CHAPTER FIVE“Mercy, laddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Robinson, as her son entered the kitchen, a little late for tea. “What ha’e ye been daein’ to yer face?”The colour induced by the question seemed almost to extinguish the hectic spot at Macgregor’s left cheek-bone.“Washin’ it,” he answered shortly, taking his accustomed chair.“But it’s cut.”“Tits, Lizzie!” muttered Mr. Robinson. “Are ye for toast, Macgreegor?”“He’s been shavin’ his whiskers,” said Jimsie. “Did ye no’ ken Macgreegor’s gettin’ whiskers, Maw?” he went on in spite of a warning pressure from sister Jeannie. “Paw, what way dae folk get whiskers?”“Dear knows,” returned his father briefly. “Lizzie, can ye no’ gi’e Macgreegor a cup o’ tea?”Lizzie lifted the cosy from the brown teapot. “Where did ye get the razor, Macgreegor?”“He hasna got a razor, Maw,” said Jimsie. “He does it wi’ a wee knife.”“Shurrup!” Macgreegor growled, whereupon Jimsie choked and his eyes filled with tears.“Macgreegor,” said his mother, “that’s no’ the way to speak to yer wee brither.”“Macgreegor,” said his sister, “I’ll mak’ ye a bit o’ hot toast, if ye like.”“Ay, Jeannie,” said John quickly, “mak’ him a bit o’ hot toast, an’ I’ll look after Jimsie.” He turned the conversation to the subject of a great vessel that had been launched into the Clyde that morning.Sullenly Macgregor took the cup from his mother’s hand and forthwith devoted his attention to his meal. Seldom had resentment taken such possession of his soul. Another word from his mother or Jimsie, and he would have retorted violently and flung out of the room. The mild intervention of his sister and father had saved a scene. Though his face cooled, his heart remained hot; though hungry, he ate little, including the freshly made toast, which he accepted with a gracelessness that probably shamed him even more than it hurt Jeannie. Poor sensitive, sulky youth!—a hedge-hog with its skin turned outside-in could not suffer more.For the first time in the course of his married life John Robinson really doubted Lizzie’s discretion. It was with much diffidence, however, that he referred to the matter after Macgregor had gone out, and while Jeannie was superintending Jimsie’s going to bed.“Lizzie,” he began, eyeing his cold pipe, “did ye happen to notice that Macgreegor was a wee thing offended the nicht?”Mrs. Robinson did not halt in her business of polishing a bread plate. “Macgreegor’s gettin’ ower easy offended,” she said, carelessly enough.John struck a match and held it without application to his pipe until the flame scorched his hardened fingers. “Speakin’ frae experience,” he said slowly, “there’s twa things that a young man tak’s vera serious-like. Thefirst——”“Wha’s the young man?”“Macgreegor.... Aw, Lizzie!”“Macgreegor’s a laddie.”“He’s a young man—an’ fine ye ken it, wife!”Lizzie put down the plate and took up another. “An’ what does he tak’ serious-like?” she enquired, coolly.“Firstly,” said John, with a great effort, and stuck.“Ye’ll be preachin’ a sermon directly,” said she. “Can ye no’ licht yer pipe an’ speak nateral?”“Hoo can I speak nateral when I ken ye’re makin’ a mock o’ me?”“Havers, man!” she said, becoming good-humoured lest he should lose his temper; “licht yer pipe. I’m listenin’.”John lit his pipe in exceedingly methodical fashion. “Weel, Lizzie,” he began at last, “I jist wanted to say that when a young man’s gettin’ hair on his face, ye—ye shouldna notice it.”“I didna notice it.”“Weel, ye shouldna refer to it.”“It was the cut I referred to.”John sucked at his pipe and scratched his head. “That’s true,” he admitted. “Still, if yer sister had a wudden leg, ye wudna refer to the noise on the stair. It wasna like ye, Lizzie, to hurt Macgreegor’s feelin’s.”Mrs. Robinson put down the plate with an unusual clatter. Hurt Macgreegor’s feelings!—She?—The idea! “Are ye feenished?” she snapped.John nerved himself. “There’s anither thing that it’s best no’ to refer to—anither thing that a young man tak’s vera serious-like. When a young man begins to tak’ an interest in thelassies——”“Oh, man, can ye no stop haverin’?” she cried. “Ha’e ye forgot the laddie’s age?”“It’s the shavin’ age, an’ thatmeans——”“Ma brither Rubbert was nineteen afore he put a razor to his face.”“Yer brither Rubbert was never what I wud ca’ a female fancier. Of course that wasna his fau’t; he was jist as the Lord made him, and he’s turned oot a vera successful man, an’ for a’ we ken his wife Sarah’s maybe better nor she’s bonny. But yer sonMacgreegor——”“Macgreegor wud never look at the lassies. He’s ower shy.”“Whiles it’s the kind that doesna look that leaps the furdest. But there’s waur things in the world nor razors and lassies,” said John, with a feeble laugh, “an’ I jist wanted to warn ye no’ to ask questions, even though ye should see Macgreegor weerin’ his Sunday tie every nicht in the week! I hope ye’re no’ offended, Lizzie.”But it is to be feared that Lizzie was offended just then. She had not been the better half for eighteen years without knowing it; she had grown to expect her easy-going husband’s cheerful acquiescence in practically all she did, and to regard her acceptance of his most mild remonstrances as a sort of favour. And now he was actually giving her advice concerning her treatment of her firstborn! It was too much for her pride.She set her mouth in a hard line, threw up her head, and proceeded with her polishing.John waited for a couple of minutes, then sighed and took up his evening paper.* * * * *Meanwhile Macgregor was having his troubles. He contrived to dodge Willie Thomson, who nowadays seemed always to be where he was not wanted, but the operation involved adetourof nearly a quarter of a mile, in the course of which he was held up by another youth of his acquaintance. Ten minutes were wasted in listening with ill-concealed impatience to fatuous observations on the recent play of certain professional footballers, and then he continued his journey only to fall, metaphorically speaking, into the arms of Jessie Mary emerging from a shop.“Hullo, Mac! I thought ye was deid!” was her blithe greeting, the “sausage roll” phrase having at long last served its day. “Ye’re in a hurry,” she added, “but so am I, so ye can walk back to the corner wi’ me.”Macgregor mumbled something to the effect that he was in no special hurry, and, possibly in order to give a touch of truth to his falsehood, turned and accompanied her.“Ye’ve no’ been gi’ein’ the girls a treat lately,” she remarked. “I ha’ena noticed ye floatin’ aroun’. Ha’e ye been keepin’ the hoose at nicht?”“Whiles,” he replied, and enquired with some haste, “Hoo did ye enjoy the dance last week, Jessie?”“Oh, dinna mention it!” she cried, with a toss of her head. “I didna gang to it.”“Ye didna gang to the dance!”“If I had went, it wud ha’e meant bloodshed,” she impressively informed him. “Ye see, there was twa chaps implorin’ me to gang wi’ them, an’ they got that fierce aboot it that I seen it wudna ha’e been safe to gang wi’ either. A riot in a ballroom is no’ a nice thing. An’ if I had went wi’ a third party, it wud ha’e been as much ashislife was worth. So I jist bided at hame.”Macgregor began, but was not allowed to complete, a sympathetic remark.“Oh, I was glad I didna gang. The dance turned oot to be a second-rate affair entirely—no’ half-a-dizzen shirt fronts in the comp’ny. An’ I believe there wasna three o’ the men could dance for nuts, an’ the refreshments was rotten.”They had now reached the appointed corner.“Jist as weel ye didna gang, then,” absently said Macgregor, halting.“Come up to the close,” said Jessie Mary. “I’ve something to show ye. Ay; it was jist as weel, as ye say. But there’s a champion dance comin’ off on the nineteenth o’ November—the young men o’ the hosiery department are gettin’ it up—naething second-rate abootit. Ye should come to it, Macgreegor.” She touched his arm—unintentionally perhaps. “Plenty o’ pretty girls—though I wudna guarantee their dancin’. I’ve no’ decided yet wha I’ll gang wi’.” She paused. Macgregor did not speak. “Ye see, I’m parteec’lar wha I dance wi’,” she went on softly, “an’ I expec’ you’re the same. Some girls are like bags o’ flour an’ ithers are like telegraph poles, but there’ll be few o’ that sort at the hosiery dance. An’ onyway”—she laughed—“ye could aye fa’ back onthisgirl—eh?”“I dinna think ye wud be that hard up for a partner,” said Macgregor, suddenly stimulated by a flash of her eyes in the lamplight. “But I’m no’ awfu’ keen on the dancin’.”“Ye danced fine when ye was a wee laddie. I mind when ye danced the Highland Fling in the kitchen, on Hogmanay. That was the nicht I had to kiss ye to get ye oot o’ the ring. Ye was ower shy to kiss me. An’ you an’ Wullie Thomson started the fightin’, because he laughed. D’ye mind?”“That’s an auld story,” he said, with embarrassment.“I suppose it is,” she admitted reluctantly. Then cheerfully: “Weel, here we are! But wait till I let ye see something.” She halted at the mouth of the close and began to unbutton her jacket.“Ye’ve never seen the belt since ye gi’ed it to me, Macgreegor. I weer it whiles in the evenin’. There ye are! It looks fine, does it no’? Maybe a wee thing wide. I could dae wi’ it an inch or twa tighter. Feel.”She took his hand and slid his fingers between the metal and the white cotton blouse. Jessie Mary had at least one quite admirable characteristic: she doted on white garments and took pride in their spotlessness. A very elemental sense for the beautiful, yet who dare despise it? In these grimy days purity of any kind is great gain.This girl’s hunger for the homage and admiration of the other sex was not so much abnormal as unrestrained. Her apparent lack of modesty was in reality a superabundance of simplicity—witness her shallow artifices and transparent little dishonesties which deceived few save herself and the callowest of youths. Men “took their fun off her.” And even Macgregor was not to be entrapped now. There is nothing so dead as the fallen fancy of a boy. Moreover, Macgregor was still at the stage when a girl’s face is her whole fortune, when the trimmest waist and the prettiest curves are no assets whatsoever.For a moment or two he fingered the belt, awkwardly, to be sure, but with as much emotion as though it were a dog’s collar.“Ay,” he said, “ye’re ower jimp for it.” And put his hand in his pocket.Then, indeed, it was forced on Jessie Mary that somehow her charms had failed to hold her youngest admirer. The knowledge rankled. Yet she carried it off fairly well.“Ye’re no’ the first to tell me I’ve an extra sma’ waist,” she said, with a toss of her head. Then, as if struck by a remembrance of some duty or engagement: “But I’ve nae mair time to stan’ gassin’ wi’ you. So long!” She ran briskly up the stone stair, humming a popular tune.“So long,” returned Macgregor, and resumed his interrupted journey, rather pleased than otherwise with himself. He realised, though not in so many words, that he had conducted himself in more manly fashion than ever before. It did not for a moment occur to him that he had left a big “Why?” behind him, not only in the mind of Jessie Mary, but in Willie Thomson’s also.* * * * *His pilgrimage ended at the illuminated window of M. Tod’s stationery and fancy goods shop. Jingling the few coppers in his pockets, he appeared to be deliberating a weighty problem of extensive purchases, while, as a matter of fact, he inwardly debated the most profitable ways of wasting a penny. While he would now gladly have given all he possessed—to wit, ninepence—to win a smile from the girl with the scarlet blouse and the ripe-corn-yellow pigtail, he was not prepared to squander more than he could help for the benefit of her employer. The opaque panels at the back of the window were closed, the door of the shop was composed chiefly of ground glass; wherefore he had no inkling as to which person he was likely to encounter at the receipt of custom. He was hoping and waiting for a customer to enter the shop, so that he might gain a glimpse of the interior with the opening of the door, when suddenly the lights in the window were lowered. Evidently it was near to closing time.Hastily deciding to “burst” the sum of one penny on the purchase of a pencil—an article for which he had more respect than use—he entered the doorway and turned the handle. He had forgotten the spring bell. When he pushed the door inwards, it “struck one”—right from the shoulder, so to speak. Who will assert that the ordinary healthy youth has no nerves? ’Tis a hoggishly healthy youth who does not bustle with them. The sturdy Macgregor wavered on the threshold; and as he wavered he heard behind him a badly stifled guffaw.Next moment a hearty push in the small of the back propelled him into the shop. With a hot countenance he pulled up, guessing who had pushed him, and strove to look as if this were his usual mode of entering a place of business. In his confusion he missed the quick glance of the girl seated at the desk on the window-end of the counter. Her head was bent low over her writing. He noticed, however, that she was wearing a white blouse—which did not remind him of Jessie Mary—and that she had a scarlet bow at her neck.“Yes, sir?” A mouse-like human being slipped from the back of the shop to the middle point of the counter. “Yes, sir?” it repeated, with an accent on the query. The girl at the desk took no notice.Macgregor approached. “I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said in the tone of one requesting a pint of prussic acid.“A pencil!” exclaimed the mouse-like human being, as though she had a dim recollection of hearing of such a thing long, long ago. “A pencil—oh, certainly,” she added, more hopefully.“Penny or ha’penny,” murmured the girl at the desk.“Penny or ha’penny?” demanded the mouse-like human being, almost pertly.Men didn’t expect change out of a penny! “A penny yin,” said Macgregor with an attempt at indifference. He tried to look at the girl, but could not get his eyes higher than her elbow.“A penny pencil!” The mouse-like human being assumed an expression suitable to a person who has just discovered the precise situation of the North Pole, but not the Pole itself.“Top drawer on your left, Miss Tod,” whispered the girl at the desk.“Quite so, Christina,” Miss Tod replied with dignity. There were times when she might have been accused of copying her assistant’s manners. She opened the drawer, which was a deep one, peered into it, groped, and brought forth three bundles of pencils. With sudden mildness she enquired of the girl: “These?... Those?”“No; them!” said Christina, forgetting her grammar and grabbing the third bundle. “Wait a minute.” She slipped lightly from her stool and gently edged M. Tod from the position at the counter which had been familiar to the latter for five-and-thirty years. “This,” she said to Macgregor, laying the bundle in front of him, “is a special line. One dozen—price threepence.” She looked over his head in a manner suggesting that it was quite immaterial to her whether he purchased the dozen or faded away on the spot.But he had his dignity too. Producing three pennies from two pockets, he laid them on the counter, took up the bundle of pencils, said “Thank ye” to nobody in particular, and marched out. Nor did he forget to close the door behind him.The stationer and her assistant regarded each other for several seconds.“Dae ye think,” said M. Tod slowly, “that that young man is a newspaper reporter?”“No,” replied Christina, with a sniff or two of her straight little nose.“Or a pictur’ artist?” said M. Tod, conveying the two bundles to the wrong drawer.Christina, without a word, recovered them and put them into their proper places. She mounted her stool and whipped up a pen.M. Tod sighed. “I never used to keep pencils at that price. They canna be vera guid.”“They’re rotten.”“Oh, lassie!”“Sell—or gang bankrupt,” said Christina with enough bitter cynicism for twenty-one. “There’s a penny profit on the bundle.Ex—cuse me.” She dipped her pen.* * * * *As Macgregor was nearing his home, a prey to misery and wroth, a grinning face popped from a close-mouth.“Haw! haw! Macgreegor! So ye’re courtin’, are ye?”As the clock incontinently strikes when the hour has come, so struck Macgregor. And he struck so hard, that it was afterwards necessary he should see Willie Thomson to the latter’s door. Alone again, he cast the bundle of pencils into a dark entry and made his way home.His father opened the door, smiling a welcome. “Weel,Macgreegor——”“I’m wearied,” said the boy, and passed straightway to his room and bolted the door. Jimsie was sleeping like a log, and was, as usual, occupying most of the bed.Macgregor stood at the old chest of drawers that served as dressing-table, his elbows planted thereon, his face in his hands. Hewaswearied.But under his tired eyes lay a small oblong package with a covering of newspaper. The neatness of it made him think of his mother; she had a way of making next to nothing look something important in a parcel.Presently, wondering a little, he undid the paper.It contained one of his father’s old razors.Five minutes later he was enjoying arealshave. The luxury was only exceeded by the importance he felt! And only two cuts that bled worth mentioning....How one’s life may be changed in two short hours!But Macgregor was still without regret for having flung the pencils into the dark entry.
“Mercy, laddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Robinson, as her son entered the kitchen, a little late for tea. “What ha’e ye been daein’ to yer face?”
