CHAPTER NINEFora fortnight it ran smoothly enough. There were, to be sure, occasional ripples; little doubts, little fears, little jealousies; but they passed as swiftly as they appeared.Macgregor, having no overtime those weeks, contrived to visit the shop nightly, excepting Tuesdays and Thursdays, Christina’s class nights. He paid his footing, so to speak, with the purchase of a ha’penny evening paper—which he could not well take home since his father was in the habit of making a similar purchase on the way from work. M. Tod was rarely in evidence; the evenings found her tired, and unless several customers demanded attention at once (a rare event) she remained in the living-room, browsing on novelettes selected for her by her assistant. She was given to protesting she had never done such a thing prior to Christina’s advent, to which Christina was wont to reply that, while she herself was long since “fed up” with such literature, it was high time M. Tod should know something about it. Only once did the old woman intrude on the young people and prevent intimate converse; but even then Macgregor did not depart unhappy, for Christina’s farewell smile was reassuring in its whimsicality, and in young love of all things seeing is believing.It must not be supposed, all the same, that she gave him much direct encouragement; her lapses from absolute discretion were brief as they were rare. But the affections of the youthful male have a wonderful way of subsisting on crumbs which hope magnifies into loaves. Nevertheless, her kindliness was a definite thing, and under its influence the boy lost some of his shyness and gained a little confidence in himself. He had already taken a leap over one barrier of formality: he had called her “Christina” to her face, and neither her face nor her lips had reproved him; he had asked her to call him “Macgreegor”—or “Mac” if she preferred it, and she had promised to “see about it.”On this November Saturday afternoon he was on his way to make the tremendous request that she should allow him to walk home with her when her day’s work was over. He was far from sure of himself. In the reign of Jessie Mary—what an old story now!—he would not have openly craved permission, but would have hung about on the chance of meeting her alone and in pleasant humour. But he could not act so with Christina. Instinct as well as inclination prevented him. Moreover, he had been witness, on a certain evening when he had lingered near the shop—just to see her with her hat on—-of the fate that befell a young man (a regular customer, too, Christina told him afterwards) who dared to proffer his escort off-hand. Christina had simply halted, turned and pointed, as one might point for a dog’s guidance, and after a long moment the young man had gone in the direction opposite to that in which he had intended. To Macgregor the little scene had been gratifying yet disturbing. The memory of it chilled his courage now. But he was not the boy to relinquish a desire simply because he was afraid.He broke his journey at a sweet-shop, and rather surprised himself by spending sixpence, although he had been planning to do so for the past week. He had not yet given Christina anything; he wanted badly to give her something; and having bought it, he wondered whether she would take it. He could not hope that the gift would affect the answer to his tremendous request.Coming out of the sweet-shop he caught sight of the back of Willie Thomson, whom he had not seen for two weeks. Involuntarily he gave the boyish whistle, not so long ago the summons that would have called the one to the other with express speed. Now it had the reverse effect, for Willie started, half turned, and then walked quickly up a convenient side-street. The flight was obvious, and for a moment Macgregor was hurt and angry. Then with sudden sympathy he grinned, thinking, “He’ll be after Jessie Mary, an’ doesna want me.” He was becoming quite grateful to Willie, for although he had encountered Jessie Mary several times of late, she had not reminded him of the approaching dance, and he gave Willie credit for that.A few minutes later Macgregor stood at the counter that had become a veritable altar. Not many of us manage to greet the girls of our dreams precisely as we would or exactly as we have rehearsed the operation, and Macgregor’s nerves at the last moment played him a trick.In a cocky fashion, neither natural nor becoming, he wagged his head in the direction of the living-room and flippantly enquired: “Is she oot?”To which Christina, her smile of welcome passing with never a flicker, stiffly replied: “Miss Tod is out, but may return at any moment.”