CHAPTER SIXCircumstancerather than circumspection was accountable for the fact that Macgregor followed the elusive, winding trail of love alone. The tender adventures of our ’teens usually consist in encounters between two boys and two girls; two friends who tacitly admit that they want to meet the girls; two friends who pretend that they do not want to see the boys at any distance; and to sum up, two pairs of young human beings with but a single thought—themselves. Also it may happen, now and then, that for lack of likelier company Prince Charming goes hunting with Master Fathead, while Princess Lilian Rose lays the scent along with Miss Gooseberry, which but adds plausibility to the assumption that neither sex has the courage of its inclinations. For to be honest, there is no cowardice like that of lad’s love; no hypocrisy like that of lass’s. But, surely, you remember! And if so it happened that in your own day you, perforce, fared solitary to the chase, you will sympathise all the more with the unheroic hero of this slight record.In this respect Macgregor was not fortunate in his male friends. The oldest thereof, Willie Thomson, openly contemned the female sex, not omitting his aunt; the others confined their gallantries to the breezy pastimes of pushing girls off the sidewalk, bawling pleasantries after them, and guffawing largely at their own wit or the femininerepartee. Their finer instincts were doubtless still dormant. The only mortals worthy of respect were sundry more or less prominent personages whose feet or fists were their fortunes. In these days the adoration of the active by the inert is, one hopes, at its zenith of inflation. Again, to put it now in metaphor, Macgregor’s friends could do with a brass band in scarlet uniform all the time, but they had no use for a secret orchestra of muted strings. All of which was perfectly natural—just as natural as Macgregor’s inexplicable preference for the secret orchestra. Spring comes early or late; the calendar neither foretells nor records its coming. A lad and a lass—how and when and why the one first realises that the other is more than a mere human being are questions without answers. Well, it is a mercy that the world still holds something that cannot be explained away.In one sense this boy was no more refined than his neighbours; in another they were coarser than he. Remains the fact that he followed the trail alone—or thought he did.Willie Thomson, for one, was interested. He had been interested to the extent of grinning in Macgregor’s early tenderness for little Katie, and to the extent of sniggering in his friend’s bashful pursuit of Jessie Mary. But now the interest was that of the boy who discovers a nest just beyond his hand and wonders what sort of eggs he will get if, somehow, he can reach it. On the whole, Willie resented his swollen nose and cut lip less than the recent ill-disguised attempts to avoid his company. The latter rankled. Truth to tell, without Macgregor he was rather a lonely creature, a kind of derelict. No one really wanted him. He was not without acquaintances, shirkers like himself; but in the congregation of loafers is no true comradeship. Without admitting it even to himself, he still admired the boy who had faithfully championed his cause—not always virtuous—in the past, whose material possessions he had invariably shared, whose stolid sense of honour had so often puzzled his own mischievous mind, whose home he had envied despite a certain furtive dread of the woman who ruled there. Altogether it may be questioned whether Willie’s grudge was directed against his old friend and not against that which had caused his old friend’s defection. At all events, he began to spare Macgregor any necessity for dodging, and took to shadowing him on his solitary strolls.On the grey Saturday afternoon of the week rendered so eventful by his first real shave, Macgregor was once more standing by the window of M. Tod’s shop. He was endeavouring to prop up his courage with the recollection of the fact that a fortnight ago, at the same hour as the present, there had been no old woman behind the counter, and with the somewhat rash deduction that no old woman was there now.He was also wondering what he could buy for a penny without making a fool of himself. The spending of a penny when there is absolutely nothing one wants to buy is not quite so simple a transaction as at first thought it may seem—unless, of course, the shop is packed with comestibles; and even then one may hesitate to choose. Besides, Macgregor was obsessed by the memory of the pencil transaction of three nights ago. Had he but kept his head then, and confined his purchase to a single pencil, he might now have had a fair excuse for requiring another. At any rate, he could have met suspicion with the explanation that he had lost the first. But who would believe that he had used, or lost, a whole dozen within the brief space of three days?A wretched position to be in, for nothing else in the world of stationery was quite so natural and easy to ask for as a pencil—unless a—— Why had he not thought of it before?