# The Misadventures of Joseph/An Intrusion of Youth

pp. 171–192.

### X
#### AN INTRUSION OF YOUTH

WITH the assistance of a stout walking-stick, Mr. Redhorn hobbled painfully across the floor, and with sundry grunts deposited himself in the easy-chair by the cold hearth. With additional and more forcible grunts he slowly lifted his right leg to the support afforded by a derelict packing-case branded with the name of a famous champagne firm. Having secured comparative ease, he looked up at the clock, muttered: "Efter ten! What keeps the wumman?" and dropped his gaze to the grate full of last night's ashes. He poked the ashes, in the absurd hope that a spark might have survived.
A tap at the door he answered with a curt "Come in!" and presented a decidedly cross countenance for the reception of Mrs. McFadyen, the neighbor to whom, for twenty years, he had paid a weekly sum for services which she described as "cleanin', tidyin', an' reddin' up generally."
But it was not Mrs. McFadyen who entered. Over the threshold stepped briskly a girl of fifteen or thereabouts. She wore a pink blouse, faded but fresh-looking, and an apron of sackcloth covering her short, dark skirt. Her abundant black hair was tied with a scrap of pink ribbon in a trim pigtail. She possessed a prettily browned complexion, and she carried herself with the confidence of a reigning beauty.
"Guid mornin'!" she said calmly, and closed the door.
"Mornin'!" replied the painter. "If it's a job I'm wanted for, I'm sorry I'm no' able. Wha sent ye, lassie?"
"Mistress McFadyen—at least, she didna exac'ly send me, but she said I could come if I liked. I'm Agnes Fraser."
"I ken wha ye are weel enough. But what's up wi' Mistress McFadyen?"
"She's awa' to Glesca." The girl moved forward. "Ha'e ye no' had ony breakfast?" she inquired, nodding her head at the fireplace.
"I was waitin' fer her. As ye see, I'm kin' o' helpless. Fell off a ladder yesterday. Micht ha'e had mair sense at ma time o' life. The doctor says—"
"Ay, I ken aboot that. But first I'll get the fire started, an' then I'll explain aboot Mistress McFadyen. Where dae ye keep the sticks?" She was rolling up her sleeves as she spoke.
Mr. Redhorn told her.
"But I want to ken hoo ye happen to be here," he began.
"Patience, patience," she returned mildly, and went to work.
It was not until she had got the fire going and the kettle in position that she explained her presence, and she did so while washing her hands at the sink.
"Mistress McFadyen got word this mornin' that an auld auntie o' hers in Glesca was badly—no' expected to recover, an' so on."
"I'm vexed to hear that," the painter remarked, with that very human sympathy which comes none the less freely along with a sense of personal comfort.
"Oh, ye needna be vexed for her! She's expectin' to be left a heap o' siller—fully a thoosan' pound. I happened to be on the pier when she was waitin' for the boat, an' I seen she was terrible excited. It was easy seen she had forgot aboot everything else but the siller. So jist when the boat was comin' to the pier, I gangs up to her an' says, says I: 'What aboot the penter an' his game leg?' Ye should ha'e seen her face then, Maister Ridhorn!
"'Mercy me!' she cried, 'if I ha'ena been an' clean forgot a' aboot him! Weel, he'll jist ha'e to manage for hissel'.'
"I thought she had a queer neck on her to speak that way efter a' the cash she's had oot o' you, so I says to her, says I: 'If ye'll excuse me, Mistress McFadyen, for speakin' ma mind, ye micht ha'e had the decency to get somebody to tak' yer place, for it's no' fair to leave an' auld man wi' a game leg to fend for hissel', espaycially as—'"
"I'm no' that auld, lassie," Mr. Redhorn interrupted with some irritation.
"Tits, man! I was jist rubbin' it in to mak' her feel uncomfortable. Of course ye're no' an auld man really, though ye're nae chicken, either." Having dried her hands, Agnes made an assault on a cupboard. "The fire'll no' mak' toast for ages. Wud ye like me to rin oot for rolls, or will breid an' butter an' a biled egg content ye?"
"That'll dae fine, lassie."
