Читать книгу Courtin' Christina - J. J. Bell - Страница 8

Table of Contents

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 grocer’s 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 sweet—sooner 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 composition—endeavouring to say in twenty words what she thought in two hundred—when 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.

“Why,” said he, “my niece Christina might suit you—in fact, I’m 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 to—er—myself—had 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 way—I mean to say, have room to carry out her own ideas.” Mr. Baldwin halted in some confusion, but speedily recovered. “Anyway,” he went on, “give her a trial. Let me send her along to see you this evening.”

M. Tod assented, possibly because she feared to hurt the traveller’s feelings. “Nearly sixteen” and “keen on a place where she can have her own way” 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. “I’ll manage her easy,” she said to herself while attending with the utmost demureness to M. Tod’s recital of the duties required of her assistant—“I’ll manage her easy.”

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.

“Ay,” remarked M. Tod, “everything looks vera nice—vera nice, indeed, dearie. I can see ye’ve done yer best to follow ma instructions.”

It had become a habit with M. Tod to express observations of this sort prior to going out, a habit, also, to accept all Christina’s 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.

“Tak’ a squint at the window when ye gang oot,” she said, pleasantly. “Ye ha’ena seen it since it was dressed. There’s a heap o’ cheap trash in it, but it’s trash that draws the public noo-a-days.”

“Oh, I wudna say that, dearie,” said the old woman. “I’ve aye tried to gi’e folk guid value.”

“Ay! Ma aunt was like that—near ruined hersel’ tryin’ to gi’e the public what it didna want. What the public wants is gorgeousness—an’ it wants it cheap. Abyssinian Gold an’ papermashy leather an’ so on. See thon photo-frames!”—Christina pointed—“the best sellin’ photo-frames ever we had! In a week or so, they get wearit sittin’ on the mantel-piece, an’ doon they fa’ wi’ 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 thon——”

“Weel, weel,” Miss Tod mildly interrupted, “it’s maybe as ye say, an’ I canna deny that custom’s improvin’. But it’s a sad pity that folk winna buy the best——”

“Oh, let the folk pity theirsel’s—when they get sense—an’ that’ll no’ be this year. Gi’e them what they want, an’ never heed what they need. That’s the motto for a shop-keeper. Come ower here for a minute till I sort yer bonnet, or ye’ll be lossin’ twa o’ yer grapes. I hear figs an’ onions is to be the favourite trimmin’ next Spring. Ye could dae wi’ a new bonnet, Miss Tod.”

“So I could,” the old woman wistfully admitted as she submitted her headgear to her assistant’s deft fingers. “I couldna say when I got this yin.”

“Oh, I’m no’ keen on dates. But”—encouragingly—“we’ll tak’ stock next week, an’ when we’ve struck the half-year’s balance I’ll no’ be surprised if ye tak’ the plunge an’ burst a pound-note at the milliner’s.” Christina administered a final pat to the ancient bonnet. “Noo ye’re ready for the road. See an’ no’ catch cold. I’ll ha’e the kettle at the bile against yer return at five.”

“I’ll no’ be late,” replied M. Tod who, to tell the truth, was already wishing it were tea-time, and moved to the door.

“I suppose,” said Christina, “ye wudna care to call at the Reverend Mr. McTavish’s an’ politely ask for payment o’ his account—consistin’ chiefly o’ sermon-paper. He’s a whale for sermon-paper!”

“Oh, dearie, dearie, I couldna dae that,” faltered M. Tod, and made her escape.

“If that account isna paid sune,” Christina murmured, “I’ll ha’e to gang masel’ an’ put the fear o’ death into the man. Business is business—even when it’s releegious.”

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 man—so she reckoned him—came 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.

“Nice day,” she remarked in her best manner. She contrived to get away from the vernacular in her business dealings.

“Ay,” The young man smiled absently.

“Nice teeth,” thought Christina. (That Macgregor’s teeth were good was entirely due to his mother’s firmness in the matter of brushing them during his younger days. He was inclined to be proud of them now.)

“Just take a look round,” she said aloud.

Macgregor acknowledged the invitation with a nod.

“Was it anything special you wanted to see?” she enquired.

Macgregor regarded her for a moment. “I had a look at yer window,” he said, his eyes wandering once more, “but I seen naething dearer nor a shillin’.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Christina. Then recovering her dignity—“The window is merely a popular display. We have plenty of more expensive goods within.” She felt pleased at having said “within” instead of “inside.”