—a pen! Saved! He would enter boldly, as one who had every right to do so, and demand to be shown some pencils—no, pens, of course. There were many varieties of pens, he knew, even in small shops, so his selection would take time—lots of time! If only he weresurethe old woman wasn’t there.And just then the bell rang, the door of the shop opened and closed, and the old woman herself came out. In spite of her hat Macgregor recognised her at once. She turned her face skywards to make certain that it wasn’t raining, gave a satisfied smirk, which Macgregor accepted with a fearful start, though it was intended for the window and its contents, and trotted up the street.On the wave of relief, as it were, Macgregor was carried from the window to the entrance. Yet he had no sooner opened the door with its disconcerting note of warning than he wished he had delayed a minute or two longer. To retire, however, was out of the question. He closed the door as though he were afraid of wakening a baby, and faced the counter.The girl was there, and wearing the scarlet blouse again. Laying aside the magazine which she had just picked up, she smiled coldly and said calmly: “Good-afternoon. Nice day after the rain.”In mentally rehearsing his entrance the previous night Macgregor had, among other things, seen himself raise his brand-new bowler hat. To his subsequent shame and regret, he now omitted to perform the little courtesy. That he should forget his manners was perhaps even less surprising than that he should forget the hat itself, which gripped his head in a cruel fashion.“Ay,” he said solemnly in response to the polite greeting, and advanced to the counter.“Not just so disagreeable as yesterday,” she added, a trifle more cordially.“Ay—na.” He glanced up and down the counter. “I—I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said at last.“Apencil!” cried Christina; then in a voice from which all the amazement had gone: “A pencil—oh, certainly.”Macgregor reddened, opened his mouth and—shut it. Why should he make a bigger fool of himself by explaining that he had meant to say “a pen?” Besides (happy thought!) the pen would be an excuse for calling another time.Christina opened the drawer and paused, pursing her lips. Her tone was casual as she said: “I hope you found the dozen you bought lately quite satisfactory.”“Oh—ay, they were—splendid.” Macgregor blushed again.Christina smiled as prettily as any musical comedy actress selling guinea button-holes at a charity fête. She said: “I’ll tell Miss Tod. She’ll be delighted. It’s a great saving, buying a dozen, isn’t it?” Her hand went into the drawer. “Especially when one uses so many. It’s hardly worth while buying a single pencil, is it?” Her hand came out of the drawer and laid a bundle in front of Macgregor. “Wonderful how they can do it for threepence!”He stared at the bundle, his will fluttering like a bird under a strawberry net. Dash the pencils!—but she might be offendedif——“Some shops sell those pencils at a ha’penny each, I know,” she went on; “and I believe some have the neck—I mean the cheek to ask a penny. Would you like me to put them in paper, sir?”Recovering from the shock of the “sir,” Macgregor shook his head, and laid three coppers on the counter.“Thank you,” said she. “Is there anything else to-day?”Before he could answer, the door opened and an elderly man entered. At the ring of the bell Macgregor dropped the bundle; the flimsy fastening parted, and the pencils were scattered.Christina checked an “Oh, crickey!” and turned to attend to the second customer while the first collected his purchases from the floor.The elderly man wanted a newspaper only, but thanks to Christina’s politeness over the transaction, he went out feeling as if he had done quite a stroke of business.“I think you should let me tie them up for you,” she said to Macgregor, who was rising once more, rather red in the face.“Thank ye,” he said apologetically, handing her the pencils.“Accidents will happen,” she remarked cheerfully. “If they didn’t, there would be mighty little happening. I say, there’s only eleven pencils here.”“The ither rolled ablow the counter. It doesna matter,” he said.“Oh, but that won’t do. See, I’ll give you another now, and get the one under the counter some day—next stock-taking, maybe.” She began to make a parcel, then halted in the operation. “Are you sure there’s nothing else that I can show you to-day, sir?”Macgregor didn’t want to go just yet, so he appeared to be thinking deeply.“Essay paper—notebooks,” she murmured; “notepaper—envelopes—indiarubber——”“Injinrubber,” said Macgregor. (He would give it to Jimsie.)She turned and whipped a box from a shelf. “Do you prefer the red or the white—species?” she enquired, and felt glad she hadn’t said “sort.”“Oh, I’m no heedin’ which,” he replied generously, with a bare glance at the specimens laid out for his inspection.“All the same price—one penny per cake. The red is more flexible.” By way of exhibiting its quality, she took the oblong lengthwise between her finger and thumb and squeezed. To her dismay it sprang from her grip and struck her customer on the chin.“Oh, mercy!” she exclaimed. “I didnamean——”Recovering the missile from the floor, he said gravely: “My! ye’re a comic!”