“Aw!” he murmured, “I thought she wud maybe be takin’ her usual walk.”“What usual walk?”His hurt look said: “What have I done to deserve this, Christina?”And she felt as though she had struck him. “Ye shouldna tak’ things for granted,” she said, less sharply. “I didna think ye was yin o’ the cheeky sort.”“Me!” he cried in consternation.“Weel, maybe ye didna mean it, but ye cam’ into the shop like a dog wi’ twa tails. But”—as with a sudden inspiration—“maybe ye’ve been gettin’ a rise in yer wages. If that’s the case, I’ll apologise.”He shook his head. “I dinna ken what ye’re drivin’ at. I—I was jist gled to seeye——”“Oh, we’ll no’ say ony mair aboot it. Maybe I was ower smart,” she said hastily. “Kindly forget ma observations.” She smiled apologetically.“Are ye no’ gaun to shake han’s wi’ me?” he asked, still uneasy.“Surely!” she answered warmly. “An’ I’ve got a bit o’ news for ye, Mac.” The name slipped out; she reddened.Yet her cheek was pale compared with the boy’s. “Oh!” he exclaimed under his breath. Then with a brave attempt at carelessness he brought from his pocket a small white package and laid it on the counter before her. “It—it’s for you,” he said, forgetting his little speech about wanting to give her something and hoping she would not be offended.Christina was not prepared for such a happening; still, her wits did not desert her. She liked sweets, but on no account was she going to have her acceptance of the gift misconstrued. She glanced at Macgregor, whose eyes did not meet hers; she glanced at the package; she glanced once more at Macgregor, and gently uttered the solitary word:“Platonic?”“Na,” he replied. “Jujubes.”Christina bit her lip.“D’ye no’ like them?” he asked anxiously.The matter had got beyond her. She put out her hand and took the gift, saying: “Thank ye, Mac; they’re ma favourite sweeties. But—ye’re no’ to dae it again.”“What kin’ o’ sweeties did ye think they was?” he asked, breaking a short silence.“Oh, it’s o’ nae consequence,” she lightly replied. “D’ye no’ want to hear ma bit o’ news?”“’Deed, ay, Christina.” Now more at ease, he settled himself on the chair by the counter.“Weel,—ye’ll excuse me no’ samplin’ the jujubes the noo; it micht be awkward if a customer was comin’—weel, yer Uncle Purdie was visitin’ ma uncle last night, an’ what d’ye think I did?”“What?”“I asked him for a job!”“A job!” exclaimed Macgregor. “In—in yin o’ his shops?”“Na; in his chief office.”“My! ye’ve a neck—I mean, ye’re no’ afraid.”“Ye dinna get muckle in this world wi’oot askin’ for it.”“What did he say?” the boy enquired, after a pause.“He said the job was mine as sune as I was ready to tak’ it. Ye see, I tell’t him I didna want to start till I had ma shorthand an’ typewritin’ perfec’. That’ll tak’ me a few months yet.”“I didna ken ye could typewrite.”“Oh, I’ve been workin’ at it for near a year, but I can only get practisin’ afore breakfast an’ whiles in the evenin’. Still, I think I’ll be ready for the office aboot the spring, if no’ earlier.”Macgregor regarded her with sorrow mingled with admiration. “But what way dae ye want to leave here?” he cried, all at once realising what the change would mean to him.“There’s nae prospects in a wee place like this. Once I’m in a big place, like yer uncle’s, I’ll get chances. I want to be yer uncle’s privatesecretary——”“Ye’re ower young.”“I didna say in six months.” Her voice changed. “Are ye no’ pleased, Mac?”“Hoo can I be pleased when ye’re leavin’ here? Can ye no’ stop? Ye’re fine where ye are. An’ what’ll Miss Tod dae wantin’ ye?”“I’ll get uncle to find her another girl—a pretty girl, so that ye’ll come here for yer stationery, eh?”“If ye leave, I’ll never come here again. Could ye no’ get a job behind the counter in yin of ma uncle’s shops?”—clutching at a straw.