window to the entrance. Yet he had no sooner opened the door with its
disconcerting note of warning than he wished he had delayed a minute
or two longer. To retire, however, was out of the question. He closed
the door as though he were afraid of wakening a baby, and faced the
counter.
The girl was there, and wearing the scarlet blouse again. Laying aside
the magazine which she had just picked up, she smiled coldly and said
calmly: “Good-afternoon. Nice day after the rain.”
In mentally rehearsing his entrance the previous night Macgregor had,
among other things, seen himself raise his brand-new bowler hat. To
his subsequent shame and regret, he now omitted to perform the little
courtesy. That he should forget his manners was perhaps even less
surprising than that he should forget the hat itself, which gripped
his head in a cruel fashion.
“Ay,” he said solemnly in response to the polite greeting, and
advanced to the counter.
“Not just so disagreeable as yesterday,” she added, a trifle more
cordially.
“Ay――na.” He glanced up and down the counter. “I――I was wantin’ a
pencil,” he said at last.
“A _pencil_!” cried Christina; then in a voice from which all the
amazement had gone: “A pencil――oh, certainly.”
Macgregor reddened, opened his mouth and――shut it. Why should he make
a bigger fool of himself by explaining that he had meant to say “a
pen?” Besides (happy thought!) the pen would be an excuse for calling
another time.
Christina opened the drawer and paused, pursing her lips. Her tone was
casual as she said: “I hope you found the dozen you bought lately
quite satisfactory.”
“Oh――ay, they were――splendid.” Macgregor blushed again.
Christina smiled as prettily as any musical comedy actress selling
guinea button-holes at a charity fête. She said: “I’ll tell Miss Tod.
She’ll be delighted. It’s a great saving, buying a dozen, isn’t it?”
Her hand went into the drawer. “Especially when one uses so many. It’s
hardly worth while buying a single pencil, is it?” Her hand came out
of the drawer and laid a bundle in front of Macgregor. “Wonderful how
they can do it for threepence!”
He stared at the bundle, his will fluttering like a bird under a
strawberry net. Dash the pencils!――but she might be offended if――――
“Some shops sell those pencils at a ha’penny each, I know,” she went
on; “and I believe some have the neck――I mean the cheek to ask a
penny. Would you like me to put them in paper, sir?”
Recovering from the shock of the “sir,” Macgregor shook his head, and
laid three coppers on the counter.
“Thank you,” said she. “Is there anything else to-day?”
Before he could answer, the door opened and an elderly man entered. At
the ring of the bell Macgregor dropped the bundle; the flimsy
fastening parted, and the pencils were scattered.
Christina checked an “Oh, crickey!” and turned to attend to the second
customer while the first collected his purchases from the floor.
The elderly man wanted a newspaper only, but thanks to Christina’s
politeness over the transaction, he went out feeling as if he had done
quite a stroke of business.
“I think you should let me tie them up for you,” she said to
Macgregor, who was rising once more, rather red in the face.
“Thank ye,” he said apologetically, handing her the pencils.
“Accidents will happen,” she remarked cheerfully. “If they didn’t,
there would be mighty little happening. I say, there’s only eleven
pencils here.”
“The ither rolled ablow the counter. It doesna matter,” he said.
“Oh, but that won’t do. See, I’ll give you another now, and get the
one under the counter some day――next stock-taking, maybe.” She began
to make a parcel, then halted in the operation. “Are you sure there’s
nothing else that I can show you to-day, sir?”
Macgregor didn’t want to go just yet, so he appeared to be thinking
deeply.
“Essay paper――notebooks,” she murmured; “notepaper――envelopes――
indiarubber――――”
“Injinrubber,” said Macgregor. (He would give it to Jimsie.)
She turned and whipped a box from a shelf. “Do you prefer the red or
the white――species?” she enquired, and felt glad she hadn’t said
“sort.”
“Oh, I’m no heedin’ which,” he replied generously, with a bare glance
at the specimens laid out for his inspection.
