dreariness as the bright day wore on. And, at last, in
the railway compartment, on the way home, they sat, crushed together
by the crowd, Katie dumb with dismay, Macgregor steeped in gloom.
Opposite them sat Jessie Mary and her escort, a young man with sleek
hair, a pointed nose, several good teeth, and a small but exquisite
black moustache. These two were gay along with the majority of the
occupants of the carriage. Perhaps in her simple sixteen-year-old
heart Katie began to realise that she was deserted indeed; perhaps
Macgregor experienced prickings of shame, not that he had ever given
or asked promises. Still, it is to be hoped that he did not remember
then any of Katie’s innocent little advances of the past.
Affection ’twixt youth and youth is such a delicate, sensitive thing,
full of promise as the pretty egg of a bonny bird, and as easily
broken.
Macgregor was caught by the vivacious dark eyes of Jessie Mary, snared
by her impudent red mouth, held by the charm of her face, which the
country sun had tinted with an unwonted bloom. Alas for the little
brown mouse at his side! At briefer and briefer intervals he allowed
his gloomy glance to rest on the girl opposite, while he became more
and more convinced that the young man with the exquisite moustache was
a “bletherin’ idiot.” Gradually he shifted his position to the very
edge of the seat, so as to lessen his contact with Katie. And when
Jessie Mary, without warning, presented to his attention her foot in
its cheap, stylish shoe, saying: “I wish ye wud tie ma lace,
Macgreegor,” a strange wild thrill of pride ran through his being,
though, to be sure, he went scarlet to the ears and his fingers could
scarce perform their office. There were friends of Jessie Mary who
declared that Macgregor never would have noticed her at all that day
had she not been wearing a white frock with a scarlet belt; but that
was grossly unfair to Jessie Mary. The animation and fresh coquetry of
eighteen were also hers.
Nigh three months had gone, autumn had come, and here in a dingy
side-street the captivated youth had lingered on the bare chance of a
glimpse of the same maiden in her every-day attire, his mind tormented
by his doubts as to his reception, should she happen to appear.
* * * * *
And now she was approaching him. For the life of him he could neither
advance nor retire. Still, such of his wits as had remained faithful
informed him that it was “stupid-like” to do nothing at all. Whereupon
he drew out his watch and appeared to be profoundly interested in the
time. At the supreme moment of encounter his surprise was, it must be
confessed, extremely badly managed, and he touched his cap with the
utmost diffidence and without a word.
“Hullo!” Jessie Mary remarked carelessly. “Fancy meetin’ you, as the
man said to the sassige roll!”
It had been a mutton-pie at their last meeting, Macgregor remembered,
trying to laugh. Some comfort might have been his had he known that
this flippancy, or its variant, was her form of greeting to all the
young men then enjoying her acquaintance. Jessie Mary usually kept a
joke going for about three months, and quite successfully, too.
“Did ye no’ expec’ to meet me?” He stumbled over the words.
Jessie Mary laughed lightly, mockingly. “I wasna aware yer best girl
lived in this street.”
“It――it’s no’ the first time ye’ve seen me here,” he managed to say.
She laughed again. “Weel, that’s true. I wonder wha the girl is.” He
would have told her if he could, poor boy. “But I must hurry,” she
went on, “or the shops’ll be shut.”
“Can I no’ gang wi’ ye?” he asked, with a great effort.
“Oh, ye can come as far as Macrorie’s,” she answered graciously,
mentioning a provision shop.
Young love is ever grateful for microscopic mercies, and Macgregor’s
spirit took courage as he fell into step with her. Jessie Mary was a
handsomely built young woman; her shoulder was quite on a level with
his. There were times when he would fain have been taller; times,
also, when he would fain have been older, for Jessie Mary’s years
exceeded his own by two. Nevertheless, he was now thinking of her age
without reference to his own. He was, in fact, about to speak of it,
when Jessie Mary said:
“I’m to get to the United Ironmongers’ dance on Friday week, after a’.
When fayther was at his tea the nicht, he said I could gang.”