“I’m not! I tell ye I didna mean it. Did it hurt ye?”“No’ likely! I ken ye didna try it.” He smiled faintly. “If ye had tried to hit me, ye wud ha’e missed me.”“If I had tried, I wud ha’e hit ye a heap harder,” she said indignantly.“Try, then.” His smile broadened as he offered her the cake. “I’ll stan’ still.”Christina’s sporting instinct was roused. “I’ll bet ye the price o’ the cake I hit ye.” And let fly.It went over his left shoulder.“Ha’e anither shot,” he said, stooping to pick up the rubber.But as swiftly as it had gone her professional dignity returned. Macgregor came back to the counter to receive a stiff: “Thank you. Do you require anything else to-day?”His mumbled negative, his disappointed countenance reproached her.“Of course,” she said pleasantly, as she put his purchases in paper, “I cannot charge you for the indiarubber.”“Aw, cheese it!” he muttered shortly, flinging a penny on the counter.“I beg your pardon?”—this with supreme haughtiness.“Oh, ye needna. An’ ye can keep yer injinrubber—an’ yer pencils forbye!” With these words he wheeled about and strode for the door.Christina collapsed. A customer who paid for goods and then practically threw them at her was beyond her experience and comprehension.“Here!” she cried. “Stop a minute! I—I was jist jokin’. Come back an’ get yer things. We’ll no’ quarrel aboot the penny.”With his fingers on the handle he paused and regarded her half angrily, half reproachfully. He wanted to say something very cutting, but it wouldn’t come.“Please,” said Christina softly, dropping her eyes. “Ye’ll get me into trouble if ye dinna tak’ them.”“Eh?”“Miss Tod wud be vexed wi’ me for lossin’ a guid customer. She wud gi’e me the sack, maybe.”“Wud she?—the auld besom!” cried Macgregor, retracing his steps.“Oh, whisht! She’s no’ an auld besom. But I ken she wud be vexed.” Christina sighed. “I suppose I’m to blamefor——”“It’s me that’s to blame,” he interrupted. “Here!” he said in an unsteady whisper, “will ye shake han’s?”After a momentary hesitation she gave him her hand, saying graciously: “I’ve no objections, I’m sure. To tell the truth,” she went on, “I am not entirely disinterested in you, sir.”Macgregor withdrew his empty hand. “I—I wish ye wudna speak like that,” he sighed.“Like what?”“That awfu’ genteel talk.”“Sorry,” she said. “But it gangs doon wi’ maist o’ the customers. Besides, I try to keep it up to please ma aunt. But it doesna soun’ frien’ly-like, does it?”“That’s why I dinna like it,” he ventured, more easily.“I see. But if ye was servin’ in a shop ye wud ha’e to speak the same way.”“I’m in the pentin’ trade,” he informed her, with an air of importance.“I’ve a nose—but I like the smell fine. Ye’re no’ offended, are ye?”“I’m no’ that easy offended. Is Miss Tod yer aunt?”“Na, na; she’s nae relation. Ma aunt is Mrs. James Baldwin.” In the frankest fashion she gave a brief sketch of her position on the world’s surface. While she spoke she seated herself on the stool, and Macgregor, without thinking about it, subsided upon the chair and leant his arm upon the counter. Ere she ended they were regarding each other almost familiarly.Anon Macgregor furnished a small account of himself and his near relatives.“That’s queer!” commented Christina when he had finished.“What?” he asked, anxiously.“Ma Uncle James is a great frien’ o’ your Uncle Purdie. Your uncle buys a heap o’ fancy things frae mine, an’ he’s often been in oor hoose. I hear he’s worth a terrible heap o’ money, but naebody wud think it. I like him fine.”“Ye wudna like ma aunt fine,” said Macgregor.“No’ bein’ acquaint wi’ her, I canna say,” Christina returned. “But I believe if it hadna been for her yer uncle wud never ha’e made his fortune at the grocerytrade——”“Her! What had she got to dae wi’ ’t?”“Dear knows; but Uncle James says she egged him on to mak’ money frae the day she married him. But mony a woman does that. I wud dae it masel’—no’ that I’m greedy; I jist couldna endure a man that didna get on. I hate a stick-in-the-mud. It’s a fac’, though, that Mr. Purdie got the push-on frae his wife. An’ Uncle James says he’s no’ near done yet: he’ll be Lord Provost afore he’s feenished. Ye should keep in wi’ yer Uncle Purdie.”Macgregor scarcely heard her latter words. His Aunt Purdie responsible for his Uncle Purdie’s tremendous success in business! The idea was almost shocking. From his earliest boyhood it had been a sort of religion with him to admire his uncle and despise his aunt. Could any good thing come out of Aunt Purdie?“I doobt yer Uncle James doesna kenherextra weel,” he said at last.“Oh, ma uncle’s a splendid judge o’ character,” she assured him. “Especially female character,” she added. “That’s why he married ma aunt an’ adopted me. I took his name, like ma aunt did when she married him. It was a love match, in spite o’ their ages. There’s grander names, but nane better, nor Baldwin. In ma youth I called it Bald-yin to tease ma aunt when she was saft on him. But never heed aboot that the noo. D’ye ken what astonishes me aboot yersel’?”“What?” asked Macgregor, startled.“That ye’re no’ in the grocery trade.”“Me! What for wud I be a grocer?”