suffering from an incipient cold, but shortly after their return he
became restless, and ere long announced (rather indistinctly) his
intention of going out for “twa-three” minutes.
Lizzie was about to ask “where?” when John remarked that it was a fine
night and that he would come too. Thus was frustrated Macgregor’s
desire to take one look at the shuttered shrine with “M. Tod” over the
portal――a very foolish sort of desire, as many of us know――from
experience.
In the circumstances Macgregor accepted his father’s company with a
fairly good grace, merely submitting that the walk should be a short
one.
On the way home, at a corner, under a lamp, they came upon Willie
Thomson in earnest and apparently amicable conversation with Jessie
Mary. Such friendliness struck Macgregor as peculiar, for since the
days of their childhood the twain had openly expressed contempt and
dislike for each other, and he wondered what was “up,” especially when
the sight of him appeared to cause Willie, at least, considerable
embarrassment. But presently the happy idea flashed upon him that
Willie had suddenly become “sweet” on Jessie Mary, and would
accordingly need to be dodged no longer. He felt more friendly towards
Willie than for some time past. His feelings with regard to Jessie
Mary were less definite, but he was sure his face had not got “extra
red” under her somewhat mocking glance.
“Ye’re no’ as thick wi’ Wullie as ye used to be,” his father remarked.
“Oh, we’ve nae quarrel,” he returned. “What did ye say was the name o’
that damaged boat ye saw the day?”
* * * * *
He went to bed not unhappy. He would find a way of knowing Christina
better and proving to her that the painting trade was as good as any.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Ye’ve been in business a long time, Miss Tod,” said Christina on
Monday afternoon, looking up from the front advertising page of a
newspaper; “so I wish ye wud tell me yer honest opinion o’ business in
general.”
M. Tod paused in the act of polishing a fancy ink-pot (she had spasms
of industry for which there was no need) and stared in bewildered
fashion at her assistant. “Dearie me, lassie!” she exclaimed, “ye say
the queerest things! Ma honest opinion o’ business? I’m sure I never
thought aboot――――”
“I’ll put it anither way. Supposin’ ye was back at the schule, an’ ye
was asked to define business――ye ken what define means――what wud be
yer answer?”
“Is it fun ye’re after?” M. Tod enquired, a trifle suspiciously.
“I was never mair serious in ma life,” Christina returned rather
indignantly.
“I didna mean to offend ye,” the other said gently. “But ye ken fine
what business is――whiles I think ye ken better nor me, though I’ve
been at it for near six-an’-thirty years.”
“I’m not offended,” said Christina, dropping the vernacular for the
moment. “And I merely desired to know if your definition of business
was the same as mine.”
It always made M. Tod a little nervous when her assistant addressed
her in such correct speech. “Business,” she began, and halted. She set
the ink-pot on the counter, and tried to put the duster in her pocket.
“A few words will suffice,” the girl remarked encouragingly, and took
charge of the duster.
“Business,” resumed the old woman, and quite unconsciously put her
hands behind her back, “business is jist buyin’ and sellin’.” And she
gave a little smile of relief and satisfaction.
Christina shook her head. “I suppose that’s what they taught ye at the
schule――jist the same as they taught me. If it wasna for their fancy
departments, sich as physiology an’ Sweedish drill, the schules wud be
oot o’ date. ‘Jist buyin’ an’ sellin’!’――Oh, Christopher Columbus!”
M. Tod was annoyed, partly, no doubt, at discovering her hands behind
her back, but ere she could express herself Christina added:
“In _ma_ honest opinion business chiefly consists in folk coddin’ yin
anither.”
M. Tod gasped. “Coddin’! D’ye mean deceivin’?”
“Na; there’s a difference between coddin’ an’ deceivin’. Same sort o’
difference as between war an’ murder. An’ they say that all’s fair in
love――I ha’e ma doobts aboot love――an’ war. Mind ye, I’m no’ sayin’
onything against coddin’. We’re a’ in the same boat. Some cods wi’
advertisin’――see daily papers; some cods wi’ talk; some cods wi’
lookin’ solemn an’ smilin’ jist at the right times. But we’re a’
coddin’, cod, cod, coddin’! But we’ll no’ admit it! An’ naebody wud
thank us if we did.”
