way dae ye want to leave here?” he cried, all at once realising what
the change would mean to him.
“There’s nae prospects in a wee place like this. Once I’m in a big
place, like yer uncle’s, I’ll get chances. I want to be yer uncle’s
private secretary――――”
“Ye’re ower young.”
“I didna say in six months.” Her voice changed. “Are ye no’ pleased,
Mac?”
“Hoo can I be pleased when ye’re leavin’ here? Can ye no’ stop? Ye’re
fine where ye are. An’ what’ll Miss Tod dae wantin’ ye?”
“I’ll get uncle to find her another girl――a pretty girl, so that ye’ll
come here for yer stationery, eh?”
“If ye leave, I’ll never come here again. Could ye no’ get a job
behind the counter in yin of ma uncle’s shops?”――clutching at a straw.
“I’ll gang furder in the office. If I was a man I daresay I wud try
the shop. If I was you, Mac, I wud try it.”
“I couldna sell folk things.”
“In a big business like yer uncle’s there’s plenty work besides
sellin’. But I suppose ye’ll stick to the pentin’.”
“Ay,” he said shortly.
“Weel, I suppose it’s nane o’ ma business,” she said good-humouredly.
“But, bein’ a frien’, I thought ye wud ha’e been pleased to hear ma
news.”
Ere he could reply a woman came in to purchase note-paper. Possibly
Christina’s service was a trifle less “finished” than usual; and she
made no attempt to sell anything that was not wanted. Macgregor had a
few minutes for reflection, and when the customer had gone he said, a
shade more hopefully:
“Ye’ll no’ be kep’ as late at the office as here. Ye’ll ha’e yer
evenin’s free, Christina.”
“I’ll ha’e mair time for classes. I’m keen on learnin’ French an’
German. I ken a bit o’ French already; a frien’ o’ ma uncle’s, a
Frenchman, has been gi’ein’ me lessons in conversation every Sunday
night for a while back. It’ll be useful if I become a secretary.”
“Strikes me,” said Macgregor, gloomily, “ye’ve never ony time for
fun.”
“Fun?”
“For walkin’ aboot an’――an’ that.”
“Oh, ye mean oot there.” She swung her hand in the direction of the
street. “I walk here in the mornin’――near a mile――an’ hame at night;
an’ I’ve two hours free in the middle o’ the day――uncle bargained for
that when he let me come to Miss Tod. As for loafin’ aboot on the
street, I had plenty o’ the street when I was young, afore ma aunt
took me to bide wi’ her at Kilmabeg. The street was aboot the only
place I had then, an’ I suppose I wud be there yet if ma aunt hadna
saved me. D’ye ken, Mac,” she went on almost passionately, “it’s no’
five years since I wanted a decent pair o’ shoes an’ a guid square
meal.... Oh, I could tell ye things――but anither time, maybe. As for
spendin’ a’ yer spare time on the street, when ye’ve ony other place
to spend it, it’s――weel, I suppose it’s a matter o’ taste; but if I
can dae onything wi’ ma spare time that’ll mak’ me independent later
on, I’m gaun to dae it. That’s flat!” Suddenly she laughed. “Are ye
afraid o’ me, Mac?”
“No’ likely!” he replied, with rather feeble indignation. “But whiles
ye’re awfu’――queer.”
At that she laughed again. “But I’m no’ so badly off for fun, as ye
call it, either,” she resumed presently. “Noo an’ then uncle tak’s
auntie an’ me to the theatre. Every holiday we gang to the coast. An’
there’s always folk comin’ to the hoose――――”
“Auld folk?”
“Frae your age upwards. An’ next year, when I put up ma hair, I’ll be
gettin’ to dances. Can ye waltz?”
Macgregor gave his head a dismal shake. “I――I doobt ye’re ower
high-class,” he muttered hopelessly. “Ye’ll no’ be for lookin’ at me
next year.”
“No’ if ye wear a face like a fiddle. I like to look at cheery things.
What’s up wi’ ye?”
