CHAPTER SEVENMacgregorwas half-way home ere he comprehended the cause of the dull ache about his temples. He eased his hat and obtained relief. But there was no lid to lift from his mind which seemed to be overcrowded with a jumble of ideas—old ideas turned topsy-turvy, some damaged, some twisted, and new ideas struggling, as it were, for existence. Moral earthquakes are not infrequent during our ’teens and twenties; by their convulsions they provide construction material for character; but the material is mixed, and we are left to choose whether we shall erect sturdy towers or jerry-buildings.* * * * *The boy was not, of course, aware that here was a crisis in his life. He was staggered and disturbed, just as he would have been had the smooth, broad street on which he walked suddenly become a narrow pass beset with rifts and boulders. The upheaval of his preconceived notions of girlhood had been sharp indeed. He had never heard a girl speak as Christina had spoken; it had never occurred to him that a girl could speak so. But while he felt hurt and vexed, he harboured no resentment; her frank friendliness had disposed of that; and while he was humbled, he was not—thanks to his modesty, or, if you prefer it, lack of cocksureness—grievously humiliated. It is not in the nature of healthy youth to let misery have all its own way.Before he reached home he was able to extract several sips of comfort from his recent experience. He knew her name and she knew his; they had discovered a mutual acquaintance (how we love those mutual acquaintances—sometimes!); they had shaken hands twice.He spent the evening indoors—he might have done otherwise had not Christina said something about being busy on Saturday nights. He was patient with his little brother, almost tender towards his sister. He played several games of draughts with his father, wondering between his deplorable moves when he should see Christina again. He spoke in a subdued fashion. And about nine o’clock his mother anxiously asked him whether he was feeling quite well, and offered to prepare a homely potion. One regrets to record that he returned a rough answer and went off to bed, leaving Lizzie to shake her head more in sorrow than in anger while she informed John that she doubted Macgregor was “sickenin’ for something.” As Macgregor had not condescended to play draughts for at least two years, John was inclined to share her fears; it did not occur to him to put down such conduct to feminine influence; and an hour later, at her suggestion, he went to his son’s room and softly opened the door.“Oh! ye’re no’ in yer bed yet, Macgreegor?”“I’m jist gaun.”“What are ye workin’ at?”“Jist sharpenin’ a pencil. I’ll no’ be lang”—impatiently.“Are ye feelin’ weel enough?”“I’m fine. Dinna fash yersel’.”John withdrew and reported to Lizzie. She was not satisfied, and before going to bed, about eleven o’clock, she listened at Macgregor’s door. All she heard was: “Here, Jimsie, I wish to peace ye wud keep yer feet to yersel’.”She opened the door. “Laddie, are ye no’ sleepin’ yet?”“Hoo can I sleep wi’ Jimsie jabbin’ his feet in ma back?”She entered, and going to the bed removed the unconscious Jimsie to his own portion thereof, at the same time urging him into a more comfortable position. Then she came round and laid her hand on her first-born’s brow.“Are ye sure ye’re a’ richt, laddie?”“Ay, I’m fine. I wish ye wudna fash,” he said shortly, turning over.Lizzie went out, closing the door gently. On the kitchen dresser she set out the medicine bottle and spoon against emergencies.Perhaps there is a mansion in Heaven that will always be empty—a mansion waiting to receive those who in their youth never snubbed their anxious parents. Ere the door closed Macgregor was pricked with compunction. He was sensitive enough for that. But it is the sensitive people who hurt the people they care for.In extenuation let it be said at once that the boy was enduring a dire reaction. It now appeared that Christina’s friendliness had been all in the way of business. Socially (he did not think the word, of course) Christina was beyond him. Christina, for all he knew, sat at night in a parlour, had an aunt that kept a servant (and, maybe, a gramaphone), was accustomed to young men in high collars and trousers that always looked new. Yes, she had shaken hands with him simply in order to get him to come back and buy another dozen of pencils.He was very unhappy. He tossed from side to side until the voice of Jimsie, drowsy and peevish, declared that he had taken all the clothes. Which was practically true, though he did not admit it as he disentangled himself of the blankets and flung them all at his brother. He did not care if he froze—until he began to feel a little cold, when he rescued with difficulty a portion of the coverings from Jimsie’s greedy clutch. He would not go to the shop again. But he would pass it as often as possible. He would get Willie Thomson to accompany him, and they would smoke cigarettes, and they would stop at the door when a customer was entering, and laugh very loudly. He would save up and take Jessie Mary to the dance—at least, he would think about it. After all, it might be more effective to go to the shop and buy more presents for Jessie Mary and—oh, great idea!