The old woman was almost angry. “I’m sure I never codded a customer in
ma life,” she cried.
Christina regarded her very kindly for a second or two ere she
returned pleasantly: “I wudna say but what you’re an exception to the
rule, Miss Tod. But ye’re a rare exception. Even ma uncle――an’ he’s
the honestest man in the world――once codded me when I was assistin’ ma
aunt at Kilmabeg, afore she got married. Wi’ his talk an’ his smiles
he got me to buy things against ma better judgment――things I was sure
wud never sell. If he had been dumb an’ I had been blind, I would
never ha’e made the purchase. But I was young then. Of course _he_
didna want to cod me; it was jist a habit he had got into wi’ bein’ in
business. But there’s nae doobt,” she went on calmly, ignoring M.
Tod’s obvious desire to get a word in, “there’s nae doobt that coddin’
is yin o’ the secrets o’ success. When ye consider that half the trade
o’ the world consists in sellin’ things that folk dinna need an’
whiles dinna want――――”
“Whisht, lassie! Ye speak as if naebody had a conscience!”
“I didna mean that,” was the mild reply. “It’s the only thing in this
world that’s no’ easy codded――though some folk seem to be able to do
the trick. For, of course, there’s a limit to coddin’ in
business――fair coddin’, I mean. But ye’ve taken ma remarks ower
seriously, Miss Tod.”
“I never heard sich remarks in a’ ma days.”
“I’m sorry I’ve annoyed ye.”
“Ye ha’ena annoyed me, dearie. But I’m vexed to think ye’ve got sich
notions in yer young heid.” M. Tod sighed.
Christina sighed also, a little impatiently, and picked up the fancy
ink-pot from the counter. “Hoo lang ha’e ye had this in the shop?” she
enquired carelessly.
M. Tod shook her head. “Ten years, onyway. It wudna sell.”
“It’s marked eighteenpence.”
“Ay. But when I had a wee sale, five year back, I put it among a lot
of nick-nacks at threepence, an’ even then it wudna sell. It’s no’
pretty.”
“It’s ugly――but that’s nae reason for it no’ sellin’.” Christina
examined the glass carefully. “It’s no’ in bad condition,” she
observed. “Wud ye part wi’ it for ninepence?”
“Ninepence! I’ll never get ninepence!”
“Never say die till ye’re buried! Jist wait a minute.” Christina went
over to the desk and spent about five minutes there, while M. Tod
watched her with intermittent wags of her old head.
The girl came back with a small oblong of white card. “Dinna touch it,
Miss Tod. The ink’s no’ dry,” she said warningly, and proceeded to
place the inkpot and card together in a prominent position on the
glass show-case that covered a part of the counter. “Noo, that’ll gi’e
it a chance. Instead o’ keepin’ it in a corner as if we were ashamed
o’ it, we’ll mak’ a feature o’ it for a week, an’ see what happens.
Ye’ll get yer ninepence yet.”
Christina printed admirably, and her employer had no difficulty in
reading the card a yard away even without her glasses. It bore these
words:
ANTIQUE
NOVEL GIFT
MERELY 9D.
“If ye call a thing ‘antique,’” explained Christina, “folk forget its
ugliness. An’ the public likes a thing wi’ ‘novel’ on it, though they
wudna believe ye if ye said it was new. An’ as for ‘gift’――weel, that
adds to the inkpot’s chances o’ findin’ a customer. D’ye see?”
“Ay,” said the old woman. “Ye’re a clever lassie, but I doobt ye’ll
never get ninepence.”
“Gi’e me a week,” said Christina, “an’ if it doesna disappear in that
time, we’ll keep it till Christmas an’ reduce it to a shillin’. But I
think a week’ll suffice.”
