CHAPTER THIRTEENJohn Robinsonand his son sat on a pile of timber at the docks. Dusk was falling, and the air that had been mild for the season was growing chill.John replaced his watch in his pocket. “It’s comin’ on for tea-time. Are ye ready for the road, Macgreegor?”“Ay,” said the boy, without stirring.For two hours he had been struggling to utter the words on which he believed his future depended.“Weel,” said John, getting out his pipe preparatory to lighting it on passing the gate, “we best be movin’.”It was now or never. Macgregor cleared his throat.“The pentin’ trade’s rotten,” he said in a voice not his own.“Eh?” said John, rather staggered by the statement which was without relevance to any of the preceding conversation. “What’s rotten aboot it?”“Everything.”“That’s the first I’ve heard o’ ’t. In fac’, I’m tell’t the pentin’ trade is extra brisk the noo.”“That’s no’ what I meant,” Macgregor forced himself to say. “I meant it was a rotten trade to be in.”John gave a good-humoured laugh. “Oh, I see! Ye dinna like the overtime! Aweel, that’s nateral at your age, Macgreegor”—he patted his son’s shoulder—“but when ye’re aulder, wi’ a wife an’ weans, maybe, ye’ll be gled o’ overtime whiles, I’m thinkin’.”“It’s no the overtime,” said Macgregor.“What is’t, then? What’s wrang wi’ the trade?” The question was lightly put.“There’s—there’s nae prospec’s in it for a man.”“Nae prospec’s! Hoots, Macgreegor! there’s as guid prospec’s in the pentin’ as in ony ither trade. Dinna fash yer heid aboot that—no’ but what I’m pleased to ken ye’re thinkin’ aboot yer prospec’s, ma son. But we’ll speak aboot it on the road hame.”“I wish,” said Macgregor, with the greatest effort of all, “I wish I had never gaed into it. I wish I had gaed into Uncle Purdie’s business.”John sat down again. At last he said: “D’ye mean that, Macgreegor?”“Ay, I mean it.”For the first time within his memory John Robinson felt disappointed—in a vague fashion, it is true, yet none the less unpleasantly disappointed—in his son.“But ye’ve been at the pentin’ for three year,” he said a little impatiently.“I ken that, fayther.”“An’ ye mind ye had the chance o’ gaun into yer uncle’s business when ye left the schule?”“Ay.”“But ye wud ha’e naething but the pentin’.”Macgregor nodded.“Maybe ye mind that yer Aunt Purdie was unco offended, for it was her notion—at least, it was her that spoke aboot it—an’ she declared ye wud never get a second chance. D’ye no’ mind, Macgreegor?”“I mind aboot her bein’ offended, but I dinna mind aboot—the ither thing,” Macgregor answered dully.“ButImind it, for she was rale nesty to yer mither at the time. In fac’, I dinna ken hoo yer mither stood her impiddence. An’, in a way, it was a’ ma fau’t, for it was me that said ye was to choose the trade that ye liked best—an’ I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing, because I had seen lads spiled wi’ bein’ forced into trades they didna fancy. Ay, I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing——An’ noo ye’re tellin’ me I did the wrang thing.”“Fayther, it’s me that’s to blame. I—I didna mean to vex ye.”“Aweel, I dinna suppose ye did,” said John sadly. “But for the life o’ me I canna see hoo ye can hope to get into yer uncle’s business at this time o’ day.... But we’ll be keepin’ yer mither waitin’.”He rose slowly and Macgregor joined him. At the gate John apparently forgot to light his pipe. They were half way home ere he spoke.He put his hand round his son’s arm. “Ye’re no’ to think, Macgreegor, that I wud stan’ in yer road when ye want to better yersel’. No’ likely! I never was set on bein’ a wealthy man masel’, but naethin’ wud mak’ me prooder nor to see you gang up in the world; an’ I can say the same for yer mither. An’ I can see that ye micht gang far in yer uncle’s business, for yer uncle was aye fond o’ ye, an’ I think ye could manage to please him at yer work, if ye was tryin’.But—ye wud need yer aunt’s favour to begin wi’, an’ that’s the bitter truth, an’ she’s no’ the sort o’ body that forgets what she conseeders an affront. Weel, it’ll need some thinkin’ ower. I’ll ha’e to see what yer mither says. An’ ye best no’ expec’ onything. Stick to the pentin’ in the meantime, an’ be vera certain afore ye quit the trade ye’re in. That’s a’ I can say, ma son.”Macgregor had no words then. Never before had his father seriously spoken at such length to him. His heart was heavy, troubled about many things.* * * * *Eight o’clock on Monday night saw him at the accustomed spot; on Wednesday night also he was there. If only Christina had been friends with him he would have asked her what he ought to do. Yet the mere glimpse of her confirmed him in his desire to change his trade. On the Wednesday night it seemed to him that she walked away from the shop much more slowly than usual, and the horrid thought that she might be giving some other “man” a chance to overtake her assailed him. But at last she was gone without that happening.On the way home he encountered Jessie Mary. She greeted him affably, and he could not but stop.“Lovely dance on Friday. Ye should ha’e been there. Ma belt was greatly admired,” she remarked.“Was it?”“I think I’ve seen the shop where ye bought it,” she said, watching his face covertly.It’s likely,” he replied, without emotion.Jessie Mary was relieved; evidently he was without knowledge of her visit to the shop. Now that the world was going well with her again she bore no ill-will, and was fain to avoid any. For at the eleventh hour—or, to be precise, the night before the dance—she had miraculously won back the allegiance of the young man with the exquisite moustache, who served in the provision shop, and for the present she was more than satisfied with herself.So she bade Macgregor good-night, a little patronisingly perhaps, and hurried off to reward her recovered swain with the pleasant sight of herself and an order for a finnan haddie.Macgregor was still in the dark as to whether his father had mentioned to his mother the subject of that conversation at the docks. John had not referred to it again, and the boy was beginning to wonder if his case was hopeless.On the Friday night, however, just when he was about to slip from the house, his mother followed him to the door. Very quietly she said:“When ye come in, Macgreegor, I want ye to tell me if ye’re still set on leavin’ the pentin’. Dinna tell me noo. Tak’ yer walk, an’ think it ower, seriouslike. But dinna be late, laddie.”She went back to the kitchen, leaving him to shut the door.It was not much after seven o’clock, but he went straightway in the direction of M. Tod’s shop. For the first time in what seemed an age, he found himself at the familiar, glittering window. And lo! the glazed panel at the back was open a few inches. Quickly he retreated to the edge of the pavement, and stood there altogether undecided. But desire drew him, and gradually he approached the window again.Christina was sitting under the lamp, at the desk, her pretty profile bent over her writing, her fair plait falling over the shoulder of her scarlet shirt. She was engaged in pencilling queer little marks on paper, and doing so very rapidly. Macgregor understood that she was practising shorthand. No doubt she would be his uncle’s private secretary some day, whilehe——All at once it came to him that no one in the world could answer the great question but Christina. If the thing didn’t matter to Christina, it didn’t matter to him; it was for her sake that he would strive to be “guid enough yet,” not for the sake of being “guid enough” in itself. Besides, she had put the idea into his head. Surely she would not refuse to speak to him on that one subject.Now all this was hardly in accordance with the brave and independent plan which Macgregor had set out to follow—to wit, that he would not attempt to speak to Christina until he could announce that he was a member of his uncle’s staff. Yes, love is the great maker of plans—also, the great breaker.Coward or not, it took courage to enter the shop.Christina looked up, her colour deepening slightly.“Hullo,” she said coolly, though not coldly.It was not a snub anyway, and Macgregor walked up to the counter. He came to the point at once.“Wud ye advise me to try an’ get a job frae ma uncle?” he said, distinctly enough.“Me?” The syllable was fraught with intense astonishment.“Ye advised me afore to try it,” he said, fairly steadily.“Did I?”—carelessly.It was too much for him. “Oh, Christina!” he whispered reproachfully.“Well, I’m sure it’s none of my business. I thought you preferred being a painter.”The pity was that Christina should have just then remembered the existence of such a person as Jessie Mary, also the fact of her own slow walk from the shop the previous night. Yet she had forgotten both when she opened the panel at the back of the window a few inches. And perhaps she was annoyed with herself, knowing that she was not behaving quite fairly.He let her remark concerning his preference for the painting pass, and put a very direct question.“What made ye change yer mind aboot me that night?”“What night?” she asked flippantly, and told herself it was the silliest thing she had ever uttered.She had gone too far—she saw it in his face.“I didna think ye was as bad as that,” he said in a curiously hard voice, and turned from the counter.Quick anger—quick compunction—quick fear—and then:“Mac!”He wheeled at the door. She was holding out her hand. Her smile was frail.