“What for are ye a penter? An’ yer Uncle Purdie has nae offspring. My! if I had had a chance like you!” She heaved a sigh. “I’m sure yer uncle wud ha’e ta’en ye into his business. Ye canna be sae stupid that he wudna gi’e ye even a trial. Nae offence intended.”“I could ha’e been in the business if I had wanted,” Macgregor replied, with some dignity. “He offered me a job when I left the schule. But, ye see, I aye had the notion to be a penter. I like to be movin’ ma han’s an’ feet.”“An’ what did yer parents say?”“They canna thole Aunt Purdie. It was her that brought the message frae ma uncle—as if it was a favour. They said I was to choose for masel’.”“Pride’s an awfu’ thing for costin’ folk cash,” the girl remarked, with a shake of her head.“Eh?”“Naething,” she replied. After a slight pause she continued: “It’s no’ for me to speak aboot yer parents, but I hope ye’ll excuse me sayin’ that ye’re a bigger fool than ye look.”“Wha—what d’ye mean?”“I didna mean to insult ye or hurt yer feelin’s.” Another pause. “D’ye no’ want to get up in the world, man? D’ye no’ want to be a millionaire—or a thoosandaire, onyway?”“Me?”“Ay, you!”Across the counter he regarded her in a semi-dazed fashion, speechless. She was rather flushed; her eyes danced with eagerness. Apparently she was all in earnest.“Are ye gaun to be a penter a’ yer life?” she demanded.“What for no’?” he retorted with some spirit. “It’s guid pay.”“Guid pay! In ten year what’ll ye be makin’?”“I couldna say. Maybe—maybe twenty-five shillin’s;maybe——”“A week?”“Ay; of course,” he said, nettled. “D’ye think I meant a month?”“If ye was wi’ yer uncle an’ stickin’ to yer business, I wud ha’e said ’a day’! Ma gracious goodness! if ye was pleasin’ a man like that, there’s nae sayin’ where ye wud be in ten year.”“Ach,” he said, with an attempt at lightness, “I’m no’ heedin’.”Christina doubled her fist and smote the counter with such violence that he fairly jumped on his seat.“Ye’re no’ heedin’! What’s the use o’ bein’ alive if ye’re no’ heedin’? But ye’re a’ the same, you young workin’ men. Yer rule is to dae the least ye can for yer wages, an’ never snap at an opportunity. An’ when ye get aulder ye gang on strike an’ gas aboot yer rights, but ye keep dumb enough aboot yer deserts,an’——”“Here, haud on!” cried Macgregor, now thoroughly roused. “What dae you ken aboot it? Ye’re jist alassie——”“I’ve eyes an’ ears.”There was a pause.“Are ye a—a suffragist?” he asked, weakly.“I ha’ena quite decided on that p’int. Are you in favour o’ votes for females? Aweel, there’s nae use answerin’, for ye’ve never thought aboot it. I suppose, like the ither young men aboot here, ye buy yer brains every Seturday done up in the sports edition o’ the evenin’ paper. Oh, Christopher Columbus! that’s whenIget busy on a Seturday nicht. Footba’—footba’—footba’!”Macgregor swallowed these remarks, and reverted to the previous question. “What,” he enquired a little loftily, “daeyouexpec’ to be earnin’ ten year frae the noo?”Promptly, frankly, she replied: “If I’m no’ drawin’ thirty shillin’s a week I’ll consider masel’ a bad egg. Of course, it a’ depends on whether I select to remain single or itherwise.”This was too much for Macgregor. He surveyed her with such blank bewilderment that she burst out laughing.He went red to the roots of his hair, or at any rate to the edge of his hat. “Oh, I kent fine ye was coddin’ me,” he said crossly, looking hurt and getting to his feet.She stopped laughing at once. “That’s the worst o’ talkin’ plain sense nooadays; folk think ye’re only coddin’,” she observed, good-humouredly. “I’m sorry I vexed ye.” Impulsively she held out her hand. “I doobt we’ll ha’e to shake again.”This, also, was too much for Macgregor. He seized her fingers in a grip that made her squeal.And just then bang went the bell above the door.Christina bit her lip and smiled through her tears as M. Tod entered the shop.“Anything else to-day?” she enquired in her politest voice, and placed the little parcel under Macgregor’s hand.His reply was inaudible. His hand closed automatically on his purchase, his eyes met hers for the fraction of a second, and then he practically bolted.“Young men are aye in sich a great hurry nooadays,” remarked M. Tod, beginning to remove her gloves.“He’s the young man that bought the dizzen pencils the ither nicht,” Christina explained, examining the joints of her right hand. “I’ve just been sellin’ him anither dizzen.”“Dearie me! hemustbe a reporter on yin of the papers.”“He’s a whale for pencils, whatever he is,” Christina returned, putting straight the piles of periodicals that adorned the counter. “I doobt he wud need to report wi’ his feet forbye his han’s to get through a dizzen pencils in three days. It’s a bit o’ a mystery aboot the pencils.”“A mystery!” exclaimed M. Tod, who was just about to blow into a glove.Christina picked the neglected penny from the counter and dropped it into the till. “It’s a case o’cherchez la femme,” she said softly, with quite a passable accent.“What’s that?” murmured M. Tod.“French,” sighed Christina, making a jotting of her last sales, and taking a long time to do it.M. Tod stared for a moment or two, shook her head, drew a long breath, and with the same inflated her glove.
