CHAPTER FOURForsome weeks Macgregor had nourished an idea of making the birthday presentation with his own hands. In fancy he had beheld his own gallant proffering of the gifts, and Jessie Mary’s shy acceptance of the same. Why he should have foreseen himself bold and Jessie Mary bashful is a question that may be left to those who have the profound insight necessary to diagnose the delicate workings of a youthful and lovelorn imagination. At the same time he had harboured many hopeful fears and fearful hopes, but to divulge these in detail would be sacrilege.On the day following the purchase of the gifts, however, his original plan, so simple and straightforward, would seem to have lost something of its attractiveness. Perhaps he was suddenly assailed by the cowardice of modesty; possibly he argued, in effect, that the offering would gain in importance by impersonal delivery. At all events, he endeavoured, on the way to church, to borrow from Willie Thomson the sum of threepence—the charge for delivery demanded by a heartless post-office. Unfortunately Willie’s finances just then were in a most miserable state, so much so that on this very morning he had been compelled to threaten his aunt, with whom and on whom he lived, with the awful vow never to enter a church again unless she supplied him with twopence on the spot. (This, of course, in addition to the customary penny for “the plate.”)He jingled the coins in his pocket while he confided to Macgregor his tale of a hard world, and continued to do so while he waited for the sympathy which past experience of his friend led him to expect.It was therefore something of a shock to Willie when Macgregor, privately fondling the penny which he had not spent on a birthday card, replied: “I could manage wi’ the tuppence, Wullie. An’ I’ll pay ye back on Seturday, sure.”“Eh?” Willie stopped jingling and clutched his coins tightly.Macgregor repeated his words hopefully.“Aw, but I canna len’ ye the tuppence,” said Willie, almost resentfully; adding, “But I’ll gi’e ye a ceegarette or twa when I buy some.”“I’m no’ wantin’ yer ceegarettes,” Macgregor returned, his eyes on the pavement.Willie shot at him a curious glance. “What for d’ye want the tuppence? Ha’e ye been bettin’ on horses?”For a moment Macgregor was tempted to plead guilty of that or any other crime on the chance of gaining the other’s sympathies and pence. Instead, however, he answered with caution: “I’ll maybe tell ye, if ye’ll len’ me the tuppence.”Willie laughed. “I’m no’ sae green. Ye best get yer fayther to gi’e ye the money.”“Clay up!” snapped Macgregor, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.Had the money been required for any other object in the world, Macgregor would probably have gone straightway to his father and frankly asked for it. But the limits of confidence between son and parent are reached when the subject is a girl. Nevertheless, it was to the boy’s credit that he never dreamed of attempting to obtain his father’s help under false pretences.That night he came to the dismal decision to deliver the package himself at Jessie Mary’s door, at an hour when Jessie Mary would be certain to be out. There was nothing else for it, as far as he could see just then.The following morning’s light found him at his work—no longer, alas! in the far west-end with its windfall of pennies for the car, but in the heart of the city. The man under whom he worked found him so slow and stupid that he threatened to report him to his employer. Altogether it was a dreary day, and Macgregor, who usually paid enough attention to his duties to escape the burden of time, was more than glad when the last working hour had dragged to its close.He went home by an unaccustomed though not entirely unfamiliar route. It led him past the shop wherein he had made the birthday purchases on Saturday afternoon. The window was more brightly illuminated than the majority of its neighbours; the garish contents were even more attractive than in daylight. Macgregor found himself regarding them with a half-hearted interest. Presently he noticed that one of the sliding glass panels at the back of the window was open a few inches. This aperture permitted him to see the following: A hand writing a letter on a sloping desk, a long plait of fair hair over a scarlet shoulder, and a youthful profile with an expression very much in earnest yet cheerful withal.Macgregor could not help watching the writer, and he continued to do so for several minutes with increasingly lively interest. He was even wondering to whom the letter might be written, when the writer, having dipped her pen too deeply, made a horrid, big blot. She frowned and for an instant put out her tongue. Then, having regarded the blot for a space with a thoughtful gaze, she seized the pen and with a few deft touches transformed the blot into the semblance of a black beetle. Whereupon she smiled with such transparent delight that Macgregor smiled also.“What are ye grinnin’ at?” said a voice at his elbow.He turned to discover Willie Thomson. At no time in the whole course of their friendship had he felt a keener desire to hit Willie on his impudent nose. “Naething,” he muttered shortly. “Are ye gaun hame?”