wishing angrily that she had taken Macgregor at his word. The
prospects of obtaining an escort to the dance were now exceedingly
remote, for only that afternoon she had learned that the bandy-legged
young man in the warehouse whom she had deemed “safe at a pinch,” and
who was the owner of a dress suit with a white vest, had invited
another girl and was actually going to give her flowers to wear.
Willie went to bed, too, earlier than usual, and lay awake wondering,
among other things, whether his aching ear entitled him to a little
further credit in the matter of his debt to Jessie Mary――not that any
length of credit would have made payment seem possible. For Willie was
up to the neck in debt, owing the appalling sum of five shillings and
ninepence to an old woman who sold newspapers, paraffin oil and cheap
cigarettes, and who was already threatening to go to his aunt for her
money――a proceeding which would certainly result in much misery for
Willie. He was “out of a job” again; but it isn’t easy to get work,
more especially when one prefers to do nothing. To some extent
Macgregor was to blame for his having got into debt with the
tobacconist, for if Macgregor had not stopped smoking, Willie would
not have needed to buy nearly so many cigarettes. Nevertheless,
Willie’s thoughts did not dwell long or bitterly on that point. Rather
did they dwell on Macgregor himself. And after a while Willie drew up
his legs and pulled the insufficient bedclothes over his head and lay
very still. This he had done since he was a small boy, when
lonesomeness got the better of him, when he wished he had a father and
mother like Macgregor’s.
And, as has been hinted, neither was Christina at ease that night.
Indeed, it were almost safe to say that of the four young people
involved in this little tragicomedy, Macgregor, yawning over his old
school dictionary, was the least unhappy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the fifth night, at the seventh page of words beginning with a “D,”
Macgregor closed the dictionary and asked himself what was the good of
it all. His face was hot, his whole being restless. He looked at his
watch――a quarter to eight. He got up and carefully placed the
dictionary under a copy of “Ivanhoe” on the chest of drawers. He would
go for a walk.
He left the house quietly.
In the kitchen Lizzie, pausing in her knitting, said to John: “That’s
Macgreegor awa’ oot.”
“It’ll dae him nae harm,” said John. “He’s becomin’ a great reader,
Lizzie.”
“I dinna see why he canna read ben here. It’s cauld in his room.
What’s he readin’?”
“The book he got frae his Uncle Purdie three year back.”
“Weel, I’m sure I’m gled if he’s takin’ an interest in it at last.”
“Oh, ‘Ivanhoe’ ’s no’ a bad story,” remarked John. “Whiles it’s fair
excitin’.”
Said Jimsie from the hearthrug: “He doesna seem to enjoy it much,
Paw.”
“Weel, it’s no’ a funny book.”
“It’s time ye was in yer bed, Jimsie,” said Mrs. Robinson. “It’s ower
late for ye.”
“Aw, the wean’s fine,” said John.
Jeannie laid down her sewing. “Come on, Jimsie, an’ I’ll tell ye a wee
story afore ye gang to sleep.”
“Chaps ye!” Jimsie replied, getting up.
When the two had gone, Lizzie observed casually: “It’s the first nicht
Macgreegor’s been oot this week.”
“Weel, ye should be pleased, wumman.” John smiled.
A pause.
“I wonder what made him gi’e up a’ his siller on Seturday nicht.”
“Same here. But I wudna ask him,” said John, becoming grave. “Wud
you?”
She shook her head, “I tried to, on Sunday, but some way I coudna.
He’s changin’.”
“He’s growin’ up, Lizzie.”
“I suppose ye’re richt,” she said reluctantly, and resumed her
knitting.
* * * * *
From the darkest spot he could find on the opposite pavement Macgregor
saw Christina come out of the shop, pass under a lamp, and disappear.
He felt sorely depressed during the return journey. The dictionary had
failed to increase either his knowledge or his self-esteem. He
wondered whether History or Geography would do any good; there were
books on these subjects in the house. He realised that he knew nothing
about anything except his trade, and even there he had to admit that
he had learned less than he might have done. And yet he had always
wanted to be a painter.