“All the same price――one penny per cake. The red is more flexible.” By
way of exhibiting its quality, she took the oblong lengthwise between
her finger and thumb and squeezed. To her dismay it sprang from her
grip and struck her customer on the chin.
“Oh, mercy!” she exclaimed. “I didna mean――”
Recovering the missile from the floor, he said gravely: “My! ye’re a
comic!”
“I’m not! I tell ye I didna mean it. Did it hurt ye?”
“No’ likely! I ken ye didna try it.” He smiled faintly. “If ye had
tried to hit me, ye wud ha’e missed me.”
“If I had tried, I wud ha’e hit ye a heap harder,” she said
indignantly.
“Try, then.” His smile broadened as he offered her the cake. “I’ll
stan’ still.”
Christina’s sporting instinct was roused. “I’ll bet ye the price o’
the cake I hit ye.” And let fly.
It went over his left shoulder.
“Ha’e anither shot,” he said, stooping to pick up the rubber.
But as swiftly as it had gone her professional dignity returned.
Macgregor came back to the counter to receive a stiff: “Thank you. Do
you require anything else to-day?”
His mumbled negative, his disappointed countenance reproached her.
“Of course,” she said pleasantly, as she put his purchases in paper,
“I cannot charge you for the indiarubber.”
“Aw, cheese it!” he muttered shortly, flinging a penny on the counter.
“I beg your pardon?”――this with supreme haughtiness.
“Oh, ye needna. An’ ye can keep yer injinrubber――an’ yer pencils
forbye!” With these words he wheeled about and strode for the door.
Christina collapsed. A customer who paid for goods and then
practically threw them at her was beyond her experience and
comprehension.
“Here!” she cried. “Stop a minute! I――I was jist jokin’. Come back an’
get yer things. We’ll no’ quarrel aboot the penny.”
With his fingers on the handle he paused and regarded her half
angrily, half reproachfully. He wanted to say something very cutting,
but it wouldn’t come.
“Please,” said Christina softly, dropping her eyes. “Ye’ll get me into
trouble if ye dinna tak’ them.”
“Eh?”
“Miss Tod wud be vexed wi’ me for lossin’ a guid customer. She wud
gi’e me the sack, maybe.”
“Wud she?――the auld besom!” cried Macgregor, retracing his steps.
“Oh, whisht! She’s no’ an auld besom. But I ken she wud be vexed.”
Christina sighed. “I suppose I’m to blame for――――”
“It’s me that’s to blame,” he interrupted. “Here!” he said in an
unsteady whisper, “will ye shake han’s?”
After a momentary hesitation she gave him her hand, saying graciously:
“I’ve no objections, I’m sure. To tell the truth,” she went on, “I am
not entirely disinterested in you, sir.”
Macgregor withdrew his empty hand. “I――I wish ye wudna speak like
that,” he sighed.
“Like what?”
“That awfu’ genteel talk.”
“Sorry,” she said. “But it gangs doon wi’ maist o’ the customers.
Besides, I try to keep it up to please ma aunt. But it doesna soun’
frien’ly-like, does it?”
“That’s why I dinna like it,” he ventured, more easily.
“I see. But if ye was servin’ in a shop ye wud ha’e to speak the same
way.”
“I’m in the pentin’ trade,” he informed her, with an air of
importance.
“I’ve a nose――but I like the smell fine. Ye’re no’ offended, are ye?”
“I’m no’ that easy offended. Is Miss Tod yer aunt?”
“Na, na; she’s nae relation. Ma aunt is Mrs. James Baldwin.” In the
frankest fashion she gave a brief sketch of her position on the
world’s surface. While she spoke she seated herself on the stool, and
Macgregor, without thinking about it, subsided upon the chair and
leant his arm upon the counter. Ere she ended they were regarding each
other almost familiarly.
Anon Macgregor furnished a small account of himself and his near
relatives.
“That’s queer!” commented Christina when he had finished.
“What?” he asked, anxiously.
