J. J. BELL (continued 2)

“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.

During their absence Macgregor did his utmost to amuse Jimsie, who was 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.”

Macgregor regarded her with sorrow mingled with admiration. “But what 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.

Jessie Mary felt none the better of her outbreak. She went to bed 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.

“Hullo,” she said coolly, though not coldly.

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.

The affected surprise at the sight of him, but not at his eagerly whispered announcement: