It was not a snub anyway, and Macgregor walked up to the counter. He
came to the point at once.
“Wud ye advise me to try an’ get a job frae ma uncle?” he said,
distinctly enough.
“Me?” The syllable was fraught with intense astonishment.
“Ye advised me afore to try it,” he said, fairly steadily.
“Did I?”――carelessly.
It was too much for him. “Oh, Christina!” he whispered reproachfully.
“Well, I’m sure it’s none of my business. I thought you preferred
being a painter.”
The pity was that Christina should have just then remembered the
existence of such a person as Jessie Mary, also the fact of her own
slow walk from the shop the previous night. Yet she had forgotten both
when she opened the panel at the back of the window a few inches. And
perhaps she was annoyed with herself, knowing that she was not
behaving quite fairly.
He let her remark concerning his preference for the painting pass, and
put a very direct question.
“What made ye change yer mind aboot me that night?”
“What night?” she asked flippantly, and told herself it was the
silliest thing she had ever uttered.
She had gone too far――she saw it in his face.
“I didna think ye was as bad as that,” he said in a curiously hard
voice, and turned from the counter.
Quick anger――quick compunction――quick fear――and then:
“Mac!”
He wheeled at the door. She was holding out her hand. Her smile was
frail.
“Are ye in earnest?” he said in a low voice, but he did not wait for
her answer.
She drew away her hand, gently. “Dinna ask me ony questions,” she
pleaded. “I――I didna really mean what I said that night, or this night
either. I think I was off my onion”――a faint laugh――“but I’m sorry I
behaved the way I did. Is that enough?”
It was more than enough; how much more he could not say. “I’ve missed
ye terrible,” he murmured.
Christina became her practical self. “So ye’re for tryin’ yer uncle’s
business――――” she began.
“If he’ll gi’e me the chance.”
“Weel, I’m sure I wish ye the best o’ luck.”
“Then ye think I ought to try?” This with great eagerness.
“If ye’ve made up yer mind it’s for the best,” she answered
cautiously.
He had to be satisfied with that. “Will I let ye ken if it comes off?”
She nodded. Then she glanced at her watch.
“Can――can I get walkin’ hame wi’ ye, Christina?” It was out before he
knew.
She shook her head. “Uncle said he wud come for me; he had some
business up this way. If ye wait a minute, ye’ll see him. I’ll
introduce ye. He’ll be interested seein’ ye’re a nephew o’ Mr.
Purdie.”
“Oh, I couldna. I best hook it. But, Christina, I can come to-morrow,
eh?”
She laughed. “I canna prevent ye. But I’ll no’ be here in the
afternoon. Uncle’s takin’ auntie an’ me to a matinée, an’ I’ll no’ be
back much afore six.”
“Weel, I’ll meet ye at eight an’ walk hame wi’ ye.”
“Will ye?”
“Oh, Christina; say ’ay.’”
“I’ll consider it.”
And he had to be satisfied with that, too, for at this point the noisy
door opened to admit a tall, clean-shaven, pleasant-featured man of
middle-age.
“Hullo, uncle!” cried Christina.
Macgregor fled, but not without gaining a quick smile that made all
the difference in the world to him.
Ten minutes later he hurried into the home kitchen.
“Mither, I’ve decided to leave the pentin’.” The moment he said it his
heart misgave him, and the colour flew to his face. But he need not
have doubted his parents.
“Weel, ma son,” said John soberly, “we’ll dae the best we can wi’ yer
Aunt Purdie.”
“Jist that,” said Lizzie.
And that was all.
* * * * *
An urgent piece of work had to be done the following afternoon, and he
was later than usual, for a Saturday, in getting home. He found his
mother preparing to go out, and his father looking strangely
perplexed.
“She’s gaun to see yer Aunt Purdie,” said John in a whisper.
Macgregor looked from one to the other, hesitated, and went over to
Lizzie. He put his hand on her arm.
“Mither, ye’re no’ to gang. I――I’ll gang masel’.”
Then, indeed, Lizzie Robinson perceived that her boy was in danger of
becoming a man.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
To press the little black button at the door of his aunt’s handsome
west-end flat was the biggest thing Macgregor had ever done. As a
small boy he had feared his Aunt Purdie, as a schoolboy he had hated
her, as a youth he had despised her; his feelings towards her now were
not to be described, but it is certain that they included a well-nigh
overpowering sense of dread; indeed, the faint thrill of the electric
bell sent him back a pace towards the stair. His state of perspiration
gave place to one of miserable chillness.