“I’ll gang furder in the office. If I was a man I daresay I wud try the shop. If I was you, Mac, I wud try it.”“I couldna sell folk things.”“In a big business like yer uncle’s there’s plenty work besides sellin’. But I suppose ye’ll stick to the pentin’.”“Ay,” he said shortly.“Weel, I suppose it’s nane o’ ma business,” she said good-humouredly. “But, bein’ a frien’, I thought ye wud ha’e been pleased to hear ma news.”Ere he could reply a woman came in to purchase note-paper. Possibly Christina’s service was a trifle less “finished” than usual; and she made no attempt to sell anything that was not wanted. Macgregor had a few minutes for reflection, and when the customer had gone he said, a shade more hopefully:“Ye’ll no’ be kep’ as late at the office as here. Ye’ll ha’e yer evenin’s free, Christina.”“I’ll ha’e mair time for classes. I’m keen on learnin’ French an’ German. I ken a bit o’ French already; a frien’ o’ ma uncle’s, a Frenchman, has been gi’ein’ me lessons in conversation every Sunday night for a while back. It’ll be useful if I become a secretary.”“Strikes me,” said Macgregor, gloomily, “ye’ve never ony time for fun.”“Fun?”“For walkin’ aboot an’—an’ that.”“Oh, ye mean oot there.” She swung her hand in the direction of the street. “I walk here in the mornin’—near a mile—an’ hame at night; an’ I’ve two hours free in the middle o’ the day—uncle bargained for that when he let me come to Miss Tod. As for loafin’ aboot on the street, I had plenty o’ the street when I was young, afore ma aunt took me to bide wi’ her at Kilmabeg. The street was aboot the only place I had then, an’ I suppose I wud be there yet if ma aunt hadna saved me. D’ye ken, Mac,” she went on almost passionately, “it’s no’ five years since I wanted a decent pair o’ shoes an’ a guid square meal.... Oh, I could tell ye things—but anither time, maybe. As for spendin’ a’ yer spare time on the street, when ye’ve ony other place to spend it, it’s—weel, I suppose it’s a matter o’ taste; but if I can dae onything wi’ ma spare time that’ll mak’ me independent later on, I’m gaun to dae it. That’s flat!” Suddenly she laughed. “Are ye afraid o’ me, Mac?”“No’ likely!” he replied, with rather feeble indignation. “But whiles ye’re awfu’—queer.”At that she laughed again. “But I’m no’ so badly off for fun, as ye call it, either,” she resumed presently. “Noo an’ then uncle tak’s auntie an’ me to the theatre. Every holiday we gang to the coast. An’ there’s always folk comin’ to thehoose——”“Auld folk?”“Frae your age upwards. An’ next year, when I put up ma hair, I’ll be gettin’ to dances. Can ye waltz?”Macgregor gave his head a dismal shake. “I—I doobt ye’re ower high-class,” he muttered hopelessly. “Ye’ll no’ be for lookin’ at me next year.”“No’ if ye wear a face like a fiddle. I like to look at cheery things. What’s up wi’ ye?”“Oh, naething. I suppose ye expec’ to be terrible rich some day.”“That’s the idea.”“What’ll ye dae wi’ the money? I suppose ye dinna ken.”“Oh, I ken fine,” she returned, with an eager smile. “I’ll buy auntie a lovely cottage at the coast, an’ uncle a splendid motor car, an’ masel’ a big white steam yacht.”“Ye’re no’ greedy,” he remarked a little sulkily.“That’ll be merely for a start, of course. I’ll tak’ ye a trip roun’ the world for the price o’ a coat o’ pent to the yacht. Are ye on? Maybe ye’ll be a master-penter by then.”“I—I’ll never be onything—an’ I’m no’ carin’,” he groaned.“If ye lie doon in the road ye’ll no’ win far, an’ ye’re likely to get tramped on, forbye. What’s wrang wi’ ye the day?” she asked kindly.“Ye—ye jist mak’ me miserable,” he blurted out, and hung his head.“Me!” she said innocently. “I’m sure I never meant to dae that. I’m a hard nut, I suppose; but no’ jist as hard as I seem. Onything I can dae to mak’ ye happy again?”The door opened, the bell banged, and a man came in and bought a weekly paper.“Weel?” said Christina when they were alone.“Let me walk hame wi’ ye the nicht,” said Macgregor, who ought to have felt grateful to the chance customer whose brief stay had permitted him to get his wits and words together.“Oh!” said Christina.“I’ll wait for ye as long as ye like.”Some seconds passed ere Christina spoke. “I’m not in the habit of being escorted——” she began.“For ony sake dinna speak like that.”