Produced by Carol Brown, David Garcia, Larry B. Harrison and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net COURTINâ CHRISTINA J. J. BELL COURTINâ CHRISTINA BY J. J. BELL AUTHOR OF âWEE MACGREGOR,â âJIM,â âOH! CHRISTINA,â ETC. [Illustration: Printerâs Logo] HODDER & STOUGHTON NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY Copyright, 1913 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY TO J. E. HODDER WILLIAMS WHO SUGGESTED IT COURTINâ CHRISTINA CHAPTER ONE Mrs. Robinson conveyed sundry dishes from the oven, also the teapot from the hob, to the table. âCome awaâ,â she said briskly, seating herself. âWeâll noâ wait for Macgreegor.â âGiâe him five minutes, Lizzie,â said Mr. Robinson. âIâm in nae hurry,â remarked Granâpaw Purdie, who had come up from the coast that afternoon. âIâm awfuâ hungry, Maw,â piped a young voice. âWhisht, Jimsie,â whispered daughter Jeannie. Said Mrs. Robinson, a little impatiently: âCome awaâ, come awaâ, afore everything gets spiled. Macgreegor has nae business to be that late.â She glanced at the clock. âHeâs been the same aâ week. Haste ye, John.â John opened his mouth, but catching his wifeâs eye, closed it again without speech. Excepting Jimsie, they came to the table rather reluctantly. âAsk a blessinâ, fayther,â murmured Lizzie. âShut yer eyes,â muttered Jeannie to her little brother, while she restrained his eager paw from reaching a cookie. Mr. Purdieâs white head shook slightly as he said grace; he had passed his five and seventieth birthday, albeit his spirit was cheerful as of yore; in his case old age seemed to content itself with an occasional mild reminder. John distributed portions of stewed finnan haddie, Lizzie poured out the tea, while Jeannie methodically prepared a small feast for the impatient Jimsie. Granâpaw Purdie beamed on the four, but referred surreptitiously at brief intervals to his fat silver watch. * * * * * It is eight years since last we saw the Robinson family. Naturally we find the greatest changes in the younger members. Jimsie from an infant has become a schoolboy; he is taller, more scholarly, less disposed to mischief, more subdued of nature than was Macgregor at the same age; yet he is the frank, animated young query that his brother was, though, to be sure, he has a sister as well as parents to puzzle with his questions. At thirteen Jeannie is a comely, fair-haired little maid, serious for her years, devoted to Jimsie, very proud of Macgregor, and a blessing to her parents who, strangely enough, rarely praise her; her chief end seems to be to serve those she loves without making any fuss about it. As for John, he has grown stouter, and to his wifeâs dismay a bald spot has appeared on his crown; his laughter comes as readily as ever, and he is just as prone to spoil his children. But by this time Lizzie has become assured that her manâs light-hearted, careless ways do not extend to his work, that his employers have confidence in their foreman, and that while he is not likely to rise higher in his trade, he is still less likely to slip back. She is proud of the three-roomed modern flat in which she and hers dwell, and her sense for orderliness and cleanliness has not lost its keenness. In person she is but little altered: perhaps her features have grown a shade softer. * * * * * âYe see, Maister Purdie,â John was explaining, âMacgreegorâs busy the noo at a job in the west-end, anâ thatâs the reason heâs late for his tea.â ââDeed, ay. Itâs a lang road for him to come hame,â said the old man. âAnâ is he still likinâ the pentinâ trade?â âAy, ay. Anâ heâs gettinâ on splendidââjist splendid!â âItâs time enough to be sayinâ that,â Lizzie interposed. âHeâs noâ ony furder on nor a lad oâ his age ought to be. Iâm noâ sayinâ heâs daeinâ badly, fayther; but thereâs nae sense in boastinâ aboot whatâs jist orânarâ?ââNa, Jimsie! itâs noâ time for jeelly yet. Takâ what Jeannie giâes ye, laddie.ââAy, the least saidâââââ âBut his employerâs pleased wiâ him; he tellât me as much, wife,â said John. âAnâ if ye compare Macgreegor wiâ that young scamp, Wullie Thomsonâââââ âOh, if ye compare a man wiâ a monkey, I daresay itâs noâ sae bad for the man. But, really, Johnâââââ âMaw, where was the man wiâ the monkey?â enquired Jimsie through bread and butter. âIâll tell ye after,â whispered Jeannie, and forthwith set her mind to improvise a story involving a human being and his ancestor. âItâs easy seen,â said Granâpaw, once more consulting his watch, âthat Macgreegorâs workinâ for his wages. Surely heâll be gettinâ overtime the nicht. I hope his employerâs a kind man.â âIâve nae doot aboot that,â Lizzie returned. âHe giâes Macgreegor money for the car when heâs workinâ in the west-end.â âThatâs a proper maister!â cried Mr. Purdie, while John smiled as much as to say, âAy! he kens Macgreegorâs value!â âAnâ Iâm thinkinâ,â Lizzie continued, âthat Macgreegor walks hame anâ keeps the pennies to buy ceegarettes.â âWhat?â exclaimed the old man; âhas the laddie commenced the smokinâ aâready?â âOh, naething to speak aboot,â said John, a trifle apologetically. âThey commence earlier than they did in your day, I suppose, Maister Purdie. Noâ that I wud smoke a ceegarette if I was paid for ât.â âHeâs far ower young for the smokinâ,â observed Lizzie. â_I_ can smoke,â declared Jimsie indiscreetly. Jeannie pressed his arm. John guffawed, Granâpaw looked amused until Lizzie demanded: âWhatâs that yeâre sayinâ, Jimsie?â âBut Iâm noâ a regâlar smoker,â mumbled Jimsie, crestfallen. âAy,â said John, with a jocular wink at his father-in-law, âyeâre feart ye singe yer whiskers, ma mannie.â âJohn,â said Lizzie, âitâs naething to joke aboot.... Jimsie, if ever I catch ye at the smokinâ, Iâll stop yer Seturday penny, anâ giâe ye castor ile instead. Dâye hear?â âHoots!â cried Granâpaw, âthatâs a terrible severe-like punishment, Lizzie!