She might as well have poured a jug of ice water over him. “Aw, did
he?” he murmured feebly.
“Ye should come, Macgreegor,” she continued. “Only three-an’-six for a
ticket admittin’ lady an’ gent.”
“Och, I’m no’ heedin’ aboot dancin’,” said Macgregor, knowing full
well that his going was out of the question.
“It’ll be a splendid dance. They’ll keep it up till three,” she
informed him.
With his heart in his mouth he enquired who was taking her to the
dance.
“Oh, I ha’ena decided yet.” She gave her head a becoming little toss.
“I’ve several offers. I’ll let them quarrel in the meantime.”
Perhaps it was some consolation to know that she had not decided on
any particular escort, and that the rivals were at war with one
another. While there is strife there is hope.
“Ay; ye’ll ha’e plenty offers,” he managed to say steadily, and felt
rather pleased with himself.
“I’m seriously thinking o’ wearin’ pink,” she told him as they turned
into the main street. “It’s maybe a wee thing common, but I’ve been
told it suits me.”
Macgregor wondered who had told her, and stifling his jealousy,
observed that pink was a bonny colour.... “But――but ye wud look fine
in ony auld thing.” Truly he was beginning to get on.
So, at least, Jessie Mary seemed to think. “Nane o’ yer flattery!” she
said with a coquettish laugh.
“I wud like fine to see ye at the dance,” he said with a sigh.
“Come――an’ I’ll gi’e ye a couple o’ dances――three, if I can spare
them.” Hitherto Jessie Mary had regarded Macgregor as a mere boy, and
sometimes as a bit of a nuisance, but she was the sort of young woman
who cannot have too many strings to her bow. “I can get ye a ticket,”
she added encouragingly.
For an instant it occurred to Macgregor to ask her to let him take her
to the dance――he would find the money somehow――but the idea died in
its birth. He could not both go to the dance and do that which he had
already promised himself to do. Besides, she might laugh at him and
refuse.
“It’s nae use speakin’ aboot the dance,” he said regretfully. Then
abruptly: “Yer birthday’s on Tuesday week, is’t no’?”
Jessie Mary looked at him. His eyes were on the pavement. “Wha tell’t
ye that?”
“I heard ye speakin’ aboot yer birthday to somebody at the picnic.”
“My! ye’ve a memory!”
“But it’s on Tuesday week――the twinty-third? I was wantin’ to be
sure.”
“Weel, it’s the twinty-third, sure enough.” She heaved an affected
sigh. “Nineteen! I’m gettin’ auld, Macgreegor. Time I was gettin’ a
lad! Eh?” She laughed at his confusion of face. “But what for d’ye
want to ken aboot ma birthday?” she innocently enquired, becoming
graver.
The ingenuousness of the question helped him.
“Aw, I jist wanted to ken, Jessie Mary. Never heed aboot it. I hope
ye’ll enjoy the dance――when it comes.” This was quite a long speech
for Macgregor to make, but it might have been even longer had they not
just then arrived at the provision shop.
“Here we are,” said she cheerfully. She had the decency to ignore the
smile of the young man behind the counter――the young man with the
sharp nose and exquisite black moustache; nor did she appear to notice
another young man on the opposite pavement who was also gazing quite
openly at her. “Here we are, an’ here we part――to meet again, I hope,”
she added, with a softer glance.
“I’ll wait till ye’ve got yer messages,” said Macgregor, holding his
ground.
She gave him her sweetest smile but one. “Na, Macgreegor; it’ll tak’
me a while to get the messages, an’ I’ve ither places to gang
afterwards. Maybe I’ll see ye floatin’ aroun’ anither nicht.”
“But I’m no’ in a hurry. I――I wish ye wud let me wait.”
Her very sweetest smile was reserved for the most stubborn cases, and
she gave it him now. But her voice though gentle was quite firm. “If
ye want to please me, Macgreegor, ye’ll no’ wait the nicht.”
He was conquered. She nodded kindly and entered the doorway.
“Guidbye, Jessie Mary,” he murmured, and turned away.