“Ma Uncle James is a great frien’ o’ your Uncle Purdie. Your uncle
buys a heap o’ fancy things frae mine, an’ he’s often been in oor
hoose. I hear he’s worth a terrible heap o’ money, but naebody wud
think it. I like him fine.”
“Ye wudna like ma aunt fine,” said Macgregor.
“No’ bein’ acquaint wi’ her, I canna say,” Christina returned. “But I
believe if it hadna been for her yer uncle wud never ha’e made his
fortune at the grocery trade――――”
“Her! What had she got to dae wi’ ’t?”
“Dear knows; but Uncle James says she egged him on to mak’ money frae
the day she married him. But mony a woman does that. I wud dae it
masel’――no’ that I’m greedy; I jist couldna endure a man that didna
get on. I hate a stick-in-the-mud. It’s a fac’, though, that Mr.
Purdie got the push-on frae his wife. An’ Uncle James says he’s no’
near done yet: he’ll be Lord Provost afore he’s feenished. Ye should
keep in wi’ yer Uncle Purdie.”
Macgregor scarcely heard her latter words. His Aunt Purdie responsible
for his Uncle Purdie’s tremendous success in business! The idea was
almost shocking. From his earliest boyhood it had been a sort of
religion with him to admire his uncle and despise his aunt. Could any
good thing come out of Aunt Purdie?
“I doobt yer Uncle James doesna ken _her_ extra weel,” he said at
last.
“Oh, ma uncle’s a splendid judge o’ character,” she assured him.
“Especially female character,” she added. “That’s why he married ma
aunt an’ adopted me. I took his name, like ma aunt did when she
married him. It was a love match, in spite o’ their ages. There’s
grander names, but nane better, nor Baldwin. In ma youth I called it
Bald-yin to tease ma aunt when she was saft on him. But never heed
aboot that the noo. D’ye ken what astonishes me aboot yersel’?”
“What?” asked Macgregor, startled.
“That ye’re no’ in the grocery trade.”
“Me! What for wud I be a grocer?”
“What for are ye a penter? An’ yer Uncle Purdie has nae offspring. My!
if I had had a chance like you!” She heaved a sigh. “I’m sure yer
uncle wud ha’e ta’en ye into his business. Ye canna be sae stupid that
he wudna gi’e ye even a trial. Nae offence intended.”
“I could ha’e been in the business if I had wanted,” Macgregor
replied, with some dignity. “He offered me a job when I left the
schule. But, ye see, I aye had the notion to be a penter. I like to be
movin’ ma han’s an’ feet.”
“An’ what did yer parents say?”
“They canna thole Aunt Purdie. It was her that brought the message
frae ma uncle――as if it was a favour. They said I was to choose for
masel’.”
“Pride’s an awfu’ thing for costin’ folk cash,” the girl remarked,
with a shake of her head.
“Eh?”
“Naething,” she replied. After a slight pause she continued: “It’s no’
for me to speak aboot yer parents, but I hope ye’ll excuse me sayin’
that ye’re a bigger fool than ye look.”
“Wha――what d’ye mean?”
“I didna mean to insult ye or hurt yer feelin’s.” Another pause. “D’ye
no’ want to get up in the world, man? D’ye no’ want to be a
millionaire――or a thoosandaire, onyway?”
“Me?”
“Ay, you!”
Across the counter he regarded her in a semi-dazed fashion,
speechless. She was rather flushed; her eyes danced with eagerness.
Apparently she was all in earnest.
“Are ye gaun to be a penter a’ yer life?” she demanded.
“What for no’?” he retorted with some spirit. “It’s guid pay.”
“Guid pay! In ten year what’ll ye be makin’?”
“I couldna say. Maybe――maybe twenty-five shillin’s; maybe――――”
“A week?”
“Ay; of course,” he said, nettled. “D’ye think I meant a month?”
