Wee Macgreegor Enlists by John Joy Bell (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📕

wi' sic a bad character as him.'

'Aw, Wullie Thomson's no near as bad as his character. A' the same, he had nae business to slope wi'oot lettin' us ken. But he'll likely be comin' back. We'll wait for five meenutes an' see.'

Maggie drew herself up. 'I prefer no to wait where I'm no welcome,' she said in a deeply offended tone, and made to rise.

He caught her plump arm. 'Wha said ye wasna welcome? Eat yer sweeties an' dinna talk nonsense. If ye want to see the rest o' the picturs, I'm on. I've naething else to dae the nicht.'

After a slight pause. 'Dae ye want me to bide--Macgreegor?'

'I'm asking ye.'

She sighed. 'Ye're a queer lad. What's yer age?'

'Nineteen.'

'Same as mines!' She was twenty-two. 'When's yer birthday?'

'Third o' Mairch.'

'Same again!' She had been born on the 14th of December. 'My! that's a strange dooble coincidence! We ought to be guid frien's, you an' me.'

'What for no?' said Macgregor carelessly.

Once more the house was darkened. A comic film was unrolled. Now and then Macgregor chuckled with moderate heartiness.

'Enjoyin' yersel'?' she said in a chocolate whisper, close to his ear.

'So, so.'

'Ye're like me. I prefer the serious picturs. Real life an' true love for me! Ha'e a sweetie? Oh, ye're smokin'. As I was sayin', ye're a queer lad, Macgreegor.' She leaned against his arm. 'What made ye stan' me a slider, an' a champion tea, an' they nice sweeties, an' a best sate in a pictur hoose--when ye wasna extra keen on ma comp'ny?'

'Dear knows.'

She drew away from him so smartly that he turned his face towards her. 'Oh, crool!' she murmured, and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

'Dinna dae that!' he whispered, alarmed. 'What's up?'

'Ye--ye insulted me.'

'Insulted ye! Guid kens I didna mean it. What did I say?'

'Oh, dear, I'll never get ower it.'

'Havers! I'll apologize if ye tell me what I said. Dinna greet, for ony favour. Ye'll ha'e the folk lookin' at us. Listen, Mary--that's yer name, is't no?'

'It's Maggie, ye impiddent thing!'

'Weel, Maggie, I apologize for whatever I said, whether I said it or no. I'm no ma usual the nicht, so ye maun try for to excuse me. I certainly never meant for to hurt yer feelin's.'

She dropped the handkerchief. 'Ha'e ye got a sair heid?'

'Ay--something like that. So let me doon easy.'

She slid her hand under his which was overhanging the division between the seats.

'I'm sorry I was silly, but I'm that tender-hearted, I was feart ye was takin' yer fun aff me. I'm awfu' vexed ye've got a sair heid. I suppose it's the heat. Ony objection to me callin' ye Macgreegor?'

'That's a' richt,' he replied kindly but uneasily.

Her fingers were round his, and seemingly she forgot they were there, even when the lights went up. And he hadn't the courage --shall we say?--to withdraw them.

The succeeding film depicted a throbbing love story.

'This is mair in oor line,' she remarked confidentially.

Every time the sentiment rose to a high temperature, which was pretty often, Macgregor felt a warm pressure on his fingers. He had never before had a similar experience, not even in the half-forgotten days of Jessie Mary; for Jessie Mary had not become the pursuer until he had betrayed anxiety to escape from her toils. And he had been only seventeen then.

The warm pressure made him uncomfortable, but not physically so--and, apart from conscience, perhaps not altogether spiritually so. For, after all, it's a very sore young manly heart, indeed, that can refuse the solace, or distraction, offered in the close proximity of young womanhood of the Maggie sort and shape. In other words, Macgregor may have been conscientiously afraid, but he had no disposition to run away.

About nine-thirty they came out. While he looked a little dazed and defiant, she appeared entirely happy and self-possessed, with her hand in his arm as though he had belonged to her for quite a long time. But at the gorgeous portals she stopped short with a cry of dismay. It was raining heavily.

'I've nae umburella,' she said, piteously regarding her fine feathers. 'Ma things'll be ruined.'

'I'll get ye a cab,' he said after some hesitation induced less by consideration of the expense than by the sheer novelty of the proceeding. Ere she could respond he was gone. Not without trouble and a thorough drenching he discovered a decrepit four-wheeler.

Maggie had never been so proud as at the moment when he handed her in, awkwardly enough, but with a certain shy respectfulness which she found entirely delicious.

He gave the man the address, learned the fare, then came back to the door and handed the girl the necessary money.

'Na!' she cried in a panic, 'I'll no gang unless ye come wi' me. I--I wud be feart to sit ma lane in the cab. Come, lad; ye've plenty time.'

He had no more than enough, but he got in after telling the man to drive as quickly as possible.