The same night he started reading the History of England, and found it
a considerable improvement on the Dictionary. He managed to keep awake
until the arrival of Julius Cæsar. Unfortunately he had taken the book
to bed, and his mother on discovering it in the morning indiscreetly
asked him what he had been doing with it. “Naething special,” was his
reply, indistinctly uttered, and here ended his historical studies,
though for days after Lizzie left the book prominent on the chest of
drawers.
* * * * *
The day being Saturday, the afternoon was his own. Through the rain he
made his way furtively to a free library, but became too
self-conscious at the door, and fled. For the sum of threepence a
picture house gave him harbourage, and save when the scenes were very
exciting he spent the time in trying not to wonder what Christina
would think of him, if she thought at all. He came forth ashamed and
in nowise cheered by the entertainment.
In the evening he went once more to watch her leave the shop. M. Tod
came to the door with her, and they stood talking for a couple of
minutes, so that he had more than a glimpse of her. And a spirit arose
in him demanding that he should attempt something to prove himself,
were it only with his hands. It was not learning, but earning, that
would make him “guid enough yet”; not what he could say, but what he
could do. There would be time enough for speaking “genteel English”
and so on after――well, after he had got up in the world.
For a moment he felt like running after Christina and making her
hearken to his new hope, but self-consciousness prevailed and sent him
homewards.
“Hullo!” From a close came a husky voice, apologetic, appealing.
“Hullo, Wullie!” Macgregor stopped. He was not sorry to meet Willie;
he craved companionship just then, though he had no confidence to
give.
“Are ye for hame?”
“Ay.”
“I――I’ll come wi’ ye, if ye like, Macgreegor?”
“Come on then.”
Willie came out, and they proceeded along the street without remark
until Macgregor enquired――――
“Where are ye workin’ the noo, Wullie?”
“I’m no’ workin’. Canna get a job. Dae ye ken o’ onything?”
“Na. What kin’ o’ job dae ye want?”
“Onything,” said Willie, and added quickly, “An’ I’ll stick to it this
time, if I get the chance.”
After a short pause――――“My fayther got ye a job before,” said
Macgregor.
“I ken. But I wud stick――――”
“Honest?”
Willie drew his hand across his throat.
“Weel,” said Macgregor, “I’ll tell ma fayther, an’ ye can gang an’ see
him at the works on Monday.”
“I’ll be there. Ye’re a dacent chap, Macgreegor.”
Neither seemed to have anything more to say to the other, but their
parting was cordial enough.
Next day, Sunday, was wet and stormy, and there was no afternoon
stroll of father and son to the docks. John was flattered by
Macgregor’s ill-concealed disappointment――it was like old times.
Perhaps he would not have been less flattered had he known his boy’s
desire to tell him out of doors a thing that somehow could not be
uttered in the house. Macgregor spent the afternoon in studying
secretly an old price-list of Purdie’s Stores.
The following night, while returning from the errand of previous
nights, he again encountered Willie.
“So may fayther’s gaun to gi’e ye a job. He tell’t me it was fixed.”
“Ay,” said Willie, “but he canna tak’ me on for a fortnicht.”
“Weel, that’s no lang to wait.”
For a few seconds Willie was mute; then he blurted out――“I’m done
for!”
“Done for!” exclaimed Macgregor, startled by the despair in the
other’s voice. “What’s wrang, Wullie?”
“I’m in a mess. But it’s nae use tellin’ ye. Ye canna dae onything.”
“Is’t horses?” Macgregor asked presently.
“Naw, it’s no’ horses!” Willie indignantly replied.
How virtuous we feel when accused of the one sin we have not
committed!
The next moment he clutched Macgregor’s arm. “Come in here, an’ I’ll
tell ye.” He drew his companion into a close. “I――I couldna tell
onybody else.”
From the somewhat incoherent recital which followed Macgregor finally
gathered that the old woman to whom Willie owed money had presented
her ultimatum. If Willie failed to pay up that night she would
assuredly not fail to apply to his aunt first thing in the morning.