“I forgot ye wasna a customer. But, seriously, I dinna think it wud be the thing.”“What way, Christina?”“Jist because, an’ for several other reasons besides. My! it’s gettin’ dark. Time I was lightin’ up.” She struck a match, applied it to a long taper, and proceeded to ignite the jets in the window and above the counter. Then she turned to him again.“Mac.”Something in her voice roused him out of his despair. “What, Christina?”“If ye walk hame wi’ me, I’ll expect ye to come up an’ see ma aunt an’ uncle. Ye see, I made a sort o’ bargain wi’ them that I wudna ha’e ony frien’s that they didna ken aboot.”Macgregor’s expression of happiness gave place to one of doubt. “Maybe they wudna like me,” he said.“Aweel, that’s your risk, of course. But they’ll no’ bite ye. I leave the shop at eight.” She glanced at her little silver watch. “Mercy! It’s time I was puttin’ on the kettle. Miss Tod’ll be back in a jiffy. Ye best gang, Mac.”“I’ll be waitin’ for ye at eight,” he said, rising. “An’ it’s awfu’ guid o’ ye, Christina, though I wish ye hadna made thatbargain——”“Weel, I like to be as honest as I can—ootside o’ business. If ye dinna turn up, I’ll forgive ye.Noo——”“Oh, I’ll turn up. It wud tak’ mair nor your aunt an’uncle——”“Tits, man!” she cried impatiently, “I’ll be late wi’ her tea. Adieu for the present.” She waved her hand and fled to the living-room.Macgregor went home happy in a subdued fashion. He found a letter awaiting him. It was from Grandfather Purdie; it reminded him that his seventeenth birthday was on the coming Monday, contained a few kindly words of advice, and enclosed a postal order for ten shillings. Hitherto the old man’s gift had been a half-crown, which had seemed a large sum to the boy. But ten shillings!—it would be hard to tell whether Macgregor’s feeling of manliness or of gratitude was the greater.Mrs. Robinson was not a little disturbed when her son failed to hand over the money to her to take care of for him, as had been the custom in the past, and her husband had some difficulty in persuading her to “let the laddie be in the meantime.”Macgregor had gone to his room to make the most elaborate toilet possible.“You trust him, an’ he’ll trust you,” said John. “Dinna be aye treatin’ him like a wean.”“It’s no’ a case o’ no’ trustin’ him,” she returned a little sharply. “Better treat him like a wean than let him think he’s a man afore his time.”“It’s no’ his money in the bank that tells what a chap’s made o’, Lizzie. Let us wait an’ see what he does wi’ it. Mind ye, it’s his to dae what he likes wi’. Wait, till the morn, an’ then I’ll back ye up in gettin’ him to put a guid part o’ it, onyway, in the bank. No’ that I think ony backin’ up’ll be necessary. If he doesna want to put it in the bank, he’ll dae it to please us. I’ll guarantee that, wife.”“If I had your heart an’ you had ma heid,” she said with a faint smile, “I daresay we wud baith be near perfec’, John. Aweel, I’m no’ gaun to bother the laddie noo. But”—seriously—“he’s been oot an awfu’ lot at nicht the last week or twa.”“Courtin’,” said John, laughing.“Havers!” she retorted. “He’s no’ the sort.”“Neither was I,” said John, “an’ look at me noo!”And there they let the subject drop.* * * * *At seven o’clock Macgregor left the house. At the nearest post-office he had his order converted into coin. In one of his pockets he placed a couple of shillings—for Jeannie and Jimsie. He had no definite plans regarding the balance, but he hoped his mother would not ask for it. Somehow its possession rendered the prospect of his meeting with the Baldwins a thought less fearsome. He would tell Christina of his grandfather’s gift, and later on, perhaps, he would buy—he knew not what. All at once he wished he had agreatdeal of money—wished he were clever—wished he could talk like Christina, even in the manner he hated—wished vague but beautiful things. The secret aspirations of lad’s love must surely make the angels smile—very tenderly.He reached the trysting place with a quick heart, a moist brow, and five and twenty minutes to spare.
Fora fortnight it ran smoothly enough. There were, to be sure, occasional ripples; little doubts, little fears, little jealousies; but they passed as swiftly as they appeared.
