Miss Quigley, Tobacconist

WENTY years ago it was the only tobacco-shop in Glasgow's western suburb. Yet it did not altogether flaunt its independence before the eyes of the local smokers. Those who were early abroad found the shutters down by 8 ; those who were late could have their pouches or cases filled at midnight, although two hours earlier the gas jets in the window were lowered to tiny peeps.

But perhaps the window looked most attractive in a dim light, for its contents were generally shabby and stale. The meerschaums were yellowed, their plush and silken cases faded; the briars wore tarnished silver bands; the clays of numerous shapes and sizes were dusty; the packets of tobaccos and cigarettes were bleached by many suns; the loose tobaccos appeared dry and brittle, the cigar boxes—mostly "dummies"—suggested seediness rather than luxury; while the "fancy goods," such as pouches, cases, holders, walking-sticks and match-boxes, seemed to have abandoned all hope of ever getting sold. In those days, of course, tobacconists' windows at their best and most brilliant made but dull displays, for as yet they had not reached the period of dainty tins and labels, lovely or gaudy show-cards, highly-finished photographs of more or less prominent men and more or less obscure maidens, and frantic offers of cash and other rewards for smoking So-and-so's specialty. But Miss Quigley's window was duller than most of the tobacconists' windows of its time, and had it not been for a little band of regular customers Miss Quigley's trade must have been even duller than her window. Happily, gentlemen were more regular in their habits, bad and good, two decades ago than they are today. Advertisements caught their eyes without capturing their souls. One could buy without having previously been bought; one could sell without having first sold oneself.

How Miss Adelaide Quigley—she was modest A. Quigley on her signboard—came to be a tobacconist had been explained by several of her older customers in several ways; but the real reason was known only to herself, and she was a woman who could keep a secret. After all, most women can keep secrets—about themselves. In all her ways Miss Quigley was a lady—not merely "quite a lady" or "an exceedingly ladylike person," as the middle-class dame is so fond of expressing it. She wore her dignity as she wore her old garments and still older bonnet—as if she were used to it, not as if she had got it from a father or a husband a few years previously. The troublesome youngster who invaded her shop for "change o' a thrupp'ny bit" received the same courteous attention as did the old smoker who, going off on his summer holiday, entered with an order which meant much to the tobacconist. The workman wanting a "farden clay" was as cheerfully welcomed as the gentleman desirous of inspecting some cigars at "er—about a bob apiece." Miss Quigley was a respecter of all persons, because she had so far respected herself. She had sought always to be genteel, but at the age of thirty-eight had, fortunately, only succeeded in being gentle.

Every morning a little before eight she opened her shop, and Mr. Fergus, who went early into town, never failed to call and purchase a threepenny Manila cheroot, one half of which he consumed while proceeding to his office, the other half while returning home. Mr. Fergus maintained that a threepenny Manila cheroot was economical and respectable, whereas a fourpenny Havana cigar was extravagant, if not positively dissipated. Between fifteen and twenty minutes past eight every second morning old Mr. Pagan had his snuff-box charged with "Genuine Kendal Brown," and invariably annexed a large extra pinch from the jar—for luck, as he put it; after which he fled snorting to catch the 8.25 car, and as often as not missed it. Immediately after his departure appeared Mr. Slimming, a bashful youth of some forty summers, who smoked imported American cigarettes at sixpence the packet of ten, and concealed the fact from his stern parents by consuming tiny but extremely aromatic silver-coated pellets from a small round brazen box bearing an embossed likeness of the late Prince Consort. Thereafter the greengrocer from next door dropped in to borrow a match, and the policeman popped in to remark on the weather. Otherwise Miss Quigley had few customers upon whom she could depend until the evening, when most of her business was transacted. Chance customers were rare, and someone whose supply of wit was only equaled by that of heart once declared his conviction that Miss Quigley spent the greater part of the day in wondering whether she should redress her window or her head.