There were no other customers in the shop. Jessie Mary took a seat at
the counter. The young man, stroking his moustache, gave her a
good-evening tenderly.
“I’m to get to the dance,” she said, solemnly.
The young man’s hand fell to his side. “Wi’ me?” he cried, very
eagerly.
“I ha’ena made up ma mind yet, Peter. I want a pair o’ kippers――the
biggest ye’ve got.”
CHAPTER THREE
The outside of the shop had been painted but recently. Above door and
window were blazoned in large gilt letters the words:
STATIONERY AND FANCY GOODS.
Just over the doorway was very modestly printed in white the name of
the proprietor:
M. TOD.
What the _M_ stood for nobody knew (or cared) unless, perhaps, the
person so designated; and it is almost conceivable that she had
forgotten, considering that for five and thirty years she had never
heard herself addressed save as Miss Tod.
For five and thirty years M. Tod had kept her shop without assistance.
For five and thirty years she had lived in the shop and its back room,
rarely going out of doors except to church on Sunday mornings. The
grocer along the way had a standing order: practically all the
necessaries of life, as M. Tod understood them, could be supplied from
a grocer’s shop. A time had been when M. Tod saved money; but the last
ten years had witnessed a steady shrinking of custom, a dwindling in
hopes for a peaceful, comfortable old age, a shrinking and dwindling
in M. Tod herself. A day came when a friendly customer and gossip was
startled to behold M. Tod suddenly flop to the floor behind the
counter.
A doctor, hastily summoned, brought her back to a consciousness of her
drab existence and dingy shop. She was soon ready to go on with both
as though nothing had happened. The doctor, however, warned her quite
frankly that if she did not take proper nourishment, moderate exercise
and abundance of fresh air, she would speedily find herself beyond
need of these things.
M. Tod did not want to die, and since she never laughed at anything
she could not laugh at the doctor. To some of us life is like a cup of
bitter physic with a lump of sugar at the bottom, but no spoon to stir
it up with; life, therefore, must be sweet――sooner or later.
On the other hand, obedience to the doctor would involve considerable
personal expenditure, not to mention the engaging of an assistant.
When M. Tod had reckoned up the remnants of her savings and estimated
her financial position generally, she incontinently groaned.
Nevertheless, she presently proceeded to prepare a two-line
advertisement for the _Evening Express_. She was still in the throes
of composition――endeavouring to say in twenty words what she thought
in two hundred――when Mr. Baldwin, traveller for a firm of fancy-goods
merchants, entered the shop. Acquainted with his kindly manner in the
past, she ventured to confide to him her present difficulties.
Mr. Baldwin was not only sympathetic but helpful.
“Why,” said he, “my niece Christina might suit you――in fact, I’m sure
she would. She is nearly sixteen, and only yesterday finished a full
course of book-keeping. More than that, Miss Tod, she has had experience
in the trade. Her aunt before her marriage to――er――myself――had a
little business like your own, at the coast. I had thought of getting
Christina a situation in the wholesale, but I believe it would be
better for her to be here, for a time at least. I know she is keen on
a place where she can have her own way――I mean to say, have room to
carry out her own ideas.” Mr. Baldwin halted in some confusion, but
speedily recovered. “Anyway,” he went on, “give her a trial. Let me
send her along to see you this evening.”
M. Tod assented, possibly because she feared to hurt the traveller’s
feelings. “Nearly sixteen” and “keen on a place where she can have her
own way” did not sound precisely reassuring to the old woman who had
no experience of young folk, and who had been her own mistress for so
long.
That evening Christina came, saw and, after a little hesitation,
conquered her doubts as to the suitability of the situation. “I’ll
manage her easy,” she said to herself while attending with the utmost
demureness to M. Tod’s recital of the duties required of her
assistant――“I’ll manage her easy.”
Within six months she had made good her unuttered words.
* * * * *
It was Saturday afternoon. M. Tod was about to leave the shop for an
airing. Time takes back no wrinkles, yet M. Tod seemed younger than a
year ago. She had lost the withered, yellowed complexion of those who
worship continually in the Temple of Tannin; her movements were freer;
her voice no longer fell at the end of every sentence on a note of
hopelessness. Though she had grown some months older, she had become
years less aged. She glanced round her shop with an air of pride.