Macgregor, having no overtime those weeks, contrived to visit the shop nightly, excepting Tuesdays and Thursdays, Christina’s class nights. He paid his footing, so to speak, with the purchase of a ha’penny evening paper—which he could not well take home since his father was in the habit of making a similar purchase on the way from work. M. Tod was rarely in evidence; the evenings found her tired, and unless several customers demanded attention at once (a rare event) she remained in the living-room, browsing on novelettes selected for her by her assistant. She was given to protesting she had never done such a thing prior to Christina’s advent, to which Christina was wont to reply that, while she herself was long since “fed up” with such literature, it was high time M. Tod should know something about it. Only once did the old woman intrude on the young people and prevent intimate converse; but even then Macgregor did not depart unhappy, for Christina’s farewell smile was reassuring in its whimsicality, and in young love of all things seeing is believing.
It must not be supposed, all the same, that she gave him much direct encouragement; her lapses from absolute discretion were brief as they were rare. But the affections of the youthful male have a wonderful way of subsisting on crumbs which hope magnifies into loaves. Nevertheless, her kindliness was a definite thing, and under its influence the boy lost some of his shyness and gained a little confidence in himself. He had already taken a leap over one barrier of formality: he had called her “Christina” to her face, and neither her face nor her lips had reproved him; he had asked her to call him “Macgreegor”—or “Mac” if she preferred it, and she had promised to “see about it.”
On this November Saturday afternoon he was on his way to make the tremendous request that she should allow him to walk home with her when her day’s work was over. He was far from sure of himself. In the reign of Jessie Mary—what an old story now!—he would not have openly craved permission, but would have hung about on the chance of meeting her alone and in pleasant humour. But he could not act so with Christina. Instinct as well as inclination prevented him. Moreover, he had been witness, on a certain evening when he had lingered near the shop—just to see her with her hat on—-of the fate that befell a young man (a regular customer, too, Christina told him afterwards) who dared to proffer his escort off-hand. Christina had simply halted, turned and pointed, as one might point for a dog’s guidance, and after a long moment the young man had gone in the direction opposite to that in which he had intended. To Macgregor the little scene had been gratifying yet disturbing. The memory of it chilled his courage now. But he was not the boy to relinquish a desire simply because he was afraid.
He broke his journey at a sweet-shop, and rather surprised himself by spending sixpence, although he had been planning to do so for the past week. He had not yet given Christina anything; he wanted badly to give her something; and having bought it, he wondered whether she would take it. He could not hope that the gift would affect the answer to his tremendous request.
Coming out of the sweet-shop he caught sight of the back of Willie Thomson, whom he had not seen for two weeks. Involuntarily he gave the boyish whistle, not so long ago the summons that would have called the one to the other with express speed. Now it had the reverse effect, for Willie started, half turned, and then walked quickly up a convenient side-street. The flight was obvious, and for a moment Macgregor was hurt and angry. Then with sudden sympathy he grinned, thinking, “He’ll be after Jessie Mary, an’ doesna want me.” He was becoming quite grateful to Willie, for although he had encountered Jessie Mary several times of late, she had not reminded him of the approaching dance, and he gave Willie credit for that.
A few minutes later Macgregor stood at the counter that had become a veritable altar. Not many of us manage to greet the girls of our dreams precisely as we would or exactly as we have rehearsed the operation, and Macgregor’s nerves at the last moment played him a trick.
In a cocky fashion, neither natural nor becoming, he wagged his head in the direction of the living-room and flippantly enquired: “Is she oot?”
To which Christina, her smile of welcome passing with never a flicker, stiffly replied: “Miss Tod is out, but may return at any moment.”
“Aw!” he murmured, “I thought she wud maybe be takin’ her usual walk.”
“What usual walk?”
His hurt look said: “What have I done to deserve this, Christina?”
And she felt as though she had struck him. “Ye shouldna tak’ things for granted,” she said, less sharply. “I didna think ye was yin o’ the cheeky sort.”
“Me!” he cried in consternation.
“Weel, maybe ye didna mean it, but ye cam’ into the shop like a dog wi’ twa tails. But”—as with a sudden inspiration—“maybe ye’ve been gettin’ a rise in yer wages. If that’s the case, I’ll apologise.”