—request with great unconcern that they should be sent to her address!The clock in the kitchen struck one. With any sympathy at all it would have struck at least five. It was like telling a person in the throes of toothache that the disease is not serious. By the way, one wonders if doctors will ever know as much about disease as patients know about pain. Speculation apart, it is a sorry business to flatter ourselves we have been suffering all night only to find that the night is but beginning. Still, there must have, been something far wrong with the Robinsons’ kitchen clock. Macgregor waited, but to his knowledge it never struck two. Indeed, it missed all the hours until nine.Macgregor, however, presented himself in good time for the Sunday breakfast. His punctuality was too much for his mother, and she insisted on his taking a dose from the bottle on the dresser. Even youth is sometimes too tired to argue. “Onything for peace,” was his ungracious remark as he raised the spoon to his lips.* * * * *Scotland in its harshest, bleakest period of religious observance could not have provided a more dismal Sabbath than Macgregor provided for himself. Although his mother gave him the option of staying at home, he accompanied his parents to church; although he came back with a good appetite, he refused to let himself enjoy his dinner; although he desired to take the accustomed Sunday afternoon walk with his father down to the docks (they had gone there, weather permitting, for years), he shut himself up in the solitude of his bedroom.He spent most of the afternoon in putting points to his stock of pencils. How the operation should have occupied so much time may be explained by the fact that the lead almost invariably parted from the wood ere a perfect point was attained. Indeed, when the task was ended, he had comparatively little to show for his threepence save a heap of shavings, fragments and dust. His resentment, however, was all against M. Tod; he wished she had been of his own sex and size. He also wished she had kept an ice-cream shop, open on Sundays.—No, he didn’t! Christina wouldn’t like working on Sundays; besides, an awful lot of chaps hung about ice-cream shops. He wondered what church Christina attended. If he only knew, he might go there in the evening. (What our churches owe to young womanhood will never be known.) But there were scores of churches in Glasgow. It would take years to get round them—and in the end she might sit in the gallery and he under it. In the unlikely event of his again entering Miss Tod’s shop, there would be no harm in asking Christina about her church and whether she sang in the choir. But stop! if she didn’t sing in the choir, she might think he was chaffing her. That wouldn’t do at all. Better just find out about the church, and if he didn’t get a view of her on his first visit he could try again.There appears no reason why Macgregor’s spirits should have gradually risen throughout these and other equally rambling reflections; but the fact remains that they did so. By tea-time he was in a comely condition of mind. He made young Jimsie happy with the cake of rubber and presented Jeannie surreptitiously with a penny, “to buy sweeties.” He seemed interested in his father’s account of a vessel that had been in collision the previous day. He did not scowl when his mother expressed satisfaction with the way in which he was punishing the bread and butter, and openly congratulated herself on having administered the physic just in time. Nay, more; he offered to stay in the house with Jimsie while John and Lizzie took an evening stroll and Jeannie went with a friend to evening service. No people are quite so easily made happy as parents, and when, out-of-doors, John suggested that Macgregor’s weekly allowance should be raised to one shilling, Lizzie actually met him half-way by promising to make it ninepence in future.During their absence Macgregor did his utmost to amuse Jimsie, who was suffering from an incipient cold, but shortly after their return he became restless, and ere long announced (rather indistinctly) his intention of going out for “twa-three” minutes.Lizzie was about to ask “where?” when John remarked that it was a fine night and that he would come too. Thus was frustrated Macgregor’s desire to take one look at the shuttered shrine with “M. Tod” over the portal—a very foolish sort of desire, as many of us know—from experience.In the circumstances Macgregor accepted his father’s company with a fairly good grace, merely submitting that the walk should be a short one.On the way home, at a corner, under a lamp, they came upon Willie Thomson in earnest and apparently amicable conversation with Jessie Mary. Such friendliness struck Macgregor as peculiar, for since the days of their childhood the twain had openly expressed contempt and dislike for each other, and he wondered what was “up,” especially when the sight of him appeared to cause Willie, at least, considerable embarrassment. But presently the happy idea flashed upon him that Willie had suddenly become “sweet” on Jessie Mary, and would accordingly need to be dodged no longer. He felt more friendly towards Willie than for some time past. His feelings with regard to Jessie Mary were less definite, but he was sure his face had not got “extra red” under her somewhat mocking glance.“Ye’re no’ as thick wi’ Wullie as ye used to be,” his father remarked.“Oh, we’ve nae quarrel,” he returned. “What did ye say was the name o’ that damaged boat ye saw the day?”* * * * *He went to bed not unhappy. He would find a way of knowing Christina better and proving to her that the painting trade was as good as any.