“Never heed, Wullie,” said Macgregor, taking his friend’s arm, and
leading him homewards. “Yer aunt’ll no’ kill ye.”
“I wish to――――she wud!” muttered Willie with a vehemence that shocked
his friend. “She’s aye been ill to live wi’, but it’ll be a sight
harder noo.”
“Wud the auld wife no’ believe ye aboot gettin’ a job in a fortnicht?
She wudna? Aweell, she’ll believe me. Come on, an’ I’ll speak to her
for ye.”
But the “auld wife” was adamant. She had been deceived with too many
promises ere now. At last Macgregor, feeling himself beaten,
disconsolately joined Willie and set out for home. Neither spoke until
Macgregor’s abode was reached. Then Macgregor said:
“Bide here till I come back,” and ran up the stair. He knew his father
was out, having gone back to the works to experiment with some new
machinery. He found his mother alone in the kitchen.
“Mither,” he said with difficulty, “I wish ye wud gi’e me five
shillin’s o’ ma money.”
He could not have startled her more thoroughly.
“Five shillin’s, laddie! What for?”
“I canna tell ye the noo.”
“But――――”
“It’s no’ for――for fun. If ye ask me, I’ll tell ye in a secret this
day fortnicht. Please, mither.”
She got up and laid her hands on his shoulder and turned him to the
full light of the gas. He looked at her shyly, yet without flinching.
And abruptly she kissed him, and as abruptly passed to the dresser
drawer where she kept her purse.
Without a word she put the money in his hand. Without a word he took
it, nodded gravely, and went out. In one way Lizzie had done more for
her boy in these three minutes than she had done in the last three
years.
Macgregor had a sixpence in his pocket, and he added it to the larger
coins.
“She can wait for her thruppence,” he said, giving the money to the
astounded Willie. “Awa’ an’ pay her. I’ll maybe see ye the morn’s
nicht. So long!” He walked off in the direction opposite to that which
Willie ought to take.
But Willie ran after him; he was pretty nearly crying. “Macgreegor,”
he stammered, “I’ll pay ye back when I get ma first wages. An’ I’ll
no’ forget――oh, I’ll never forget. An’ I’ll dae ye a guid turn yet!”
“Ye best hurry in case she shuts her shop,” said Macgregor, and so got
rid of him.
While it is disappointing to record that Willie has thus far never
managed to repay Macgregor in hard cash, though he has somehow
succeeded in retaining the employment found for him by John, it is
comforting to know that his promise to do Macgregor a good turn was
more than just an emotional utterance. When, on the following
Wednesday and Friday nights, he stealthily tracked Macgregor to the
now familiar watching place, his motives were no longer curious or
selfish, but benevolent in the extreme. Not that he could bring
himself to sympathise with Macgregor in the latter’s devotion to a
mere girl, for, as a matter of fact, he regarded his friend’s
behaviour as “awfu’ stupid”; but if Macgregor was really “saft” on the
girl, it behoved him, Willie, to do what he could to put an end to the
existing misunderstanding.
On the Friday night he came regretfully to the conclusion that the
“saftness” was incurable, and he accordingly determined to act on the
following afternoon. By this time his knowledge of the movements of M.
Tod and her assistant was practically as complete as Macgregor’s, so
that he had no hesitation in choosing the hour for action. He had
little fear of Macgregor’s coming near the shop in daylight.
So, having witnessed the exit of M. Tod, he crossed the street, and
examined the contents of the window, as he had seen Macgregor do so
often. He was not in the least nervous. The fact that he was without
money did not perturb him: it would be the simplest thing in the world
to introduce himself and his business by asking for an article which
stationers’ shops did not supply. A glance at a druggist’s window had
given him the necessary suggestion.
On entering he was seized with a most distressing cough, which racked
him while he closed the door and until he reached the counter.
“A cold afternoon,” Christina remarked in a sympathetic tone.
“Ay. Ha’e ye ony chest protectors?” he hoarsely enquired.