He shook his head. “I dinna ken what ye’re drivin’ at. I—I was jist gled to seeye——”
“Oh, we’ll no’ say ony mair aboot it. Maybe I was ower smart,” she said hastily. “Kindly forget ma observations.” She smiled apologetically.
“Are ye no’ gaun to shake han’s wi’ me?” he asked, still uneasy.
“Surely!” she answered warmly. “An’ I’ve got a bit o’ news for ye, Mac.” The name slipped out; she reddened.
Yet her cheek was pale compared with the boy’s. “Oh!” he exclaimed under his breath. Then with a brave attempt at carelessness he brought from his pocket a small white package and laid it on the counter before her. “It—it’s for you,” he said, forgetting his little speech about wanting to give her something and hoping she would not be offended.
Christina was not prepared for such a happening; still, her wits did not desert her. She liked sweets, but on no account was she going to have her acceptance of the gift misconstrued. She glanced at Macgregor, whose eyes did not meet hers; she glanced at the package; she glanced once more at Macgregor, and gently uttered the solitary word:
“Platonic?”
“Na,” he replied. “Jujubes.”
Christina bit her lip.
“D’ye no’ like them?” he asked anxiously.
The matter had got beyond her. She put out her hand and took the gift, saying: “Thank ye, Mac; they’re ma favourite sweeties. But—ye’re no’ to dae it again.”
“What kin’ o’ sweeties did ye think they was?” he asked, breaking a short silence.
“Oh, it’s o’ nae consequence,” she lightly replied. “D’ye no’ want to hear ma bit o’ news?”
“’Deed, ay, Christina.” Now more at ease, he settled himself on the chair by the counter.
“Weel,—ye’ll excuse me no’ samplin’ the jujubes the noo; it micht be awkward if a customer was comin’—weel, yer Uncle Purdie was visitin’ ma uncle last night, an’ what d’ye think I did?”
“What?”
“I asked him for a job!”
“A job!” exclaimed Macgregor. “In—in yin o’ his shops?”
“Na; in his chief office.”
“My! ye’ve a neck—I mean, ye’re no’ afraid.”
“Ye dinna get muckle in this world wi’oot askin’ for it.”
“What did he say?” the boy enquired, after a pause.
“He said the job was mine as sune as I was ready to tak’ it. Ye see, I tell’t him I didna want to start till I had ma shorthand an’ typewritin’ perfec’. That’ll tak’ me a few months yet.”
“I didna ken ye could typewrite.”
“Oh, I’ve been workin’ at it for near a year, but I can only get practisin’ afore breakfast an’ whiles in the evenin’. Still, I think I’ll be ready for the office aboot the spring, if no’ earlier.”
Macgregor regarded her with sorrow mingled with admiration. “But what way dae ye want to leave here?” he cried, all at once realising what the change would mean to him.
“There’s nae prospects in a wee place like this. Once I’m in a big place, like yer uncle’s, I’ll get chances. I want to be yer uncle’s privatesecretary——”
“Ye’re ower young.”
“I didna say in six months.” Her voice changed. “Are ye no’ pleased, Mac?”
“Hoo can I be pleased when ye’re leavin’ here? Can ye no’ stop? Ye’re fine where ye are. An’ what’ll Miss Tod dae wantin’ ye?”
“I’ll get uncle to find her another girl—a pretty girl, so that ye’ll come here for yer stationery, eh?”
“If ye leave, I’ll never come here again. Could ye no’ get a job behind the counter in yin of ma uncle’s shops?”—clutching at a straw.
“I’ll gang furder in the office. If I was a man I daresay I wud try the shop. If I was you, Mac, I wud try it.”
“I couldna sell folk things.”
“In a big business like yer uncle’s there’s plenty work besides sellin’. But I suppose ye’ll stick to the pentin’.”
“Ay,” he said shortly.
“Weel, I suppose it’s nane o’ ma business,” she said good-humouredly. “But, bein’ a frien’, I thought ye wud ha’e been pleased to hear ma news.”