“Ay,” said Willie, noting the other’s discomposure, but not referring to it directly. “This isna yer usual road hame.”“Depends whaur I’m comin’ frae,” returned Macgregor, quickening his pace. “Ha’e ye got a job yet, Wullie?” he enquired more graciously.“I tried yin the day, but it’s no’ gaun to suit me. But I’ve earned ninepence. I can len’ ye thon thruppence, if ye like.”“Aw, I’m no’ needin’ it noo.”“Weel, ha’e a ceegarette.” Willie produced a yellow packet.“Na, I’m no’ smokin’, Wullie.”“What’s wrang wi’ ye?”“Naething.... What sort of job was ye tryin’?”Willie told him, and thereafter proceeded to recount as many grievances as there had been hours in his working day. Macgregor encouraged him to enter into all sorts of detail, so that home was reached without reference to the shop window which had caused him amusement.“So long,” said Willie, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Maybe see ye later.”“Ah, it’s likely,” Macgregor replied, and turned into the close, glad to escape.“Haud on!” cried Willie.“What?” Macgregor halted with reluctance.Willie sniggered. “I seen ye wi’ Jessie Mary the ither nicht.”“Did ye?” retorted Macgregor feebly.“Ay; an’ if I was you, I wud let girls alane. They’re nae fun, an’ they’re awfu’ expensive.”With which sage advice Willie walked off.Macgregor made up his mind not to leave the house that evening, yet eight o’clock found him at the foot of the street wherein Jessie Mary lived. But he did not go up the street, and at the end of five minutes he strolled the way he had taken two hours earlier. As he approached a certain shop the light in its window went out. He marched home quickly, looking neither right nor left.* * * * *On the following evening he hired a small boy for the sum of one halfpenny to deliver the package to Jessie Mary at her abode, and straightway returned to the parental fireside, where he blushed at the welcome accorded him.That night, however, fate willed it that John Robinson should run out of tobacco. Macgregor, who had been extremely restless, expressed himself ready to step down to the tobacco shop in the main street.Here it must be mentioned that the gifts had reached Jessie Mary at precisely the right moment. They had raised her spirits from the depths of despair to at least the lower heights of hope. Only an hour before their arrival she had learned how the young man with the exquisite moustache had treacherously invited another young lady to accompany him to the Ironmongers’ dance; and although to the ordinary mind this may appear to have been the simple result of a lack of superhuman patience on the young man’s part, Jessie Mary could perceive in it nothing but the uttermost perfidy. So that until the arrival of Macgregor’s present—“to J. M. from M. with best wishes” (an “l” had been scraped out where the second “w” now stood)—she had felt like tearing the pink frock to tatters and preparing for the tomb.* * * * *They met near the tobacconist’s—on Macgregor’s home side, by the way—and he could not have looked more guilty had he sent her an infernal machine.“It was awful kind o’ ye,” she said sweetly; “jistawfulkind.”“Aw, it was naething,” he stammered.“They’re jist lovely, an’ that fashionable,” she went on, and gradually led the conversation to the subject of the United Ironmongers’ dance.“Ye should come,” she said, “an’ see hoo nice I look wi’ them on. The belt’ll be lovely wi’ ma pink frock. An’ the combs was surely made for black hair like mines. Of course I tried them on the minute I got them.”“Did ye?” murmured Macgregor. Where was all the feverish joy, the soft rapture anticipated three nights ago? “Did ye?”—that was all he said.She made allowance for his youth and the bashfulness she had so often experienced. “Macgreegor,” she whispered, slipping her hand through his arm, in the darkness of the street leading to her home, “Macgreegor, I believe I wud suner dance wi’ you than onybody else.”Macgregor seemed to have nothing to say. The touch of her hand was pleasant, and yet he was uneasy.“Macgreegor,” she said presently, a little breathlessly, “I’m no’ heedin’ aboot ony o’ the chaps that wants to tak’ me to the dance. If ye had a ticket——” She paused. They had halted in the close-mouth, as it is locally termed. “I’m sayin’, Macgreegor, if ye had a ticket——” She paused again.The boy felt foolish and wretched. “But I canna gang to the dance, Jessie Mary,” he managed to say.She leaned closer to him. “It’ll be a splendid dance—at least”—she looked at him boldly—“it wud be splendid if you and me was gaun thegether.”In his wildest of wild dreams he may have thought of kissing this girl. He might have done it now—quite easily.But he didn’t—he couldn’t.“Na; I canna gang,” he said. “An’—an’ ma fayther’ll be waitin’ for his tobacco. Guidnicht.” He glanced at her with a miserable smile, and departed—bolted.Poor Jessie Mary with her little natural vanities!Poor Macgregor! He went home hot and ashamed—he could not have told why. He did not grudge the gifts, yet vaguely wished he had not given them.And he dreamed that night of, among other queer things, a shop window, a plait of fair hair on a scarlet shoulder, and a black beetle.