“If ye was wi’ yer uncle an’ stickin’ to yer business, I wud ha’e said
’a day’! Ma gracious goodness! if ye was pleasin’ a man like that,
there’s nae sayin’ where ye wud be in ten year.”
“Ach,” he said, with an attempt at lightness, “I’m no’ heedin’.”
Christina doubled her fist and smote the counter with such violence
that he fairly jumped on his seat.
“Ye’re no’ heedin’! What’s the use o’ bein’ alive if ye’re no’
heedin’? But ye’re a’ the same, you young workin’ men. Yer rule is to
dae the least ye can for yer wages, an’ never snap at an opportunity.
An’ when ye get aulder ye gang on strike an’ gas aboot yer rights, but
ye keep dumb enough aboot yer deserts, an’――――”
“Here, haud on!” cried Macgregor, now thoroughly roused. “What dae you
ken aboot it? Ye’re jist a lassie――――”
“I’ve eyes an’ ears.”
There was a pause.
“Are ye a――a suffragist?” he asked, weakly.
“I ha’ena quite decided on that p’int. Are you in favour o’ votes for
females? Aweel, there’s nae use answerin’, for ye’ve never thought
aboot it. I suppose, like the ither young men aboot here, ye buy yer
brains every Seturday done up in the sports edition o’ the evenin’
paper. Oh, Christopher Columbus! that’s when _I_ get busy on a
Seturday nicht. Footba’――footba’――footba’!”
Macgregor swallowed these remarks, and reverted to the previous
question. “What,” he enquired a little loftily, “dae _you_ expec’ to
be earnin’ ten year frae the noo?”
Promptly, frankly, she replied: “If I’m no’ drawin’ thirty shillin’s a
week I’ll consider masel’ a bad egg. Of course, it a’ depends on
whether I select to remain single or itherwise.”
This was too much for Macgregor. He surveyed her with such blank
bewilderment that she burst out laughing.
He went red to the roots of his hair, or at any rate to the edge of
his hat. “Oh, I kent fine ye was coddin’ me,” he said crossly, looking
hurt and getting to his feet.
She stopped laughing at once. “That’s the worst o’ talkin’ plain sense
nooadays; folk think ye’re only coddin’,” she observed, good-humouredly.
“I’m sorry I vexed ye.” Impulsively she held out her hand. “I doobt
we’ll ha’e to shake again.”
This, also, was too much for Macgregor. He seized her fingers in a
grip that made her squeal.
And just then bang went the bell above the door.
Christina bit her lip and smiled through her tears as M. Tod entered
the shop.
“Anything else to-day?” she enquired in her politest voice, and placed
the little parcel under Macgregor’s hand.
His reply was inaudible. His hand closed automatically on his
purchase, his eyes met hers for the fraction of a second, and then he
practically bolted.
“Young men are aye in sich a great hurry nooadays,” remarked M. Tod,
beginning to remove her gloves.
“He’s the young man that bought the dizzen pencils the ither nicht,”
Christina explained, examining the joints of her right hand. “I’ve
just been sellin’ him anither dizzen.”
“Dearie me! he _must_ be a reporter on yin of the papers.”
“He’s a whale for pencils, whatever he is,” Christina returned,
putting straight the piles of periodicals that adorned the counter. “I
doobt he wud need to report wi’ his feet forbye his han’s to get
through a dizzen pencils in three days. It’s a bit o’ a mystery aboot
the pencils.”
“A mystery!” exclaimed M. Tod, who was just about to blow into a
glove.
Christina picked the neglected penny from the counter and dropped it
into the till. “It’s a case o’ _cherchez la femme_,” she said softly,
with quite a passable accent.
“What’s that?” murmured M. Tod.
“French,” sighed Christina, making a jotting of her last sales, and
taking a long time to do it.
M. Tod stared for a moment or two, shook her head, drew a long breath,
and with the same inflated her glove.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Macgregor was half-way home ere he comprehended the cause of the dull
ache about his temples. He eased his hat and obtained relief. But
there was no lid to lift from his mind which seemed to be overcrowded
with a jumble of ideas――old ideas turned topsy-turvy, some damaged,
some twisted, and new ideas struggling, as it were, for existence.