For the fraction of a second only she hesitated. “Not exactly,” she
replied. “But I can recommend this.” From under the counter she
brought a quire of brown paper. “It’s cheaper than flannel and much
more sanitary,” she went on. “There’s nothing like it for keeping out
the cold. You’ve only got to cut out the shape that suits you.” She
separated a sheet from the quire and spread it on the counter. “Enough
there for a dozen protectors. Price one penny. I’ll cut them out for
you, if you like.”
“The doctor said I was to get a flannel yin,” said Willie, forgetting
his hoarseness. “Ha’e ye ony nice ceegarettes the day, miss?”
“No.”
“Will ye ha’e ony on Monday?”
“No.”
“When d’ye think ye’ll ha’e some nice ceegarettes?”
Christina’s eyes smiled. “Perhaps,” she said solemnly, “by the time
you’re big enough to smoke them. Anything else to-day?”
“Ye’re no’ sae green,” he said, with grudging admiration.
“No,” said she; “it’s only the reflection.” She opened the glass case
and took out an infant’s rattle. “Threepence!”
Willie laughed. “My! ye’re a comic!” he exclaimed.
“Children are easily amused.”
There was a short pause. Then Willie, leaning his arms on the edge of
the counter, looked up in her face and said:
“So you’re the girl that’s mashed on Macgreegor Robi’son.” He grinned.
A breath of silence――a sounding smack.
Willie sprang back, his hand to his cheek. Christina, cheeks flaming,
eyes glistening, teeth gleaming, hands clenched, drew herself up and
faced him.
“Get oot o’ this!” she cried. “D’ye hear me! Get oot――――”
“Ay, I hear ye,” said Willie resentfully, rubbing his cheek. “Ye’re
ower smart wi’ yer han’s. I meant for to say――――”
“Be quiet!”
“――you’re the girl Macgreegor’s mashed on――an’ I――――”
Christina stamped her foot. “Clear oot, I tell ye!”
“――I wudna be Macgreegor for a thoosan’ pounds! Keep yer hair on,
miss. I’ll gang when it suits me. Ye’ve got to hear――――”
“I’ll no’ listen.” She put her hands to her ears.
“Thon girl, Jessie Mary, took a rise oot o’ ye last week, an’ it was
me that put her up to it. Macgreegor gi’ed her the belt, richt enough,
but that was afore he got saft on you――――”
“Silence! I cannot hear a word you say,” declared Christina,
recovering herself and her more formal speech, though her colour,
which had faded, now bloomed again.
“I’ll cry it loud, if ye like, so as the folk in the street can hear.
But ye can pretend ye dinna hear,” he said ironically. “I’m no’
heedin’ whether ye hear or no’.”
“I wish you would go away, you impertinent thing!”
“Macgreegor――――” he began.
Once more she covered her ears.
“Macgreegor,” proceeded Willie, with a rude wink, “never had ony
notion o’ takin’ Jessie Mary to the dance. She was jist coddin’ ye,
though I daursay she was kin’ o’ jealous because ye had cut her oot.
So I think ye should mak’ it up wi’ Macgreegor when ye get the chance.
He’s awfu’ saft on ye. I wudna be him for a――――”
“Go away!” said Christina. “You’re simply wasting your breath.”
“Dinna let on to Macgreegor that I tell’t ye,” he continued, unmoved,
“an’, if Jessie Mary tries it on again, jist you put yer finger to yer
nose at her.”
“If you don’t go at once, I’ll――――”
“Oh, ye canna dae onything, miss. I’ll forgi’e ye for that scud ye
gi’ed me, but I wud advise ye no’ to be so quick wi’ yer han’s in
future, or ye’ll maybe get into trouble.” He turned towards the door.
“I daursay ye ken fine that Macgreegor watches ye leavin’ the shop
every nicht――――”
“What _are_ you talking about?”
“Gi’e him a whistle or a wave the next time. There’s nae use in bein’
huffy.”
“That’s enough!”
Willie opened the door. “An’ ye best hurry up, or ye’ll maybe loss
him. So long. I’ll no’ tell him I seen ye blushin’.”