A supercilious servant eyed his obviously “good” clothes and bade him
wait. Nevertheless, a sting was what Macgregor needed just then; it
roused the fighting spirit. When the servant returned, and in an aloof
fashion――as though, after all, it was none of her business――suggested
that he might enter, he was able to follow her across the hall, with
its thick rugs and pleasantly warm atmosphere, to the drawing-room,
without faltering. Less than might have been expected the grandeur of
his surroundings impressed――or depressed――him, for in the course of
his trade he had grown familiar with the houses of the rich. But he
had enough to face in the picture without looking at the frame.
Mrs. Purdie was seated at the side of the glowing hearth, apparently
absorbed in the perusal of a charitable society’s printed list of
donations.
“Your nephew, ma’am,” the servant respectfully announced and retired.
Mrs. Purdie rose in a manner intended to be languid. Macgregor had not
seen the large yet angular figure for two years. With his hat in his
left hand he went forward holding out his right. A stiff, brief
handshake followed.
“Well, Macgregor, this is quite an unexpected pleasure,” she said,
unsmiling, resuming her seat. “Take a chair. It is a considerable
period since I observed you last.” Time could not wither the flowers
of language for Mrs. Purdie. “You are getting quite a big boy. How old
are you now? Are your parents in good health?” She did not wait for
answers to these inquiries. “I am sorry your uncle is not at home. His
commercial pursuits confine him to his new and commodious premises
even on Saturday afternoons.” (At that moment Mr. Purdie was smoking a
pipe in the homely parlour of Christina’s uncle, awaiting his old
friend’s return from the theatre.) “His finance is exceedingly high at
present.” With a faint smack of her lips she paused, and cast an
inquiring glance at her visitor.
Macgregor saw the ice, so to speak, before him. The time had come. But
he did not go tapping round the edge. Gathering himself together, he
leaped blindly.
In a few ill-chosen words he blurted out his petition.
Then there fell an awful silence. And then――he could hardly believe
his own ears!
There are people in the world who seem hopelessly unloveable until
you――perforce, perhaps――ask of them a purely personal favour. There
may even be people who leave the world with their fountains of
goodwill still sealed simply because no one had the courage or the
need to break the seals for them. Until to-day the so-called favours
of Aunt Purdie had been mere patronage and cash payments.
Even now she could not help speaking patronisingly to Macgregor, but
through the patronage struggled a kindliness and sympathy of which her
relations so long used to her purse-pride, her affectations, her
absurdities, could never have imagined her capable. She made no
reference to the past; she suggested no difficulties for the present;
she cast no doubts upon the future. Her nephew, she declared, had done
wisely in coming to her; she would see to it that he got his chance.
It seemed to Macgregor that she promised him ten times all he would
have dreamed of asking. Finally she bade him stay to dinner and see
his uncle; then perceiving his anxiety to get home and possibly, also,
his dread of offending her by expressing it, she invited him for the
following Sunday evening, and sent him off with a full heart and a
light head.
* * * * *
He burst into the kitchen, bubbling over with his wonderful news.
During its recital John gave vent to noisy explosions of satisfaction,
Jeannie beamed happily, Jimsie stared at his transformed big brother,
and Lizzie, though listening with all her ears, began quietly to
prepare her son’s tea.
“An’ so she treated ye weel, Macgreegor,” said John, rubbing his
hands, while the speaker paused for words.
“She did that! An’ I’m to get dooble the wages I’m gettin’ the noo,
an’ I’ve to spend the half o’ them on night classes, for, ye see, I’m
to learn _everything_ aboot the business, an’ then――――”
Said Lizzie gently: “Wud ye like yer egg biled or fried, dearie?”
* * * * *
It was nearly eight o’clock when he reached the shop, and he decided
to wait at a short distance from the window until Christina came out.
He was not going to risk interruption by the old woman or a late
customer; he would tell his wonderful tale in the privacy of the busy
pavement, under the secrecy of the noisy street. Yet he was
desperately impatient, and with every minute after the striking of the
hour a fresh doubt assailed him.
At last the lights in the window went out, and the world grew
brighter. Presently he was moving to meet her, noting dimly that she
was wearing a bigger hat than heretofore.
She affected surprise at the sight of him, but not at his eagerly
whispered announcement:
“I’ve got it!”
“Good for you,” she said kindly, and refrained from asking him,
teasingly, where he thought he was going. “It was lovely at the
theatre,” she remarked, stepping forward.
“Dae ye no’ want to hear aboot it?” he asked, disappointed, catching
up with her.
“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Was yer uncle nice?”
“It was ma aunt,” he explained somewhat reluctantly, for he feared she
might laugh. But she only nodded understandingly, and, relieved, he
plunged into details.