â âI wud rayther takâ ile twicet anâ get ma penny,â quoth Jimsie. âHear, hear!â from John. Lizzie was about to speak when the bell rang. Jeannie slipped from her chair. âIâll gang, Maw,â she said, and went out. âItâs Macgreegor,â remarked John. âHaâe ye kepâ his haddie hot for him, Lizzie?â âWhat for wud I dae that?â retorted Mrs. Robinson in a tone of irony, going over to the oven and extracting a covered dish. âHaw!â laughed John. âI kent ye had something there!â âWhat for did ye ask then?â She came back to the table as her son entered, a very perceptible odour of his trade about himââan odour which she still secretly disliked though nearly three years had gone since her first whiff of it. âWhat kepâ ye?â she enquired, pleasantly enough. It is possible that Macgregorâs dutiful greeting to his grandfather prevented his answering the question. He appeared honestly glad to see the old man; yet compared with his own the latterâs greeting was boisterous. He returned his fatherâs smile, glanced at his mother who was engaged in filling his cup, winked at his young brother, and took his place at the table, between the two men. âYeâll be wearied,â remarked John. âNoâ extra,â he replied, stretching his tired legs under cover of the table. âDid ye walk?â his mother asked, passing him his tea. âAy.â âItâll be three mile,â said John. Jeannie came from the fire and put a fresh slice of toast on his plate. He nodded his thanks, and she went to her place satisfied and assisted Jimsie who had got into difficulties with a jam sandwich that oozed all round. âWhat way did ye noâ takâ the car, laddie?â enquired Lizzie. âIâd as sune walk,â he replied, shortly. âItâs fine to save the sillerââeh, Macgreegor?â said Mr. Purdie. Macgregor reddened. âItâs something new for Macgreegor to dae that,â Lizzie quietly observed. âTits, wumman!â muttered John. âWiâ their cheap cars,â put in Mr. Purdie, âGlesga folk are like to loss the use oâ their legs. Itâs terrible to see the number oâ young folk that winna walk if theyâve a bawbee in their pooch. Iâm gled to see Macgreegorâs noâ yin oâ them.â He patted Macgregorâs shoulder as he might have done ten years ago, and the youth moved impatiently. âIâm noâ complaininâ oâ Macgreegor walkinâ when he micht takâ the car,â said Lizzie, âbut I wud like to see him puttinâ his savinâs to some guid purpose.â At these words Macgregor went a dull red, and set down his cup with a clatter. âHaâe ye burnt yer mooth?â asked John, with quick sympathy. âNaw,â was the ungracious reply. âItâs naebodyâs business whether I takâ the car or tramp it. Seeâs the butter, Jeannie.â There was a short silence. An outbreak of temper on Macgregorâs part was not of frequent occurrence. Then John turned the conversation to a big fire that had taken place in Glasgow the previous night, and the son finished his meal in silence. At the earliest possible moment Macgregor left the kitchen. For some reason or other the desire to get away from his elders was paramount. A few minutes later he was in the little room which belonged to him and Jimsie. On the inside of the door was a bolt, screwed there by himself some months ago. He shot it now. With a towel that hung on the door he rubbed his wet face savagely. He had washed his hands in turpentine ere leaving the scene of his work. He donned a clean collar. As he was fixing his Sunday tie a summons came to the door. He went and opened it, looking cross. âWeel, what are ye wantinâ, Jimsie?â âDid ye bring ma putty, Macgreegor?â âOch, I clean forgot.â Jimsieâs face fell. âYe promised,â he complained. Macgregor patted the youngsterâs head. âIâll bring it the mornâs nicht, as sure as death,â he said. âIâm sorry, Jimsie,â he added apologetically. âSee anâ noâ forget again,â said Jimsie, and retired. Macgregor closed the door and attended to his tie. Then he looked closely at his face in the mirror hanging near the window. He was not a particularly good-looking lad, yet his countenance suggested nothing coarse or mean. His features as features, however, did not concern him now. From his vest pocket he brought a knife, with a blade thinned by stone and polished by leather. He tried its keen edge on his thumb, shook his head, and applied the steel to his boot. Presently he began to scrape his upper lip. It pained him, and he desisted. Not for the first time he wished he had a real razor. Having put the knife away, he looked at his watchââhis grandfatherâs prize for âgood conductâ of eight years agoââand proceeded hastily to brush his hair. His hair, as his mother had often remarked during his childhood, was âawfuâ ill to lie.â For a moment or two he regarded his garments. He would have changed them had he had timeââor was it courage? Finally he took from his pockets a key and two pennies. He opened a drawer in the old chest, and placed the pennies in a disused tobacco tin, which already contained a few coins. He knew very well the total sum therein, but he reckoned it up once more. One shilling and sevenpence. Every Saturday he handed his wages to his mother, who returned him sixpence. His present hoard was the result of two weeksâ abstinence from cigarettes and walking instead of taking the car. He knew the job in the west-end would take at least another week, which meant another sixpence, and the coming Saturday would bring a second sixpence. Total in the near future:ââtwo shillings and sevenpence. He smiled uncertainly, and locked up the treasure. A minute later he slipped quietly into the passage and took his cap from its peg. The kitchen door opened. âWhaur are ye gaun, Macgreegor?â his mother asked. âOot,â he replied briefly, and went. Going down the stairs he felt sorry somehow. Sons often feel sorry somehow, but mothers may never know it. When Lizzie, hiding her hurt, had shut the kitchen door, Mr. Purdie said softly: âThat question anâ that answer, ma dear, are as auld as human naturâ.