Christina opened her mouth, but ere she could speak, with a grin and a
wink he was gone. She collapsed upon the stool. She had never been so
angry in her life――at least, so she told herself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
John Robinson and his son sat on a pile of timber at the docks. Dusk
was falling, and the air that had been mild for the season was growing
chill.
John replaced his watch in his pocket. “It’s comin’ on for tea-time.
Are ye ready for the road, Macgreegor?”
“Ay,” said the boy, without stirring.
For two hours he had been struggling to utter the words on which he
believed his future depended.
“Weel,” said John, getting out his pipe preparatory to lighting it on
passing the gate, “we best be movin’.”
It was now or never. Macgregor cleared his throat.
“The pentin’ trade’s rotten,” he said in a voice not his own.
“Eh?” said John, rather staggered by the statement which was without
relevance to any of the preceding conversation. “What’s rotten aboot
it?”
“Everything.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard o’ ’t. In fac’, I’m tell’t the pentin’
trade is extra brisk the noo.”
“That’s no’ what I meant,” Macgregor forced himself to say. “I meant
it was a rotten trade to be in.”
John gave a good-humoured laugh. “Oh, I see! Ye dinna like the
overtime! Aweel, that’s nateral at your age, Macgreegor”――he patted
his son’s shoulder――“but when ye’re aulder, wi’ a wife an’ weans,
maybe, ye’ll be gled o’ overtime whiles, I’m thinkin’.”
“It’s no the overtime,” said Macgregor.
“What is’t, then? What’s wrang wi’ the trade?” The question was
lightly put.
“There’s――there’s nae prospec’s in it for a man.”
“Nae prospec’s! Hoots, Macgreegor! there’s as guid prospec’s in the
pentin’ as in ony ither trade. Dinna fash yer heid aboot that――no’ but
what I’m pleased to ken ye’re thinkin’ aboot yer prospec’s, ma son.
But we’ll speak aboot it on the road hame.”
“I wish,” said Macgregor, with the greatest effort of all, “I wish I
had never gaed into it. I wish I had gaed into Uncle Purdie’s
business.”
John sat down again. At last he said: “D’ye mean that, Macgreegor?”
“Ay, I mean it.”
For the first time within his memory John Robinson felt disappointed――in
a vague fashion, it is true, yet none the less unpleasantly
disappointed――in his son.
“But ye’ve been at the pentin’ for three year,” he said a little
impatiently.
“I ken that, fayther.”
“An’ ye mind ye had the chance o’ gaun into yer uncle’s business when
ye left the schule?”
“Ay.”
“But ye wud ha’e naething but the pentin’.”
Macgregor nodded.
“Maybe ye mind that yer Aunt Purdie was unco offended, for it was her
notion――at least, it was her that spoke aboot it――an’ she declared ye
wud never get a second chance. D’ye no’ mind, Macgreegor?”
“I mind aboot her bein’ offended, but I dinna mind aboot――the ither
thing,” Macgregor answered dully.
“But _I_ mind it, for she was rale nesty to yer mither at the time. In
fac’, I dinna ken hoo yer mither stood her impiddence. An’, in a way,
it was a’ ma fau’t, for it was me that said ye was to choose the trade
that ye liked best――an’ I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing, because
I had seen lads spiled wi’ bein’ forced into trades they didna fancy.
Ay, I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing――――An’ noo ye’re tellin’ me
I did the wrang thing.”
“Fayther, it’s me that’s to blame. I――I didna mean to vex ye.”
“Aweel, I dinna suppose ye did,” said John sadly. “But for the life o’
me I canna see hoo ye can hope to get into yer uncle’s business at
this time o’ day.... But we’ll be keepin’ yer mither waitin’.”
He rose slowly and Macgregor joined him. At the gate John apparently
forgot to light his pipe. They were half way home ere he spoke.