"Ma name's Agnes, whiles Aggie. Please yersel'. It's time ye had a clean table-cloth."
Mr. Redhorn blushed.
"There's a clean yin some place, but—oh, never heed it the noo. What did Mistress McFadyen say?"
"She tell't me to mind ma ain business. Oh, she was gey angry. But I tell't her to keep her hair on, an' asked her if she wud gi'e me the job. At that she looked roun' to see if there was naebody else she could gi'e the job to, but seemin'ly there wasna, an' by this time the boat was at the pier. So she said, sulky-like, that I could dae the work if I wanted, an' she wud pay me hauf what she got frae you. I was that angry that when she was crossin' the gangway, I cried efter her: 'Yer money perish with ye!'—which was the text last Sabbath. Some o' the folk laughed, an' she got a rid face, but the boat started afore she was ready wi' ony back-chat, an'—weel, that's ma story ended! Dae ye like yer egg saft or hard, Maister Ridhorn?"
"Saft.... I'm sure I'm greatly obleeged to ye for thinkin' aboot me in ma helpless condeetion, A—Agnes," Mr. Redhorn said diffidently, "but I could wish ye hadna been sae severe on Mistress McFadyen, though I confess she had a fair impiddence to offer ye but hauf her—her salary. But I'll put that richt for ye."
"Maister Ridhorn!"
"Eh? What is it, lassie—I mean Agnes?"
"I didna come here for money." This was uttered with the utmost haughtiness of tone and manner. "Besides"—with a sudden descent to mildness—"ma brither said, if I took money frae you, he wud break ma neck."
"Yer brither? What has he to dae wi' it?"
"Ma brither Peter. It was him ye got the job in the ileworks in Glesca. He's hame for his holiday."
"But bless me, that was naething to dae for the lad. He was welcome," said Mr. Redhorn, who was always sadly embarrassed by anything suggestive of gratitude. "Did ye consult yer fayther aboot comin' here?"
Agnes, cutting bread, nodded.
"And what did he say?"
"Said I was to dae ma best for ye, an' behave masel'. Hoo mony slices can ye shift?"
"Aw, a slice'll dae," said Mr. Redhorn, with a glance at the slab now being buttered. "I'm no' extra hungry this mornin'. I—I'm feelin' kin' o' overwhelmed wi' yer kindness. If ma apprentice, Wullie, hadna been awa' for his holiday, I dare say he wud ha'e been helpin' me."
"I dare say he wud try, but I wud like to see his notion o' puttin' a hoose in order."
"But you're no' gaun to dae that? The place can stan' till Mistress McFadyen comes back. It's no' what ye micht term the acme o' tidiness—it never is; but at ma time o' life a man canna be ower parteec'lar—espaycially when he's a bachelor."
With a swift survey of the room, Agnes said: "I wonder hoo ye can thole it."
"Thole what, A—Agnes?"
"Dae ye like yer tea strong?"
"Jist middlin'. But what—"
"Oh, we'll no' speak aboot disagreeables till ye've had yer breakfast."
Presently she brought the table to his side, and proceeded to serve the modest meal.
"Does Mistress McFadyen cook for ye?" she inquired.
"Na, na; I've aye done that for masel'. She made me a cup o' tea last nicht, efter the doctor had left me, but that was the first time. I manage fine masel', as a rule."
"I'm thinkin' it's an awfu' life ye lead," remarked Agnes. "I never could understan' what a girl wants to get married for, but I see noo what mak's a man keen on it. Dae ye live on tinned things?"
"No' exclusively," replied Mr. Redhorn; "but I confess tinned things is handy for a man in ma poseetion. My! ye've made this egg rale nice, A—Agnes! I ha'ena tasted as nice a egg since ma mither biled me yin, thirty year back."
After a glance of suspicion, Agnes permitted herself to look gratified.
"I wonder what ye wud like for yer dinner?" she said tentatively. "I can cook onything as long as it's no' ower fancy."
"A chop?" suggested the painter, off his guard. Within the moment, however, he was protesting that he could not allow her to do anything further for him.