â * * * * * As Macgregor turned out of the tenement close he encountered his one-time chum, Willie Thomson. Macgregor might not have admitted it to his parents, but during the last few weeks he had been finding Willieâs company less and less desirable. Willie now put precisely the same question that Mrs. Robinson had put a minute earlier. âIâll maybe see ye later,â was Macgregorâs evasive response, delivered awkwardly. He passed on. âHaâe ye a ceegarette on ye?â cried Willie, taking a step after him. âNa.â âYeâre in a queer hurry.â âIâll maybe see ye later,â said Macgregor again, increasing his speed in a curious guilty fashion. Willie made no attempt to overtake him. He, too, had been finding a certain staleness in the old friendshipââespecially since Macgregor had stopped his purchases of cigarettes. Willie was as often out of employment as in it, but he did not realise that he was in danger of becoming a mere loafer and sponge. Yet he was fond of Macgregor. Macgregor passed from the quiet street wherein he lived into one of Glasgowâs highways, aglow with electric light, alive with noise out of all proportion to its traffic. He continued to walk swiftly, his alert eyes betraying his eagerness, for the distance of a couple of blocks. Then into another quiet street he turned, and therein his pace became slower and slower, until it failed altogether. Beneath a gas lamp he questioned his watch, his expression betokening considerable anxiety. It was a fine October night, but chillyâânot that he gave any sign of feeling cold. For a space he remained motionless, gazing up the street. Possibly he would have liked a cigarette just then. As though rousing himself, he moved abruptly and proceeded slowly to the next lamp post, turned about and came back to his first halting-place, where he turned about again. For a long half-hour he continued to stroll between the two posts. Few persons passed him, and he did not appear to notice them. Indeed, it may as well be frankly admitted that he shamefully avoided their glances. When at last he did stop, it was with a sort of jerk. From one of the closes a girl emerged and came towards him. CHAPTER TWO Macgregorâs acquaintance with Jessie Mary was almost as old as himself; yet only within the last three months had he recognised her existence as having aught of importance to do with his own. This recognition had followed swift on the somewhat sudden discovery that Jessie Mary was pretty. The discovery was made at a picnic, organised by a section of the great drapery store wherein Jessie Mary found employment, Macgregorâs presence at the outing being accounted for by the fact that in a weak moment he had squandered a money gift from his grandparents on the purchase of two tickets for Katie, his first love (so far as we know), and himself. The picnic was a thorough success, but neither Macgregor nor Katie enjoyed it. It was not so much that anything came between them, as that something that had been between them departedââevaporated. There was no quarrel; merely a dulness, a tendency to silence, increasing in dreariness as the bright day wore on. And, at last, in the railway compartment, on the way home, they sat, crushed together by the crowd, Katie dumb with dismay, Macgregor steeped in gloom. Opposite them sat Jessie Mary and her escort, a young man with sleek hair, a pointed nose, several good teeth, and a small but exquisite black moustache. These two were gay along with the majority of the occupants of the carriage. Perhaps in her simple sixteen-year-old heart Katie began to realise that she was deserted indeed; perhaps Macgregor experienced prickings of shame, not that he had ever given or asked promises. Still, it is to be hoped that he did not remember then any of Katieâs innocent little advances of the past. Affection âtwixt youth and youth is such a delicate, sensitive thing, full of promise as the pretty egg of a bonny bird, and as easily broken. Macgregor was caught by the vivacious dark eyes of Jessie Mary, snared by her impudent red mouth, held by the charm of her face, which the country sun had tinted with an unwonted bloom. Alas for the little brown mouse at his side! At briefer and briefer intervals he allowed his gloomy glance to rest on the girl opposite, while he became more and more convinced that the young man with the exquisite moustache was a âbletherinâ idiot.â Gradually he shifted his position to the very edge of the seat, so as to lessen his contact with Katie. And when Jessie Mary, without warning, presented to his attention her foot in its cheap, stylish shoe, saying: âI wish ye wud tie ma lace, Macgreegor,â a strange wild thrill of pride ran through his being, though, to be sure, he went scarlet to the ears and his fingers could scarce perform their office. There were friends of Jessie Mary who declared that Macgregor never would have noticed her at all that day had she not been wearing a white frock with a scarlet belt; but that was grossly unfair to Jessie Mary. The animation and fresh coquetry of eighteen were also hers. Nigh three months had gone, autumn had come, and here in a dingy side-street the captivated youth had lingered on the bare chance of a glimpse of the same maiden in her every-day attire, his mind tormented by his doubts as to his reception, should she happen to appear. * * * * * And now she was approaching him. For the life of him he could neither advance nor retire. Still, such of his wits as had remained faithful informed him that it was âstupid-likeâ to do nothing at all. Whereupon he drew out his watch and appeared to be profoundly interested in the time. At the supreme moment of encounter his surprise was, it must be confessed, extremely badly managed, and he touched his cap with the utmost diffidence and without a word. âHullo!