“Oh, naething. I suppose ye expec’ to be terrible rich some day.”
“That’s the idea.”
“What’ll ye dae wi’ the money? I suppose ye dinna ken.”
“Oh, I ken fine,” she returned, with an eager smile. “I’ll buy auntie
a lovely cottage at the coast, an’ uncle a splendid motor car, an’
masel’ a big white steam yacht.”
“Ye’re no’ greedy,” he remarked a little sulkily.
“That’ll be merely for a start, of course. I’ll tak’ ye a trip roun’
the world for the price o’ a coat o’ pent to the yacht. Are ye on?
Maybe ye’ll be a master-penter by then.”
“I――I’ll never be onything――an’ I’m no’ carin’,” he groaned.
“If ye lie doon in the road ye’ll no’ win far, an’ ye’re likely to get
tramped on, forbye. What’s wrang wi’ ye the day?” she asked kindly.
“Ye――ye jist mak’ me miserable,” he blurted out, and hung his head.
“Me!” she said innocently. “I’m sure I never meant to dae that. I’m a
hard nut, I suppose; but no’ jist as hard as I seem. Onything I can
dae to mak’ ye happy again?”
The door opened, the bell banged, and a man came in and bought a
weekly paper.
“Weel?” said Christina when they were alone.
“Let me walk hame wi’ ye the nicht,” said Macgregor, who ought to have
felt grateful to the chance customer whose brief stay had permitted
him to get his wits and words together.
“Oh!” said Christina.
“I’ll wait for ye as long as ye like.”
Some seconds passed ere Christina spoke. “I’m not in the habit of
being escorted――――” she began.
“For ony sake dinna speak like that.”
“I forgot ye wasna a customer. But, seriously, I dinna think it wud be
the thing.”
“What way, Christina?”
“Jist because, an’ for several other reasons besides. My! it’s gettin’
dark. Time I was lightin’ up.” She struck a match, applied it to a
long taper, and proceeded to ignite the jets in the window and above
the counter. Then she turned to him again.
“Mac.”
Something in her voice roused him out of his despair. “What,
Christina?”
“If ye walk hame wi’ me, I’ll expect ye to come up an’ see ma aunt an’
uncle. Ye see, I made a sort o’ bargain wi’ them that I wudna ha’e ony
frien’s that they didna ken aboot.”
Macgregor’s expression of happiness gave place to one of doubt. “Maybe
they wudna like me,” he said.
“Aweel, that’s your risk, of course. But they’ll no’ bite ye. I leave
the shop at eight.” She glanced at her little silver watch. “Mercy!
It’s time I was puttin’ on the kettle. Miss Tod’ll be back in a jiffy.
Ye best gang, Mac.”
“I’ll be waitin’ for ye at eight,” he said, rising. “An’ it’s awfu’
guid o’ ye, Christina, though I wish ye hadna made that bargain――――”
“Weel, I like to be as honest as I can――ootside o’ business. If ye
dinna turn up, I’ll forgive ye. Noo――――”
“Oh, I’ll turn up. It wud tak’ mair nor your aunt an’ uncle――――”
“Tits, man!” she cried impatiently, “I’ll be late wi’ her tea. Adieu
for the present.” She waved her hand and fled to the living-room.
Macgregor went home happy in a subdued fashion. He found a letter
awaiting him. It was from Grandfather Purdie; it reminded him that his
seventeenth birthday was on the coming Monday, contained a few kindly
words of advice, and enclosed a postal order for ten shillings.
Hitherto the old man’s gift had been a half-crown, which had seemed a
large sum to the boy. But ten shillings!――it would be hard to tell
whether Macgregor’s feeling of manliness or of gratitude was the
greater.
Mrs. Robinson was not a little disturbed when her son failed to hand
over the money to her to take care of for him, as had been the custom
in the past, and her husband had some difficulty in persuading her to
“let the laddie be in the meantime.”
Macgregor had gone to his room to make the most elaborate toilet
possible.