Circumstancerather than circumspection was accountable for the fact that Macgregor followed the elusive, winding trail of love alone. The tender adventures of our ’teens usually consist in encounters between two boys and two girls; two friends who tacitly admit that they want to meet the girls; two friends who pretend that they do not want to see the boys at any distance; and to sum up, two pairs of young human beings with but a single thought—themselves. Also it may happen, now and then, that for lack of likelier company Prince Charming goes hunting with Master Fathead, while Princess Lilian Rose lays the scent along with Miss Gooseberry, which but adds plausibility to the assumption that neither sex has the courage of its inclinations. For to be honest, there is no cowardice like that of lad’s love; no hypocrisy like that of lass’s. But, surely, you remember! And if so it happened that in your own day you, perforce, fared solitary to the chase, you will sympathise all the more with the unheroic hero of this slight record.
In this respect Macgregor was not fortunate in his male friends. The oldest thereof, Willie Thomson, openly contemned the female sex, not omitting his aunt; the others confined their gallantries to the breezy pastimes of pushing girls off the sidewalk, bawling pleasantries after them, and guffawing largely at their own wit or the femininerepartee. Their finer instincts were doubtless still dormant. The only mortals worthy of respect were sundry more or less prominent personages whose feet or fists were their fortunes. In these days the adoration of the active by the inert is, one hopes, at its zenith of inflation. Again, to put it now in metaphor, Macgregor’s friends could do with a brass band in scarlet uniform all the time, but they had no use for a secret orchestra of muted strings. All of which was perfectly natural—just as natural as Macgregor’s inexplicable preference for the secret orchestra. Spring comes early or late; the calendar neither foretells nor records its coming. A lad and a lass—how and when and why the one first realises that the other is more than a mere human being are questions without answers. Well, it is a mercy that the world still holds something that cannot be explained away.
In one sense this boy was no more refined than his neighbours; in another they were coarser than he. Remains the fact that he followed the trail alone—or thought he did.
Willie Thomson, for one, was interested. He had been interested to the extent of grinning in Macgregor’s early tenderness for little Katie, and to the extent of sniggering in his friend’s bashful pursuit of Jessie Mary. But now the interest was that of the boy who discovers a nest just beyond his hand and wonders what sort of eggs he will get if, somehow, he can reach it. On the whole, Willie resented his swollen nose and cut lip less than the recent ill-disguised attempts to avoid his company. The latter rankled. Truth to tell, without Macgregor he was rather a lonely creature, a kind of derelict. No one really wanted him. He was not without acquaintances, shirkers like himself; but in the congregation of loafers is no true comradeship. Without admitting it even to himself, he still admired the boy who had faithfully championed his cause—not always virtuous—in the past, whose material possessions he had invariably shared, whose stolid sense of honour had so often puzzled his own mischievous mind, whose home he had envied despite a certain furtive dread of the woman who ruled there. Altogether it may be questioned whether Willie’s grudge was directed against his old friend and not against that which had caused his old friend’s defection. At all events, he began to spare Macgregor any necessity for dodging, and took to shadowing him on his solitary strolls.
On the grey Saturday afternoon of the week rendered so eventful by his first real shave, Macgregor was once more standing by the window of M. Tod’s shop. He was endeavouring to prop up his courage with the recollection of the fact that a fortnight ago, at the same hour as the present, there had been no old woman behind the counter, and with the somewhat rash deduction that no old woman was there now.
He was also wondering what he could buy for a penny without making a fool of himself. The spending of a penny when there is absolutely nothing one wants to buy is not quite so simple a transaction as at first thought it may seem—unless, of course, the shop is packed with comestibles; and even then one may hesitate to choose. Besides, Macgregor was obsessed by the memory of the pencil transaction of three nights ago. Had he but kept his head then, and confined his purchase to a single pencil, he might now have had a fair excuse for requiring another. At any rate, he could have met suspicion with the explanation that he had lost the first. But who would believe that he had used, or lost, a whole dozen within the brief space of three days?
A wretched position to be in, for nothing else in the world of stationery was quite so natural and easy to ask for as a pencil—unless a—— Why had he not thought of it before?—a pen! Saved! He would enter boldly, as one who had every right to do so, and demand to be shown some pencils—no, pens, of course. There were many varieties of pens, he knew, even in small shops, so his selection would take time—lots of time! If only he weresurethe old woman wasn’t there.
And just then the bell rang, the door of the shop opened and closed, and the old woman herself came out. In spite of her hat Macgregor recognised her at once. She turned her face skywards to make certain that it wasn’t raining, gave a satisfied smirk, which Macgregor accepted with a fearful start, though it was intended for the window and its contents, and trotted up the street.
On the wave of relief, as it were, Macgregor was carried from the window to the entrance. Yet he had no sooner opened the door with its disconcerting note of warning than he wished he had delayed a minute or two longer. To retire, however, was out of the question. He closed the door as though he were afraid of wakening a baby, and faced the counter.
The girl was there, and wearing the scarlet blouse again. Laying aside the magazine which she had just picked up, she smiled coldly and said calmly: “Good-afternoon. Nice day after the rain.”