â Jessie Mary remarked carelessly. âFancy meetinâ you, as the man said to the sassige roll!â It had been a mutton-pie at their last meeting, Macgregor remembered, trying to laugh. Some comfort might have been his had he known that this flippancy, or its variant, was her form of greeting to all the young men then enjoying her acquaintance. Jessie Mary usually kept a joke going for about three months, and quite successfully, too. âDid ye noâ expecâ to meet me?â He stumbled over the words. Jessie Mary laughed lightly, mockingly. âI wasna aware yer best girl lived in this street.â âItââitâs noâ the first time yeâve seen me here,â he managed to say. She laughed again. âWeel, thatâs true. I wonder wha the girl is.â He would have told her if he could, poor boy. âBut I must hurry,â she went on, âor the shopsâll be shut.â âCan I noâ gang wiâ ye?â he asked, with a great effort. âOh, ye can come as far as Macrorieâs,â she answered graciously, mentioning a provision shop. Young love is ever grateful for microscopic mercies, and Macgregorâs spirit took courage as he fell into step with her. Jessie Mary was a handsomely built young woman; her shoulder was quite on a level with his. There were times when he would fain have been taller; times, also, when he would fain have been older, for Jessie Maryâs years exceeded his own by two. Nevertheless, he was now thinking of her age without reference to his own. He was, in fact, about to speak of it, when Jessie Mary said: âIâm to get to the United Ironmongersâ dance on Friday week, after aâ. When fayther was at his tea the nicht, he said I could gang.â She might as well have poured a jug of ice water over him. âAw, did he?â he murmured feebly. âYe should come, Macgreegor,â she continued. âOnly three-anâ-six for a ticket admittinâ lady anâ gent.â âOch, Iâm noâ heedinâ aboot dancinâ,â said Macgregor, knowing full well that his going was out of the question. âItâll be a splendid dance. Theyâll keep it up till three,â she informed him. With his heart in his mouth he enquired who was taking her to the dance. âOh, I haâena decided yet.â She gave her head a becoming little toss. âIâve several offers. Iâll let them quarrel in the meantime.â Perhaps it was some consolation to know that she had not decided on any particular escort, and that the rivals were at war with one another. While there is strife there is hope. âAy; yeâll haâe plenty offers,â he managed to say steadily, and felt rather pleased with himself. âIâm seriously thinking oâ wearinâ pink,â she told him as they turned into the main street. âItâs maybe a wee thing common, but Iâve been told it suits me.â Macgregor wondered who had told her, and stifling his jealousy, observed that pink was a bonny colour.... âButââbut ye wud look fine in ony auld thing.â Truly he was beginning to get on. So, at least, Jessie Mary seemed to think. âNane oâ yer flattery!â she said with a coquettish laugh. âI wud like fine to see ye at the dance,â he said with a sigh. âComeââanâ Iâll giâe ye a couple oâ dancesââthree, if I can spare them.â Hitherto Jessie Mary had regarded Macgregor as a mere boy, and sometimes as a bit of a nuisance, but she was the sort of young woman who cannot have too many strings to her bow. âI can get ye a ticket,â she added encouragingly. For an instant it occurred to Macgregor to ask her to let him take her to the danceââhe would find the money somehowââbut the idea died in its birth. He could not both go to the dance and do that which he had already promised himself to do. Besides, she might laugh at him and refuse. âItâs nae use speakinâ aboot the dance,â he said regretfully. Then abruptly: âYer birthdayâs on Tuesday week, isât noâ?â Jessie Mary looked at him. His eyes were on the pavement. âWha tellât ye that?â âI heard ye speakinâ aboot yer birthday to somebody at the picnic.â âMy! yeâve a memory!â âBut itâs on Tuesday weekââthe twinty-third? I was wantinâ to be sure.â âWeel, itâs the twinty-third, sure enough.â She heaved an affected sigh. âNineteen! Iâm gettinâ auld, Macgreegor. Time I was gettinâ a lad! Eh?â She laughed at his confusion of face. âBut what for dâye want to ken aboot ma birthday?â she innocently enquired, becoming graver. The ingenuousness of the question helped him. âAw, I jist wanted to ken, Jessie Mary. Never heed aboot it. I hope yeâll enjoy the danceââwhen it comes.â This was quite a long speech for Macgregor to make, but it might have been even longer had they not just then arrived at the provision shop. âHere we are,â said she cheerfully. She had the decency to ignore the smile of the young man behind the counterââthe young man with the sharp nose and exquisite black moustache; nor did she appear to notice another young man on the opposite pavement who was also gazing quite openly at her. âHere we are, anâ here we partââto meet again, I hope,â she added, with a softer glance. âIâll wait till yeâve got yer messages,â said Macgregor, holding his ground. She gave him her sweetest smile but one. âNa, Macgreegor; itâll takâ me a while to get the messages, anâ Iâve ither places to gang afterwards. Maybe Iâll see ye floatinâ arounâ anither nicht.â âBut Iâm noâ in a hurry. IââI wish ye wud let me wait.â Her very sweetest smile was reserved for the most stubborn cases, and she gave it him now. But her voice though gentle was quite firm. âIf ye want to please me, Macgreegor, yeâll noâ wait the nicht.â He was conquered. She nodded kindly and entered the doorway. âGuidbye, Jessie Mary,â he murmured, and turned away. There were no other customers in the shop. Jessie Mary took a seat at the counter. The young man, stroking his moustache, gave her a good-evening tenderly. âIâm to get to the dance,â she said, solemnly. The young manâs hand fell to his side. âWiâ me?â he cried, very eagerly. âI haâena made up ma mind yet, Peter. I want a pair oâ kippersââthe biggest yeâve got.