From behind the counter Christina, with a kindly, faintly amused
smile, watched her.
“Ay,” remarked M. Tod, “everything looks vera nice――vera nice, indeed,
dearie. I can see ye’ve done yer best to follow ma instructions.”
It had become a habit with M. Tod to express observations of this sort
prior to going out, a habit, also, to accept all Christina’s
innovations and improvements as originally inspired by herself. Even
the painting of the shop, which, when first mooted by the girl, had
seemed about as desirable as an earthquake, had gradually become her
very own bright idea. Happily Christina had no difficulty in
tolerating such gentle injustices; as a matter of fact, she preferred
that her mistress should be managed unawares.
“Tak’ a squint at the window when ye gang oot,” she said, pleasantly.
“Ye ha’ena seen it since it was dressed. There’s a heap o’ cheap trash
in it, but it’s trash that draws the public noo-a-days.”
“Oh, I wudna say that, dearie,” said the old woman. “I’ve aye tried to
gi’e folk guid value.”
“Ay! Ma aunt was like that――near ruined hersel’ tryin’ to gi’e the
public what it didna want. What the public wants is gorgeousness――an’
it wants it cheap. Abyssinian Gold an’ papermashy leather an’ so on.
See thon photo-frames!”――Christina pointed――“the best sellin’
photo-frames ever we had! In a week or so, they get wearit sittin’ on
the mantel-piece, an’ doon they fa’ wi’ a broken leg; in a fortnight
they look as if they had been made in the year ten B.C.! Behold thon
purses! Safer to carry yer cash in a paper poke, but the public canna
resist the real, _genuine_ silver mounts. Observe thon――――”
“Weel, weel,” Miss Tod mildly interrupted, “it’s maybe as ye say, an’
I canna deny that custom’s improvin’. But it’s a sad pity that folk
winna buy the best――――”
“Oh, let the folk pity theirsel’s――when they get sense――an’ that’ll
no’ be this year. Gi’e them what they want, an’ never heed what they
need. That’s the motto for a shop-keeper. Come ower here for a minute
till I sort yer bonnet, or ye’ll be lossin’ twa o’ yer grapes. I hear
figs an’ onions is to be the favourite trimmin’ next Spring. Ye could
dae wi’ a new bonnet, Miss Tod.”
“So I could,” the old woman wistfully admitted as she submitted her
headgear to her assistant’s deft fingers. “I couldna say when I got
this yin.”
“Oh, I’m no’ keen on dates. But”――encouragingly――“we’ll tak’ stock
next week, an’ when we’ve struck the half-year’s balance I’ll no’ be
surprised if ye tak’ the plunge an’ burst a pound-note at the
milliner’s.” Christina administered a final pat to the ancient bonnet.
“Noo ye’re ready for the road. See an’ no’ catch cold. I’ll ha’e the
kettle at the bile against yer return at five.”
“I’ll no’ be late,” replied M. Tod who, to tell the truth, was already
wishing it were tea-time, and moved to the door.
“I suppose,” said Christina, “ye wudna care to call at the Reverend
Mr. McTavish’s an’ politely ask for payment o’ his account――consistin’
chiefly o’ sermon-paper. He’s a whale for sermon-paper!”
“Oh, dearie, dearie, I couldna dae that,” faltered M. Tod, and made
her escape.
“If that account isna paid sune,” Christina murmured, “I’ll ha’e to
gang masel’ an’ put the fear o’ death into the man. Business is
business――even when it’s releegious.”
She looked round the shop to discover if aught required her attention;
then being satisfied that nought could be improved, she seated herself
on the stool and prepared to do a little book-keeping.
As she dipped her pen, however, the door of the shop was slowly
opened, the bell above it banged, and a young man――so she reckoned
him――came in. In her quick way, though she had never seen him before,
she put him down in her mind as a purchaser of a half-penny football
paper. But having recovered from the alarm of the bell and carefully
shut the door, he hesitated, surveying his surroundings.