“You trust him, an’ he’ll trust you,” said John. “Dinna be aye
treatin’ him like a wean.”
“It’s no’ a case o’ no’ trustin’ him,” she returned a little sharply.
“Better treat him like a wean than let him think he’s a man afore his
time.”
“It’s no’ his money in the bank that tells what a chap’s made o’,
Lizzie. Let us wait an’ see what he does wi’ it. Mind ye, it’s his to
dae what he likes wi’. Wait, till the morn, an’ then I’ll back ye up
in gettin’ him to put a guid part o’ it, onyway, in the bank. No’ that
I think ony backin’ up’ll be necessary. If he doesna want to put it in
the bank, he’ll dae it to please us. I’ll guarantee that, wife.”
“If I had your heart an’ you had ma heid,” she said with a faint
smile, “I daresay we wud baith be near perfec’, John. Aweel, I’m no’
gaun to bother the laddie noo. But”――seriously――“he’s been oot an
awfu’ lot at nicht the last week or twa.”
“Courtin’,” said John, laughing.
“Havers!” she retorted. “He’s no’ the sort.”
“Neither was I,” said John, “an’ look at me noo!”
And there they let the subject drop.
* * * * *
At seven o’clock Macgregor left the house. At the nearest post-office
he had his order converted into coin. In one of his pockets he placed
a couple of shillings――for Jeannie and Jimsie. He had no definite
plans regarding the balance, but he hoped his mother would not ask for
it. Somehow its possession rendered the prospect of his meeting with
the Baldwins a thought less fearsome. He would tell Christina of his
grandfather’s gift, and later on, perhaps, he would buy――he knew not
what. All at once he wished he had a _great_ deal of money――wished he
were clever――wished he could talk like Christina, even in the manner
he hated――wished vague but beautiful things. The secret aspirations of
lad’s love must surely make the angels smile――very tenderly.
He reached the trysting place with a quick heart, a moist brow, and
five and twenty minutes to spare.
CHAPTER TEN
From five to seven o’clock on Saturdays M. Tod and her assistant did a
fairly brisk trade in newspapers; thereafter, as Christina often
thought, but refrained from saying, it was scarcely worth while
keeping the shop open: A stray customer or two was all that might be
expected during the last hour, and Christina was wont to occupy
herself and it by tidying up for Sunday, while M. Tod from the
sitting-room bleated her conviction, based on nothing but a fair
imagination and a bad memory, that the Saturday night business was not
what it had been twenty years ago. The old woman invariably got
depressed at the end of the week; she had come to grudge the girl’s
absence even for a day.
Christina was counting up some unsold periodicals, chattering
cheerfully the while on the ethics of modern light literature. The
door opened with a suddenness that suggested a pounce, and a young
woman, whom Christina could not recollect having seen before, started
visibly at the bang of the bell, recovered herself, and closed the
door carefully. It was Christina’s habit to sum up roughly the more
patent characteristics of new customers almost before they reached the
counter. In the present case her estimate was as follows: “Handsome
for the money; conceited, but not proud.”
“Good-evening,” she said politely.
“Evenin’,” replied the other, her dark eyes making a swift survey of
the shop. She threw open her jacket, already unbuttoned, disclosing a
fresh white shirt, a scarlet bow and a silver belt. Touching the belt,
she said: “I think this was got in your shop.”
Christina bent forward a little way. “Perhaps,” she said pleasantly.
“I couldn’t say for certain. We’ve sold several of these belts, but of
course we haven’t the monopoly.”
It may have been that the young woman fancied she was being chaffed.
Other customers less unfamiliar with Christina had fancied the same
thing. At all events her tone sharpened.
“But I happen to ken it was got here.”
“Then it _was_ got here,” said Christina equably. “Do you wish to buy
another the same? I’m sorry we’re out of them at present, but we could
procure one for you within――――”
“No, thanks. An’ I didna buy this one, either. It was bought by a
young gentleman friend of mines.”