She listened patiently, cheerfully, as a mother might listen to a child's serious nonsense, and said:
"It'll be costin' ye something, that leg o' yours."
"'Deed is it! It'll cost me a fortnight's trade," he returned ruefully.
"An' if ye dinna rest it, it'll cost ye mair. Eh?"
"Ay; the doctor says it's got to be rested."
"So ye're no' likely to jump up an' chase me wi' yer big stick?"
For the first time that morning Mr. Redhorn smiled.
"That's no' an operation I'm likely to execute in the meantime."
"Then I'm safe," she smiled back. "Mair tea?"
"Thenk ye. I ha'ena had tea like this since—"
"Aw whisht, Maister Ridhorn!" She laughed and changed the subject. "Is there ony meddicine ye've got to tak for yer leg?"
He hesitated.
"No' exac'ly for ma leg. But, if ye've nae objections, I could dae wi' a dose frae that bottle on the mantelpiece."
"'Dyspepsia Elixir,'" said Agnes, reading the label.
"Jist that. I—I usually tak' it as an antidote efter I've enjoyed an egg. Ye see, I like eggs better nor eggs like me."
"I see," said the girl solemnly.
Later she administered the dose, gravely remarking: "I suppose, Maister Rid'horn, ye ha'ena tasted sich nice meddicine since yer mither gi'ed ye a dose, fifty year back."
"Ye're a treat, lassie!" he cried, quaking until a twinge of his leg changed the chuckle to a groan.
After she had cleared the table and washed up, and made him as comfortable as she could with the means at command, she went out to do the necessary marketing, while Mr. Redhorn smoked a cigarette of the worst possible quality and meditated on the pleasantness that had so unexpectedly befallen him.
"My, but youth's a bonny thing," he said to himself. "There's something aboot a young female's kindness that's different frae a' ither human kindnesses. 'Deed, it's worth ha'ein a game leg for—nearly."
On her return Agnes proceeded to tidy up, which is a mild way of putting it, since she began with a general upheaval.
"Here, stop it!" exclaimed the painter. "I canna let ye kill yersel'. It's no' the Spring, onyway!"
"It hasna been the Spring in this hoose for mony a year," she retorted. "When was the floor scrubbed last?"
"Dear knows. Ye see, I'm aye at my work when Mistress McFadyen comes."
"It's mair nor she is," muttered Agnes. "It's ower late to begin noo, but I'll get it scrubbed first thing the morn's mornin'."
"Ye'll dae naething o' the sort!"
"Weel, weel," she said soothingly, advancing to the hearth, "we'll no' speak aboot it the noo." From the mantelshelf she began to remove the articles which had their places there—a small tea-caddy, two damaged china ornaments, a packet of cigarettes, the Elixir, and so forth. "There's an inch o' dirt here," she declared with a grimace. "I wonder when Mistress McFadyen cleaned it? No' this year, I'll be boun'!" She turned to the invalid. "What dae ye say to gi'ein' her the sack when she comes back?"
Mr. Redhorn sighed. In his heart he knew that he had been wanting to give her the sack these nineteen years. But now he shook his head.
"I doobt I couldna dae that. Ye see, she's a widow—"
"It's nae wonder she's that! Killed her man wi' dirt, I suppose."
"Whisht, lassie—Agnes," the painter said reprovingly, with a cough to cover the chuckle. "Besides, I've a notion that she needs her salary, sich as it is."
"But if her auld auntie leaves her a thoosan' pound—Eh?"
"Criftens!" exclaimed Mr. Redhorn. "That's a happy thought! At least it alters the complexion o' the seetuation generally. If she was inheritin' a sum like that, she wudna be wantin' to keep her job here. In which case—" He halted; his animation departed as suddenly as it had come. He glanced up at Agnes, but she was apparently absorbed in contemplating the dirt on the mantelshelf.
Presently Agnes glanced down at him, but he was staring gloomily at the fire. She gave a tiny cough; he looked up. Their eyes met for the fraction of a second. Then Mr. Redhorn averted his hastily, as one who harbours a guilty secret.