At the word “expensive” Macgregor shrank. “Aboot half-a-croon?” he said diffidently, taking a step towards the door.

“Half-a-croon and upwards,” 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 Christina’s mottoes was “First catch your customer and then rook him.” “Oh, yes,” she added pleasantly, “our goods at half-a-crown are abundant.”

For a moment Macgregor doubted she was laughing at him, but a veiled glance at her earnest face reassured him—nay, 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:

“It’s for a present.”

“A present. Certainly!” she replied, lapsing a trifle in the excitement of the moment. “Male or female?”

Macgregor gave her an honest stare.

“Is it for a lady or gent?” she enquired, less abashed by the stare than annoyed with herself for having used the wrong phrase.

“Lady,” said Macgregor, with an attempt at boldness, and felt himself getting hot.

“Will you kindly step this way?” came the polite invitation.

Macgregor proceeded to the counter and bumped his knee against the chair that stood there.

“Useful or ornamental?”

“I—I dinna ken,” he answered between his teeth.

“I’ll break that chair’s neck for it some day!” cried Christina, her natural sympathy for suffering getting the better of her commercial instincts. Then she coughed in her best style. “Do you think the young lady would like something to wear?”

“I dinna ken, I’m sure.” Macgregor pushed back his cap and scratched his head. “Let’s see what ye’ve got for wearin’ an’—an’ no’ for wearin’.”

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.

“This is a nice fountain-pen,” she explained. “Its price has been reduced——”

“Aw, I’m no’ heedin’ aboot reduced things, thank ye a’ the same.”

“I’ll make it two shillings to you,” Christina said persuasively. “That’s a very drastic reduction.” Which was perfectly true. On the other hand, the pen was an old model which she had long despaired of selling. “Nothing could be more suitable for a young lady,” she added, exhibiting the nib. “Real gold.”

But Macgregor shook his head.

With apparent cheerfulness she laid the pen aside. “It’s for a young lady, I think you said?”

“Ay, it’s for a young lady, but she’s no’ that young either. Aboot ma ain age, maybe.”

Christina nearly said “about twelve, I suppose,” but refrained. She was learning to subdue her tendency to chaff. “I perceive,” she said gravely. “Is she fond of needlework?”

“I couldna say. She’s gettin’ a pink dress, but I think her mither’s sewin’ it for her.”

“A pink dress!” muttered Christina, forgetting herself. “Oh, Christopher Columbus!” She turned away sharply.

“Eh?”

“She’ll be a brunette?” said Christina calmly, though her cheeks were flushed.

“I couldna say,” said Macgregor again.

Christina brought forward a tray of glittering things. “These combs are much worn at present,” she informed him. “Observe the jewels.”

“They’ll no’ be real,” said Macgregor doubtfully.

“Well—a—no. Not exactly real. But everybody weers—wears imitation jewellery nowadays. The west-end’s full of it—chock-a-block, in fact.” She held up a pair of combs of almost blinding beauty. “Chaste—ninepence each.”

“Ay,” sighed Macgregor, “but I’m no’ sure——”

“Silver belt—quite the rage—one shilling.”

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.

“You don’t happen to know the size of the lady’s waist?” said Christina in a most discreet tone of voice.

“I couldna say.” He laid down the belt, but kept looking at it.

“Excuse me,” 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. “My waist is just about medium.” She proceeded to put the combs in her hair. “Of course they would look better on a brunette.” She permitted herself the faintest of smiles. “But you can see how they look when they’re being worn.”

as 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.

“I’ll tak’ them,” he said uneasily, and put his hand in his pocket.

“Thank you,” said Christina. “Will that be all to-day?”

“Ay; that’ll be a’.” 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. “You’re a stranger here,” she remarked pleasantly.

“Ay. But I dinna live far awa’.” Now that the ordeal was over, he was feeling more at ease. “Ye’ve a nice shop, miss.”

“Do you think so? I’m very glad you got something to suit you in it. Thank you! Half-a-crown—two-and-six exactly. Good afternoon!”

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.

“Guidbye, Miss,” he murmured, touching his cap, and departed with his purchase.

Christina dropped the silver into the till. To herself she said: “I doobt he’s no’ as green as he’s cabbage-lookin’.” Aloud: “Nice day, Mrs. Dunn. Is your little grandson quite well again?”