Forsome weeks Macgregor had nourished an idea of making the birthday presentation with his own hands. In fancy he had beheld his own gallant proffering of the gifts, and Jessie Mary’s shy acceptance of the same. Why he should have foreseen himself bold and Jessie Mary bashful is a question that may be left to those who have the profound insight necessary to diagnose the delicate workings of a youthful and lovelorn imagination. At the same time he had harboured many hopeful fears and fearful hopes, but to divulge these in detail would be sacrilege.
On the day following the purchase of the gifts, however, his original plan, so simple and straightforward, would seem to have lost something of its attractiveness. Perhaps he was suddenly assailed by the cowardice of modesty; possibly he argued, in effect, that the offering would gain in importance by impersonal delivery. At all events, he endeavoured, on the way to church, to borrow from Willie Thomson the sum of threepence—the charge for delivery demanded by a heartless post-office. Unfortunately Willie’s finances just then were in a most miserable state, so much so that on this very morning he had been compelled to threaten his aunt, with whom and on whom he lived, with the awful vow never to enter a church again unless she supplied him with twopence on the spot. (This, of course, in addition to the customary penny for “the plate.”)
He jingled the coins in his pocket while he confided to Macgregor his tale of a hard world, and continued to do so while he waited for the sympathy which past experience of his friend led him to expect.
It was therefore something of a shock to Willie when Macgregor, privately fondling the penny which he had not spent on a birthday card, replied: “I could manage wi’ the tuppence, Wullie. An’ I’ll pay ye back on Seturday, sure.”
“Eh?” Willie stopped jingling and clutched his coins tightly.
Macgregor repeated his words hopefully.
“Aw, but I canna len’ ye the tuppence,” said Willie, almost resentfully; adding, “But I’ll gi’e ye a ceegarette or twa when I buy some.”
“I’m no’ wantin’ yer ceegarettes,” Macgregor returned, his eyes on the pavement.
Willie shot at him a curious glance. “What for d’ye want the tuppence? Ha’e ye been bettin’ on horses?”
For a moment Macgregor was tempted to plead guilty of that or any other crime on the chance of gaining the other’s sympathies and pence. Instead, however, he answered with caution: “I’ll maybe tell ye, if ye’ll len’ me the tuppence.”
Willie laughed. “I’m no’ sae green. Ye best get yer fayther to gi’e ye the money.”
“Clay up!” snapped Macgregor, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.
Had the money been required for any other object in the world, Macgregor would probably have gone straightway to his father and frankly asked for it. But the limits of confidence between son and parent are reached when the subject is a girl. Nevertheless, it was to the boy’s credit that he never dreamed of attempting to obtain his father’s help under false pretences.
That night he came to the dismal decision to deliver the package himself at Jessie Mary’s door, at an hour when Jessie Mary would be certain to be out. There was nothing else for it, as far as he could see just then.
The following morning’s light found him at his work—no longer, alas! in the far west-end with its windfall of pennies for the car, but in the heart of the city. The man under whom he worked found him so slow and stupid that he threatened to report him to his employer. Altogether it was a dreary day, and Macgregor, who usually paid enough attention to his duties to escape the burden of time, was more than glad when the last working hour had dragged to its close.
He went home by an unaccustomed though not entirely unfamiliar route. It led him past the shop wherein he had made the birthday purchases on Saturday afternoon. The window was more brightly illuminated than the majority of its neighbours; the garish contents were even more attractive than in daylight. Macgregor found himself regarding them with a half-hearted interest. Presently he noticed that one of the sliding glass panels at the back of the window was open a few inches. This aperture permitted him to see the following: A hand writing a letter on a sloping desk, a long plait of fair hair over a scarlet shoulder, and a youthful profile with an expression very much in earnest yet cheerful withal.
Macgregor could not help watching the writer, and he continued to do so for several minutes with increasingly lively interest. He was even wondering to whom the letter might be written, when the writer, having dipped her pen too deeply, made a horrid, big blot. She frowned and for an instant put out her tongue. Then, having regarded the blot for a space with a thoughtful gaze, she seized the pen and with a few deft touches transformed the blot into the semblance of a black beetle. Whereupon she smiled with such transparent delight that Macgregor smiled also.
“What are ye grinnin’ at?” said a voice at his elbow.
He turned to discover Willie Thomson. At no time in the whole course of their friendship had he felt a keener desire to hit Willie on his impudent nose. “Naething,” he muttered shortly. “Are ye gaun hame?”
“Ay,” said Willie, noting the other’s discomposure, but not referring to it directly. “This isna yer usual road hame.”
“Depends whaur I’m comin’ frae,” returned Macgregor, quickening his pace. “Ha’e ye got a job yet, Wullie?” he enquired more graciously.