In mentally rehearsing his entrance the previous night Macgregor had, among other things, seen himself raise his brand-new bowler hat. To his subsequent shame and regret, he now omitted to perform the little courtesy. That he should forget his manners was perhaps even less surprising than that he should forget the hat itself, which gripped his head in a cruel fashion.
“Ay,” he said solemnly in response to the polite greeting, and advanced to the counter.
“Not just so disagreeable as yesterday,” she added, a trifle more cordially.
“Ay—na.” He glanced up and down the counter. “I—I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said at last.
“Apencil!” cried Christina; then in a voice from which all the amazement had gone: “A pencil—oh, certainly.”
Macgregor reddened, opened his mouth and—shut it. Why should he make a bigger fool of himself by explaining that he had meant to say “a pen?” Besides (happy thought!) the pen would be an excuse for calling another time.
Christina opened the drawer and paused, pursing her lips. Her tone was casual as she said: “I hope you found the dozen you bought lately quite satisfactory.”
“Oh—ay, they were—splendid.” Macgregor blushed again.
Christina smiled as prettily as any musical comedy actress selling guinea button-holes at a charity fête. She said: “I’ll tell Miss Tod. She’ll be delighted. It’s a great saving, buying a dozen, isn’t it?” Her hand went into the drawer. “Especially when one uses so many. It’s hardly worth while buying a single pencil, is it?” Her hand came out of the drawer and laid a bundle in front of Macgregor. “Wonderful how they can do it for threepence!”
He stared at the bundle, his will fluttering like a bird under a strawberry net. Dash the pencils!—but she might be offendedif——
“Some shops sell those pencils at a ha’penny each, I know,” she went on; “and I believe some have the neck—I mean the cheek to ask a penny. Would you like me to put them in paper, sir?”
Recovering from the shock of the “sir,” Macgregor shook his head, and laid three coppers on the counter.
“Thank you,” said she. “Is there anything else to-day?”
Before he could answer, the door opened and an elderly man entered. At the ring of the bell Macgregor dropped the bundle; the flimsy fastening parted, and the pencils were scattered.
Christina checked an “Oh, crickey!” and turned to attend to the second customer while the first collected his purchases from the floor.
The elderly man wanted a newspaper only, but thanks to Christina’s politeness over the transaction, he went out feeling as if he had done quite a stroke of business.
“I think you should let me tie them up for you,” she said to Macgregor, who was rising once more, rather red in the face.
“Thank ye,” he said apologetically, handing her the pencils.
“Accidents will happen,” she remarked cheerfully. “If they didn’t, there would be mighty little happening. I say, there’s only eleven pencils here.”
“The ither rolled ablow the counter. It doesna matter,” he said.
“Oh, but that won’t do. See, I’ll give you another now, and get the one under the counter some day—next stock-taking, maybe.” She began to make a parcel, then halted in the operation. “Are you sure there’s nothing else that I can show you to-day, sir?”
Macgregor didn’t want to go just yet, so he appeared to be thinking deeply.
“Essay paper—notebooks,” she murmured; “notepaper—envelopes—indiarubber——”
“Injinrubber,” said Macgregor. (He would give it to Jimsie.)
She turned and whipped a box from a shelf. “Do you prefer the red or the white—species?” she enquired, and felt glad she hadn’t said “sort.”
“Oh, I’m no heedin’ which,” he replied generously, with a bare glance at the specimens laid out for his inspection.
“All the same price—one penny per cake. The red is more flexible.” By way of exhibiting its quality, she took the oblong lengthwise between her finger and thumb and squeezed. To her dismay it sprang from her grip and struck her customer on the chin.
“Oh, mercy!” she exclaimed. “I didnamean——”
Recovering the missile from the floor, he said gravely: “My! ye’re a comic!”
“I’m not! I tell ye I didna mean it. Did it hurt ye?”
“No’ likely! I ken ye didna try it.” He smiled faintly. “If ye had tried to hit me, ye wud ha’e missed me.”
“If I had tried, I wud ha’e hit ye a heap harder,” she said indignantly.
“Try, then.” His smile broadened as he offered her the cake. “I’ll stan’ still.”
Christina’s sporting instinct was roused. “I’ll bet ye the price o’ the cake I hit ye.” And let fly.
It went over his left shoulder.
“Ha’e anither shot,” he said, stooping to pick up the rubber.
But as swiftly as it had gone her professional dignity returned. Macgregor came back to the counter to receive a stiff: “Thank you. Do you require anything else to-day?”
His mumbled negative, his disappointed countenance reproached her.
“Of course,” she said pleasantly, as she put his purchases in paper, “I cannot charge you for the indiarubber.”
“Aw, cheese it!” he muttered shortly, flinging a penny on the counter.
“I beg your pardon?”—this with supreme haughtiness.
“Oh, ye needna. An’ ye can keep yer injinrubber—an’ yer pencils forbye!” With these words he wheeled about and strode for the door.