It has been already suggested that Miss Quigley wore an old bonnet, and now it may be added that never, since she opened the shop for the first time nine years before, had she been seen in any other bonnet. During that period the bonnet may have undergone minor structural alterations, but at the time to which I now refer it was a rusty wreck from whence now and then a black bead would drop, as if unable to hang on any longer. Still, there were left beads sufficient to make a faint sound when she bowed over the counter to greet or to speed a customer. The bonnet was on her head when she took down the shutters, it was still there when she put them up; and report had it that she slept in it.

Wrinkled out of proportion to its years was Miss Quigley's countenance, and yellow was her complexion, as though she were given to taking little fresh air and much strong tea—which was indeed the case. Her eyes were dull but kindly, her mouth melancholy yet not unwilling to smile, her nose ineffective and her hair thin and streaked with gray. Over her narrow shoulders, in cold weather, she hung a black, beaded, once velveteen, and encased her worn hands in beaded mittens. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a ring set with sad-looking little garnets, while her other jewelry comprised old-fashioned, clumsy earrings with swinging pendants. Sombre, weary and not a little foolish she appeared to the casual customer, but to the regular one she was a person not altogether lacking in humor.

The shop itself was less dingy than the window. The glass cases and jars were free from dust; the brass scales were brightly polished. When you pressed the latch and pushed open the door there was a smart ting overhead and you entered the pleasant cedar and tobacco-scented atmosphere at the same moment that Miss Quigley, who never kept anyone waiting, came from the glazed and curtained narrow door of her living-room.

On your right was the counter, the bare part on Miss Quigley's side hacked and scored, the outer edge scorched in countless places; and on your left, under sundry lithographed show-cards, was a shabby, horse-hair covered form, bounded at one end by a stand of antique walking-sticks and canes, and at the other end by a show-case labeled "Choice Cigars," and containing a heap of pieces of twine rich in knots, a molting feather brush and a few damaged pipes and mouthpieces.

If you were a regular customer and not in a hurry, you would seat yourself on the form and enter into conversation with Miss Quigley; and even if you were in a hurry you would be invited to sit down until your order was executed. Miss Quigley always referred with a sigh to "this poor place of mine," and not her bluntest regular customer would have risked offending her by refusing her offer of hospitality. Indeed, several of her regular customers kept soft little corners in their hearts for her, and even when not in want of her wares would drop in of an evening, with the idea of cheering up the "lonely creature" with a brief chat on the weather and local topics, although, to be sure, Miss Quigley was not much affected by the former nor deeply interested in the latter. The manufacturers' travelers were also kindly disposed toward her and reported her at headquarters to be a respectable, honest, if lazy woman, whose credit might be considered good for all she was likely to order. Somehow Miss Quigley, in spite of her neglected window, contrived to plant seeds of confidence in the minds of those who were acquainted with her, and gradually these seeds sprouted and grew up, so that in her day of need, as will shortly be discovered, they had become trusty staves for her to lean upon.

morning, toward the end of the year 1881, the greengrocer from next door, having dropped in to borrow his daily match, presented Miss Quigley with a gaily illuminated calendar which he had received from the provision merchant across the way. It was his annual return for the matches.

"Time flies," observed the greengrocer, selecting a couple of matches whose heads had stuck together. "As Dr. Lampson said to me yesterday—speakin' in a furrin' tongue, as if he was gi'ein' an order to the druggist—he says, says he,  'Tempers fewgy!'"

Miss Quigley smiled sadly. "I suppose time does fly—for some people. Thank you for this beautiful calendar."

"Ye're welcome, ye're welcome!... Eh, did ye notice if I took the len' o' a match, ma'am?"

"I did not, Mr. McHardy. But help yourself."

"Thank ye kindly. Mornin'!" And the greengrocer departed.

Miss Quigley spread the calendar for 1882 on the counter, and with pen and ink drew a heavy circle round the "13" in the square devoted to the days of April. Then she bore it into the back room and hung it on a nail in the wall at the side of the fireplace, after removing from the same spot the calendar for the year nearly ended.