“I tried yin the day, but it’s no’ gaun to suit me. But I’ve earned ninepence. I can len’ ye thon thruppence, if ye like.”
“Aw, I’m no’ needin’ it noo.”
“Weel, ha’e a ceegarette.” Willie produced a yellow packet.
“Na, I’m no’ smokin’, Wullie.”
“What’s wrang wi’ ye?”
“Naething.... What sort of job was ye tryin’?”
Willie told him, and thereafter proceeded to recount as many grievances as there had been hours in his working day. Macgregor encouraged him to enter into all sorts of detail, so that home was reached without reference to the shop window which had caused him amusement.
“So long,” said Willie, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Maybe see ye later.”
“Ah, it’s likely,” Macgregor replied, and turned into the close, glad to escape.
“Haud on!” cried Willie.
“What?” Macgregor halted with reluctance.
Willie sniggered. “I seen ye wi’ Jessie Mary the ither nicht.”
“Did ye?” retorted Macgregor feebly.
“Ay; an’ if I was you, I wud let girls alane. They’re nae fun, an’ they’re awfu’ expensive.”
With which sage advice Willie walked off.
Macgregor made up his mind not to leave the house that evening, yet eight o’clock found him at the foot of the street wherein Jessie Mary lived. But he did not go up the street, and at the end of five minutes he strolled the way he had taken two hours earlier. As he approached a certain shop the light in its window went out. He marched home quickly, looking neither right nor left.
* * * * *
On the following evening he hired a small boy for the sum of one halfpenny to deliver the package to Jessie Mary at her abode, and straightway returned to the parental fireside, where he blushed at the welcome accorded him.
That night, however, fate willed it that John Robinson should run out of tobacco. Macgregor, who had been extremely restless, expressed himself ready to step down to the tobacco shop in the main street.
Here it must be mentioned that the gifts had reached Jessie Mary at precisely the right moment. They had raised her spirits from the depths of despair to at least the lower heights of hope. Only an hour before their arrival she had learned how the young man with the exquisite moustache had treacherously invited another young lady to accompany him to the Ironmongers’ dance; and although to the ordinary mind this may appear to have been the simple result of a lack of superhuman patience on the young man’s part, Jessie Mary could perceive in it nothing but the uttermost perfidy. So that until the arrival of Macgregor’s present—“to J. M. from M. with best wishes” (an “l” had been scraped out where the second “w” now stood)—she had felt like tearing the pink frock to tatters and preparing for the tomb.
* * * * *
They met near the tobacconist’s—on Macgregor’s home side, by the way—and he could not have looked more guilty had he sent her an infernal machine.
“It was awful kind o’ ye,” she said sweetly; “jistawfulkind.”
“Aw, it was naething,” he stammered.
“They’re jist lovely, an’ that fashionable,” she went on, and gradually led the conversation to the subject of the United Ironmongers’ dance.
“Ye should come,” she said, “an’ see hoo nice I look wi’ them on. The belt’ll be lovely wi’ ma pink frock. An’ the combs was surely made for black hair like mines. Of course I tried them on the minute I got them.”
“Did ye?” murmured Macgregor. Where was all the feverish joy, the soft rapture anticipated three nights ago? “Did ye?”—that was all he said.
She made allowance for his youth and the bashfulness she had so often experienced. “Macgreegor,” she whispered, slipping her hand through his arm, in the darkness of the street leading to her home, “Macgreegor, I believe I wud suner dance wi’ you than onybody else.”
Macgregor seemed to have nothing to say. The touch of her hand was pleasant, and yet he was uneasy.
“Macgreegor,” she said presently, a little breathlessly, “I’m no’ heedin’ aboot ony o’ the chaps that wants to tak’ me to the dance. If ye had a ticket——” She paused. They had halted in the close-mouth, as it is locally termed. “I’m sayin’, Macgreegor, if ye had a ticket——” She paused again.
The boy felt foolish and wretched. “But I canna gang to the dance, Jessie Mary,” he managed to say.
She leaned closer to him. “It’ll be a splendid dance—at least”—she looked at him boldly—“it wud be splendid if you and me was gaun thegether.”
In his wildest of wild dreams he may have thought of kissing this girl. He might have done it now—quite easily.
But he didn’t—he couldn’t.
“Na; I canna gang,” he said. “An’—an’ ma fayther’ll be waitin’ for his tobacco. Guidnicht.” He glanced at her with a miserable smile, and departed—bolted.
Poor Jessie Mary with her little natural vanities!
Poor Macgregor! He went home hot and ashamed—he could not have told why. He did not grudge the gifts, yet vaguely wished he had not given them.
And he dreamed that night of, among other queer things, a shop window, a plait of fair hair on a scarlet shoulder, and a black beetle.