“Let him be, aunty,” said Marion; “he’s in one of his ill keys; he was real disagreeable to-day, and would do nothing. I have had just a very dismal day because he would never rouse himself up.”
“He may rouse himself or not as he likes,” said Jane; “but I’ve gotten possession of the not, and I’ll just keep it till I find out what it’s for.”
“It’s my note,” said Archie.
“And ye leave it lying at your feet! Twenty pounds! that would put pith into many a man’s arm, and courage in his heart. Besides, what would ye do with all that siller? I’ll give ye a shilling or twa, and I’ll just put it by. Your father must be clean gyte to put the like o’ that in the power of a callant like you.—Come ben to your supper. I’ll wager ye havena had a decent bite nor sup the haill day.”
“I’m wanting no supper. I’m wanting my note,” Archie said.
“Ye can have the one but no the other. The table’s a’ set and ready. Come in, ye fool, and take your supper. We’ll no wait for you, neither Mey nor me.”
Archie sat by himself with his head in his hands for some moments after they had gone away. Mrs. Brown had carried the lamp with her, but it was not dark. The days are long in June, and the soft visionary light, which was neither night nor day, came through the bars of the Venetian blinds, making the little shabby room faintly visible. He was tired, he was even hungry, but he would not stoop to the degradation of owning it, now that he had said he would have no supper. This added to the general sum of wretchedness in Archie’s mind. It had all ended so miserably, the day which began so well. He was aware that he had been a fool. He had been tempted with the puppies—which even now, when he thought of them, tempted him still, filling him with a sort of forlorn pleasure in the recollection, and making him feel how silly it was to have let his “not” be taken from him—though he knew he had no money to pay for them. And then he had not had the courage to tell his father that he wanted them. Surely he who had bought May so many things would have given this little gratification to Archie, had he gone rightly about it. But he had been a fool. What was he always but a fool? He had got himself into several scrapes because he had not had the courage to ask anything from Aunty Jane. And now when he had gotten the opportunity—the note that was his own, that nobody else had any right to, to think that he had let that be taken out of his hand! He would never get a penny of it, Archie knew; yes, a shilling perhaps, or maybe half-a-crown, like a little bairn. And what good were they to him, when he had twenty pounds—twenty whole pounds of his own—to get the little dogs with, and many another luxury besides, and pay up his subscriptions to his clubs, which were always in arrears, and maybe treat some of the lads to a dinner without having to account for every penny? But he had let it be taken from him, and farewell to the doggies and everything else that was pleasant. Oh what a fool he was, what a fool! He went up to his room, and tumbled as he was upon his bed, in his best clothes, though he was hungry, and smelt the supper, and wanted it, with all his vigorous young appetite. Happily for Archie, in this painful complication of circumstances, it was not very long before he fell asleep.
Next morning Mrs. Brown received Rowland in the parlour above. “I am wanting to speak to you, Jims,” she said, “you’re no used to the charge of young folk, and I maun speak out my mind. Ye mayna take it well of me, but at any rate I will have delivered my soul.”
“Well,” said Rowland, “I hope that will be for your comfort, however little it may be for mine.”
“It will be for baith our goods, if ye will take my advice. Jims, what was that you threw at Archie last night before you went away?”