"Ah, dearie me!" she sighed, "it has been a long wait, and a sad wait, and a lonesome wait, but the end isn't so far off now. It makes my heart sick to think of the years I've waited here. Nearly ten years! But it was the only thing to do, and I haven't altogether wasted the time. I haven't quite failed—and yet I haven't done nearly well enough—not nearly well enough! I've dreamed too much and neglected things. I should have cleaned my window and left poetry alone. But I thought— I hoped"

She sat down on a rickety wicker chair and let her eyes rest on the faded photograph which hung directly below the calendar. It was the likeness of a man, a little over thirty, with a weak, well-featured face above a pair of handsome shoulders.

Presently she rose and went to a wall-press on the other side of the fire-place, took a thin black booklet from it and returned to her seat.

"It's silly of me," she said to herself, as she opened the booklet—her bank-book. "I can't make it more by looking at it.... And it isn't enough—not nearly enough. And how—oh, dear "God! how am I to make it enough in less than four months? How?" Miss Quigley wept silently for the next few minutes. Then she got up, put the book back in the press, sniffed and wiped her eyes.

"I must have a cup of tea," she murmured.

", madam!" said the sympathetic traveler of the firm with whom Miss Quigley did most of her business. "We'll let the account stand over till my next call—toward the end of April. I'm sorry you found the holiday trade so poor."

He was tempted, as usual, to offer a hint on the benefit of an attractive window, but refrained as he had done hitherto.

"It was very disappointing, sir, and I hate to ask such a favor as you have so kindly granted," Miss Quigley replied, bowing her head to hide her shame and emotion, while a couple of beads trickled from her ancient bonnet and pattered on the counter.

"Don't worry yourself about that," the traveler gently returned. "Have you an order for me today?"

Miss Quigley recovered herself and slowly recited the list of the goods she required. "I should not be giving you such a large order when I cannot pay your account," she said humbly, "but I'm going to try a little cheap sale of my old stock, and—and that should put me right for—for next month."

This was the third week of March, and a few days later the little cheap sale—"for a fortnight only"—was started.

But, apparently, it was not a success, for on an evening early in April Miss Quigley was discovered in tears by Mr. Fergus, who had dropped in for an extra cheroot and a chat.

"Business has been so bad," sighed Miss Quigley, when pressed to explain her trouble. "I'm sure I don't know what I shall do. Everyone wants their money, and the rent is due next month."

"Bless my soul, that's bad!" said Mr. Fergus, at the conclusion of a tale of sordid trial. "I had no idea you were so worried."

"Oh, but why should I bother you, sir, with my troubles? I feel your kindness in inquiring very sincerely, but"

"Don't mention it, don't mention it! H'm! h'm! I'll have to turn over a new leaf and smoke more, and get my friends who come in here to do the same," said Mr. Fergus, with an attempt at jocularity.

She smiled faintly, hesitated, and broke down again.

"It's hard for a woman to be sold up for want of a few pounds, sir, but I suppose it's the way of the world," she said tremulously.

"It's a damn bad way!" cried Mr. Fergus, indignant. "I'll be in to-morrow," he added, and abruptly quitted the shop.

Next day he insisted on her acceptance of a loan of twenty pounds to remove her load of anxiety regarding the half-year's rent, and at last she took the money on his consenting to remove, by way of security, several cases of cigars, including her stock of his favorite Manilas, along with sundry expensive meerschaum pipes. Mr. Fergus further benefited her by speaking quietly to a number of his friends who, although they could not or would not lend money, did the next best thing in relieving her of a large portion of her stock for cash.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I'll manage now," she replied to the kindly inquiries of these customers, who noticed a new light in her eyes and a general briskness in her manner and methods, and said to one another: "It's worth while doing something to help a decent woman like her."

On the forenoon of the thirteenth of April Miss Quigley received a telegram:

"Free at last!" she sobbed to herself in the privacy of her wretched little back room. "Free at last, after all these years!... Oh, William, William, I hope you'll be pleased with what I have done for you! I wish it had been more! And yet—and yet— Oh, God, forgive me!"

the greengrocer would have dropped in for his match the following morning he found the tobacconist's door closed and pinned to it an envelope bearing the words, "Shut for today."