Agnes went over to the sink and returned with a wet cloth. To do her justice, she had entered the painter's abode that morning without a single ulterior motive. On the impulse she had determined to do the man who had helped her brother a kindly turn—simply that and nothing more. And she had started the good work with admirable singleness of mind. But, somehow, within an hour complications set in. Agnes was one of a large family, and she had three elder sisters. There was practically nothing for her to do at home; there was no opening for a young girl in Fairport, and it would be years before her parents would consent to her taking a situation in the city. In the circumstances, the post at present held by Mrs. McFadyen began to appear desirable.
"I never seen sich a muck," she said, exhibiting the cloth, to which a black paste adhered. "Did you?"
Reluctantly Mr. Redhorn examined it. "It seems as if she had overlooked the mantlepiece," he slowly remarked, swaying betwixt inclination and loyalty. "She's no' as young as she was, puir body," he added, with an effort. "Was it a thoosan' pound, ye said she was expectin' frae her expirin' relative?"
"No' a penny less."
Mr. Redhorn stroked his nose and smoothed his hair ere he suggested the possibility of the old lady's recovery.
Agnes made it plain that she could offer no hope.
"The message said she was sinkin' fast; an', onyway, Mistress McFadyen wudna ha'e gaed to Glesca on chance—twa shillin's an seevenpence return, forbye tuppence for the pier. This dirt maun be terrible bad for yer health, Maister Ridhorn."
The painter did not respond, and Agnes had the wit to refrain from further discussion of the subect now nearest her heart, and to apply all her energies to her domestic labours. Being no politician, she probably reflected that, after all, her actions might speak louder than her words.
During the ensuing three days it would have been hard to say which of the two anticipated the arrival of the steamer with keener anxiety, or which learned of the non-arrival of Mrs. McFadyen with more heart-felt feelings of relief.
On the evening of the third day Agnes, coming in to prepare the patient's supper—Mr. Redhorn, by the way, now failed to remember tastier suppers even from the hands of his mother—brought tidings. Miss Dewar, the local dress-maker, had received from the absent one a picture postcard showing Glasgow's Municipal Buildings and bearing the pencilled words "Sinking rapidly."
"That means she'll no' be back this week," Agnes said cheerfully. "Will ye tak' yer meddicine afore or efter yer supper?"
"Neither!" replied the painter, afraid (quite unnecessarily) of looking as happy as he felt. "It's fair supernatural the way yer cookin' agrees wi' me, Agnes! An' it's that toothsome!"
The girl's gratification betrayed itself in a small giggle.
"Ye're lookin' nane the waur o' it, onyway. An' ye've got a corkin' appetite."
"A gladiator couldna ha'e better."
While she prepared the meal (strictly in accordance with instructions supplied by her eldest sister) Mr. Redhorn once more surveyed his abode. Never before had it appeared so clean and sweet, so homely and comfortable. Indeed, it seemed to lack nothing but fresh paint, and Agnes and he had already decided upon the colours to be applied as soon as health and time permitted.
Undoubtedly the girl had worked hard, yet she had done so without making any elaborate display of her capabilities. Mr. Redhorn no longer remonstrated with her; he frankly enjoyed her company, and spent most of her periods of absence in wondering what he could buy for her when he should be fit to travel to the city. Moreover, he was not allowed to weary in the evenings, for Agnes's father or brother dropped in with the village news, and also with friendly tokens in the shape of newly baked scones and freshly churned butter. Other neighbours, too, paid him little friendly attentions, and altogether he was beginning to enjoy what he termed "the sweets o' popularity."
Nevertheless, he would fain have had only the girl's company. When he came to realize quite clearly that she was deliberately seeking to oust Mrs. McFadyen from favour, he permitted the knowledge to become a satisfaction to his soul and sought to ignore the intermittent tweaks of conscience. It would be difficult to express in so many words the state of mind of Joseph Redhorn in these days; he could not have done so for himself; but undoubtedly he was indulging in a flirtation with Youth in the abstract and struggling to be faithful to Age in the actual, at one and the same time. Agnes, with her warmth of kindliness, her glints of sentiment, her transparent plottings, her sparklings of humour, her bright impertinences, and her burning enthusiasm for orderliness, was an experience as refreshing as it was new to Joseph. She had freed more than his home from staleness.
