“A sale at the Pilgrim weedow’s,” she was told. “She’s put past her Spurgeon’s Sermons and got a book about business, and she’s learnin’ the way to keep an Italian warehoose in Scotch.”
Kate would have been down the town at once to see this marvel for herself, but her pot was on the boil, and here was the mistress coming down the stair, crying “Lennox, Lennox!” The maid’s heart sank. She had forgotten Lennox, and how could she explain her absence to a lady so particular? But for the moment she was spared the explanation, for the bark of Footles filled the street and Mr Dyce came into the lobby, laughing.
“You’re very joco!” said his sister, helping him off with his coat. “What are you laughing at?”
“The drollest thing imaginable,” said he. “I have just left Captain Consequence in a terrible rage about a letter that a boy has brought to him from Mrs Wright. He’s one of the folk that boast of paying as they go but never make a start. It seems he’s as much in debt to her as to most of the other merchants in the place, but wasn’t losing any sleep about it, for she’s such a softy. This letter has given him a start. He showed it to me, with the notion that it was a libel or a threat that might be actionable, but I assured him I couldn’t have written one more to the point myself. It said that unless he paid at once, something would be apt to happen that would create him the utmost astonishment.”
“Mercy on us! That’s not very like the widow: she must be getting desperate.”
“It was the wording of the thing amused me,” said Mr Dyce, walking into the parlour, still chuckling, “‘something will be apt to happen that will create you the utmost astonishment’—it suggests such awful possibilities. And it’s going to serve it’s purpose too, for the Captain’s off to pay her, sure it means a scandal.”
Kate took the chance to rush round the kirk in search of her messenger. “This way for the big bargains!” cried some lads coming back from the Italian warehouse, or, “Hey! ye’ve missed a step”—which shows how funny we can be in the smallest burgh towns; but Kate said nothing, only “trash!” to herself in indignation, and tried by holding in her breath to keep from getting red.
The shop of the Pilgrim widow suffered from its signboard, that was “far too big for its job, like the sweep that stuck in my granny’s chimney,” as Mr Dyce said. Once the sign had been P. & A.’s, but P. & A.’s good lady tired of hearing her husband nicknamed the Italian, and it went back to the painter, who partly paid with it a debt to the Pilgrim widow, who long since rued her acquisition. She felt in her soul it was a worldly vanity,—that a signboard less obtrusive on the public eye would more befit herself and her two meek little windows, where fly-papers, fancy goods, sweetmeats, cigarettes, country eggs, and cordial invitations to the Pilgrims Mission Bethel every Friday (D. V.), eight o’clock, kept each other incongruous and dusty company. A decent pious widow, but ah! so wanting any saving sense of guile. The Pilgrim Mission was the thing she really lived for, and her shop was the Cross she bore. But to-day it was scarcely recognisable: the windows had been swept of their stale contents, and one was filled with piles of rosy apples, the other with nuts that poured in a tempting cataract from a cask upset with an air of reckless prodigality. A large hand-lettered bill was in each window; one said—
HALLOWE’EN! ARISE AND SHINE!
and the other—