Christina flung back her thick plait of fair hair, slipped from the
stool, and came to attention.
“Nice day,” she remarked in her best manner. She contrived to get away
from the vernacular in her business dealings.
“Ay,” The young man smiled absently.
“Nice teeth,” thought Christina. (That Macgregor’s teeth were good was
entirely due to his mother’s firmness in the matter of brushing them
during his younger days. He was inclined to be proud of them now.)
“Just take a look round,” she said aloud.
Macgregor acknowledged the invitation with a nod.
“Was it anything special you wanted to see?” she enquired.
Macgregor regarded her for a moment. “I had a look at yer window,” he
said, his eyes wandering once more, “but I seen naething dearer nor a
shillin’.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Christina. Then recovering her dignity――“The window is
merely a popular display. We have plenty of more expensive goods
within.” She felt pleased at having said “within” instead of “inside.”
At the word “expensive” Macgregor shrank. “Aboot half-a-croon?” he
said diffidently, taking a step towards the door.
“Half-a-croon _and_ upwards,” said Christina very distinctly. As a
matter of fact, the shop contained few articles priced as high as two
shillings, the neighbourhood not being noted for its affluence; but
one of Christina’s mottoes was “First catch your customer and then
rook him.” “Oh, yes,” she added pleasantly, “our goods at half-a-crown
are abundant.”
For a moment Macgregor doubted she was laughing at him, but a veiled
glance at her earnest face reassured him――nay, encouraged him. He had
never bought a present for a lady before, and felt his position
keenly. Indeed, he had left his home district to make the purchase in
order that he might do so unrecognised.
So with a shy, appealing smile he said:
“It’s for a present.”
“A present. Certainly!” she replied, lapsing a trifle in the
excitement of the moment. “Male or female?”
Macgregor gave her an honest stare.
“Is it for a lady or gent?” she enquired, less abashed by the stare
than annoyed with herself for having used the wrong phrase.
“Lady,” said Macgregor, with an attempt at boldness, and felt himself
getting hot.
“Will you kindly step this way?” came the polite invitation.
Macgregor proceeded to the counter and bumped his knee against the
chair that stood there.
“Useful or ornamental?”
“I――I dinna ken,” he answered between his teeth.
“I’ll break that chair’s neck for it some day!” cried Christina, her
natural sympathy for suffering getting the better of her commercial
instincts. Then she coughed in her best style. “Do you think the young
lady would like something to wear?”
“I dinna ken, I’m sure.” Macgregor pushed back his cap and scratched
his head. “Let’s see what ye’ve got for wearin’ an’――an’ no’ for
wearin’.”
Christina, too, nearly scratched her head. She was striving to think
where she could lay hands on articles for which she could reasonably
charge half-a-crown.
Without very noticeable delay she turned to a drawer, and presently
displayed a small green oblong box. She opened it.
“This is a nice fountain-pen,” she explained. “Its price has been
reduced――――”
“Aw, I’m no’ heedin’ aboot reduced things, thank ye a’ the same.”
“I’ll make it two shillings to you,” Christina said persuasively.
“That’s a very drastic reduction.” Which was perfectly true. On the
other hand, the pen was an old model which she had long despaired of
selling. “Nothing could be more suitable for a young lady,” she added,
exhibiting the nib. “Real gold.”
But Macgregor shook his head.
With apparent cheerfulness she laid the pen aside. “It’s for a _young_
lady, I think you said?”
“Ay, it’s for a young lady, but she’s no’ that young either. Aboot ma
ain age, maybe.”
Christina nearly said “about twelve, I suppose,” but refrained. She
was learning to subdue her tendency to chaff. “I perceive,” she said
gravely. “Is she fond of needlework?”
“I couldna say. She’s gettin’ a pink dress, but I think her mither’s
sewin’ it for her.”
“A pink dress!” muttered Christina, forgetting herself. “Oh,
Christopher Columbus!” She turned away sharply.