â CHAPTER THREE The outside of the shop had been painted but recently. Above door and window were blazoned in large gilt letters the words: STATIONERY AND FANCY GOODS. Just over the doorway was very modestly printed in white the name of the proprietor: M. TOD. What the _M_ stood for nobody knew (or cared) unless, perhaps, the person so designated; and it is almost conceivable that she had forgotten, considering that for five and thirty years she had never heard herself addressed save as Miss Tod. For five and thirty years M. Tod had kept her shop without assistance. For five and thirty years she had lived in the shop and its back room, rarely going out of doors except to church on Sunday mornings. The grocer along the way had a standing order: practically all the necessaries of life, as M. Tod understood them, could be supplied from a grocerâs shop. A time had been when M. Tod saved money; but the last ten years had witnessed a steady shrinking of custom, a dwindling in hopes for a peaceful, comfortable old age, a shrinking and dwindling in M. Tod herself. A day came when a friendly customer and gossip was startled to behold M. Tod suddenly flop to the floor behind the counter. A doctor, hastily summoned, brought her back to a consciousness of her drab existence and dingy shop. She was soon ready to go on with both as though nothing had happened. The doctor, however, warned her quite frankly that if she did not take proper nourishment, moderate exercise and abundance of fresh air, she would speedily find herself beyond need of these things. M. Tod did not want to die, and since she never laughed at anything she could not laugh at the doctor. To some of us life is like a cup of bitter physic with a lump of sugar at the bottom, but no spoon to stir it up with; life, therefore, must be sweetââsooner or later. On the other hand, obedience to the doctor would involve considerable personal expenditure, not to mention the engaging of an assistant. When M. Tod had reckoned up the remnants of her savings and estimated her financial position generally, she incontinently groaned. Nevertheless, she presently proceeded to prepare a two-line advertisement for the _Evening Express_. She was still in the throes of compositionââendeavouring to say in twenty words what she thought in two hundredââwhen Mr. Baldwin, traveller for a firm of fancy-goods merchants, entered the shop. Acquainted with his kindly manner in the past, she ventured to confide to him her present difficulties. Mr. Baldwin was not only sympathetic but helpful. âWhy,â said he, âmy niece Christina might suit youââin fact, Iâm sure she would. She is nearly sixteen, and only yesterday finished a full course of book-keeping. More than that, Miss Tod, she has had experience in the trade. Her aunt before her marriage toââerââmyselfââhad a little business like your own, at the coast. I had thought of getting Christina a situation in the wholesale, but I believe it would be better for her to be here, for a time at least. I know she is keen on a place where she can have her own wayââI mean to say, have room to carry out her own ideas.â Mr. Baldwin halted in some confusion, but speedily recovered. âAnyway,â he went on, âgive her a trial. Let me send her along to see you this evening.â M. Tod assented, possibly because she feared to hurt the travellerâs feelings. âNearly sixteenâ and âkeen on a place where she can have her own wayâ did not sound precisely reassuring to the old woman who had no experience of young folk, and who had been her own mistress for so long. That evening Christina came, saw and, after a little hesitation, conquered her doubts as to the suitability of the situation. âIâll manage her easy,â she said to herself while attending with the utmost demureness to M. Todâs recital of the duties required of her assistantâââIâll manage her easy.â Within six months she had made good her unuttered words. * * * * * It was Saturday afternoon. M. Tod was about to leave the shop for an airing. Time takes back no wrinkles, yet M. Tod seemed younger than a year ago. She had lost the withered, yellowed complexion of those who worship continually in the Temple of Tannin; her movements were freer; her voice no longer fell at the end of every sentence on a note of hopelessness. Though she had grown some months older, she had become years less aged. She glanced round her shop with an air of pride. From behind the counter Christina, with a kindly, faintly amused smile, watched her. âAy,â remarked M. Tod, âeverything looks vera niceââvera nice, indeed, dearie. I can see yeâve done yer best to follow ma instructions.â It had become a habit with M. Tod to express observations of this sort prior to going out, a habit, also, to accept all Christinaâs innovations and improvements as originally inspired by herself. Even the painting of the shop, which, when first mooted by the girl, had seemed about as desirable as an earthquake, had gradually become her very own bright idea. Happily Christina had no difficulty in tolerating such gentle injustices; as a matter of fact, she preferred that her mistress should be managed unawares. âTakâ a squint at the window when ye gang oot,â she said, pleasantly. âYe haâena seen it since it was dressed. Thereâs a heap oâ cheap trash in it, but itâs trash that draws the public noo-a-days.â âOh, I wudna say that, dearie,â said the old woman. âIâve aye tried to giâe folk guid value.â âAy! Ma aunt was like thatâânear ruined herselâ tryinâ to giâe the public what it didna want. What the public wants is gorgeousnessââanâ it wants it cheap. Abyssinian Gold anâ papermashy leather anâ so on. See thon photo-frames!