The colour induced by the question seemed almost to extinguish the hectic spot at Macgregor’s left cheek-bone.
“Washin’ it,” he answered shortly, taking his accustomed chair.
“But it’s cut.”
“Tits, Lizzie!” muttered Mr. Robinson. “Are ye for toast, Macgreegor?”
“He’s been shavin’ his whiskers,” said Jimsie. “Did ye no’ ken Macgreegor’s gettin’ whiskers, Maw?” he went on in spite of a warning pressure from sister Jeannie. “Paw, what way dae folk get whiskers?”
“Dear knows,” returned his father briefly. “Lizzie, can ye no’ gi’e Macgreegor a cup o’ tea?”
Lizzie lifted the cosy from the brown teapot. “Where did ye get the razor, Macgreegor?”
“He hasna got a razor, Maw,” said Jimsie. “He does it wi’ a wee knife.”
“Shurrup!” Macgreegor growled, whereupon Jimsie choked and his eyes filled with tears.
“Macgreegor,” said his mother, “that’s no’ the way to speak to yer wee brither.”
“Macgreegor,” said his sister, “I’ll mak’ ye a bit o’ hot toast, if ye like.”
“Ay, Jeannie,” said John quickly, “mak’ him a bit o’ hot toast, an’ I’ll look after Jimsie.” He turned the conversation to the subject of a great vessel that had been launched into the Clyde that morning.
Sullenly Macgregor took the cup from his mother’s hand and forthwith devoted his attention to his meal. Seldom had resentment taken such possession of his soul. Another word from his mother or Jimsie, and he would have retorted violently and flung out of the room. The mild intervention of his sister and father had saved a scene. Though his face cooled, his heart remained hot; though hungry, he ate little, including the freshly made toast, which he accepted with a gracelessness that probably shamed him even more than it hurt Jeannie. Poor sensitive, sulky youth!—a hedge-hog with its skin turned outside-in could not suffer more.
For the first time in the course of his married life John Robinson really doubted Lizzie’s discretion. It was with much diffidence, however, that he referred to the matter after Macgregor had gone out, and while Jeannie was superintending Jimsie’s going to bed.
“Lizzie,” he began, eyeing his cold pipe, “did ye happen to notice that Macgreegor was a wee thing offended the nicht?”
Mrs. Robinson did not halt in her business of polishing a bread plate. “Macgreegor’s gettin’ ower easy offended,” she said, carelessly enough.
John struck a match and held it without application to his pipe until the flame scorched his hardened fingers. “Speakin’ frae experience,” he said slowly, “there’s twa things that a young man tak’s vera serious-like. Thefirst——”
“Wha’s the young man?”
“Macgreegor.... Aw, Lizzie!”
“Macgreegor’s a laddie.”
“He’s a young man—an’ fine ye ken it, wife!”
Lizzie put down the plate and took up another. “An’ what does he tak’ serious-like?” she enquired, coolly.
“Firstly,” said John, with a great effort, and stuck.
“Ye’ll be preachin’ a sermon directly,” said she. “Can ye no’ licht yer pipe an’ speak nateral?”
“Hoo can I speak nateral when I ken ye’re makin’ a mock o’ me?”
“Havers, man!” she said, becoming good-humoured lest he should lose his temper; “licht yer pipe. I’m listenin’.”
John lit his pipe in exceedingly methodical fashion. “Weel, Lizzie,” he began at last, “I jist wanted to say that when a young man’s gettin’ hair on his face, ye—ye shouldna notice it.”
“I didna notice it.”
“Weel, ye shouldna refer to it.”
“It was the cut I referred to.”
John sucked at his pipe and scratched his head. “That’s true,” he admitted. “Still, if yer sister had a wudden leg, ye wudna refer to the noise on the stair. It wasna like ye, Lizzie, to hurt Macgreegor’s feelin’s.”
Mrs. Robinson put down the plate with an unusual clatter. Hurt Macgreegor’s feelings!—She?—The idea! “Are ye feenished?” she snapped.
John nerved himself. “There’s anither thing that it’s best no’ to refer to—anither thing that a young man tak’s vera serious-like. When a young man begins to tak’ an interest in thelassies——”
“Oh, man, can ye no stop haverin’?” she cried. “Ha’e ye forgot the laddie’s age?”