“Eh?”
“She’ll be a brunette?” said Christina calmly, though her cheeks were
flushed.
“I couldna say,” said Macgregor again.
Christina brought forward a tray of glittering things. “These combs
are much worn at present,” she informed him. “Observe the jewels.”
“They’ll no’ be real,” said Macgregor doubtfully.
“Well――a――no. Not exactly _real_. But everybody weers――wears imitation
jewellery nowadays. The west-end’s full of it――chock-a-block, in
fact.” She held up a pair of combs of almost blinding beauty.
“Chaste――ninepence each.”
“Ay,” sighed Macgregor, “but I’m no’ sure――――”
“Silver belt――quite the rage――one shilling.”
Macgregor remembered the scarlet belt at the picnic. He had a vague
vision of a gift of his in its place. He held out his hand for the
glittering object.
“You don’t happen to know the size of the lady’s waist?” said
Christina in a most discreet tone of voice.
“I couldna say.” He laid down the belt, but kept looking at it.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, lifting the belt and fastening it round
her waist. She was wearing a navy skirt and a scarlet flannel shirt,
with a white collar and black tie. “My waist is just about medium.”
She proceeded to put the combs in her hair. “Of course they would look
better on a brunette.” She permitted herself the faintest of smiles.
“But you can see how they look when they’re being worn.”
Was there a hint of mockery in the bright grey-blue eyes? Macgregor
did not observe it; nor was he shocked by the crudity and gaudiness of
the ornaments in broad daylight. But perhaps the general effect was
not so shocking. Christina, having previously experimented with the
ornaments, had a pretty good idea of how they appeared upon her. It
would be difficult to describe precisely what Macgregor thought just
then, but it is to be feared that he made the sudden and unexpected
discovery that Jessie Mary was not the only pretty girl in the world.
“I’ll tak’ them,” he said uneasily, and put his hand in his pocket.
“Thank you,” said Christina. “Will that be all to-day?”
“Ay; that’ll be a’.” He had purposed spending the odd penny of his
fund on a birthday card, but for some undefinable reason let the coin
fall back into his pocket.
Christina proceeded to make a neat parcel. “You’re a stranger here,”
she remarked pleasantly.
“Ay. But I dinna live far awa’.” Now that the ordeal was over, he was
feeling more at ease. “Ye’ve a nice shop, miss.”
“Do you think so? I’m very glad you got something to suit you in it.
Thank you! Half-a-crown――two-and-six exactly. _Good_ afternoon!”
It may be that Macgregor would have stopped to make a remark or two on
his own account, but just then an elderly woman entered the shop.
“Guidbye, Miss,” he murmured, touching his cap, and departed with his
purchase.
Christina dropped the silver into the till. To herself she said: “I
doobt he’s no’ as green as he’s cabbage-lookin’.” Aloud: “Nice day,
Mrs. Dunn. Is your little grandson quite well again?”
CHAPTER FOUR
For some weeks Macgregor had nourished an idea of making the birthday
presentation with his own hands. In fancy he had beheld his own
gallant proffering of the gifts, and Jessie Mary’s shy acceptance of
the same. Why he should have foreseen himself bold and Jessie Mary
bashful is a question that may be left to those who have the profound
insight necessary to diagnose the delicate workings of a youthful and
lovelorn imagination. At the same time he had harboured many hopeful
fears and fearful hopes, but to divulge these in detail would be
sacrilege.
On the day following the purchase of the gifts, however, his original
plan, so simple and straightforward, would seem to have lost something
of its attractiveness. Perhaps he was suddenly assailed by the
cowardice of modesty; possibly he argued, in effect, that the offering
would gain in importance by impersonal delivery. At all events, he
endeavoured, on the way to church, to borrow from Willie Thomson the
sum of threepence――the charge for delivery demanded by a heartless
post-office. Unfortunately Willie’s finances just then were in a most
miserable state, so much so that on this very morning he had been
compelled to threaten his aunt, with whom and on whom he lived, with
the awful vow never to enter a church again unless she supplied him
with twopence on the spot. (This, of course, in addition to the
customary penny for “the plate.”)