âââChristina pointedâââthe best sellinâ photo-frames ever we had! In a week or so, they get wearit sittinâ on the mantel-piece, anâ doon they faâ wiâ a broken leg; in a fortnight they look as if they had been made in the year ten B.C.! Behold thon purses! Safer to carry yer cash in a paper poke, but the public canna resist the real, _genuine_ silver mounts. Observe thonâââââ âWeel, weel,â Miss Tod mildly interrupted, âitâs maybe as ye say, anâ I canna deny that customâs improvinâ. But itâs a sad pity that folk winna buy the bestâââââ âOh, let the folk pity theirselâsââwhen they get senseââanâ thatâll noâ be this year. Giâe them what they want, anâ never heed what they need. Thatâs the motto for a shop-keeper. Come ower here for a minute till I sort yer bonnet, or yeâll be lossinâ twa oâ yer grapes. I hear figs anâ onions is to be the favourite trimminâ next Spring. Ye could dae wiâ a new bonnet, Miss Tod.â âSo I could,â the old woman wistfully admitted as she submitted her headgear to her assistantâs deft fingers. âI couldna say when I got this yin.â âOh, Iâm noâ keen on dates. Butâââencouraginglyâââweâll takâ stock next week, anâ when weâve struck the half-yearâs balance Iâll noâ be surprised if ye takâ the plunge anâ burst a pound-note at the millinerâs.â Christina administered a final pat to the ancient bonnet. âNoo yeâre ready for the road. See anâ noâ catch cold. Iâll haâe the kettle at the bile against yer return at five.â âIâll noâ be late,â replied M. Tod who, to tell the truth, was already wishing it were tea-time, and moved to the door. âI suppose,â said Christina, âye wudna care to call at the Reverend Mr. McTavishâs anâ politely ask for payment oâ his accountââconsistinâ chiefly oâ sermon-paper. Heâs a whale for sermon-paper!â âOh, dearie, dearie, I couldna dae that,â faltered M. Tod, and made her escape. âIf that account isna paid sune,â Christina murmured, âIâll haâe to gang maselâ anâ put the fear oâ death into the man. Business is businessââeven when itâs releegious.â She looked round the shop to discover if aught required her attention; then being satisfied that nought could be improved, she seated herself on the stool and prepared to do a little book-keeping. As she dipped her pen, however, the door of the shop was slowly opened, the bell above it banged, and a young manââso she reckoned himââcame in. In her quick way, though she had never seen him before, she put him down in her mind as a purchaser of a half-penny football paper. But having recovered from the alarm of the bell and carefully shut the door, he hesitated, surveying his surroundings. Christina flung back her thick plait of fair hair, slipped from the stool, and came to attention. âNice day,â she remarked in her best manner. She contrived to get away from the vernacular in her business dealings. âAy,â The young man smiled absently. âNice teeth,â thought Christina. (That Macgregorâs teeth were good was entirely due to his motherâs firmness in the matter of brushing them during his younger days. He was inclined to be proud of them now.) âJust take a look round,â she said aloud. Macgregor acknowledged the invitation with a nod. âWas it anything special you wanted to see?â she enquired. Macgregor regarded her for a moment. âI had a look at yer window,â he said, his eyes wandering once more, âbut I seen naething dearer nor a shillinâ.â âOh!â exclaimed Christina. Then recovering her dignityâââThe window is merely a popular display. We have plenty of more expensive goods within.â She felt pleased at having said âwithinâ instead of âinside.â At the word âexpensiveâ Macgregor shrank. âAboot half-a-croon?â he said diffidently, taking a step towards the door. âHalf-a-croon _and_ upwards,â said Christina very distinctly. As a matter of fact, the shop contained few articles priced as high as two shillings, the neighbourhood not being noted for its affluence; but one of Christinaâs mottoes was âFirst catch your customer and then rook him.â âOh, yes,â she added pleasantly, âour goods at half-a-crown are abundant.â For a moment Macgregor doubted she was laughing at him, but a veiled glance at her earnest face reassured himâânay, encouraged him. He had never bought a present for a lady before, and felt his position keenly. Indeed, he had left his home district to make the purchase in order that he might do so unrecognised. So with a shy, appealing smile he said: âItâs for a present.â âA present. Certainly!â she replied, lapsing a trifle in the excitement of the moment. âMale or female?â Macgregor gave her an honest stare. âIs it for a lady or gent?â she enquired, less abashed by the stare than annoyed with herself for having used the wrong phrase. âLady,â said Macgregor, with an attempt at boldness, and felt himself getting hot. âWill you kindly step this way?â came the polite invitation. Macgregor proceeded to the counter and bumped his knee against the chair that stood there. âUseful or ornamental?â âIââI dinna ken,â he answered between his teeth. âIâll break that chairâs neck for it some day!â cried Christina, her natural sympathy for suffering getting the better of her commercial instincts. Then she coughed in her best style. âDo you think the young lady would like something to wear?â âI dinna ken, Iâm sure.â Macgregor pushed back his cap and scratched his head. âLetâs see what yeâve got for wearinâ anâââanâ noâ for wearinâ.â Christina, too, nearly scratched her head. She was striving to think where she could lay hands on articles for which she could reasonably charge half-a-crown. Without very noticeable delay she turned to a drawer, and presently displayed a small green oblong box. She opened it. âThis is a nice fountain-pen,â she explained. âIts price has been reducedâââââ âAw, Iâm noâ heedinâ aboot reduced things, thank ye aâ the same.â âIâll make it two shillings to you,â Christina said persuasively. âThatâs a very drastic reduction.â Which was perfectly true. On the other hand, the pen was an old model which she had long despaired of selling. âNothing could be more suitable for a young lady,â she added, exhibiting the nib. âReal gold.