About seven o'clock in the evening of the same day Miss Quigley was gazing anxiously and fearfully from the window of a third-class compartment as the London train slowed into Euston. Suddenly she beheld him standing on the platform staring at the carriages in front.

"William! William!" she cried, in a queer, breaking voice. "William!"

He looked straight at her and turned away.

"Take time, ma'am, take time," said a porter, preventing her from jumping out ere the train came to rest. "Now, ma'am. Any luggage?"

But Miss Quigley, forgetful of her modest possessions in the rack and under the seat, stumbled from the compartment, recovered balance, ran along the platform and halted, gasping, in front of the man, who was still staring about him.

"William!" she sobbed; "William, dear!"

The magnificently strong man almost leaped at her voice.

"William, don't you know me?"

"Good God! ... Is it you, Adelaide? ... I—I—I didn't know—didn't know you at first," he stammered, his face losing color, his brow growing moist.

She gazed at him through her tears, speechless.

"Your luggage—where's your luggage?" he asked abruptly, tearing his eyes from the hideous fascination of her miserable dolman and ancient bonnet. "Your luggage," he repeated, touching her arm and drawing his hand away quickly at the fleshless feel.

She roused herself as from a dream, and, after some search, showed him her few belongings. He tried to talk meanwhile, but his brain was half stunned, his tongue seemed tied.

"I can't marry her. She can't expect it of me now," was all he could think, while every now and then he felt her anxious eyes on his face.

And she, who had expected to find a jail-worn, sad-faced, weary man, whose nigh broken heart it would be her joy to salve and heal, found her lover of ten years ago—found him grown stronger, handsomer than she could have dreamed.

He took charge of her shabby bag and brown-paper parcels and led the way to a cab.

"You would prefer a boarding-house to a hotel?" he said mechanically.

Receiving no answer, he glanced down at her and saw that her face was white and her expression terror-stricken.

"What is it, Adelaide?" he asked gently, pricked by shame and pity.

Trembling, she pointed to one of the railway police standing near.

He laughed quietly. "Don't be alarmed. I've paid my debt.... But you're looking faint. Better come to the refreshment-room. Come, this way."

He conducted her, tenderly enough, to the nearest bar, and was about to order spirits when she begged for a cup of tea. Having procured it, he set it before her at a small table in a retired corner and seated himself beside her.

There was a long silence.

At last he said gently: "I'm afraid the long journey has been too much for you, Adelaide."

Her tears dropped into the cup she was drinking from, her fingers shook, and she had to set it down.

"It has been so long—so terribly long!" she murmured. "It seems to have taken all the strength out of me. ... Oh, William, I don't mean the journey—I mean the time in Glasgow. I have had no friends since I went there."

"And you went there for me!" he whispered, checking a groan. "You gave up everything for me—me, the convict—your friends, your ambition for writing, your home and its comforts—everything! You hid yourself and kept a wretched shop, starved yourself—I can see it—and suffered in order to—to give me a fresh start. Oh, Adelaide, Adelaide!" Shame and pity tortured him. "To give you a fresh start, William," she said softly, drying her eyes. "I—I've something to tell you, dear—something dreadful. But I did it all for the best—for you. Yes; it will give you a fresh start—three hundred and twenty pounds nearly—won't it?"

"Did you manage to save that sum?" he asked, seeing that she was waiting for him to speak. "I—I wish to heaven you had not done it; I wish you had not suffered doing it.... Mr. Hamilton—you remember him?—he always had faith in me—Mr. Hamilton is going to take me into his business, to travel abroad for him, on a very good salary. So, of course, I couldn't touch a penny of your money now.... But it was wonderful of you! ... Why, what's the matter?"

She was staring at him with wild eyes. In a few seconds she had learned the utter bitterness of her fate. He did not require her help. He was going abroad. His pity was hers, but his love had gone out. She knew it was so.

