HE next day was a heap warmer. Mr. Parkins was snoozin' in the tool-shed, and Frederick was, as usual, daein' the auld sluggard's work in the garden, when I gaed oot to get some parsley for the cook. As Frederick says, there's parsley and parsley, and it tak's a long experience to ken the best; so he cam' ower to help me. It was his first chance o' a word wi' me that day.
"I hope ye enjoyed yoursel' yesterday," I remarks in a politelike tone o' voice.
"Oh, weel enough," says he. "I wasna oot for fun, Jemima. Feels as if we was gaun to get some heat noo."
"High time!" I says. "Did ye stop at hame?"
"I had to gang to the town," says he, pickin' at the parsley.
"Ye'll ha'e frien's there, I suppose?"
Mind ye! I wasna the least curious; I was merely wonderin'.
"Naebody special," says he. "Ma mither hopes ye'll be up on Sunday."
"I'm obliged to her," says I, but I dinna say whether I would gang or no'. Of course, the man was welcome to keep his secret, whatever it was; it was nae business o' mines.
He passed me a bunch sayin':—
"Ye're no' to tell ma mither, Jemima; but yesterday I was seein' the doctor."
"Oh," says I, and it was a' I could say jist then. For he had tell't me o' the trouble aboot his heart, which had kept him frae servin' his country and frae daein' ony heavy labour, and stopped him frae the engineerin', his proper trade.
"I'm a heap better," says he.
"I'm glad," says I. "But is your mither no' to ken that?"
"Best no'—till she's a wee bit stronger, onyway," he says. "Ye see she might live in fear o' me bein' called up. But I'm maybe no' fit for that yet, Jemima."
"Alec," says I, and his real name was oot afore I kent. "Oh, surely ye'll never be fit!"
"I've a fair chance, the doctor tell't me. That was nice o' ye, Jemima," he says.
"I didna—weel, maybe I did mean it for once," says I. "But dae ye want to gang?"
He gi'ed a wee laugh, sayin':—
"What dae ye think?"
And jist then the cook cried that the blue room was ringin'. Later on Frederick didna seem anxious to speak aboot hissel', and as I've said already, I'm no' curious. Still, I was kin' o' puzzled.
Maybe I should explain that I had been at his mither's hoose every Sunday since I cam' to Westerbay, for the cook had soon lost the hope o' an admirer, and didna like to miss her supper at the usual time; and as the boarders got a cauld supper on Sundays, she had nae objection to me takin' her share o' fresh air. Ma parents was pleased to think I had a nice hoose to gang to, and I canna deny that I was pleased masel', so I had nae intention o' makin' ony change; but, of course, I didna want Frederick to imagine he was ony attraction.
I may as weel likewise explain that I continued to favour the porter for half an hour betwixt leavin' the Kirk and gaun to the cottage. I daresay ma fayther would ha'e wanted to ken a hundred and fifty things aboot the porter, but I had described him to ma mither as a respectable young man wi' an honest face and a game leg, and I daresay that satisfied her—and, as a rule, she can satisfy ma fayther in the long run.
I canna jist say what made me keep on meetin' the porter on the Sunnyburn Road. It wasna his sweeties, though he was free wi' them, and it wasna his conversation, for he was dumber every time we met, till he seemed to ha'e lost ony fun he ever had. I think it was partly ma soft heart, for I wouldna willingly hurt the feelin's o' an earwig, and partly ma pride, for I wouldna ha'e Frederick fancy hissel' the only chap in the wide world. But for a' that, mind ye, I liked the porter no' so bad.
Still, I had near made up ma mind to keep awa' frae the Sunnyburn Road that Sunday, when the Saturday evenin' post brought me a letter implorin' me to meet him, because he had something terrible important to tell me.
"I'll admit I was kin' o' excited when I seen him approachin', but I needna ha'e been that. When ten minutes had passed awa', he had told me naething except that the railway was rotten, the turnips was wantin' rain, and he had left the jujubes on the mantelpiece.
"Weel, weel," says I, "the world still rolls on, and we still get oor rations, and I observe your shoes is a heap easier."
"What does onything matter," says he, "if your heart's bein' broke? "
"Keep up your heart, and it'll no' get broke," I says, inspectin' ma umbrella, which was oot for the first time. Ma sister had got twa for weddin' presents, and had sent me the second best. But he done naething but groaned and sighed till we cam' to the usual seat. And then he sighed and groaned.
"Cheer up, for ony favour," says I.
"I canna," says he.
"Be a man, Peter!"