“Are ye in earnest?” he said in a low voice, but he did not wait for her answer.She drew away her hand, gently. “Dinna ask me ony questions,” she pleaded. “I—I didna really mean what I said that night, or this night either. I think I was off my onion”—a faint laugh—“but I’m sorry I behaved the way I did. Is that enough?”It was more than enough; how much more he could not say. “I’ve missed ye terrible,” he murmured.Christina became her practical self. “So ye’re for tryin’ yer uncle’s business——” she began.“If he’ll gi’e me the chance.”“Weel, I’m sure I wish ye the best o’ luck.”“Then ye think I ought to try?” This with great eagerness.“If ye’ve made up yer mind it’s for the best,” she answered cautiously.He had to be satisfied with that. “Will I let ye ken if it comes off?”She nodded. Then she glanced at her watch.“Can—can I get walkin’ hame wi’ ye, Christina?” It was out before he knew.She shook her head. “Uncle said he wud come for me; he had some business up this way. If ye wait a minute, ye’ll see him. I’ll introduce ye. He’ll be interested seein’ ye’re a nephew o’ Mr. Purdie.”“Oh, I couldna. I best hook it. But, Christina, I can come to-morrow, eh?”She laughed. “I canna prevent ye. But I’ll no’ be here in the afternoon. Uncle’s takin’ auntie an’ me to a matinée, an’ I’ll no’ be back much afore six.”“Weel, I’ll meet ye at eight an’ walk hame wi’ ye.”“Will ye?”“Oh, Christina; say ’ay.’”“I’ll consider it.”And he had to be satisfied with that, too, for at this point the noisy door opened to admit a tall, clean-shaven, pleasant-featured man of middle-age.“Hullo, uncle!” cried Christina.Macgregor fled, but not without gaining a quick smile that made all the difference in the world to him.Ten minutes later he hurried into the home kitchen.“Mither, I’ve decided to leave the pentin’.” The moment he said it his heart misgave him, and the colour flew to his face. But he need not have doubted his parents.“Weel, ma son,” said John soberly, “we’ll dae the best we can wi’ yer Aunt Purdie.”“Jist that,” said Lizzie.And that was all.* * * * *An urgent piece of work had to be done the following afternoon, and he was later than usual, for a Saturday, in getting home. He found his mother preparing to go out, and his father looking strangely perplexed.“She’s gaun to see yer Aunt Purdie,” said John in a whisper.Macgregor looked from one to the other, hesitated, and went over to Lizzie. He put his hand on her arm.“Mither, ye’re no’ to gang. I—I’ll gang masel’.”Then, indeed, Lizzie Robinson perceived that her boy was in danger of becoming a man.
John Robinsonand his son sat on a pile of timber at the docks. Dusk was falling, and the air that had been mild for the season was growing chill.
John replaced his watch in his pocket. “It’s comin’ on for tea-time. Are ye ready for the road, Macgreegor?”
“Ay,” said the boy, without stirring.
For two hours he had been struggling to utter the words on which he believed his future depended.
“Weel,” said John, getting out his pipe preparatory to lighting it on passing the gate, “we best be movin’.”
It was now or never. Macgregor cleared his throat.
“The pentin’ trade’s rotten,” he said in a voice not his own.
“Eh?” said John, rather staggered by the statement which was without relevance to any of the preceding conversation. “What’s rotten aboot it?”
“Everything.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard o’ ’t. In fac’, I’m tell’t the pentin’ trade is extra brisk the noo.”
“That’s no’ what I meant,” Macgregor forced himself to say. “I meant it was a rotten trade to be in.”
John gave a good-humoured laugh. “Oh, I see! Ye dinna like the overtime! Aweel, that’s nateral at your age, Macgreegor”—he patted his son’s shoulder—“but when ye’re aulder, wi’ a wife an’ weans, maybe, ye’ll be gled o’ overtime whiles, I’m thinkin’.”
“It’s no the overtime,” said Macgregor.
“What is’t, then? What’s wrang wi’ the trade?” The question was lightly put.
“There’s—there’s nae prospec’s in it for a man.”
“Nae prospec’s! Hoots, Macgreegor! there’s as guid prospec’s in the pentin’ as in ony ither trade. Dinna fash yer heid aboot that—no’ but what I’m pleased to ken ye’re thinkin’ aboot yer prospec’s, ma son. But we’ll speak aboot it on the road hame.”
“I wish,” said Macgregor, with the greatest effort of all, “I wish I had never gaed into it. I wish I had gaed into Uncle Purdie’s business.”
John sat down again. At last he said: “D’ye mean that, Macgreegor?”
“Ay, I mean it.”
For the first time within his memory John Robinson felt disappointed—in a vague fashion, it is true, yet none the less unpleasantly disappointed—in his son.
“But ye’ve been at the pentin’ for three year,” he said a little impatiently.
“I ken that, fayther.”
“An’ ye mind ye had the chance o’ gaun into yer uncle’s business when ye left the schule?”
“Ay.”
“But ye wud ha’e naething but the pentin’.”
Macgregor nodded.