â But Macgregor shook his head. With apparent cheerfulness she laid the pen aside. âItâs for a _young_ lady, I think you said?â âAy, itâs for a young lady, but sheâs noâ that young either. Aboot ma ain age, maybe.â Christina nearly said âabout twelve, I suppose,â but refrained. She was learning to subdue her tendency to chaff. âI perceive,â she said gravely. âIs she fond of needlework?â âI couldna say. Sheâs gettinâ a pink dress, but I think her mitherâs sewinâ it for her.â âA pink dress!â muttered Christina, forgetting herself. âOh, Christopher Columbus!â She turned away sharply. âEh?â âSheâll be a brunette?â said Christina calmly, though her cheeks were flushed. âI couldna say,â said Macgregor again. Christina brought forward a tray of glittering things. âThese combs are much worn at present,â she informed him. âObserve the jewels.â âTheyâll noâ be real,â said Macgregor doubtfully. âWellââaââno. Not exactly _real_. But everybody weersââwears imitation jewellery nowadays. The west-endâs full of itââchock-a-block, in fact.â She held up a pair of combs of almost blinding beauty. âChasteââninepence each.â âAy,â sighed Macgregor, âbut Iâm noâ sureâââââ âSilver beltââquite the rageââone shilling.â Macgregor remembered the scarlet belt at the picnic. He had a vague vision of a gift of his in its place. He held out his hand for the glittering object. âYou donât happen to know the size of the ladyâs waist?â said Christina in a most discreet tone of voice. âI couldna say.â He laid down the belt, but kept looking at it. âExcuse me,â she said softly, lifting the belt and fastening it round her waist. She was wearing a navy skirt and a scarlet flannel shirt, with a white collar and black tie. âMy waist is just about medium.â She proceeded to put the combs in her hair. âOf course they would look better on a brunette.â She permitted herself the faintest of smiles. âBut you can see how they look when theyâre being worn.â Was there a hint of mockery in the bright grey-blue eyes? Macgregor did not observe it; nor was he shocked by the crudity and gaudiness of the ornaments in broad daylight. But perhaps the general effect was not so shocking. Christina, having previously experimented with the ornaments, had a pretty good idea of how they appeared upon her. It would be difficult to describe precisely what Macgregor thought just then, but it is to be feared that he made the sudden and unexpected discovery that Jessie Mary was not the only pretty girl in the world. âIâll takâ them,â he said uneasily, and put his hand in his pocket. âThank you,â said Christina. âWill that be all to-day?â âAy; thatâll be aâ.â He had purposed spending the odd penny of his fund on a birthday card, but for some undefinable reason let the coin fall back into his pocket. Christina proceeded to make a neat parcel. âYouâre a stranger here,â she remarked pleasantly. âAy. But I dinna live far awaâ.â Now that the ordeal was over, he was feeling more at ease. âYeâve a nice shop, miss.â âDo you think so? Iâm very glad you got something to suit you in it. Thank you! Half-a-crownââtwo-and-six exactly. _Good_ afternoon!â It may be that Macgregor would have stopped to make a remark or two on his own account, but just then an elderly woman entered the shop. âGuidbye, Miss,â he murmured, touching his cap, and departed with his purchase. Christina dropped the silver into the till. To herself she said: âI doobt heâs noâ as green as heâs cabbage-lookinâ.â Aloud: âNice day, Mrs. Dunn. Is your little grandson quite well again?â CHAPTER FOUR For some weeks Macgregor had nourished an idea of making the birthday presentation with his own hands. In fancy he had beheld his own gallant proffering of the gifts, and Jessie Maryâs shy acceptance of the same. Why he should have foreseen himself bold and Jessie Mary bashful is a question that may be left to those who have the profound insight necessary to diagnose the delicate workings of a youthful and lovelorn imagination. At the same time he had harboured many hopeful fears and fearful hopes, but to divulge these in detail would be sacrilege. On the day following the purchase of the gifts, however, his original plan, so simple and straightforward, would seem to have lost something of its attractiveness. Perhaps he was suddenly assailed by the cowardice of modesty; possibly he argued, in effect, that the offering would gain in importance by impersonal delivery. At all events, he endeavoured, on the way to church, to borrow from Willie Thomson the sum of threepenceââthe charge for delivery demanded by a heartless post-office. Unfortunately Willieâs finances just then were in a most miserable state, so much so that on this very morning he had been compelled to threaten his aunt, with whom and on whom he lived, with the awful vow never to enter a church again unless she supplied him with twopence on the spot. (This, of course, in addition to the customary penny for âthe plate.â) He jingled the coins in his pocket while he confided to Macgregor his tale of a hard world, and continued to do so while he waited for the sympathy which past experience of his friend led him to expect. It was therefore something of a shock to Willie when Macgregor, privately fondling the penny which he had not spent on a birthday card, replied: âI could manage wiâ the tuppence, Wullie. Anâ Iâll pay ye back on Seturday, sure.â âEh?â Willie stopped jingling and clutched his coins tightly. Macgregor repeated his words hopefully. âAw, but I canna lenâ ye the tuppence,â said Willie, almost resentfully; adding, âBut Iâll giâe ye a ceegarette or twa when I buy some.â âIâm noâ wantinâ yer ceegarettes,â Macgregor returned, his eyes on the pavement. Willie shot at him a curious glance. âWhat for dâye want the tuppence? Haâe ye been bettinâ on horses?