M. Tod hesitated ere she gently said: “But ye’ll no try to cod
onybody, dearie?”
Christina waved her hand in the direction of the card. “I’ll leave the
public to cod itsel’,” she said. “Noo it’s time ye was gettin’ ready
for yer walk.”
* * * * *
It may have been that Christina, in the back of her mind, saw in
Macgregor a possible customer for the ugly inkpot. At any rate, she
was disappointed when the evening passed without his entering the
shop; she hoped she had not spoken too plainly to him on his last
visit――not but what he needed plain speaking. She was not to know
until later how Macgregor’s employer had unexpectedly decreed that he
should work overtime that night, nor how Macgregor had obeyed
joylessly despite the extra pay.
He called the following evening――and found M. Tod alone at the receipt
of custom. He had yet to learn that on Tuesdays and Thursdays
Christina left business early in order to attend classes. He must have
looked foolish as he approached the counter, yet he had the presence
of mind to ask for a ha’penny evening paper. Fortune being
fickle――thank goodness!――does not confine her favour to the brave, and
on this occasion she had arranged that M. Tod should be sold out of
that particular evening paper. So Macgregor saved his money as well as
his self-respect.
On the morrow M. Tod, who still clung to the belief that the young man
wrote for the papers, reported the incident to her assistant. Possibly
Christina could have given a better reason than this for her
subsequent uncertainty of temper, and doubtless it was mere
absent-mindedness that accounted for her leaving the sliding panel to
the window a few inches open after she had thrown it wide without any
apparent purpose. And it is highly probable that Macgregor would have
taken advantage of the aperture had he not been again working overtime
on that and on the two following nights.
So it was not until Saturday afternoon that they met once more.
Macgregor held aloof from the shop until M. Tod appeared――of course
she was later than usual!――and, after an anxious gaze at the sky,
proceeded to toddle up the street. Then he approached the window. He
was feeling fairly hopeful. His increased allowance had come as a
pleasant surprise. Moreover, he had saved during the week fourpence in
car-money and had spent nothing. He had fifteenpence in his
pocket――wealth!
As he halted at the window, the panel at the back was drawn tight with
an audible snap. For a moment he felt snubbed; then he assured himself
there was nothing extraordinary in the occurrence, and prepared to
enter the shop, reminding himself, firstly, that he was going to
purchase a penholder, secondly, that he was not going to lose his head
when the bell banged.
Christina was perched at the desk writing with much diligence. She
laid down a pencil and slipped from her stool promptly but without
haste.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Robinson,” she said demurely.
If anyone else in the world had called him “Mister Robinson” he would
have resented it as chaff, but now, though taken aback, he felt no
annoyance.
“Ay, it’s a fine day,” he returned, rather irrelevantly, and suddenly
held out his hand.
This was a little more than Christina had expected, but she gave him
hers with the least possible hesitation. For once in her life,
however, she was not ready with a remark.
Macgregor having got her hand, let it go immediately, as though he
were doubtful as to the propriety of what he had done.
“I’ve been workin’ late every day this week excep’ Tuesday,” he said.
For an instant Christina looked pleased; then she calmly murmured:
“Oh, indeed.”
“Ay, every day excep’ Tuesday, till nine o’clock,” he informed her,
with an effort.
“Really!”
He struggled against a curious feeling of mental suffocation, and
said: “I was in here on Tuesday nicht. I――I didna see ye.”
“I attend a shorthand class on Tuesday nights.”
“Oh!” He wanted very much to make her smile, so he said: “When I didna
see ye on Tuesday, I was afraid ye had got the sack.”
Christina drew herself up. “What can I do for you to-day, Mr.
Robinson?” she enquired with stiff politeness.
“I was jist jokin’,” he cried, dismayed; “I didna mean to offend ye.”
Christina’s fingers played a soundless tune on the edge of the
counter; her eyes gazed over his head into space. She waited with an
air of weary patience.