“Ye’ve done fine,” she said when he had finished――for the time being,
at anyrate. “I’m afraid it’ll be you that’ll be wantin’ a private
secretary when I get that length.”
“Dinna laugh at me,” he murmured reproachfully.
“Dinna be ower serious, Mac,” she returned. “Ye’ll get on a’ the
better for bein’ able to tak’ a joke whiles. I’m as pleased as Punch
aboot it.”
He was more pleased, if possible. “If it hadna been for you,
Christina, I wud never ha’e had the neck to try it,” he said warmly.
“I believe ye!” she said quaintly.
“But it’s the truth――an’ I’ll never forget it.”
“A guid memory’s a gran’ thing! An’ when dae ye start wi’ yer uncle?”
“Monday week.”
“That’s quick work. Ye’ve beat me a’ to sticks. Dinna get swelled
heid!”
“Christina, I wish ye wudna――――”
“I canna help it. It’s the theatre, I suppose. Oh, I near forgot to
tell ye, yer uncle was in when we got hame frae the theatre. I hadna
time to speak to him, for I had to run back to the shop. Hadna even
time to change ma dress. I think yer uncle whiles gets tired o’ bein’
a rich man an’ livin’ in a swell house. Maybe _you’ll_ feel that way
some day.”
He let her run on, now and then glancing wistfully at her pretty,
animated face. The happiness, the triumph, he had anticipated were not
his. But all the more they were worth working for.
So they came to the place where she lived.
“Come up,” she said easily; “I tell’t auntie I wud maybe bring ye up
for supper.”
Doubtless it was the shock of gratification as much as anything that
caused him to hang back. She had actually mentioned him to her aunt!
“Will ma uncle be there?” he stammered at last.
“Na, na. Ye’ll see plenty o’ _him_ later on!”
“Maybe yer aunt winna be pleased――――”
“Come on, Mac! Ye’re ower shy for this world!” she laughed
encouragingly.
They went up together.
Christina had a latch-key, and on opening the door, said:
“Oh, they haven’t come home yet. Out for a walk, I suppose. But
they’ll be home in a minute. Come in. There’s a peg for your hat.”
She led the way into a fire-lit room and turned up the gas. Macgregor
saw a homely, cosy parlour, something like his grandfather’s at
Rothesay, but brighter generally. A round table was trimly laid for
supper. In the window a small table supported a typewriter and a pile
of printed and manuscript books, the sight of which gave him a sort of
sinking feeling.
“Sit down,” she said, indicating an easy-chair. “Auntie and uncle
won’t be long.”
He took an ordinary chair, and tried hard to look at his ease.
As she took off her hat at the mirror over the mantelpiece she
remarked: “You’ll like uncle at once, and you’ll like auntie before
long. She’s still a wee bit prim.”
He noticed that her speech had changed with entering the house, but
somehow the “genteel English” did not seem so unnatural now. He
supposed he would have to learn to speak it, too, presently.
“But she is the best woman in the world,” Christina continued, patting
her hair, “and she’ll be delighted about you going into your uncle’s
business. I think it was splendid of you managing your aunt so well.”
Macgregor smiled faintly. “I doobt it was her that managed me,” he
said. “But, Christina, I’ll no’ let her be sorry――nor――nor you
either.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get on quickly,” she said, gravely, bending to
unbutton her long coat.
“I intend to dae that,” he cried, uplifted by her words. “Gi’e me a
year or twa, an’ I’ll show ye!”
She slipped out of the coat, and stood for a moment, faintly smiling,
in her best frock, a simple thing of pale grey lustre relieved with
white, her best black shoes, her best thread stockings, her heavy
yellow plait over her left shoulder.
The boy caught his breath.
“Just a minute,” she said, and left the room to put away her coat and
hat.
Macgregor half turned in his chair, threw his arms upon the back and
pressed his brow to his wrist.
So she found him on her return.
“Sore head, Mac?” she asked gently, recovering from her surprise, and
going close to him.
“Let me gang,” he whispered; “I――I’ll never be guid enough.”
The slight sound of a key in the outer door reached the girl’s ears.
She gave her eyes an impatient little rub.
She laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Cheer up!” she said, almost roughly, and stooping quickly, she
touched her lips to his hair, so lightly, so tenderly, that he was not
aware.
Transcriber’s Note
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Dialect, inconsistent hyphenation, obsolete words and
misspellings were left unchanged.
The following were adjusted:
… unmoved, “an’ [added apostrophe], if …
… “He’s growin’ up, Lizzie.” [added missing close quote] …
… it doesna matter.” [deleted close quote] I’ll awa’ hame.” …