Ere he could reply a woman came in to purchase note-paper. Possibly Christina’s service was a trifle less “finished” than usual; and she made no attempt to sell anything that was not wanted. Macgregor had a few minutes for reflection, and when the customer had gone he said, a shade more hopefully:
“Ye’ll no’ be kep’ as late at the office as here. Ye’ll ha’e yer evenin’s free, Christina.”
“I’ll ha’e mair time for classes. I’m keen on learnin’ French an’ German. I ken a bit o’ French already; a frien’ o’ ma uncle’s, a Frenchman, has been gi’ein’ me lessons in conversation every Sunday night for a while back. It’ll be useful if I become a secretary.”
“Strikes me,” said Macgregor, gloomily, “ye’ve never ony time for fun.”
“Fun?”
“For walkin’ aboot an’—an’ that.”
“Oh, ye mean oot there.” She swung her hand in the direction of the street. “I walk here in the mornin’—near a mile—an’ hame at night; an’ I’ve two hours free in the middle o’ the day—uncle bargained for that when he let me come to Miss Tod. As for loafin’ aboot on the street, I had plenty o’ the street when I was young, afore ma aunt took me to bide wi’ her at Kilmabeg. The street was aboot the only place I had then, an’ I suppose I wud be there yet if ma aunt hadna saved me. D’ye ken, Mac,” she went on almost passionately, “it’s no’ five years since I wanted a decent pair o’ shoes an’ a guid square meal.... Oh, I could tell ye things—but anither time, maybe. As for spendin’ a’ yer spare time on the street, when ye’ve ony other place to spend it, it’s—weel, I suppose it’s a matter o’ taste; but if I can dae onything wi’ ma spare time that’ll mak’ me independent later on, I’m gaun to dae it. That’s flat!” Suddenly she laughed. “Are ye afraid o’ me, Mac?”
“No’ likely!” he replied, with rather feeble indignation. “But whiles ye’re awfu’—queer.”
At that she laughed again. “But I’m no’ so badly off for fun, as ye call it, either,” she resumed presently. “Noo an’ then uncle tak’s auntie an’ me to the theatre. Every holiday we gang to the coast. An’ there’s always folk comin’ to thehoose——”
“Auld folk?”
“Frae your age upwards. An’ next year, when I put up ma hair, I’ll be gettin’ to dances. Can ye waltz?”
Macgregor gave his head a dismal shake. “I—I doobt ye’re ower high-class,” he muttered hopelessly. “Ye’ll no’ be for lookin’ at me next year.”
“No’ if ye wear a face like a fiddle. I like to look at cheery things. What’s up wi’ ye?”
“Oh, naething. I suppose ye expec’ to be terrible rich some day.”
“That’s the idea.”
“What’ll ye dae wi’ the money? I suppose ye dinna ken.”
“Oh, I ken fine,” she returned, with an eager smile. “I’ll buy auntie a lovely cottage at the coast, an’ uncle a splendid motor car, an’ masel’ a big white steam yacht.”
“Ye’re no’ greedy,” he remarked a little sulkily.
“That’ll be merely for a start, of course. I’ll tak’ ye a trip roun’ the world for the price o’ a coat o’ pent to the yacht. Are ye on? Maybe ye’ll be a master-penter by then.”
“I—I’ll never be onything—an’ I’m no’ carin’,” he groaned.
“If ye lie doon in the road ye’ll no’ win far, an’ ye’re likely to get tramped on, forbye. What’s wrang wi’ ye the day?” she asked kindly.
“Ye—ye jist mak’ me miserable,” he blurted out, and hung his head.
“Me!” she said innocently. “I’m sure I never meant to dae that. I’m a hard nut, I suppose; but no’ jist as hard as I seem. Onything I can dae to mak’ ye happy again?”
The door opened, the bell banged, and a man came in and bought a weekly paper.
“Weel?” said Christina when they were alone.
“Let me walk hame wi’ ye the nicht,” said Macgregor, who ought to have felt grateful to the chance customer whose brief stay had permitted him to get his wits and words together.
“Oh!” said Christina.
“I’ll wait for ye as long as ye like.”
Some seconds passed ere Christina spoke. “I’m not in the habit of being escorted——” she began.