“I was wantin’ a pen――a penholder,” he said at last, in a hopeless
tone of voice.
“Ha’penny or penny?” she asked without moving.
“A penny yin, please,” he said humbly.
She turned and twitched a card from its nail, and laid it before him.
“Kindly take your choice,” she said, and moved up the counter a yard
or so. She picked up a novelette and opened it.
Macgregor examined and fingered the penholders for nearly a minute by
the clock ere he glanced at her. She appeared to be engrossed in the
novelette, but he was sure he had hurt her feelings.
“I was jist jokin’,” he muttered.
“Oh, you wanted a ha’penny one.” She twitched down another card of
penholders, laid it before him as if――so it seemed to him――he had been
dirt, and went back to her novelette.
Had he been less in love he would surely have been angry then. Had she
seen his look she would certainly have been sorry.
There was a long silence while his gaze wandered, while he wondered
what he could do to make amends.
And lo! the ugly inkpot caught his eye. He read the accompanying card
several times; he fingered the money in his pocket; he told himself
insistently that ninepence was not worth considering. Once more he
glanced at the girl. She was frowning slightly over the page. Perhaps
she wanted him to go.
“I’ll buy that, if ye like,” he said, pointing at the inkpot.
“Eh?” cried Christina, and dropped the novelette. “Beg your pardon,”
she went on, recovering her dignity and moving leisurely towards him,
“but I did not quite catch what you observed.” She was pleased that
she had used the word “observed.”
“I’ll buy that,” repeated Macgregor. “What’s it for?”
“It’s for keeping ink in. It’s an inkpot. The price is ninepence.”
“I can read,” said Macgregor, with perhaps his first essay in irony.
Christina tilted her chin. “I presume you want it for a gift,” she
said haughtily.
“Na; I’m gaun to pay for it.”
“I meant to give away as a gift.” It was rather a stupid sentence, she
felt. If she had only remembered to use the word “bestow.”
The boy’s clear eyes met hers for a second.
“It holds a great deal of ink,” she said, possibly in reply to her
conscience.
“I’ll buy a bottle o’ ink, too, if ye like,” he said recklessly, and
looked at her again.
A flood of honest kindliness swamped the business instinct of
Christina. “I didna mean that!” she exclaimed, flopping into homely
speech; “an’ I wudna sell ye that rotten inkpot for a hundred pound!”
It will be admitted that Macgregor’s amazement was natural in the
circumstances. Ere he recovered from it she was in fair control of
herself.
“It’s as good as sold to the Rev. Mr. McTavish,” she explained. Her
sole foundation for the statement lay in the fact that the Rev. Mr.
McTavish was to call for a small parcel of stationery about six
o’clock. At the same time she remembered her duty to her employer.
“But we have other inkpots in profusion,” she declared.
The limit of his endurance was reached. “Oh,” he stammered, “I wish ye
wudna speak to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“That fancy way――that genteel English.”
The words might have angered her, but not the voice. She drew a quick
breath and said:
“Are ye a frien’ or a customer?”
“Ye――ye ken fine what I want to be,” he answered, sadly.
Now she was sure that she liked him.
“Well,” she said, slowly, “suppose ye buy a ha’penny penholder――jist
for the sake o’ appearances――an’ then”――quickly――“we’ll drop
business.” And she refused to sell him a penny one, and, indeed,
anything else in the shop that afternoon.
It must be recorded, however, that an hour or so later she induced the
Rev. Mr. McTavish to buy the ugly inkpot.
“It wasna easy,” she confessed afterwards to M. Tod, “an’ I doobt he
jist bought it to please me; but it’s awa’ at last, an’ ye’ll never
see it again――unless, maybe, at a jumble sale. He was real nice aboot
it, an’ gaed awa’ smilin’.”
“I hope ye didna deceive the man,” said M. Tod, trying not to look
gratified.
