CHAPTER FOURTEENTopress 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 learneverythingaboot 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:“I’ve got it!”“Good for you,” she said kindly, and refrained from asking him, teasingly, where he thought he was going. “It was lovely at the theatre,” she remarked, stepping forward.“Dae ye no’ want to hear aboot it?” he asked, disappointed, catching up with her.“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Was yer uncle nice?”“It was ma aunt,” he explained somewhat reluctantly, for he feared she might laugh. But she only nodded understandingly, and, relieved, he plunged into details.“Ye’ve done fine,” she said when he had finished—for the time being, at anyrate. “I’m afraid it’ll be you that’ll be wantin’ a private secretary when I get that length.”“Dinna laugh at me,” he murmured reproachfully.“Dinna be ower serious, Mac,” she returned. “Ye’ll get on a’ the better for bein’ able to tak’ a joke whiles. I’m as pleased as Punch aboot it.”He was more pleased, if possible. “If it hadna been for you, Christina, I wud never ha’e had the neck to try it,” he said warmly.“I believe ye!” she said quaintly.“But it’s the truth—an’ I’ll never forget it.”“A guid memory’s a gran’ thing! An’ when dae ye start wi’ yer uncle?”“Monday week.”“That’s quick work. Ye’ve beat me a’ to sticks. Dinna get swelled heid!”“Christina, I wish yewudna——”“I canna help it. It’s the theatre, I suppose. Oh, I near forgot to tell ye, yer uncle was in when we got hame frae the theatre. I hadna time to speak to him, for I had to run back to the shop. Hadna even time to change ma dress. I think yer uncle whiles gets tired o’ bein’ a rich man an’ livin’ in a swell house. Maybeyou’llfeel that way some day.”He let her run on, now and then glancing wistfully at her pretty, animated face. The happiness, the triumph, he had anticipated were not his. But all the more they were worth working for.So they came to the place where she lived.“Come up,” she said easily; “I tell’t auntie I wud maybe bring ye up for supper.”Doubtless it was the shock of gratification as much as anything that caused him to hang back. She had actually mentioned him to her aunt!“Will ma uncle be there?” he stammered at last.“Na, na. Ye’ll see plenty o’himlater on!”“Maybe yer aunt winna bepleased——”“Come on, Mac! Ye’re ower shy for this world!” she laughed encouragingly.They went up together.Christina had a latch-key, and on opening the door, said:“Oh, they haven’t come home yet. Out for a walk, I suppose. But they’ll be home in a minute. Come in. There’s a peg for your hat.”She led the way into a fire-lit room and turned up the gas. Macgregor saw a homely, cosy parlour, something like his grandfather’s at Rothesay, but brighter generally. A round table was trimly laid for supper. In the window a small table supported a typewriter and a pile of printed and manuscript books, the sight of which gave him a sort of sinking feeling.“Sit down,” she said, indicating an easy-chair. “Auntie and uncle won’t be long.”He took an ordinary chair, and tried hard to look at his ease.As she took off her hat at the mirror over the mantelpiece she remarked: “You’ll like uncle at once, and you’ll like auntie before long. She’s still a wee bit prim.”He noticed that her speech had changed with entering the house, but somehow the “genteel English” did not seem so unnatural now. He supposed he would have to learn to speak it, too, presently.“But she is the best woman in the world,” Christina continued, patting her hair, “and she’ll be delighted about you going into your uncle’s business. I think it was splendid of you managing your aunt so well.”Macgregor smiled faintly. “I doobt it was her that managed me,” he said. “But, Christina, I’ll no’ let her be sorry—nor—nor you either.”“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get on quickly,” she said, gravely, bending to unbutton her long coat.“I intend to dae that,” he cried, uplifted by her words. “Gi’e me a year or twa, an’ I’ll show ye!”She slipped out of the coat, and stood for a moment, faintly smiling, in her best frock, a simple thing of pale grey lustre relieved with white, her best black shoes, her best thread stockings, her heavy yellow plait over her left shoulder.The boy caught his breath.“Just a minute,” she said, and left the room to put away her coat and hat.Macgregor half turned in his chair, threw his arms upon the back and pressed his brow to his wrist.So she found him on her return.“Sore head, Mac?” she asked gently, recovering from her surprise, and going close to him.“Let me gang,” he whispered; “I—I’ll never be guid enough.”The slight sound of a key in the outer door reached the girl’s ears. She gave her eyes an impatient little rub.She laid a hand on his shoulder.“Cheer up!” she said, almost roughly, and stooping quickly, she touched her lips to his hair, so lightly, so tenderly, that he was not aware.