“For ony sake dinna speak like that.”
“I forgot ye wasna a customer. But, seriously, I dinna think it wud be the thing.”
“What way, Christina?”
“Jist because, an’ for several other reasons besides. My! it’s gettin’ dark. Time I was lightin’ up.” She struck a match, applied it to a long taper, and proceeded to ignite the jets in the window and above the counter. Then she turned to him again.
“Mac.”
Something in her voice roused him out of his despair. “What, Christina?”
“If ye walk hame wi’ me, I’ll expect ye to come up an’ see ma aunt an’ uncle. Ye see, I made a sort o’ bargain wi’ them that I wudna ha’e ony frien’s that they didna ken aboot.”
Macgregor’s expression of happiness gave place to one of doubt. “Maybe they wudna like me,” he said.
“Aweel, that’s your risk, of course. But they’ll no’ bite ye. I leave the shop at eight.” She glanced at her little silver watch. “Mercy! It’s time I was puttin’ on the kettle. Miss Tod’ll be back in a jiffy. Ye best gang, Mac.”
“I’ll be waitin’ for ye at eight,” he said, rising. “An’ it’s awfu’ guid o’ ye, Christina, though I wish ye hadna made thatbargain——”
“Weel, I like to be as honest as I can—ootside o’ business. If ye dinna turn up, I’ll forgive ye.Noo——”
“Oh, I’ll turn up. It wud tak’ mair nor your aunt an’uncle——”
“Tits, man!” she cried impatiently, “I’ll be late wi’ her tea. Adieu for the present.” She waved her hand and fled to the living-room.
Macgregor went home happy in a subdued fashion. He found a letter awaiting him. It was from Grandfather Purdie; it reminded him that his seventeenth birthday was on the coming Monday, contained a few kindly words of advice, and enclosed a postal order for ten shillings. Hitherto the old man’s gift had been a half-crown, which had seemed a large sum to the boy. But ten shillings!—it would be hard to tell whether Macgregor’s feeling of manliness or of gratitude was the greater.
Mrs. Robinson was not a little disturbed when her son failed to hand over the money to her to take care of for him, as had been the custom in the past, and her husband had some difficulty in persuading her to “let the laddie be in the meantime.”
Macgregor had gone to his room to make the most elaborate toilet possible.
“You trust him, an’ he’ll trust you,” said John. “Dinna be aye treatin’ him like a wean.”
“It’s no’ a case o’ no’ trustin’ him,” she returned a little sharply. “Better treat him like a wean than let him think he’s a man afore his time.”
“It’s no’ his money in the bank that tells what a chap’s made o’, Lizzie. Let us wait an’ see what he does wi’ it. Mind ye, it’s his to dae what he likes wi’. Wait, till the morn, an’ then I’ll back ye up in gettin’ him to put a guid part o’ it, onyway, in the bank. No’ that I think ony backin’ up’ll be necessary. If he doesna want to put it in the bank, he’ll dae it to please us. I’ll guarantee that, wife.”
“If I had your heart an’ you had ma heid,” she said with a faint smile, “I daresay we wud baith be near perfec’, John. Aweel, I’m no’ gaun to bother the laddie noo. But”—seriously—“he’s been oot an awfu’ lot at nicht the last week or twa.”
“Courtin’,” said John, laughing.
“Havers!” she retorted. “He’s no’ the sort.”
“Neither was I,” said John, “an’ look at me noo!”
And there they let the subject drop.
* * * * *
At seven o’clock Macgregor left the house. At the nearest post-office he had his order converted into coin. In one of his pockets he placed a couple of shillings—for Jeannie and Jimsie. He had no definite plans regarding the balance, but he hoped his mother would not ask for it. Somehow its possession rendered the prospect of his meeting with the Baldwins a thought less fearsome. He would tell Christina of his grandfather’s gift, and later on, perhaps, he would buy—he knew not what. All at once he wished he had agreatdeal of money—wished he were clever—wished he could talk like Christina, even in the manner he hated—wished vague but beautiful things. The secret aspirations of lad’s love must surely make the angels smile—very tenderly.
He reached the trysting place with a quick heart, a moist brow, and five and twenty minutes to spare.