He swallowed hard, choking down his resentment with an effort. In silence he made the best of “a cup in his hand,” Murchison’s damp seed-cake, stringy shop bread streaked with bought jam. For a split second he couldn’t help thinking of the tea his mother used to set before him when he was working, earning a wage not half what he earned now: a home-baked crusty loaf to hack at will, a big pot of butter, cheese and home-made blueberry jam — bought jam, like bought pastry, was never in Martha’s home. But the very disloyalty of that swift vision brought him swiftly back to Jenny. He smiled tenderly at her.
“In your own inimitable words, Jenny, you’re a scream.”
“Oh, I am, am I? You’re coming round, I see, Mister Man. Well, what’s been happening at the school to-day?”
“Nothing much, Jenny, darling.”
“It’s always nothing much!”
“Well, Jenny…”
“Well, what?”
“Oh, nothing, dear.”
He filled his pipe slowly. How could he tell her the dull tale of his struggle and rebuffs. Some might like that, but not Jenny. She expected some glittering story of success, of how the head master had commended him, of a dazzling stroke which would bring him quick promotion. He didn’t want to upset her. And he couldn’t lie to her.
A short silence followed, then, lightly she switched to another perilous topic.
“Tell me, then. Have you made up your mind about Arthur Barras?”
“Well… I’m not eager to take him on.”
“But it’s such a chance,” she protested. “To think you were asked by Mr. Barras himself.”
He answered shortly:
“I think I’ve had too much to do with Barras. I don’t like him. I’m sorry in a way I ever wrote to him. It’s hateful to feel that I’m indebted to him for my job.”
“You’re so stupid, David. He’s got such influence. I think it’s splendid he should have an interest in you, asking you to tutor his son.”
“I don’t take it as an interest. He’s a man I’ve no time for, Jenny. It’s merely an attempt to make his benevolence convincing.”
“And who should he want to convince?”
Quite sharply he answered:
“Himself!”
Pause. She had no idea what he meant. The fact was that Barras, meeting David in Cowpen Street on the previous Saturday, had stopped him with an air of patronage, questioned him with an aloof interest and finally asked him to come to the Law three nights a week to brush up Arthur’s mathematics. Arthur was weak in mathematics, and would need tuition before he could sit the final examination for his certificate.
Jenny tossed her head.
“I don’t think,” she informed him, “that you know what you’re talking about.” She looked for a minute as if she might add something. But she said no more, and in a huff gathered together the tea things, carried them out of the room.
Silence in the little room with the new wood fire and the new wood furniture. Then David got up, laid his books out upon the table, stirred up the fire with the poker. He made an effort. Deliberately he closed his mind to the Barras affair and sat down to work.
He was behind the schedule he had mapped out for himself and it worried him. Somehow he did not find the opportunities for study he had expected. Teaching was hard, much harder than he had imagined. He was often tired when he came home; he was tired to-night; and distractions had a way of cropping up. He gritted his teeth, propped his head up with both hands, fastened his attention firmly upon Jusserand. He must, he simply must work for this confounded B.A.: it was the only way to get on; to lift up Jenny and himself.
For half an hour he worked splendidly, undisturbed. Then Jenny slipped in and perched herself upon the arm of his chair. She was repentant for her petulance, kittenish, coy.
“David, dear,” she slipped her arm round his shoulder. “I’m sorry I was cross, really I am. I’ve had such a dull day, p’raps that’s why I’ve been looking forward to to-night ever and ever so much.”
He half-smiled, pressed his cheek against her round young breast, his eyes still firmly upon the book.
“You weren’t cross and it is dull for you.”
She stroked the back of his head, coaxing.
“It has really been dull, David. I’ve hardly spoken to a soul but old Mr. Murchison in the stores and the woman where I priced some silk, oh, and one or two people who came to the door. I… I was thinking we might go out to-night to cheer ourselves up.”
“But I’ve got to work, Jenny. You know that as well as I do.” Eyes still fastened upon the book.
“Oh… you haven’t always got to bury yourself in these stupid old books, David. You can take to-night off… you can work some other time.”
“No, honestly, Jenny, it’s important.”
“Oh, you could, David, you could if you wanted to.”
Astounded, perplexed, he lifted his eyes at last and studied her for a moment.
“But where on earth can you want to go to? It’s cold and wet outside. Home’s the best place.”
She had it all ready, arranged, carefully planned. She brought it out with a rush.
“We could take the train to Tynecastle; the six-ten. There’s a popular concert in the Eldon Hall, something really nice. I looked up the paper and some of the Whitley Bay entertainers are to be there; that’s what they do in the winter, you know. There’s Colin Loveday, for instance, he’s got such a lovely tenor. The tickets only cost one and three, so the money’s nothing. Oh, do let’s go, David, we’ll have a lovely time. I’ve been so down, I do want a bit of a fling. Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud.”
There was a short silence. He did not wish to be an old stick-in-the-mud. He was tired, obsessed by the necessity for study; it was, as he had said, a wet, inhospitable night outside; the concert did not attract him. Suddenly an idea, a grand idea, struck him. His eyes lit up:
“Listen, Jenny! How about this! I’ll take to-night off, like you suggest. I’ll run up and fetch down Sam and Hughie. We’ll bank up the fire, make a hot-pot supper and play rummy. Talk about your entertainers… they’re not in the hunt with Sam. Our Sammy’s the best you ever heard, he’ll keep you in stitches all the time.” It honestly was, he felt, a great idea: he had been worried over his estrangement from his family, he wanted to be one with his brothers again, this was a marvellous opportunity to break the ice. But as his face brightened, Jenny’s fell.
“No,” she said coldly, “I wouldn’t like that at all. Your family hasn’t treated me right, David. I’ll not have them make a back door of my house.”
Another silence. He compressed his lips firmly. He felt that she was unreasonable and unjust, it was not fair to ask him to go into Tynecastle on a night like this. He would not go. Suddenly he saw tears rise smarting to her eyes. That did it. He could not bully her into tears.
He sighed, rose up, closed the book.
“Right, Jenny. Let’s got to the concert then if you feel you’d like it.”
She gave a little trill of delight, clapped her hands, kissed him excitedly.
“You are nice, David darling, really you are! Now you wait a minute, I’ll run up and put on my hat. I won’t be long, we’ve plenty of time to catch the train.”
While she was upstairs he went into the kitchen and cut himself a wedge of bread and cheese. He ate this slowly, staring into the fire: Jenny, he reflected with a wry smile, had probably made up her mind to drag him to the concert days ago.
He had just finished eating when a knock came to the back door. Surprised, he opened it.
“Why, Sammy,” he exclaimed delightedly. “You old dog.”
Sammy, with the hardy grin irremovably fixed on his pale healthy face, rolled into the kitchen.
“Me and Annie was just passin’,” he announced, not — despite the grin — without a certain shyness. “I jest thought I’d look ye up.”