Macgregorwas half-way home ere he comprehended the cause of the dull ache about his temples. He eased his hat and obtained relief. But there was no lid to lift from his mind which seemed to be overcrowded with a jumble of ideas—old ideas turned topsy-turvy, some damaged, some twisted, and new ideas struggling, as it were, for existence. Moral earthquakes are not infrequent during our ’teens and twenties; by their convulsions they provide construction material for character; but the material is mixed, and we are left to choose whether we shall erect sturdy towers or jerry-buildings.
* * * * *
The boy was not, of course, aware that here was a crisis in his life. He was staggered and disturbed, just as he would have been had the smooth, broad street on which he walked suddenly become a narrow pass beset with rifts and boulders. The upheaval of his preconceived notions of girlhood had been sharp indeed. He had never heard a girl speak as Christina had spoken; it had never occurred to him that a girl could speak so. But while he felt hurt and vexed, he harboured no resentment; her frank friendliness had disposed of that; and while he was humbled, he was not—thanks to his modesty, or, if you prefer it, lack of cocksureness—grievously humiliated. It is not in the nature of healthy youth to let misery have all its own way.
Before he reached home he was able to extract several sips of comfort from his recent experience. He knew her name and she knew his; they had discovered a mutual acquaintance (how we love those mutual acquaintances—sometimes!); they had shaken hands twice.
He spent the evening indoors—he might have done otherwise had not Christina said something about being busy on Saturday nights. He was patient with his little brother, almost tender towards his sister. He played several games of draughts with his father, wondering between his deplorable moves when he should see Christina again. He spoke in a subdued fashion. And about nine o’clock his mother anxiously asked him whether he was feeling quite well, and offered to prepare a homely potion. One regrets to record that he returned a rough answer and went off to bed, leaving Lizzie to shake her head more in sorrow than in anger while she informed John that she doubted Macgregor was “sickenin’ for something.” As Macgregor had not condescended to play draughts for at least two years, John was inclined to share her fears; it did not occur to him to put down such conduct to feminine influence; and an hour later, at her suggestion, he went to his son’s room and softly opened the door.
“Oh! ye’re no’ in yer bed yet, Macgreegor?”
“I’m jist gaun.”
“What are ye workin’ at?”
“Jist sharpenin’ a pencil. I’ll no’ be lang”—impatiently.
“Are ye feelin’ weel enough?”
“I’m fine. Dinna fash yersel’.”
John withdrew and reported to Lizzie. She was not satisfied, and before going to bed, about eleven o’clock, she listened at Macgregor’s door. All she heard was: “Here, Jimsie, I wish to peace ye wud keep yer feet to yersel’.”
She opened the door. “Laddie, are ye no’ sleepin’ yet?”
“Hoo can I sleep wi’ Jimsie jabbin’ his feet in ma back?”
She entered, and going to the bed removed the unconscious Jimsie to his own portion thereof, at the same time urging him into a more comfortable position. Then she came round and laid her hand on her first-born’s brow.
“Are ye sure ye’re a’ richt, laddie?”
“Ay, I’m fine. I wish ye wudna fash,” he said shortly, turning over.
Lizzie went out, closing the door gently. On the kitchen dresser she set out the medicine bottle and spoon against emergencies.
Perhaps there is a mansion in Heaven that will always be empty—a mansion waiting to receive those who in their youth never snubbed their anxious parents. Ere the door closed Macgregor was pricked with compunction. He was sensitive enough for that. But it is the sensitive people who hurt the people they care for.
In extenuation let it be said at once that the boy was enduring a dire reaction. It now appeared that Christina’s friendliness had been all in the way of business. Socially (he did not think the word, of course) Christina was beyond him. Christina, for all he knew, sat at night in a parlour, had an aunt that kept a servant (and, maybe, a gramaphone), was accustomed to young men in high collars and trousers that always looked new. Yes, she had shaken hands with him simply in order to get him to come back and buy another dozen of pencils.
He was very unhappy. He tossed from side to side until the voice of Jimsie, drowsy and peevish, declared that he had taken all the clothes. Which was practically true, though he did not admit it as he disentangled himself of the blankets and flung them all at his brother. He did not care if he froze—until he began to feel a little cold, when he rescued with difficulty a portion of the coverings from Jimsie’s greedy clutch. He would not go to the shop again. But he would pass it as often as possible. He would get Willie Thomson to accompany him, and they would smoke cigarettes, and they would stop at the door when a customer was entering, and laugh very loudly. He would save up and take Jessie Mary to the dance—at least, he would think about it. After all, it might be more effective to go to the shop and buy more presents for Jessie Mary and—oh, great idea!—request with great unconcern that they should be sent to her address!