Christina collapsed. A customer who paid for goods and then practically threw them at her was beyond her experience and comprehension.
“Here!” she cried. “Stop a minute! I—I was jist jokin’. Come back an’ get yer things. We’ll no’ quarrel aboot the penny.”
With his fingers on the handle he paused and regarded her half angrily, half reproachfully. He wanted to say something very cutting, but it wouldn’t come.
“Please,” said Christina softly, dropping her eyes. “Ye’ll get me into trouble if ye dinna tak’ them.”
“Eh?”
“Miss Tod wud be vexed wi’ me for lossin’ a guid customer. She wud gi’e me the sack, maybe.”
“Wud she?—the auld besom!” cried Macgregor, retracing his steps.
“Oh, whisht! She’s no’ an auld besom. But I ken she wud be vexed.” Christina sighed. “I suppose I’m to blamefor——”
“It’s me that’s to blame,” he interrupted. “Here!” he said in an unsteady whisper, “will ye shake han’s?”
After a momentary hesitation she gave him her hand, saying graciously: “I’ve no objections, I’m sure. To tell the truth,” she went on, “I am not entirely disinterested in you, sir.”
Macgregor withdrew his empty hand. “I—I wish ye wudna speak like that,” he sighed.
“Like what?”
“That awfu’ genteel talk.”
“Sorry,” she said. “But it gangs doon wi’ maist o’ the customers. Besides, I try to keep it up to please ma aunt. But it doesna soun’ frien’ly-like, does it?”
“That’s why I dinna like it,” he ventured, more easily.
“I see. But if ye was servin’ in a shop ye wud ha’e to speak the same way.”
“I’m in the pentin’ trade,” he informed her, with an air of importance.
“I’ve a nose—but I like the smell fine. Ye’re no’ offended, are ye?”
“I’m no’ that easy offended. Is Miss Tod yer aunt?”
“Na, na; she’s nae relation. Ma aunt is Mrs. James Baldwin.” In the frankest fashion she gave a brief sketch of her position on the world’s surface. While she spoke she seated herself on the stool, and Macgregor, without thinking about it, subsided upon the chair and leant his arm upon the counter. Ere she ended they were regarding each other almost familiarly.
Anon Macgregor furnished a small account of himself and his near relatives.
“That’s queer!” commented Christina when he had finished.
“What?” he asked, anxiously.
“Ma Uncle James is a great frien’ o’ your Uncle Purdie. Your uncle buys a heap o’ fancy things frae mine, an’ he’s often been in oor hoose. I hear he’s worth a terrible heap o’ money, but naebody wud think it. I like him fine.”
“Ye wudna like ma aunt fine,” said Macgregor.
“No’ bein’ acquaint wi’ her, I canna say,” Christina returned. “But I believe if it hadna been for her yer uncle wud never ha’e made his fortune at the grocerytrade——”
“Her! What had she got to dae wi’ ’t?”
“Dear knows; but Uncle James says she egged him on to mak’ money frae the day she married him. But mony a woman does that. I wud dae it masel’—no’ that I’m greedy; I jist couldna endure a man that didna get on. I hate a stick-in-the-mud. It’s a fac’, though, that Mr. Purdie got the push-on frae his wife. An’ Uncle James says he’s no’ near done yet: he’ll be Lord Provost afore he’s feenished. Ye should keep in wi’ yer Uncle Purdie.”
Macgregor scarcely heard her latter words. His Aunt Purdie responsible for his Uncle Purdie’s tremendous success in business! The idea was almost shocking. From his earliest boyhood it had been a sort of religion with him to admire his uncle and despise his aunt. Could any good thing come out of Aunt Purdie?
“I doobt yer Uncle James doesna kenherextra weel,” he said at last.
“Oh, ma uncle’s a splendid judge o’ character,” she assured him. “Especially female character,” she added. “That’s why he married ma aunt an’ adopted me. I took his name, like ma aunt did when she married him. It was a love match, in spite o’ their ages. There’s grander names, but nane better, nor Baldwin. In ma youth I called it Bald-yin to tease ma aunt when she was saft on him. But never heed aboot that the noo. D’ye ken what astonishes me aboot yersel’?”
“What?” asked Macgregor, startled.
“That ye’re no’ in the grocery trade.”
“Me! What for wud I be a grocer?”
“What for are ye a penter? An’ yer Uncle Purdie has nae offspring. My! if I had had a chance like you!” She heaved a sigh. “I’m sure yer uncle wud ha’e ta’en ye into his business. Ye canna be sae stupid that he wudna gi’e ye even a trial. Nae offence intended.”
“I could ha’e been in the business if I had wanted,” Macgregor replied, with some dignity. “He offered me a job when I left the schule. But, ye see, I aye had the notion to be a penter. I like to be movin’ ma han’s an’ feet.”
“An’ what did yer parents say?”