“I told him the solemn truth. I told him it was on ma conscience to
sell the inkpot afore anither day had dawned. It’s no’ every day it
pays ye to tell the truth, is it?” The last sentence was happily
inaudible to the old woman.
“But, lassie, I never intended ye to feel ye had ta’en a vow to sell
the inkpot. I wud be unco vexed to think――――”
Christina gave her employer’s shoulder a little kindly, reassuring
pat. “Na, na; ye needna fash yersel’ aboot that,” she said. Then,
moving away: “As a matter o’ fac’, I had compromised myself regardin’
the inkpot in――in anither direction.”
Which was all Greek to M. Tod.
CHAPTER NINE
For a fortnight it ran smoothly enough. There were, to be sure,
occasional ripples; little doubts, little fears, little jealousies;
but they passed as swiftly as they appeared.
Macgregor, having no overtime those weeks, contrived to visit the shop
nightly, excepting Tuesdays and Thursdays, Christina’s class nights.
He paid his footing, so to speak, with the purchase of a ha’penny
evening paper――which he could not well take home since his father was
in the habit of making a similar purchase on the way from work. M. Tod
was rarely in evidence; the evenings found her tired, and unless
several customers demanded attention at once (a rare event) she
remained in the living-room, browsing on novelettes selected for her
by her assistant. She was given to protesting she had never done such
a thing prior to Christina’s advent, to which Christina was wont to
reply that, while she herself was long since “fed up” with such
literature, it was high time M. Tod should know something about it.
Only once did the old woman intrude on the young people and prevent
intimate converse; but even then Macgregor did not depart unhappy, for
Christina’s farewell smile was reassuring in its whimsicality, and in
young love of all things seeing is believing.
It must not be supposed, all the same, that she gave him much direct
encouragement; her lapses from absolute discretion were brief as they
were rare. But the affections of the youthful male have a wonderful
way of subsisting on crumbs which hope magnifies into loaves.
Nevertheless, her kindliness was a definite thing, and under its
influence the boy lost some of his shyness and gained a little
confidence in himself. He had already taken a leap over one barrier of
formality: he had called her “Christina” to her face, and neither her
face nor her lips had reproved him; he had asked her to call him
“Macgreegor”――or “Mac” if she preferred it, and she had promised to
“see about it.”
On this November Saturday afternoon he was on his way to make the
tremendous request that she should allow him to walk home with her
when her day’s work was over. He was far from sure of himself. In the
reign of Jessie Mary――what an old story now!――he would not have openly
craved permission, but would have hung about on the chance of meeting
her alone and in pleasant humour. But he could not act so with
Christina. Instinct as well as inclination prevented him. Moreover, he
had been witness, on a certain evening when he had lingered near the
shop――just to see her with her hat on――-of the fate that befell a
young man (a regular customer, too, Christina told him afterwards) who
dared to proffer his escort off-hand. Christina had simply halted,
turned and pointed, as one might point for a dog’s guidance, and after
a long moment the young man had gone in the direction opposite to that
in which he had intended. To Macgregor the little scene had been
gratifying yet disturbing. The memory of it chilled his courage now.
But he was not the boy to relinquish a desire simply because he was
afraid.
He broke his journey at a sweet-shop, and rather surprised himself by
spending sixpence, although he had been planning to do so for the past
week. He had not yet given Christina anything; he wanted badly to give
her something; and having bought it, he wondered whether she would
take it. He could not hope that the gift would affect the answer to
his tremendous request.
Coming out of the sweet-shop he caught sight of the back of Willie
Thomson, whom he had not seen for two weeks. Involuntarily he gave the
boyish whistle, not so long ago the summons that would have called the
one to the other with express speed. Now it had the reverse effect,
for Willie started, half turned, and then walked quickly up a
convenient side-street. The flight was obvious, and for a moment
Macgregor was hurt and angry. Then with sudden sympathy he grinned,
thinking, “He’ll be after Jessie Mary, an’ doesna want me.” He was
becoming quite grateful to Willie, for although he had encountered
Jessie Mary several times of late, she had not reminded him of the
approaching dance, and he gave Willie credit for that.