“Maybe ye mind that yer Aunt Purdie was unco offended, for it was her notion—at least, it was her that spoke aboot it—an’ she declared ye wud never get a second chance. D’ye no’ mind, Macgreegor?”
“I mind aboot her bein’ offended, but I dinna mind aboot—the ither thing,” Macgregor answered dully.
“ButImind it, for she was rale nesty to yer mither at the time. In fac’, I dinna ken hoo yer mither stood her impiddence. An’, in a way, it was a’ ma fau’t, for it was me that said ye was to choose the trade that ye liked best—an’ I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing, because I had seen lads spiled wi’ bein’ forced into trades they didna fancy. Ay, I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing——An’ noo ye’re tellin’ me I did the wrang thing.”
“Fayther, it’s me that’s to blame. I—I didna mean to vex ye.”
“Aweel, I dinna suppose ye did,” said John sadly. “But for the life o’ me I canna see hoo ye can hope to get into yer uncle’s business at this time o’ day.... But we’ll be keepin’ yer mither waitin’.”
He rose slowly and Macgregor joined him. At the gate John apparently forgot to light his pipe. They were half way home ere he spoke.
He put his hand round his son’s arm. “Ye’re no’ to think, Macgreegor, that I wud stan’ in yer road when ye want to better yersel’. No’ likely! I never was set on bein’ a wealthy man masel’, but naethin’ wud mak’ me prooder nor to see you gang up in the world; an’ I can say the same for yer mither. An’ I can see that ye micht gang far in yer uncle’s business, for yer uncle was aye fond o’ ye, an’ I think ye could manage to please him at yer work, if ye was tryin’.But—ye wud need yer aunt’s favour to begin wi’, an’ that’s the bitter truth, an’ she’s no’ the sort o’ body that forgets what she conseeders an affront. Weel, it’ll need some thinkin’ ower. I’ll ha’e to see what yer mither says. An’ ye best no’ expec’ onything. Stick to the pentin’ in the meantime, an’ be vera certain afore ye quit the trade ye’re in. That’s a’ I can say, ma son.”
Macgregor had no words then. Never before had his father seriously spoken at such length to him. His heart was heavy, troubled about many things.
* * * * *
Eight o’clock on Monday night saw him at the accustomed spot; on Wednesday night also he was there. If only Christina had been friends with him he would have asked her what he ought to do. Yet the mere glimpse of her confirmed him in his desire to change his trade. On the Wednesday night it seemed to him that she walked away from the shop much more slowly than usual, and the horrid thought that she might be giving some other “man” a chance to overtake her assailed him. But at last she was gone without that happening.
On the way home he encountered Jessie Mary. She greeted him affably, and he could not but stop.
“Lovely dance on Friday. Ye should ha’e been there. Ma belt was greatly admired,” she remarked.
“Was it?”
“I think I’ve seen the shop where ye bought it,” she said, watching his face covertly.
It’s likely,” he replied, without emotion.
Jessie Mary was relieved; evidently he was without knowledge of her visit to the shop. Now that the world was going well with her again she bore no ill-will, and was fain to avoid any. For at the eleventh hour—or, to be precise, the night before the dance—she had miraculously won back the allegiance of the young man with the exquisite moustache, who served in the provision shop, and for the present she was more than satisfied with herself.
So she bade Macgregor good-night, a little patronisingly perhaps, and hurried off to reward her recovered swain with the pleasant sight of herself and an order for a finnan haddie.
Macgregor was still in the dark as to whether his father had mentioned to his mother the subject of that conversation at the docks. John had not referred to it again, and the boy was beginning to wonder if his case was hopeless.
On the Friday night, however, just when he was about to slip from the house, his mother followed him to the door. Very quietly she said:
“When ye come in, Macgreegor, I want ye to tell me if ye’re still set on leavin’ the pentin’. Dinna tell me noo. Tak’ yer walk, an’ think it ower, seriouslike. But dinna be late, laddie.”
She went back to the kitchen, leaving him to shut the door.
It was not much after seven o’clock, but he went straightway in the direction of M. Tod’s shop. For the first time in what seemed an age, he found himself at the familiar, glittering window. And lo! the glazed panel at the back was open a few inches. Quickly he retreated to the edge of the pavement, and stood there altogether undecided. But desire drew him, and gradually he approached the window again.
Christina was sitting under the lamp, at the desk, her pretty profile bent over her writing, her fair plait falling over the shoulder of her scarlet shirt. She was engaged in pencilling queer little marks on paper, and doing so very rapidly. Macgregor understood that she was practising shorthand. No doubt she would be his uncle’s private secretary some day, whilehe——
All at once it came to him that no one in the world could answer the great question but Christina. If the thing didn’t matter to Christina, it didn’t matter to him; it was for her sake that he would strive to be “guid enough yet,” not for the sake of being “guid enough” in itself. Besides, she had put the idea into his head. Surely she would not refuse to speak to him on that one subject.