On the Sunday evening, while tidying up preparatory to going home, Agnes, who had managed all day to avoid reference to Mrs. McFadyen, said casually:
"I wonder hoo she's gettin' on?"
"Wha?" inquired the painter, with an ill-feigned lack of comprehension.
"Her."
"Her?... Dae ye mean Mistress McFadyen, Agnes?"
"Ay.... Were you no' wonderin' aboot her?"
Mr. Redhorn could tell a lie, but not to save his own face. "By a curious coincidence," he confessed, "I was."
There was a pause, and the girl said in lowered tones:
"Dae ye think the auld auntie'll ha'e sunk yet?"
"Agnes," he returned, "it wud be mair respectful to use the word 'departed.'"
"Sorry.... I'm sure it'll be a' the same to her, puir auld thing. I hope Mistress McFadyen was nice to her."
"Aw, I think we can gi'e her credit for that."
Agnes gave a slight sniff. "Maister Ridhorn," she began, and halted.
"What is it, Agnes?"
"Maister Ridhorn, what'll ye dae if she doesna want to serve ye again?"
"I'm wonderin' what I'll dae if she does!" the painter exclaimed. Then hurriedly: "Na, na; I didn't mean that, lassie. It wasna a fair thing to say."
Agnes's flush of delight died away. She turned her back to him and proceeded to put the dishes in the cupboard. "I I suppose there wud be nae chance for me?" she said in little more than a whisper.
Mr. Redhorn writhed. "What can I say, Agnes?" he muttered. "What can I say?"
"Maybe ye think I'm ower young."
"Na, na. That's the glorious thing aboot ye. But—but—oh dear me, there's nae use speakin' aboot it till we ken mair nor we dae."
Agnes sighed as she closed the cupboard. "Aweel, it's time I was gettin' hame." With a look of scarcely veiled reproach she moved towards the door.
"I didna mean to offend ye, ma dear," he cried.
"Oh, I'm no' offended. Guid nicht, Maister Ridhorn! See ye in the mornin'. Ham an' eggs, I suppose?"
"Agnes, come here an' shake han's, seein' it's the Sabbath nicht."
She came back, recovered from her fit of despondency, smiling in her usual friendly way. "I wasna offended, really. But—ye'll gi'e me the chance, if ye can, eh?"
"Guid kens, I will. Mind, Agnes, whatever happens, I'm grateful. The Lord bless ye! Guid nicht!"
"Guid nicht, Maister Ridhorn! I'll be doon at nine sharp. I—I hope she'll no' come back till ye're quite better, onyway."
The door closed behind her.
"My, but youth's a bonny thing!" he murmured.
It was a little before nine when the knock came.
"Come in!" he cried blithely.
And Mrs. McFadyen entered.
With an almost sick feeling Mr. Redhorn gazed at the drab and withered creature. "Yer aunt?" he stammered.
"Oh, ma aunt had an operation on Friday, an' noo she's gettin' better. The doctor says she's guid for ten year yet." The statement was delivered without enthusiasm.
Mr. Redhorn pulled his wits together. "I'm gled to hear it," he said, with all the politeness at his command.
"I dare say ye are! It cost me three shillin's a' but a penny." Mrs. McFadyen, who had been peering about the apartment, now produced a series of noisy sniffs. "There's a queer smell here!" she remarked at last, aggressively.
"Ye mean a fragrance, maybe," he suggested. "In ither words, a fresh an' pleasin' odour."
"Weel, I've smelt worse," she admitted, wonidering, poor woman, whether she might venture to ask forthwith for her last week's wages, also how much extra she might demand for cooking his meals during the current week. "Ay, I've smelt worse," she repeated, almost graciously.
"Wud ye say it was the fragrance o' soap, Mistress McFadyen?"
"Soap?"
"Or—Youth?"
At that Mrs. McFadyen faced the painter and simply gaped.
"Youth," repeated Mr. Redhorn, with a feeble grin. "Ye ken what that is."
She took a stride forward, and peered into his face.