â For a moment Macgregor was tempted to plead guilty of that or any other crime on the chance of gaining the otherâs sympathies and pence. Instead, however, he answered with caution: âIâll maybe tell ye, if yeâll lenâ me the tuppence.â Willie laughed. âIâm noâ sae green. Ye best get yer fayther to giâe ye the money.â âClay up!â snapped Macgregor, and remained silent for the rest of the journey. Had the money been required for any other object in the world, Macgregor would probably have gone straightway to his father and frankly asked for it. But the limits of confidence between son and parent are reached when the subject is a girl. Nevertheless, it was to the boyâs credit that he never dreamed of attempting to obtain his fatherâs help under false pretences. That night he came to the dismal decision to deliver the package himself at Jessie Maryâs door, at an hour when Jessie Mary would be certain to be out. There was nothing else for it, as far as he could see just then. The following morningâs light found him at his workââno longer, alas! in the far west-end with its windfall of pennies for the car, but in the heart of the city. The man under whom he worked found him so slow and stupid that he threatened to report him to his employer. Altogether it was a dreary day, and Macgregor, who usually paid enough attention to his duties to escape the burden of time, was more than glad when the last working hour had dragged to its close. He went home by an unaccustomed though not entirely unfamiliar route. It led him past the shop wherein he had made the birthday purchases on Saturday afternoon. The window was more brightly illuminated than the majority of its neighbours; the garish contents were even more attractive than in daylight. Macgregor found himself regarding them with a half-hearted interest. Presently he noticed that one of the sliding glass panels at the back of the window was open a few inches. This aperture permitted him to see the following: A hand writing a letter on a sloping desk, a long plait of fair hair over a scarlet shoulder, and a youthful profile with an expression very much in earnest yet cheerful withal. Macgregor could not help watching the writer, and he continued to do so for several minutes with increasingly lively interest. He was even wondering to whom the letter might be written, when the writer, having dipped her pen too deeply, made a horrid, big blot. She frowned and for an instant put out her tongue. Then, having regarded the blot for a space with a thoughtful gaze, she seized the pen and with a few deft touches transformed the blot into the semblance of a black beetle. Whereupon she smiled with such transparent delight that Macgregor smiled also. âWhat are ye grinninâ at?â said a voice at his elbow. He turned to discover Willie Thomson. At no time in the whole course of their friendship had he felt a keener desire to hit Willie on his impudent nose. âNaething,â he muttered shortly. âAre ye gaun hame?â âAy,â said Willie, noting the otherâs discomposure, but not referring to it directly. âThis isna yer usual road hame.â âDepends whaur Iâm cominâ frae,â returned Macgregor, quickening his pace. âHaâe ye got a job yet, Wullie?â he enquired more graciously. âI tried yin the day, but itâs noâ gaun to suit me. But Iâve earned ninepence. I can lenâ ye thon thruppence, if ye like.â âAw, Iâm noâ needinâ it noo.â âWeel, haâe a ceegarette.â Willie produced a yellow packet. âNa, Iâm noâ smokinâ, Wullie.â âWhatâs wrang wiâ ye?â âNaething.... What sort of job was ye tryinâ?â Willie told him, and thereafter proceeded to recount as many grievances as there had been hours in his working day. Macgregor encouraged him to enter into all sorts of detail, so that home was reached without reference to the shop window which had caused him amusement. âSo long,â said Willie, lighting a fresh cigarette. âMaybe see ye later.â âAh, itâs likely,â Macgregor replied, and turned into the close, glad to escape. âHaud on!â cried Willie. âWhat?â Macgregor halted with reluctance. Willie sniggered. âI seen ye wiâ Jessie Mary the ither nicht.â âDid ye?â retorted Macgregor feebly. âAy; anâ if I was you, I wud let girls alane. Theyâre nae fun, anâ theyâre awfuâ expensive.â With which sage advice Willie walked off. Macgregor made up his mind not to leave the house that evening, yet eight oâclock found him at the foot of the street wherein Jessie Mary lived. But he did not go up the street, and at the end of five minutes he strolled the way he had taken two hours earlier. As he approached a certain shop the light in its window went out. He marched home quickly, looking neither right nor left. * * * * * On the following evening he hired a small boy for the sum of one halfpenny to deliver the package to Jessie Mary at her abode, and straightway returned to the parental fireside, where he blushed at the welcome accorded him. That night, however, fate willed it that John Robinson should run out of tobacco. Macgregor, who had been extremely restless, expressed himself ready to step down to the tobacco shop in the main street. Here it must be mentioned that the gifts had reached Jessie Mary at precisely the right moment. They had raised her spirits from the depths of despair to at least the lower heights of hope. Only an hour before their arrival she had learned how the young man with the exquisite moustache had treacherously invited another young lady to accompany him to the Ironmongersâ dance; and although to the ordinary mind this may appear to have been the simple result of a lack of superhuman patience on the young manâs part, Jessie Mary could perceive in it nothing but the uttermost perfidy. So that until the arrival of Macgregorâs presentâââto J. M. from M. with best wishesâ (an âlâ had been scraped out where the second âwâ now stood)ââshe had felt like
{'title': "Courtin' Christina by J. J. Bell", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}