Topress 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 learneverythingaboot 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:
“I’ve got it!”
“Good for you,” she said kindly, and refrained from asking him, teasingly, where he thought he was going. “It was lovely at the theatre,” she remarked, stepping forward.
“Dae ye no’ want to hear aboot it?” he asked, disappointed, catching up with her.
“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Was yer uncle nice?”
“It was ma aunt,” he explained somewhat reluctantly, for he feared she might laugh. But she only nodded understandingly, and, relieved, he plunged into details.
“Ye’ve done fine,” she said when he had finished—for the time being, at anyrate. “I’m afraid it’ll be you that’ll be wantin’ a private secretary when I get that length.”
“Dinna laugh at me,” he murmured reproachfully.
“Dinna be ower serious, Mac,” she returned. “Ye’ll get on a’ the better for bein’ able to tak’ a joke whiles. I’m as pleased as Punch aboot it.”
He was more pleased, if possible. “If it hadna been for you, Christina, I wud never ha’e had the neck to try it,” he said warmly.
“I believe ye!” she said quaintly.
“But it’s the truth—an’ I’ll never forget it.”
“A guid memory’s a gran’ thing! An’ when dae ye start wi’ yer uncle?”
“Monday week.”
“That’s quick work. Ye’ve beat me a’ to sticks. Dinna get swelled heid!”
“Christina, I wish yewudna——”
“I canna help it. It’s the theatre, I suppose. Oh, I near forgot to tell ye, yer uncle was in when we got hame frae the theatre. I hadna time to speak to him, for I had to run back to the shop. Hadna even time to change ma dress. I think yer uncle whiles gets tired o’ bein’ a rich man an’ livin’ in a swell house. Maybeyou’llfeel that way some day.”
He let her run on, now and then glancing wistfully at her pretty, animated face. The happiness, the triumph, he had anticipated were not his. But all the more they were worth working for.
So they came to the place where she lived.
“Come up,” she said easily; “I tell’t auntie I wud maybe bring ye up for supper.”
Doubtless it was the shock of gratification as much as anything that caused him to hang back. She had actually mentioned him to her aunt!
“Will ma uncle be there?” he stammered at last.
“Na, na. Ye’ll see plenty o’himlater on!”
“Maybe yer aunt winna bepleased——”
“Come on, Mac! Ye’re ower shy for this world!” she laughed encouragingly.
They went up together.
Christina had a latch-key, and on opening the door, said:
“Oh, they haven’t come home yet. Out for a walk, I suppose. But they’ll be home in a minute. Come in. There’s a peg for your hat.”
She led the way into a fire-lit room and turned up the gas. Macgregor saw a homely, cosy parlour, something like his grandfather’s at Rothesay, but brighter generally. A round table was trimly laid for supper. In the window a small table supported a typewriter and a pile of printed and manuscript books, the sight of which gave him a sort of sinking feeling.
“Sit down,” she said, indicating an easy-chair. “Auntie and uncle won’t be long.”
He took an ordinary chair, and tried hard to look at his ease.
As she took off her hat at the mirror over the mantelpiece she remarked: “You’ll like uncle at once, and you’ll like auntie before long. She’s still a wee bit prim.”
He noticed that her speech had changed with entering the house, but somehow the “genteel English” did not seem so unnatural now. He supposed he would have to learn to speak it, too, presently.
“But she is the best woman in the world,” Christina continued, patting her hair, “and she’ll be delighted about you going into your uncle’s business. I think it was splendid of you managing your aunt so well.”
Macgregor smiled faintly. “I doobt it was her that managed me,” he said. “But, Christina, I’ll no’ let her be sorry—nor—nor you either.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get on quickly,” she said, gravely, bending to unbutton her long coat.
“I intend to dae that,” he cried, uplifted by her words. “Gi’e me a year or twa, an’ I’ll show ye!”
She slipped out of the coat, and stood for a moment, faintly smiling, in her best frock, a simple thing of pale grey lustre relieved with white, her best black shoes, her best thread stockings, her heavy yellow plait over her left shoulder.
The boy caught his breath.
“Just a minute,” she said, and left the room to put away her coat and hat.
Macgregor half turned in his chair, threw his arms upon the back and pressed his brow to his wrist.
So she found him on her return.
“Sore head, Mac?” she asked gently, recovering from her surprise, and going close to him.
“Let me gang,” he whispered; “I—I’ll never be guid enough.”
The slight sound of a key in the outer door reached the girl’s ears. She gave her eyes an impatient little rub.
She laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Cheer up!” she said, almost roughly, and stooping quickly, she touched her lips to his hair, so lightly, so tenderly, that he was not aware.