'Sit here,' she said, patting the cushion at her side.

He obeyed, and then followed a long pause while the cab rattled over the granite. She unpinned and removed her hat and leaned against him heavily yet softly.

'Ye're no sayin' a great deal,' she remarked at last. 'What girl are ye thinkin' aboot?'

'Ach, I'm dashed wearit,' he said. 'I didna sleep a wink last nicht.'

'Puir sojer laddie!' Her smooth, hot cheek touched his. 'Pit yer heid on ma shouther. . . . I like ye because ye're shy . . . but ye needna be ower shy.'

Suddenly he gave a foolish laugh and thrust his arm round her waist. She heaved a sigh of content.

* * * * *


By making all haste Macgregor managed to get back to the camp in advance of Willie. He was in bed, his eyes hard shut, when his friend appeared in the billet.

Willie, who was unusually flushed, bent over him and, sniggering, asked questions. Getting no response, he retired grinning and winking at no one in particular.

Macgregor did not sleep well. If you could have listened to his secret thoughts you would have heard, among other dreary things--

'But I didna kiss her; I didna kiss her.'


XVI


CONSCIENCE AND A COCOA-NUT

With one thing and another Christina, during her first evening in Aberdeen, had no opportunity of sending her betrothed more than a postcard announcing her safe arrival; but she went to bed with every intention of sending him on the morrow the longest and sweetest letter she had ever written. The receipt of Macgregor's letter, with all its implied reproaches, however, not only hurt her feelings, but set her pride up in arms. 'He had nae business to write as if I was a selfish thing; as if I had nae right to decide for masel'!' As a matter of fact, her sole reason for accepting Mrs. Purdie's invitation had been a fear of offending Macgregor's important relatives by a refusal. Heaven knew she had not wanted to put 150 miles between her lad and herself at such a time.

Still, as Macgregor might have known by now, it was always a mistake to try to hustle Christina in any way. Her reply condescended neither to explanations nor defence. Written in her superior, and rather high-flown English, which she was well aware he detested, it practically ignored his epistle and took the form of an essay on the delights of travel, the charm of residence in the Northern City, the kindliness and generosity of host and hostess. She was not without compunction, especially when Uncle Purdie expressed the hope that she was sending the lad something to 'keep up his pecker,' but she let the letter go, telling herself that it would be 'good for him.'

The postcard was received by Macgregor after an uneasy night and a shameful awakening. The meagre message made him more miserable than angry. In the circumstances it was, he felt bound to admit, as much as he deserved. Mercifully, Willie had such a 'rotten head' that he was unable to plague his unhappy friend, and the day turned out to be a particularly busy one for the battalion. Next morning brought the letter. Macgregor was furious, until Conscience asked him what he had to complain about.

Willie, his mischievous self again, got in a nasty one by inquiring how much he had paid for the cab the night before last.

'Ye dirty spy!' cried Macgregor. 'What for did ye hook it in the pictur' hoose an' leave her wi' me? She was _your_ affair.'

'I never asked her to spend the evening',' Willie retorted, truthfully enough, 'Twa's comp'ny.'

Macgregor felt his face growing hot. With an effort he said coldly: 'If ye had stopped wi' us ye wudna ha'e been back at the beer an' broke yer pledge.'

'Wha tell't ye I was at the beer?'

'Yer breath, ye eediot!'

'Ho! so ye was pretendin' ye was sleepin' when I spoke to ye! Cooard to smell a man's breath wi' yer eyes shut!'

Macgregor turned wearily away. 'It's nae odds to me what ye drink,' he said.

'Ye should think shame to say a thing like that to a chap that hasna tasted but wance for near a year--at least, for several months,' said Willie, following. 'But I'll forgive ye like a Christian. . . . For peety's sake ten' us a tanner. I ha'ena had a fag since yesterday. I'll no split on ye.' He winked and nudged Macgregor. 'Maggie's a whale for the cuddlin'--eh?'

It was too much. Macgregor turned and struck, and Willie went down. Then Macgregor, feeling sick of himself and the whole world, assisted the fallen one to his feet, shoved a shilling into his hand, and departed hastily.

He wrote a long, pleading letter to Christina and posted it--in the cook's fire. Next day he tried again, avoiding personal matters. The result was a long rambling dissertation on musketry and the effect of the wind, etcetera, on one's shots, all of which, with his best love, he forwarded to Aberdeen. In previous letters he had scarcely ever referred to his training, and then with the utmost brevity.

The letter, quite apart from its technicalities, puzzled Christina; and to puzzle Christina was to annoy her. To her mind it seemed to have been written for the sake of covering so much paper. Of course she wanted Macgregor to be interested in his work, but not to the exclusion of herself. She allowed the thing to rankle for three days. Then, as there was no further word from him, she became a little alarmed.