He jingled the coins in his pocket while he confided to Macgregor his
tale of a hard world, and continued to do so while he waited for the
sympathy which past experience of his friend led him to expect.
It was therefore something of a shock to Willie when Macgregor,
privately fondling the penny which he had not spent on a birthday
card, replied: “I could manage wi’ the tuppence, Wullie. An’ I’ll pay
ye back on Seturday, sure.”
“Eh?” Willie stopped jingling and clutched his coins tightly.
Macgregor repeated his words hopefully.
“Aw, but I canna len’ ye the tuppence,” said Willie, almost
resentfully; adding, “But I’ll gi’e ye a ceegarette or twa when I buy
some.”
“I’m no’ wantin’ yer ceegarettes,” Macgregor returned, his eyes on the
pavement.
Willie shot at him a curious glance. “What for d’ye want the tuppence?
Ha’e ye been bettin’ on horses?”
For a moment Macgregor was tempted to plead guilty of that or any
other crime on the chance of gaining the other’s sympathies and pence.
Instead, however, he answered with caution: “I’ll maybe tell ye, if
ye’ll len’ me the tuppence.”
Willie laughed. “I’m no’ sae green. Ye best get yer fayther to gi’e ye
the money.”
“Clay up!” snapped Macgregor, and remained silent for the rest of the
journey.
Had the money been required for any other object in the world,
Macgregor would probably have gone straightway to his father and
frankly asked for it. But the limits of confidence between son and
parent are reached when the subject is a girl. Nevertheless, it was to
the boy’s credit that he never dreamed of attempting to obtain his
father’s help under false pretences.
That night he came to the dismal decision to deliver the package
himself at Jessie Mary’s door, at an hour when Jessie Mary would be
certain to be out. There was nothing else for it, as far as he could
see just then.
The following morning’s light found him at his work――no longer, alas!
in the far west-end with its windfall of pennies for the car, but in
the heart of the city. The man under whom he worked found him so slow
and stupid that he threatened to report him to his employer.
Altogether it was a dreary day, and Macgregor, who usually paid enough
attention to his duties to escape the burden of time, was more than
glad when the last working hour had dragged to its close.
He went home by an unaccustomed though not entirely unfamiliar route.
It led him past the shop wherein he had made the birthday purchases on
Saturday afternoon. The window was more brightly illuminated than the
majority of its neighbours; the garish contents were even more
attractive than in daylight. Macgregor found himself regarding them
with a half-hearted interest. Presently he noticed that one of the
sliding glass panels at the back of the window was open a few inches.
This aperture permitted him to see the following: A hand writing a
letter on a sloping desk, a long plait of fair hair over a scarlet
shoulder, and a youthful profile with an expression very much in
earnest yet cheerful withal.
Macgregor could not help watching the writer, and he continued to do
so for several minutes with increasingly lively interest. He was even
wondering to whom the letter might be written, when the writer, having
dipped her pen too deeply, made a horrid, big blot. She frowned and
for an instant put out her tongue. Then, having regarded the blot for
a space with a thoughtful gaze, she seized the pen and with a few deft
touches transformed the blot into the semblance of a black beetle.
Whereupon she smiled with such transparent delight that Macgregor
smiled also.
“What are ye grinnin’ at?” said a voice at his elbow.
He turned to discover Willie Thomson. At no time in the whole course
of their friendship had he felt a keener desire to hit Willie on his
impudent nose. “Naething,” he muttered shortly. “Are ye gaun hame?”
“Ay,” said Willie, noting the other’s discomposure, but not referring
to it directly. “This isna yer usual road hame.”
“Depends whaur I’m comin’ frae,” returned Macgregor, quickening his
pace. “Ha’e ye got a job yet, Wullie?” he enquired more graciously.
“I tried yin the day, but it’s no’ gaun to suit me. But I’ve earned
ninepence. I can len’ ye thon thruppence, if ye like.”
“Aw, I’m no’ needin’ it noo.”