Now all this was hardly in accordance with the brave and independent plan which Macgregor had set out to follow—to wit, that he would not attempt to speak to Christina until he could announce that he was a member of his uncle’s staff. Yes, love is the great maker of plans—also, the great breaker.
Coward or not, it took courage to enter the shop.
Christina looked up, her colour deepening slightly.
“Hullo,” she said coolly, though not coldly.
It was not a snub anyway, and Macgregor walked up to the counter. He came to the point at once.
“Wud ye advise me to try an’ get a job frae ma uncle?” he said, distinctly enough.
“Me?” The syllable was fraught with intense astonishment.
“Ye advised me afore to try it,” he said, fairly steadily.
“Did I?”—carelessly.
It was too much for him. “Oh, Christina!” he whispered reproachfully.
“Well, I’m sure it’s none of my business. I thought you preferred being a painter.”
The pity was that Christina should have just then remembered the existence of such a person as Jessie Mary, also the fact of her own slow walk from the shop the previous night. Yet she had forgotten both when she opened the panel at the back of the window a few inches. And perhaps she was annoyed with herself, knowing that she was not behaving quite fairly.
He let her remark concerning his preference for the painting pass, and put a very direct question.
“What made ye change yer mind aboot me that night?”
“What night?” she asked flippantly, and told herself it was the silliest thing she had ever uttered.
She had gone too far—she saw it in his face.
“I didna think ye was as bad as that,” he said in a curiously hard voice, and turned from the counter.
Quick anger—quick compunction—quick fear—and then:
“Mac!”
He wheeled at the door. She was holding out her hand. Her smile was frail.
“Are ye in earnest?” he said in a low voice, but he did not wait for her answer.
She drew away her hand, gently. “Dinna ask me ony questions,” she pleaded. “I—I didna really mean what I said that night, or this night either. I think I was off my onion”—a faint laugh—“but I’m sorry I behaved the way I did. Is that enough?”
It was more than enough; how much more he could not say. “I’ve missed ye terrible,” he murmured.
Christina became her practical self. “So ye’re for tryin’ yer uncle’s business——” she began.
“If he’ll gi’e me the chance.”
“Weel, I’m sure I wish ye the best o’ luck.”
“Then ye think I ought to try?” This with great eagerness.
“If ye’ve made up yer mind it’s for the best,” she answered cautiously.
He had to be satisfied with that. “Will I let ye ken if it comes off?”
She nodded. Then she glanced at her watch.
“Can—can I get walkin’ hame wi’ ye, Christina?” It was out before he knew.
She shook her head. “Uncle said he wud come for me; he had some business up this way. If ye wait a minute, ye’ll see him. I’ll introduce ye. He’ll be interested seein’ ye’re a nephew o’ Mr. Purdie.”
“Oh, I couldna. I best hook it. But, Christina, I can come to-morrow, eh?”
She laughed. “I canna prevent ye. But I’ll no’ be here in the afternoon. Uncle’s takin’ auntie an’ me to a matinée, an’ I’ll no’ be back much afore six.”
“Weel, I’ll meet ye at eight an’ walk hame wi’ ye.”
“Will ye?”
“Oh, Christina; say ’ay.’”
“I’ll consider it.”
And he had to be satisfied with that, too, for at this point the noisy door opened to admit a tall, clean-shaven, pleasant-featured man of middle-age.
“Hullo, uncle!” cried Christina.
Macgregor fled, but not without gaining a quick smile that made all the difference in the world to him.
Ten minutes later he hurried into the home kitchen.
“Mither, I’ve decided to leave the pentin’.” The moment he said it his heart misgave him, and the colour flew to his face. But he need not have doubted his parents.
“Weel, ma son,” said John soberly, “we’ll dae the best we can wi’ yer Aunt Purdie.”
“Jist that,” said Lizzie.
And that was all.
* * * * *
An urgent piece of work had to be done the following afternoon, and he was later than usual, for a Saturday, in getting home. He found his mother preparing to go out, and his father looking strangely perplexed.
“She’s gaun to see yer Aunt Purdie,” said John in a whisper.
Macgregor looked from one to the other, hesitated, and went over to Lizzie. He put his hand on her arm.
“Mither, ye’re no’ to gang. I—I’ll gang masel’.”
Then, indeed, Lizzie Robinson perceived that her boy was in danger of becoming a man.