“They canna thole Aunt Purdie. It was her that brought the message frae ma uncle—as if it was a favour. They said I was to choose for masel’.”
“Pride’s an awfu’ thing for costin’ folk cash,” the girl remarked, with a shake of her head.
“Eh?”
“Naething,” she replied. After a slight pause she continued: “It’s no’ for me to speak aboot yer parents, but I hope ye’ll excuse me sayin’ that ye’re a bigger fool than ye look.”
“Wha—what d’ye mean?”
“I didna mean to insult ye or hurt yer feelin’s.” Another pause. “D’ye no’ want to get up in the world, man? D’ye no’ want to be a millionaire—or a thoosandaire, onyway?”
“Me?”
“Ay, you!”
Across the counter he regarded her in a semi-dazed fashion, speechless. She was rather flushed; her eyes danced with eagerness. Apparently she was all in earnest.
“Are ye gaun to be a penter a’ yer life?” she demanded.
“What for no’?” he retorted with some spirit. “It’s guid pay.”
“Guid pay! In ten year what’ll ye be makin’?”
“I couldna say. Maybe—maybe twenty-five shillin’s;maybe——”
“A week?”
“Ay; of course,” he said, nettled. “D’ye think I meant a month?”
“If ye was wi’ yer uncle an’ stickin’ to yer business, I wud ha’e said ’a day’! Ma gracious goodness! if ye was pleasin’ a man like that, there’s nae sayin’ where ye wud be in ten year.”
“Ach,” he said, with an attempt at lightness, “I’m no’ heedin’.”
Christina doubled her fist and smote the counter with such violence that he fairly jumped on his seat.
“Ye’re no’ heedin’! What’s the use o’ bein’ alive if ye’re no’ heedin’? But ye’re a’ the same, you young workin’ men. Yer rule is to dae the least ye can for yer wages, an’ never snap at an opportunity. An’ when ye get aulder ye gang on strike an’ gas aboot yer rights, but ye keep dumb enough aboot yer deserts,an’——”
“Here, haud on!” cried Macgregor, now thoroughly roused. “What dae you ken aboot it? Ye’re jist alassie——”
“I’ve eyes an’ ears.”
There was a pause.
“Are ye a—a suffragist?” he asked, weakly.
“I ha’ena quite decided on that p’int. Are you in favour o’ votes for females? Aweel, there’s nae use answerin’, for ye’ve never thought aboot it. I suppose, like the ither young men aboot here, ye buy yer brains every Seturday done up in the sports edition o’ the evenin’ paper. Oh, Christopher Columbus! that’s whenIget busy on a Seturday nicht. Footba’—footba’—footba’!”
Macgregor swallowed these remarks, and reverted to the previous question. “What,” he enquired a little loftily, “daeyouexpec’ to be earnin’ ten year frae the noo?”
Promptly, frankly, she replied: “If I’m no’ drawin’ thirty shillin’s a week I’ll consider masel’ a bad egg. Of course, it a’ depends on whether I select to remain single or itherwise.”
This was too much for Macgregor. He surveyed her with such blank bewilderment that she burst out laughing.
He went red to the roots of his hair, or at any rate to the edge of his hat. “Oh, I kent fine ye was coddin’ me,” he said crossly, looking hurt and getting to his feet.
She stopped laughing at once. “That’s the worst o’ talkin’ plain sense nooadays; folk think ye’re only coddin’,” she observed, good-humouredly. “I’m sorry I vexed ye.” Impulsively she held out her hand. “I doobt we’ll ha’e to shake again.”
This, also, was too much for Macgregor. He seized her fingers in a grip that made her squeal.
And just then bang went the bell above the door.
Christina bit her lip and smiled through her tears as M. Tod entered the shop.
“Anything else to-day?” she enquired in her politest voice, and placed the little parcel under Macgregor’s hand.
His reply was inaudible. His hand closed automatically on his purchase, his eyes met hers for the fraction of a second, and then he practically bolted.
“Young men are aye in sich a great hurry nooadays,” remarked M. Tod, beginning to remove her gloves.
“He’s the young man that bought the dizzen pencils the ither nicht,” Christina explained, examining the joints of her right hand. “I’ve just been sellin’ him anither dizzen.”
“Dearie me! hemustbe a reporter on yin of the papers.”
“He’s a whale for pencils, whatever he is,” Christina returned, putting straight the piles of periodicals that adorned the counter. “I doobt he wud need to report wi’ his feet forbye his han’s to get through a dizzen pencils in three days. It’s a bit o’ a mystery aboot the pencils.”
“A mystery!” exclaimed M. Tod, who was just about to blow into a glove.
Christina picked the neglected penny from the counter and dropped it into the till. “It’s a case o’cherchez la femme,” she said softly, with quite a passable accent.
“What’s that?” murmured M. Tod.
“French,” sighed Christina, making a jotting of her last sales, and taking a long time to do it.
M. Tod stared for a moment or two, shook her head, drew a long breath, and with the same inflated her glove.