“It’s the shavin’ age, an’ thatmeans——”
“Ma brither Rubbert was nineteen afore he put a razor to his face.”
“Yer brither Rubbert was never what I wud ca’ a female fancier. Of course that wasna his fau’t; he was jist as the Lord made him, and he’s turned oot a vera successful man, an’ for a’ we ken his wife Sarah’s maybe better nor she’s bonny. But yer sonMacgreegor——”
“Macgreegor wud never look at the lassies. He’s ower shy.”
“Whiles it’s the kind that doesna look that leaps the furdest. But there’s waur things in the world nor razors and lassies,” said John, with a feeble laugh, “an’ I jist wanted to warn ye no’ to ask questions, even though ye should see Macgreegor weerin’ his Sunday tie every nicht in the week! I hope ye’re no’ offended, Lizzie.”
But it is to be feared that Lizzie was offended just then. She had not been the better half for eighteen years without knowing it; she had grown to expect her easy-going husband’s cheerful acquiescence in practically all she did, and to regard her acceptance of his most mild remonstrances as a sort of favour. And now he was actually giving her advice concerning her treatment of her firstborn! It was too much for her pride.
She set her mouth in a hard line, threw up her head, and proceeded with her polishing.
John waited for a couple of minutes, then sighed and took up his evening paper.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Macgregor was having his troubles. He contrived to dodge Willie Thomson, who nowadays seemed always to be where he was not wanted, but the operation involved adetourof nearly a quarter of a mile, in the course of which he was held up by another youth of his acquaintance. Ten minutes were wasted in listening with ill-concealed impatience to fatuous observations on the recent play of certain professional footballers, and then he continued his journey only to fall, metaphorically speaking, into the arms of Jessie Mary emerging from a shop.
“Hullo, Mac! I thought ye was deid!” was her blithe greeting, the “sausage roll” phrase having at long last served its day. “Ye’re in a hurry,” she added, “but so am I, so ye can walk back to the corner wi’ me.”
Macgregor mumbled something to the effect that he was in no special hurry, and, possibly in order to give a touch of truth to his falsehood, turned and accompanied her.
“Ye’ve no’ been gi’ein’ the girls a treat lately,” she remarked. “I ha’ena noticed ye floatin’ aroun’. Ha’e ye been keepin’ the hoose at nicht?”
“Whiles,” he replied, and enquired with some haste, “Hoo did ye enjoy the dance last week, Jessie?”
“Oh, dinna mention it!” she cried, with a toss of her head. “I didna gang to it.”
“Ye didna gang to the dance!”
“If I had went, it wud ha’e meant bloodshed,” she impressively informed him. “Ye see, there was twa chaps implorin’ me to gang wi’ them, an’ they got that fierce aboot it that I seen it wudna ha’e been safe to gang wi’ either. A riot in a ballroom is no’ a nice thing. An’ if I had went wi’ a third party, it wud ha’e been as much ashislife was worth. So I jist bided at hame.”
Macgregor began, but was not allowed to complete, a sympathetic remark.
“Oh, I was glad I didna gang. The dance turned oot to be a second-rate affair entirely—no’ half-a-dizzen shirt fronts in the comp’ny. An’ I believe there wasna three o’ the men could dance for nuts, an’ the refreshments was rotten.”
They had now reached the appointed corner.
“Jist as weel ye didna gang, then,” absently said Macgregor, halting.
“Come up to the close,” said Jessie Mary. “I’ve something to show ye. Ay; it was jist as weel, as ye say. But there’s a champion dance comin’ off on the nineteenth o’ November—the young men o’ the hosiery department are gettin’ it up—naething second-rate abootit. Ye should come to it, Macgreegor.” She touched his arm—unintentionally perhaps. “Plenty o’ pretty girls—though I wudna guarantee their dancin’. I’ve no’ decided yet wha I’ll gang wi’.” She paused. Macgregor did not speak. “Ye see, I’m parteec’lar wha I dance wi’,” she went on softly, “an’ I expec’ you’re the same. Some girls are like bags o’ flour an’ ithers are like telegraph poles, but there’ll be few o’ that sort at the hosiery dance. An’ onyway”—she laughed—“ye could aye fa’ back onthisgirl—eh?”