Moral earthquakes are not infrequent during our ’teens and twenties;
by their convulsions they provide construction material for character;
but the material is mixed, and we are left to choose whether we shall
erect sturdy towers or jerry-buildings.
* * * * *
The boy was not, of course, aware that here was a crisis in his life.
He was staggered and disturbed, just as he would have been had the
smooth, broad street on which he walked suddenly become a narrow pass
beset with rifts and boulders. The upheaval of his preconceived
notions of girlhood had been sharp indeed. He had never heard a girl
speak as Christina had spoken; it had never occurred to him that a
girl could speak so. But while he felt hurt and vexed, he harboured no
resentment; her frank friendliness had disposed of that; and while he
was humbled, he was not――thanks to his modesty, or, if you prefer it,
lack of cocksureness――grievously humiliated. It is not in the nature
of healthy youth to let misery have all its own way.
Before he reached home he was able to extract several sips of comfort
from his recent experience. He knew her name and she knew his; they
had discovered a mutual acquaintance (how we love those mutual
acquaintances――sometimes!); they had shaken hands twice.
He spent the evening indoors――he might have done otherwise had not
Christina said something about being busy on Saturday nights. He was
patient with his little brother, almost tender towards his sister. He
played several games of draughts with his father, wondering between
his deplorable moves when he should see Christina again. He spoke in a
subdued fashion. And about nine o’clock his mother anxiously asked him
whether he was feeling quite well, and offered to prepare a homely
potion. One regrets to record that he returned a rough answer and went
off to bed, leaving Lizzie to shake her head more in sorrow than in
anger while she informed John that she doubted Macgregor was
“sickenin’ for something.” As Macgregor had not condescended to play
draughts for at least two years, John was inclined to share her fears;
it did not occur to him to put down such conduct to feminine
influence; and an hour later, at her suggestion, he went to his son’s
room and softly opened the door.
“Oh! ye’re no’ in yer bed yet, Macgreegor?”
“I’m jist gaun.”
“What are ye workin’ at?”
“Jist sharpenin’ a pencil. I’ll no’ be lang”――impatiently.
“Are ye feelin’ weel enough?”
“I’m fine. Dinna fash yersel’.”
John withdrew and reported to Lizzie. She was not satisfied, and
before going to bed, about eleven o’clock, she listened at Macgregor’s
door. All she heard was: “Here, Jimsie, I wish to peace ye wud keep
yer feet to yersel’.”
She opened the door. “Laddie, are ye no’ sleepin’ yet?”
“Hoo can I sleep wi’ Jimsie jabbin’ his feet in ma back?”
She entered, and going to the bed removed the unconscious Jimsie to
his own portion thereof, at the same time urging him into a more
comfortable position. Then she came round and laid her hand on her
first-born’s brow.
“Are ye sure ye’re a’ richt, laddie?”
“Ay, I’m fine. I wish ye wudna fash,” he said shortly, turning over.
Lizzie went out, closing the door gently. On the kitchen dresser she
set out the medicine bottle and spoon against emergencies.
Perhaps there is a mansion in Heaven that will always be empty――a
mansion waiting to receive those who in their youth never snubbed
their anxious parents. Ere the door closed Macgregor was pricked with
compunction. He was sensitive enough for that. But it is the sensitive
people who hurt the people they care for.
In extenuation let it be said at once that the boy was enduring a dire
reaction. It now appeared that Christina’s friendliness had been all
in the way of business. Socially (he did not think the word, of
course) Christina was beyond him. Christina, for all he knew, sat at
night in a parlour, had an aunt that kept a servant (and, maybe, a
gramaphone), was accustomed to young men in high collars and trousers
that always looked new. Yes, she had shaken hands with him simply in
order to get him to come back and buy another dozen of pencils.