"I thought it was yer leg that was hurt," she said, and touched her forehead suggestively.
The door opened. Agnes, in her rough apron, stood on the threshold.
"Hullo!" she exclaimed, with a poor attempt at lightness. "Ye've got back. Is yer aunt no' deid?"
Understanding came to Mrs. McFadyen. She wheeled rounjl.
"Ay, I've got back," she snapped. "What dae ye want?"
The eyes of Agnes sought the painter's in appeal. The helpless man shrank in his chair.
"What dae ye want, girl?" the woman repeated.
Agnes nerved herself.
"It's time Maister Ridhorn was gettin' his breakfast," she said.
"I'll attend to that."
"Ye dinna ken what he's to get for his breakfast."
"That's enough," cried the woman in a fury. "Awa' hame wi' ye! Ye've nae business here!"
"Whisht, whisht!" the painter whispered distractedly.
"She's nae business here!" Mrs. McFayden stamped her foot. "D'ye hear me, Agnes Fraser? Gang!"
Agnes wavered, but held her ground.
"I'll thenk ye for ma money," she said.
"What money?"
"The money ye promised me for daein' yer work."
"I never promised ye.... Weel, weel, ye'll get yer money in guid time."
Agnes expressed her doubts by a toss of her head, accompanied by a sniff, and made a remark in which "pigsty" was the most audible word.
"What?" Mrs. McFadyen advanced upon the girl.
"For ony favour—" began Mr. Redhorn, making an effort to rise.
"Ye'll hurt yer ankle," the girl called. "Never heed her. She'll no' touch me twice."
Mrs. McFadyen hesitated; she was almost dancing.
"Will ye gang?" she screeched.
Agnes deliberately folded her slim arms across her young bosom, and said:
"I'll gang—when Maister Ridhorn tells me to gang."
"Oh, criftens!" gasped the painter, falling back in his chair.
A palpitating silence ensued. It lasted until the woman, with a wail, said:
"Bid her gang, Maister Ridhorn, bid her gang!"
"Bid her gang, Maister Ridhorn," said Agnes, with a sob. "She canna keep yer hoose nice."
"I've kep' it for twinty year," said Mrs. McFadyen, dread getting the better of resentment. "There's no' a place in Fairport was better kep'—"
"In dirt!"
"Peace, lassie," said Mr. Redhorn, at his wits' end.
"Dae ye want me to gang?" she asked reproachfully. "Ye maun be starvin' for yer breakfast. Look at her! She would let ye starve. She deserves to get the sack!"
At these words all the woman's fury came back. A torrent of bitter invective poured from her lips.
Mr. Redhorn shuddered. He held up his hand to stay the girl's retort.
"Agnes," he said sadly, "I think ye best re- tire."
"Gang?... Oh, Maister Ridhorn!"
Mrs. McFadyen emitted a cackle of triumph—which was a mistake on her part.
"An' return in five meenutes," the painter added.
Agnes gave him one look, and went out.
What happened during the next five minutes has never been explicitly disclosed by either party. All that need be known, however, is that Mrs. McFayden calls on Mr. Redhorn every Saturday morning to receive certain pieces of silver for which she has done no apparent work.
"Noo for the ham an' eggs!" cried Agnes, as soon as she had recovered from the good news, and had absorbed the mild warning to the effect that Mrs. McFadyen was not to be considered an object for derision.
"Ham an' eggs," sighed the painter. "In the meantime I'll be obleeged if ye'll pass me doon the Elixir."
"Are ye feelin' no' weel?" she exclaimed anxiously.
"I'm sufferin' frae what the novelles ca' a revulsion o' feelin'."
Her look of horror passed at his kindly smile.
"I think," she said cheerfully, "you an' me's gaun to be fairly happy—eh?"
"I confess to a similar forebodin'," he replied.
While she got busy, he thoughtfully regarded his glass of physic.
"Youth's a bonny thing," he murmured, "but I'm afraid it's an expensive luxury—espaycially when it's female. Still"—he gulped the dose and pulled a face—"I wudna wonder if it's worth the money."
Printed in the United States of America.