“I dinna think ye wud be that hard up for a partner,” said Macgregor, suddenly stimulated by a flash of her eyes in the lamplight. “But I’m no’ awfu’ keen on the dancin’.”
“Ye danced fine when ye was a wee laddie. I mind when ye danced the Highland Fling in the kitchen, on Hogmanay. That was the nicht I had to kiss ye to get ye oot o’ the ring. Ye was ower shy to kiss me. An’ you an’ Wullie Thomson started the fightin’, because he laughed. D’ye mind?”
“That’s an auld story,” he said, with embarrassment.
“I suppose it is,” she admitted reluctantly. Then cheerfully: “Weel, here we are! But wait till I let ye see something.” She halted at the mouth of the close and began to unbutton her jacket.
“Ye’ve never seen the belt since ye gi’ed it to me, Macgreegor. I weer it whiles in the evenin’. There ye are! It looks fine, does it no’? Maybe a wee thing wide. I could dae wi’ it an inch or twa tighter. Feel.”
She took his hand and slid his fingers between the metal and the white cotton blouse. Jessie Mary had at least one quite admirable characteristic: she doted on white garments and took pride in their spotlessness. A very elemental sense for the beautiful, yet who dare despise it? In these grimy days purity of any kind is great gain.
This girl’s hunger for the homage and admiration of the other sex was not so much abnormal as unrestrained. Her apparent lack of modesty was in reality a superabundance of simplicity—witness her shallow artifices and transparent little dishonesties which deceived few save herself and the callowest of youths. Men “took their fun off her.” And even Macgregor was not to be entrapped now. There is nothing so dead as the fallen fancy of a boy. Moreover, Macgregor was still at the stage when a girl’s face is her whole fortune, when the trimmest waist and the prettiest curves are no assets whatsoever.
For a moment or two he fingered the belt, awkwardly, to be sure, but with as much emotion as though it were a dog’s collar.
“Ay,” he said, “ye’re ower jimp for it.” And put his hand in his pocket.
Then, indeed, it was forced on Jessie Mary that somehow her charms had failed to hold her youngest admirer. The knowledge rankled. Yet she carried it off fairly well.
“Ye’re no’ the first to tell me I’ve an extra sma’ waist,” she said, with a toss of her head. Then, as if struck by a remembrance of some duty or engagement: “But I’ve nae mair time to stan’ gassin’ wi’ you. So long!” She ran briskly up the stone stair, humming a popular tune.
“So long,” returned Macgregor, and resumed his interrupted journey, rather pleased than otherwise with himself. He realised, though not in so many words, that he had conducted himself in more manly fashion than ever before. It did not for a moment occur to him that he had left a big “Why?” behind him, not only in the mind of Jessie Mary, but in Willie Thomson’s also.
* * * * *
His pilgrimage ended at the illuminated window of M. Tod’s stationery and fancy goods shop. Jingling the few coppers in his pockets, he appeared to be deliberating a weighty problem of extensive purchases, while, as a matter of fact, he inwardly debated the most profitable ways of wasting a penny. While he would now gladly have given all he possessed—to wit, ninepence—to win a smile from the girl with the scarlet blouse and the ripe-corn-yellow pigtail, he was not prepared to squander more than he could help for the benefit of her employer. The opaque panels at the back of the window were closed, the door of the shop was composed chiefly of ground glass; wherefore he had no inkling as to which person he was likely to encounter at the receipt of custom. He was hoping and waiting for a customer to enter the shop, so that he might gain a glimpse of the interior with the opening of the door, when suddenly the lights in the window were lowered. Evidently it was near to closing time.
Hastily deciding to “burst” the sum of one penny on the purchase of a pencil—an article for which he had more respect than use—he entered the doorway and turned the handle. He had forgotten the spring bell. When he pushed the door inwards, it “struck one”—right from the shoulder, so to speak. Who will assert that the ordinary healthy youth has no nerves? ’Tis a hoggishly healthy youth who does not bustle with them. The sturdy Macgregor wavered on the threshold; and as he wavered he heard behind him a badly stifled guffaw.