He was very unhappy. He tossed from side to side until the voice of
Jimsie, drowsy and peevish, declared that he had taken all the
clothes. Which was practically true, though he did not admit it as he
disentangled himself of the blankets and flung them all at his
brother. He did not care if he froze――until he began to feel a little
cold, when he rescued with difficulty a portion of the coverings from
Jimsie’s greedy clutch. He would not go to the shop again. But he
would pass it as often as possible. He would get Willie Thomson to
accompany him, and they would smoke cigarettes, and they would stop at
the door when a customer was entering, and laugh very loudly. He would
save up and take Jessie Mary to the dance――at least, he would think
about it. After all, it might be more effective to go to the shop and
buy more presents for Jessie Mary and――oh, great idea!――request with
great unconcern that they should be sent to her address!
The clock in the kitchen struck one. With any sympathy at all it would
have struck at least five. It was like telling a person in the throes
of toothache that the disease is not serious. By the way, one wonders
if doctors will ever know as much about disease as patients know about
pain. Speculation apart, it is a sorry business to flatter ourselves
we have been suffering all night only to find that the night is but
beginning. Still, there must have, been something far wrong with the
Robinsons’ kitchen clock. Macgregor waited, but to his knowledge it
never struck two. Indeed, it missed all the hours until nine.
Macgregor, however, presented himself in good time for the Sunday
breakfast. His punctuality was too much for his mother, and she
insisted on his taking a dose from the bottle on the dresser. Even
youth is sometimes too tired to argue. “Onything for peace,” was his
ungracious remark as he raised the spoon to his lips.
* * * * *
Scotland in its harshest, bleakest period of religious observance
could not have provided a more dismal Sabbath than Macgregor provided
for himself. Although his mother gave him the option of staying at
home, he accompanied his parents to church; although he came back with
a good appetite, he refused to let himself enjoy his dinner; although
he desired to take the accustomed Sunday afternoon walk with his
father down to the docks (they had gone there, weather permitting, for
years), he shut himself up in the solitude of his bedroom.
He spent most of the afternoon in putting points to his stock of
pencils. How the operation should have occupied so much time may be
explained by the fact that the lead almost invariably parted from the
wood ere a perfect point was attained. Indeed, when the task was
ended, he had comparatively little to show for his threepence save a
heap of shavings, fragments and dust. His resentment, however, was all
against M. Tod; he wished she had been of his own sex and size. He
also wished she had kept an ice-cream shop, open on Sundays.――No, he
didn’t! Christina wouldn’t like working on Sundays; besides, an awful
lot of chaps hung about ice-cream shops. He wondered what church
Christina attended. If he only knew, he might go there in the evening.
(What our churches owe to young womanhood will never be known.) But
there were scores of churches in Glasgow. It would take years to get
round them――and in the end she might sit in the gallery and he under
it. In the unlikely event of his again entering Miss Tod’s shop, there
would be no harm in asking Christina about her church and whether she
sang in the choir. But stop! if she didn’t sing in the choir, she
might think he was chaffing her. That wouldn’t do at all. Better just
find out about the church, and if he didn’t get a view of her on his
first visit he could try again.
There appears no reason why Macgregor’s spirits should have gradually
risen throughout these and other equally rambling reflections; but the
fact remains that they did so. By tea-time he was in a comely
condition of mind. He made young Jimsie happy with the cake of rubber
and presented Jeannie surreptitiously with a penny, “to buy sweeties.”
He seemed interested in his father’s account of a vessel that had been
in collision the previous day. He did not scowl when his mother
expressed satisfaction with the way in which he was punishing the
bread and butter, and openly congratulated herself on having
administered the physic just in time. Nay, more; he offered to stay in
the house with Jimsie while John and Lizzie took an evening stroll and
Jeannie went with a friend to evening service. No people are quite so
easily made happy as parents, and when, out-of-doors, John suggested
that Macgregor’s weekly allowance should be raised to one shilling,
Lizzie actually met him half-way by promising to make it ninepence in
future.