“Oh, indeed!” Christina murmured sympathetically. Then her eyes
narrowed slightly.
“I came to see if you could change it,” the young woman proceeded.
“It’s miles too wide. Ye can see that for yersel’.”
“They are worn that way at present,” said Christina, with something of
an effort.
“Maybe. But I prefer it tight-fittin’. Of course I admit I’ve an extra
sma’ waist.”
“Yes――smaller than they are worn at present.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Granted,” said Christina absently. She was trying to think of more
than one male customer to whom she had sold a belt. But there had been
only one.
The dark eyes of the young woman glimmered with malignant relish.
“As I was sayin’,” she said, “I prefer it tight-fittin’. I’ve a dance
on next week, an’ as it is the belt is unsuitable, an’ the young man
expec’s me to wear it. Of course I couldna tell him that it didna fit
me. So I thought I would jist ask ye to change it wi’oot lettin’ on to
him.” She gave a self-conscious giggle.
“I see,” said Christina, dully. “But I’m afraid there’s only the one
size in those belts, and, besides, we can’t change goods that have
been worn for a month.”
“Oh, so ye mind when ye sold it!” said the other maliciously. “Ye’ve a
fine memory, Miss! But though I’ve had it for a month――it was part o’
his birthday present, ye ken――I’ve scarcely worn it――only once or
twice, to please him.”
There was a short silence ere Christina spoke. “If you are bent on
getting the belt made tight-fitting, a jeweller would do it for you,
but it would cost as much as the belt is worth,” she said coldly.
“It’s a very cheap imitation, you know,” she added, for the first time
in her business career decrying her own wares.
It was certainly a nasty one, but the young woman almost succeeded in
appearing to ignore it.
“So ye canna change it――even to please ma young man?” she said
mockingly.
“No,” Christina replied, keeping her face to the foe, but with
difficulty.
Said the foe: “That’s a pity, but I daresay I’ll get over it.” She
moved to the door and opened it. She smiled, showing her teeth.
(Christina was glad to see they were not quite perfect.) “A sma’ waist
like mines is whiles a misfortune,” she remarked, with affected
self-commiseration.
Christina set her lips, but the retort _would_ come. “Ay,” she said
viciously; “still, I suppose you couldn’t grow tall any other way.”
But the young woman only laughed――she could afford to laugh, having
done that which she had come to do――and departed to report the result
of her mission to the youth known as Willie Thomson.
“Wha was that, dearie?” M. Tod called from the living-room.
Christina started from an unlovely reverie. “Merely a female,” she
answered bitterly, and resumed counting the periodicals in a listless
fashion.
The poison bit deep. The cheek of him to suggest walking home with
_her_ when he was going to a dance with that tight-laced girl next
week! No doubt he admired her skimpy waist. He was welcome to it and
her――and her bad teeth. And yet he had seemed a nice chap. She had
liked him for his shyness, if for nothing else. But the shy kind were
always the worst. He had very likely been taking advantage of his
shyness. Well, she was glad she had found him out before he could walk
home with her. And possibly because she was glad, but probably because
she was quite young at heart, tears came to her eyes....
When ten minutes had passed, M. Tod, missing the cheerful chatter,
toddled into the shop.
“What’s wrang, dearie? Preserve us! Ha’e ye been cryin’?”
“Cryin’!” exclaimed Christina with contempt. “But I think I’m in for a
shockin’ cauld in ma heid, so ye best keep awa’ frae me in case ye get
the infection. A cauld’s a serious thing at your time o’ life.” And
she got the feebly protesting old woman back to the fireside, and left
her there.
* * * * *
At eight o’clock Macgregor saw the window lights go out and the shop
lights grow dim. A minute later he heard an exchange of good-nights
and the closing and bolting of a door. Then Christina appeared, her
head a little higher even than usual.
He went forward eagerly. He held out his hand and――it received his
gift of the afternoon unopened.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll bid you good-night――and good-bye,” said
Christina, and walked on.
Presently he overtook her.
“Christina, what’s up?”