The clock in the kitchen struck one. With any sympathy at all it would have struck at least five. It was like telling a person in the throes of toothache that the disease is not serious. By the way, one wonders if doctors will ever know as much about disease as patients know about pain. Speculation apart, it is a sorry business to flatter ourselves we have been suffering all night only to find that the night is but beginning. Still, there must have, been something far wrong with the Robinsons’ kitchen clock. Macgregor waited, but to his knowledge it never struck two. Indeed, it missed all the hours until nine.
Macgregor, however, presented himself in good time for the Sunday breakfast. His punctuality was too much for his mother, and she insisted on his taking a dose from the bottle on the dresser. Even youth is sometimes too tired to argue. “Onything for peace,” was his ungracious remark as he raised the spoon to his lips.
* * * * *
Scotland in its harshest, bleakest period of religious observance could not have provided a more dismal Sabbath than Macgregor provided for himself. Although his mother gave him the option of staying at home, he accompanied his parents to church; although he came back with a good appetite, he refused to let himself enjoy his dinner; although he desired to take the accustomed Sunday afternoon walk with his father down to the docks (they had gone there, weather permitting, for years), he shut himself up in the solitude of his bedroom.
He spent most of the afternoon in putting points to his stock of pencils. How the operation should have occupied so much time may be explained by the fact that the lead almost invariably parted from the wood ere a perfect point was attained. Indeed, when the task was ended, he had comparatively little to show for his threepence save a heap of shavings, fragments and dust. His resentment, however, was all against M. Tod; he wished she had been of his own sex and size. He also wished she had kept an ice-cream shop, open on Sundays.—No, he didn’t! Christina wouldn’t like working on Sundays; besides, an awful lot of chaps hung about ice-cream shops. He wondered what church Christina attended. If he only knew, he might go there in the evening. (What our churches owe to young womanhood will never be known.) But there were scores of churches in Glasgow. It would take years to get round them—and in the end she might sit in the gallery and he under it. In the unlikely event of his again entering Miss Tod’s shop, there would be no harm in asking Christina about her church and whether she sang in the choir. But stop! if she didn’t sing in the choir, she might think he was chaffing her. That wouldn’t do at all. Better just find out about the church, and if he didn’t get a view of her on his first visit he could try again.
There appears no reason why Macgregor’s spirits should have gradually risen throughout these and other equally rambling reflections; but the fact remains that they did so. By tea-time he was in a comely condition of mind. He made young Jimsie happy with the cake of rubber and presented Jeannie surreptitiously with a penny, “to buy sweeties.” He seemed interested in his father’s account of a vessel that had been in collision the previous day. He did not scowl when his mother expressed satisfaction with the way in which he was punishing the bread and butter, and openly congratulated herself on having administered the physic just in time. Nay, more; he offered to stay in the house with Jimsie while John and Lizzie took an evening stroll and Jeannie went with a friend to evening service. No people are quite so easily made happy as parents, and when, out-of-doors, John suggested that Macgregor’s weekly allowance should be raised to one shilling, Lizzie actually met him half-way by promising to make it ninepence in future.
During their absence Macgregor did his utmost to amuse Jimsie, who was suffering from an incipient cold, but shortly after their return he became restless, and ere long announced (rather indistinctly) his intention of going out for “twa-three” minutes.
Lizzie was about to ask “where?” when John remarked that it was a fine night and that he would come too. Thus was frustrated Macgregor’s desire to take one look at the shuttered shrine with “M. Tod” over the portal—a very foolish sort of desire, as many of us know—from experience.
In the circumstances Macgregor accepted his father’s company with a fairly good grace, merely submitting that the walk should be a short one.
On the way home, at a corner, under a lamp, they came upon Willie Thomson in earnest and apparently amicable conversation with Jessie Mary. Such friendliness struck Macgregor as peculiar, for since the days of their childhood the twain had openly expressed contempt and dislike for each other, and he wondered what was “up,” especially when the sight of him appeared to cause Willie, at least, considerable embarrassment. But presently the happy idea flashed upon him that Willie had suddenly become “sweet” on Jessie Mary, and would accordingly need to be dodged no longer. He felt more friendly towards Willie than for some time past. His feelings with regard to Jessie Mary were less definite, but he was sure his face had not got “extra red” under her somewhat mocking glance.
“Ye’re no’ as thick wi’ Wullie as ye used to be,” his father remarked.
“Oh, we’ve nae quarrel,” he returned. “What did ye say was the name o’ that damaged boat ye saw the day?”
* * * * *
He went to bed not unhappy. He would find a way of knowing Christina better and proving to her that the painting trade was as good as any.