A few minutes later Macgregor stood at the counter that had become a
veritable altar. Not many of us manage to greet the girls of our
dreams precisely as we would or exactly as we have rehearsed the
operation, and Macgregor’s nerves at the last moment played him a
trick.
In a cocky fashion, neither natural nor becoming, he wagged his head
in the direction of the living-room and flippantly enquired: “Is she
oot?”
To which Christina, her smile of welcome passing with never a flicker,
stiffly replied: “Miss Tod is out, but may return at any moment.”
“Aw!” he murmured, “I thought she wud maybe be takin’ her usual walk.”
“What usual walk?”
His hurt look said: “What have I done to deserve this, Christina?”
And she felt as though she had struck him. “Ye shouldna tak’ things
for granted,” she said, less sharply. “I didna think ye was yin o’ the
cheeky sort.”
“Me!” he cried in consternation.
“Weel, maybe ye didna mean it, but ye cam’ into the shop like a dog
wi’ twa tails. But”――as with a sudden inspiration――“maybe ye’ve been
gettin’ a rise in yer wages. If that’s the case, I’ll apologise.”
He shook his head. “I dinna ken what ye’re drivin’ at. I――I was jist
gled to see ye――――”
“Oh, we’ll no’ say ony mair aboot it. Maybe I was ower smart,” she
said hastily. “Kindly forget ma observations.” She smiled
apologetically.
“Are ye no’ gaun to shake han’s wi’ me?” he asked, still uneasy.
“Surely!” she answered warmly. “An’ I’ve got a bit o’ news for ye,
Mac.” The name slipped out; she reddened.
Yet her cheek was pale compared with the boy’s. “Oh!” he exclaimed
under his breath. Then with a brave attempt at carelessness he brought
from his pocket a small white package and laid it on the counter
before her. “It――it’s for you,” he said, forgetting his little speech
about wanting to give her something and hoping she would not be
offended.
Christina was not prepared for such a happening; still, her wits did
not desert her. She liked sweets, but on no account was she going to
have her acceptance of the gift misconstrued. She glanced at
Macgregor, whose eyes did not meet hers; she glanced at the package;
she glanced once more at Macgregor, and gently uttered the solitary
word:
“Platonic?”
“Na,” he replied. “Jujubes.”
Christina bit her lip.
“D’ye no’ like them?” he asked anxiously.
The matter had got beyond her. She put out her hand and took the gift,
saying: “Thank ye, Mac; they’re ma favourite sweeties. But――ye’re no’
to dae it again.”
“What kin’ o’ sweeties did ye think they was?” he asked, breaking a
short silence.
“Oh, it’s o’ nae consequence,” she lightly replied. “D’ye no’ want to
hear ma bit o’ news?”
“’Deed, ay, Christina.” Now more at ease, he settled himself on the
chair by the counter.
“Weel,――ye’ll excuse me no’ samplin’ the jujubes the noo; it micht be
awkward if a customer was comin’――weel, yer Uncle Purdie was visitin’
ma uncle last night, an’ what d’ye think I did?”
“What?”
“I asked him for a job!”
“A job!” exclaimed Macgregor. “In――in yin o’ his shops?”
“Na; in his chief office.”
“My! ye’ve a neck――I mean, ye’re no’ afraid.”
“Ye dinna get muckle in this world wi’oot askin’ for it.”
“What did he say?” the boy enquired, after a pause.
“He said the job was mine as sune as I was ready to tak’ it. Ye see, I
tell’t him I didna want to start till I had ma shorthand an’
typewritin’ perfec’. That’ll tak’ me a few months yet.”
“I didna ken ye could typewrite.”
“Oh, I’ve been workin’ at it for near a year, but I can only get
practisin’ afore breakfast an’ whiles in the evenin’. Still, I think
I’ll be ready for the office aboot the spring, if no’ earlier.”