Next moment a hearty push in the small of the back propelled him into the shop. With a hot countenance he pulled up, guessing who had pushed him, and strove to look as if this were his usual mode of entering a place of business. In his confusion he missed the quick glance of the girl seated at the desk on the window-end of the counter. Her head was bent low over her writing. He noticed, however, that she was wearing a white blouse—which did not remind him of Jessie Mary—and that she had a scarlet bow at her neck.
“Yes, sir?” A mouse-like human being slipped from the back of the shop to the middle point of the counter. “Yes, sir?” it repeated, with an accent on the query. The girl at the desk took no notice.
Macgregor approached. “I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said in the tone of one requesting a pint of prussic acid.
“A pencil!” exclaimed the mouse-like human being, as though she had a dim recollection of hearing of such a thing long, long ago. “A pencil—oh, certainly,” she added, more hopefully.
“Penny or ha’penny,” murmured the girl at the desk.
“Penny or ha’penny?” demanded the mouse-like human being, almost pertly.
Men didn’t expect change out of a penny! “A penny yin,” said Macgregor with an attempt at indifference. He tried to look at the girl, but could not get his eyes higher than her elbow.
“A penny pencil!” The mouse-like human being assumed an expression suitable to a person who has just discovered the precise situation of the North Pole, but not the Pole itself.
“Top drawer on your left, Miss Tod,” whispered the girl at the desk.
“Quite so, Christina,” Miss Tod replied with dignity. There were times when she might have been accused of copying her assistant’s manners. She opened the drawer, which was a deep one, peered into it, groped, and brought forth three bundles of pencils. With sudden mildness she enquired of the girl: “These?... Those?”
“No; them!” said Christina, forgetting her grammar and grabbing the third bundle. “Wait a minute.” She slipped lightly from her stool and gently edged M. Tod from the position at the counter which had been familiar to the latter for five-and-thirty years. “This,” she said to Macgregor, laying the bundle in front of him, “is a special line. One dozen—price threepence.” She looked over his head in a manner suggesting that it was quite immaterial to her whether he purchased the dozen or faded away on the spot.
But he had his dignity too. Producing three pennies from two pockets, he laid them on the counter, took up the bundle of pencils, said “Thank ye” to nobody in particular, and marched out. Nor did he forget to close the door behind him.
The stationer and her assistant regarded each other for several seconds.
“Dae ye think,” said M. Tod slowly, “that that young man is a newspaper reporter?”
“No,” replied Christina, with a sniff or two of her straight little nose.
“Or a pictur’ artist?” said M. Tod, conveying the two bundles to the wrong drawer.
Christina, without a word, recovered them and put them into their proper places. She mounted her stool and whipped up a pen.
M. Tod sighed. “I never used to keep pencils at that price. They canna be vera guid.”
“They’re rotten.”
“Oh, lassie!”
“Sell—or gang bankrupt,” said Christina with enough bitter cynicism for twenty-one. “There’s a penny profit on the bundle.Ex—cuse me.” She dipped her pen.
* * * * *
As Macgregor was nearing his home, a prey to misery and wroth, a grinning face popped from a close-mouth.
“Haw! haw! Macgreegor! So ye’re courtin’, are ye?”
As the clock incontinently strikes when the hour has come, so struck Macgregor. And he struck so hard, that it was afterwards necessary he should see Willie Thomson to the latter’s door. Alone again, he cast the bundle of pencils into a dark entry and made his way home.
His father opened the door, smiling a welcome. “Weel,Macgreegor——”
“I’m wearied,” said the boy, and passed straightway to his room and bolted the door. Jimsie was sleeping like a log, and was, as usual, occupying most of the bed.
Macgregor stood at the old chest of drawers that served as dressing-table, his elbows planted thereon, his face in his hands. Hewaswearied.
But under his tired eyes lay a small oblong package with a covering of newspaper. The neatness of it made him think of his mother; she had a way of making next to nothing look something important in a parcel.
Presently, wondering a little, he undid the paper.
It contained one of his father’s old razors.
Five minutes later he was enjoying arealshave. The luxury was only exceeded by the importance he felt! And only two cuts that bled worth mentioning....
How one’s life may be changed in two short hours!
But Macgregor was still without regret for having flung the pencils into the dark entry.