He put his hand round his son’s arm. “Ye’re no’ to think, Macgreegor,
that I wud stan’ in yer road when ye want to better yersel’. No’
likely! I never was set on bein’ a wealthy man masel’, but naethin’
wud mak’ me prooder nor to see you gang up in the world; an’ I can say
the same for yer mither. An’ I can see that ye micht gang far in yer
uncle’s business, for yer uncle was aye fond o’ ye, an’ I think ye
could manage to please him at yer work, if ye was tryin’. _But_――ye
wud need yer aunt’s favour to begin wi’, an’ that’s the bitter truth,
an’ she’s no’ the sort o’ body that forgets what she conseeders an
affront. Weel, it’ll need some thinkin’ ower. I’ll ha’e to see what
yer mither says. An’ ye best no’ expec’ onything. Stick to the pentin’
in the meantime, an’ be vera certain afore ye quit the trade ye’re in.
That’s a’ I can say, ma son.”
Macgregor had no words then. Never before had his father seriously
spoken at such length to him. His heart was heavy, troubled about many
things.
* * * * *
Eight o’clock on Monday night saw him at the accustomed spot; on
Wednesday night also he was there. If only Christina had been friends
with him he would have asked her what he ought to do. Yet the mere
glimpse of her confirmed him in his desire to change his trade. On the
Wednesday night it seemed to him that she walked away from the shop
much more slowly than usual, and the horrid thought that she might be
giving some other “man” a chance to overtake her assailed him. But at
last she was gone without that happening.
On the way home he encountered Jessie Mary. She greeted him affably,
and he could not but stop.
“Lovely dance on Friday. Ye should ha’e been there. Ma belt was
greatly admired,” she remarked.
“Was it?”
“I think I’ve seen the shop where ye bought it,” she said, watching
his face covertly.
“It’s likely,” he replied, without emotion.
Jessie Mary was relieved; evidently he was without knowledge of her
visit to the shop. Now that the world was going well with her again
she bore no ill-will, and was fain to avoid any. For at the eleventh
hour――or, to be precise, the night before the dance――she had
miraculously won back the allegiance of the young man with the
exquisite moustache, who served in the provision shop, and for the
present she was more than satisfied with herself.
So she bade Macgregor good-night, a little patronisingly perhaps, and
hurried off to reward her recovered swain with the pleasant sight of
herself and an order for a finnan haddie.
Macgregor was still in the dark as to whether his father had mentioned
to his mother the subject of that conversation at the docks. John had
not referred to it again, and the boy was beginning to wonder if his
case was hopeless.
On the Friday night, however, just when he was about to slip from the
house, his mother followed him to the door. Very quietly she said:
“When ye come in, Macgreegor, I want ye to tell me if ye’re still set
on leavin’ the pentin’. Dinna tell me noo. Tak’ yer walk, an’ think it
ower, seriouslike. But dinna be late, laddie.”
She went back to the kitchen, leaving him to shut the door.
It was not much after seven o’clock, but he went straightway in the
direction of M. Tod’s shop. For the first time in what seemed an age,
he found himself at the familiar, glittering window. And lo! the
glazed panel at the back was open a few inches. Quickly he retreated
to the edge of the pavement, and stood there altogether undecided. But
desire drew him, and gradually he approached the window again.
Christina was sitting under the lamp, at the desk, her pretty profile
bent over her writing, her fair plait falling over the shoulder of her
scarlet shirt. She was engaged in pencilling queer little marks on
paper, and doing so very rapidly. Macgregor understood that she was
practising shorthand. No doubt she would be his uncle’s private
secretary some day, while he――――
All at once it came to him that no one in the world could answer the
great question but Christina. If the thing didn’t matter to Christina,
it didn’t matter to him; it was for her sake that he would strive to
be “guid enough yet,” not for the sake of being “guid enough” in
itself. Besides, she had put the idea into his head. Surely she would
not refuse to speak to him on that one subject.
Now all this was hardly in accordance with the brave and independent
plan which Macgregor had set out to follow――to wit, that he would not
attempt to speak to Christina until he could announce that he was a
member of his uncle’s staff. Yes, love is the great maker of
plans――also, the great breaker.
Coward or not, it took courage to enter the shop.
Christina looked up, her colour deepening slightly.