CHAPTER EIGHT“Ye’vebeen 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 thoughtaboot——”“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:“Inmahonest 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 coursehedidna 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 dinnawant——”“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:ANTIQUENOVEL GIFTMERELY 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 theRev.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 tothink——”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.
“Ye’vebeen 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 thoughtaboot——”
“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:
“Inmahonest 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 coursehedidna 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 dinnawant——”
“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 theRev.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 tothink——”
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.