“Kindly do not address me any more.”
“Any more?――――Never?――――What way?――――”
She was gone.
He dashed the little package into the gutter and strode off in the
opposite direction, his face white, his lip quivering.
If Macgregor seemed in the past to have needed a thorough rousing, he
had it now. For an hour he tramped the streets, his heart hot within
him, the burden of his thoughts――“She thinks I’m no’ guid enough.”
And the end of the tramp found him at the door of the home of Jessie
Mary. For a wonder, on a Saturday night at that hour, she was in. She
opened the door herself.
At the sight of the boy something like fear fell upon her. For what
had he come thus boldly?
He did not keep her in suspense. “Will ye gang wi’ me to that dance ye
was talkin’ aboot?” he asked abruptly, adding, “I’ve got the money for
the tickets.”
A curse, a blow even, would have surprised her less.
“Will ye gang, Jessie?” he said impatiently.
For the life of her she could not answer at once.
Said he: “If it’s Wullie, ye’re thinkin’ o’, I’ll square him.”
“Wullie!” she exclaimed, a cruel contempt in the word.
“Weel, if naebody else is takin’ ye, will ye gang wi’ me?”
“Dae――dae ye want me, Macgreegor?”
“I’m askin’ ye.”
She glanced at him furtively, but he was not looking at her; his hands
were in his pockets, his mouth was shaped to emit a tuneless whistle.
She tried to laugh, but made only a throaty sound. It seemed as if a
stranger stood before her, one of whom she knew nothing save his name.
And yet she liked that stranger and wanted much to go to the dance
with him.
The whistling ceased.
“Are ye gaun wi’ somebody else?” he demanded, lifting his face for a
moment.
It was not difficult to guess that something acute had happened to him
very recently. Jessie Mary suddenly experienced a guilty pang. Yet why
Macgregor should have come back to her now was beyond her
comprehension. Yon yellow-haired girl in the shop could not have told
him anything――that was certain. And though she had not really wanted
him back, now that he had come she was fain to hold him once more.
Such thoughts made confusion in her mind, out of which two distinct,
ideas at last emerged: she did not care if she had hurt the
yellow-haired girl; she could not go to the dance on Macgregor’s
money.
So gently, sadly, she told her lie; “Ay, there’s somebody else,
Macgreegor.” Which suggests that no waist is too small to contain an
appreciable amount of heart and conscience.
A brief pause, and Macgregor said drearily:
“Aweel, it doesna matter. I’ll awa’ hame.” And went languidly down the
stairs.
“It doesna matter.” The words haunted Jessie Mary that night, and it
was days before she got wholly rid of the uncomfortable feeling that
Macgregor had not really wanted her to go to the dance, and that he
had, in fact, been “codding” her.
Whereas, poor lad, he had only been “codding” himself, or, at least,
trying to do so. By the time he reached the bottom step he had
forgotten Jessie Mary.
* * * * *
Once more he tramped the streets.
At home Lizzie was showing her anxiety, and John was concealing his.
When, at long last, he entered the kitchen, he did not appear to hear
his mother’s “Whaur ha’e ye been, laddie?” or his father’s “Ye’re
late, ma son.” Their looks of concern at his tired face and muddy
boots passed unobserved.
Having unlaced his boots and rid his feet of them more quietly than
usual, he got up and went to the table at which his mother was
sitting.
He took all the money――all――from his pockets and laid it before her.
“There’s a shillin’ each for Jeannie an’ Jimsie. I’m no’ needin’ the
rest. I’m wearied,” he said, and went straightway to his own room.
John got up and joined his wife at the table. “Did I no’ tell ye,” he
cried, triumphantly, “that Macgreegor wud dae the richt thing?”
Lizzie stared at the little heap of silver and bronze.
“John,” she whispered at last, and there was a curious distressed note
in her voice, “John, d’ye no’ see?――he’s gi’ed me ower much!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As a rule tonics are bitter, and their effects very gradual, often so
gradual as to be hardly noticeable until one’s strength is put to some
test. While it would be unfair to deny the existence of “backbone” in
Macgregor, it is but just to grant that the “backbone” required
stiffening. And it is no discredit to Macgregor that the tincture of
Christina’s hardier spirit which, along with her (to him) abundant
sweetness, he had been absorbing during these past weeks, was the very
tonic he needed, the tonic without which he could not have acted as he
did on the Monday night following his dismissal.
Of this action one may say, at first thought, that it was simply the
outcome of an outraged pride. Yet Macgregor’s pride was at best a
drowsy thing until a girl stabbed it. It forced him to Jessie Mary’s
door, but there failed him. Throughout the miserable Sunday it lay
inert, with only an occasional spasm. And though he went with it to
the encounter on Monday, he carried it as a burden. His real
supporters were Love and Determination, and the latter was a new
comrade, welcome, but not altogether of his own inspiring.
* * * * *
He did not go to the shop, for he had neither money nor the petty
courage necessary to ask it of his parents. On the pavement, a little
way from the door, he waited in a slow drizzle of rain. He had no
doubts as to what he was going to do and say. The idea had been with
him all day, from early in the morning, and it _had_ to be carried
out. Perhaps his nerves were a little too steady to be described as
normal.
When eight o’clock struck on a neighbouring tower, he did not start or
stir. But across the street, peering round the edge of a close-mouth,
another boy jerked his head at the sound. Willie Thomson was
exceedingly curious to know whether Saturday night had seen the end of
the matter.
Christina, for no reason that she could have given, was late in
leaving the shop; it was twenty minutes past the hour when she
appeared.
She approached quickly, but he was ready for her.
“No!” she exclaimed at the sight of him.
He stepped right in front of her. She was compelled to halt, and she
had nothing to say.
He faced her fairly, and said――neither hotly nor coldly, but with a
slight throb in his voice:
“I’ll be guid enough yet.” With a little nod as if to emphasise his
words, and without taking his eyes from her face, he stood aside and
let her go.
Erect, he followed her with his eyes until the darkness and traffic of
the pavement hid her. Then he seemed to relax, his shoulders drooped
slightly, and with eyes grown wistful he moved slowly down the street
towards home. Arrived there he shut himself up with an old school
dictionary.
Dull work, but a beginning....
“Guid enough yet.” Christina had not gone far when through all her
resentment the full meaning of the words forced itself upon her. “Oh,”
she told herself crossly, “I never meant him to take it that way.” A
little later she told herself the same thing, but merely impatiently.
And still later, lying in the dark, she repeated it with a sob.
As for the watcher, Willie Thomson, he set out without undue haste to
inform Jessie Mary that once more Macgregor had been left standing
alone on the pavement. Somehow Willie was not particularly pleased
with himself this evening. Ere his lagging feet had borne him half way
to the appointed place he was feeling sorry for Macgregor. All at once
he decided to spy no more. It would be rather awkward just at present
to intimate such a decision to Jessie Mary, but he could “cod” her, he
thought, without much difficulty, by inventing reports in the future.
Cheered by his virtuous resolutions, he quickened his pace.
Jessie Mary received him in the close leading to her abode. She was in
an extraordinarily bad temper, and cut short his report almost at the
outset by demanding to know when he intended repaying the shilling he
had borrowed a fortnight previously.
“Next week,” mumbled Willie, with that sad lack of originality
exhibited by nearly all harassed borrowers.
Whereupon Jessie Mary, who was almost a head the taller, seized him by
one ear and soundly cuffed the other until with a yelp he broke loose
and fled into the night, never to know that he had been punished for
that unfortunate remark of Macgregor’s――“it doesna matter.” Yet let us
not scoff at Jessie Mary’s sense of justice. The possessors of greater
minds than hers, having stumbled against a chair, have risen in their
wrath and kicked the sofa――which is not at all to say that the sofa’s
past has been more blameless than the chair’s. Life has a way of
settling our accounts without much respect for our book-keeping.