“Weel, ha’e a ceegarette.” Willie produced a yellow packet.
“Na, I’m no’ smokin’, Wullie.”
“What’s wrang wi’ ye?”
“Naething.... What sort of job was ye tryin’?”
Willie told him, and thereafter proceeded to recount as many
grievances as there had been hours in his working day. Macgregor
encouraged him to enter into all sorts of detail, so that home was
reached without reference to the shop window which had caused him
amusement.
“So long,” said Willie, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Maybe see ye
later.”
“Ah, it’s likely,” Macgregor replied, and turned into the close, glad
to escape.
“Haud on!” cried Willie.
“What?” Macgregor halted with reluctance.
Willie sniggered. “I seen ye wi’ Jessie Mary the ither nicht.”
“Did ye?” retorted Macgregor feebly.
“Ay; an’ if I was you, I wud let girls alane. They’re nae fun, an’
they’re awfu’ expensive.”
With which sage advice Willie walked off.
Macgregor made up his mind not to leave the house that evening, yet
eight o’clock found him at the foot of the street wherein Jessie Mary
lived. But he did not go up the street, and at the end of five minutes
he strolled the way he had taken two hours earlier. As he approached a
certain shop the light in its window went out. He marched home
quickly, looking neither right nor left.
* * * * *
On the following evening he hired a small boy for the sum of one
halfpenny to deliver the package to Jessie Mary at her abode, and
straightway returned to the parental fireside, where he blushed at the
welcome accorded him.
That night, however, fate willed it that John Robinson should run out
of tobacco. Macgregor, who had been extremely restless, expressed
himself ready to step down to the tobacco shop in the main street.
Here it must be mentioned that the gifts had reached Jessie Mary at
precisely the right moment. They had raised her spirits from the
depths of despair to at least the lower heights of hope. Only an hour
before their arrival she had learned how the young man with the
exquisite moustache had treacherously invited another young lady to
accompany him to the Ironmongers’ dance; and although to the ordinary
mind this may appear to have been the simple result of a lack of
superhuman patience on the young man’s part, Jessie Mary could
perceive in it nothing but the uttermost perfidy. So that until the
arrival of Macgregor’s present――“to J. M. from M. with best wishes”
(an “l” had been scraped out where the second “w” now stood)――she had
felt like tearing the pink frock to tatters and preparing for the
tomb.
* * * * *
They met near the tobacconist’s――on Macgregor’s home side, by the
way――and he could not have looked more guilty had he sent her an
infernal machine.
“It was awful kind o’ ye,” she said sweetly; “jist _awful_ kind.”
“Aw, it was naething,” he stammered.
“They’re jist lovely, an’ that fashionable,” she went on, and
gradually led the conversation to the subject of the United
Ironmongers’ dance.
“Ye should come,” she said, “an’ see hoo nice I look wi’ them on. The
belt’ll be lovely wi’ ma pink frock. An’ the combs was surely made for
black hair like mines. Of course I tried them on the minute I got
them.”
“Did ye?” murmured Macgregor. Where was all the feverish joy, the soft
rapture anticipated three nights ago? “Did ye?”――that was all he said.
She made allowance for his youth and the bashfulness she had so often
experienced. “Macgreegor,” she whispered, slipping her hand through
his arm, in the darkness of the street leading to her home,
“Macgreegor, I believe I wud suner dance wi’ you than onybody else.”
Macgregor seemed to have nothing to say. The touch of her hand was
pleasant, and yet he was uneasy.
“Macgreegor,” she said presently, a little breathlessly, “I’m no’
heedin’ aboot ony o’ the chaps that wants to tak’ me to the dance. If
ye had a ticket――――” She paused. They had halted in the close-mouth,
as it is locally termed. “I’m sayin’, Macgreegor, if ye had a
ticket――――” She paused again.
The boy felt foolish and wretched. “But I canna gang to the dance,
Jessie Mary,” he managed to say.
She leaned closer to him. “It’ll be a splendid dance――at least”――she
looked at him boldly――“it wud be splendid if you and me was gaun
thegether.”