She turned from gazing at him, and for an instant caught sight of herself in a mirror.

"What's the matter, Adelaide?" he asked again kindly. At last she spoke, and her voice was quite calm, though a little hoarse.

"I didn't save it all. I thought I hadn't saved enough, and so"

And then she told him everything without sparing herself, told him the tale even unto its ugly end without emotion.

His elbows on the table, his hands clasped over his eyes, he sat listening to her. When she finished speaking he moved slightly and returned to his former position. Several minutes passed ere he took his hands from his eyes; his face was pale and drawn.

"You must go back at once, Adelaide," he whispered huskily, shakily.

"Go back? It's too late!"

"Hush! it is not too late. You will be there by the morning in time to open the—the shop, as usual. You must go back for your own sake! To think that you should have done this for my sake—dear!"

"I would have paid them all back afterward," she muttered vaguely.

"Yes, yes! But if you go back now it will just be like a bad dream. I should never have asked you to come to me. I should have gone to you. But it was what we arranged so long ago."

"So long ago!" she echoed stupidly. "So long ago, so long"

The man, aching with shame and pity, took her to a restaurant where he persuaded her to drink some strong soup and a glass of wine, after which she recovered her nerves somewhat, although she made no further attempt to talk, merely listening to his sympathy and his directions, and occasionally nodding her acquiescence.

"And so," he concluded, "you'll be there in the morning, and nobody need be any the wiser, unless—unless you care to tell anybody that a very unworthy fellow is coming to marry you within a month from now. Do you understand, dear?"

"Very well, William," she replied listlessly.

He saw her on board the North train, doing what he could to make her comfortable; and at the last, to the amusement of several passengers, he bent his head and kissed her limp fingers in their woefully shabby black cotton glove. She, however, did not seem to observe the action, and a passenger whispered to a friend:

"Perhaps his aunt has money, though she looks like a pauper."

So it was that twelve hours later Miss Quigley, wan and weary, turned the key in the door of her shop as the policeman, who had just come on his beat, strolled up, saying:

"Fine mornin', ma'am! Ye've got home again."

"Home?" wondered Miss Quigley. "Home? ... Well, if this isn't home, where is home?" And shutting the shop again from the inside she tottered into the back room, dropped her belongings on the floor among the littered rubbish of her flight and fell on her knees by the rickety wicker chair, and cried the harsh bitterness out of her heart, leaving only the tender sorrow.

Later she rose, made and lighted the fire, and, having washed her lined face and worn hands, brewed a cup of good strong tea.

"Maybe it's home, after all," she murmured.

Later still she set her room in order, and proceeded with unpacking her luggage until she came upon his photograph, when she had to halt for another cry.

And then she opened her shop "to the public," and somehow it looked very dingy and dusty; wherefore she set about brushing and dusting and polishing until she was ready to drop with fatigue.

"I'll do the window tomorrow, and every week after," she told herself, as she rested in the afternoon.

And she did.

many evenings later Mr. Fergus left the shop with his twenty pounds in his pocket, and, meeting an old friend on the street, said:

"Look here, my boy, if you're going in to see Miss Quigley, mind your eyesight!"

"Why? Has she knocked over a jar of snuff?"

"No; but she's got on new clothes and a new and gorgeous bonnet!"

"High time!"

"Yes, it is high time she had a chance. She has had a little money left her, it appears, and trade is improving daily. But, go in, if only to see the bonnet. It's great!"

And she did not marry William, although he journeyed North and begged her to do so. She knew the difference between a sore conscience and a sore heart, for she had suffered from both, and she knew that William came to her with the former.

"No," she said to him very gently. "You are going abroad, and I am going to stay at—at home."

"What? Here? You don't call this home, Adelaide?" he exclaimed, glancing round the little room, now cozy enough and by no means shabbily furnished.

"Yes, I do, William," she replied. "Now, don't say any more about it, and I'll make you a cup of tea before you go. Have another cigar."