"It is the only set of the kind I ever met with in which you are
neither led nor driven, but actually fall, and that imperceptibly
into literary topics; and I attribute it to this, that in that house
literature is not a treat for company upon invitation days, but is
actually the daily bread of the family."--Written of Maria
Edgeworth's home.
Pamela Reston stood in Bella Bathgate's parlour and surveyed it
disconsolately.
It was papered in a trying shade of terra-cotta and the walls were
embellished by enlarged photographs of the Bathgate family--decent,
well-living people, but plain-headed to a degree. Linoleum covered the
floor. A round table with a red-and-green cloth occupied the middle of
the room, and two arm-chairs and six small chairs stood about stiffly
like sentinels. Pamela had tried them all and found each one more
unyielding than the next. The mantelshelf, painted to look like some
uncommon kind of marble, supported two tall glass jars bright blue and
adorned with white raised flowers, which contained bunches of dried
grasses ("silver shekels" Miss Bathgate called them), rather dusty and
tired-looking. A mahogany sideboard stood against one wall and was
heavily laden with vases and photographs. Hard lace curtains tinted a
deep cream shaded the bow-window.
"This is grim," said Pamela to herself. "Something must be done. First
of all, I must get them to send me some rugs--they will cover this awful
floor--and half a dozen cushions and some curtains and bits of
embroidery and some table linen and sheets and things. Idiot that I was
not to bring them with me!... And what could I do to the walls? I don't
know how far one may go with landladies, but I hardly think one could
ask them to repaper walls to each stray lodger's liking."
Miss Bathgate had not so far shown herself much inclined for
conversation. She had met her lodger on the doorstep the night before,
had uttered a few words of greeting, and had then confined herself to
warning the man to watch the walls when he carried up the trunks, and to
wondering aloud what anyone could want with so much luggage, and where
in the world it was to find room. She had been asked to have dinner
ready, and at eight o'clock Pamela had come down to the sitting-room to
find a coarse cloth folded in two and spread on one-half of the round
table. A knife, a fork, a spoon lay on the cloth, flanked on one side by
an enormous cruet and on the other by four large spoons, laid crosswise,
and a thick tumbler. An aspidistra in a pot completed the table
decorations.
The dinner consisted of stewed steak, with turnip and carrots, and a
large dish of potatoes, followed by a rice pudding made without eggs and
a glass dish of prunes.
Pamela was determined to be pleased.
"How _right_ it all is," she told herself--"so entirely in keeping. All
so clean and--and sufficient. I am sure all the things we hang on
ourselves and round ourselves to please and beautify are very
clogging--this is life at its simplest," and she rang for coffee, which
came in a breakfast-cup and was made of Somebody's essence and boiling
water.
Pamela had gone to bed very early, there being absolutely nothing to sit
up for; and the bed was as hard as the nether millstone. As she put her
tired head on a cast-iron pillow covered by a cotton pillow-slip, and
lay crushed under three pairs of hard blankets, topped by a patchwork
quilt worked by Bella's mother and containing samples of the clothes of
all the family--from the late Mrs. Bathgate's wedding-gown of
puce-coloured cashmere to her youngest son's first pair of "breeks," the
whole smelling strongly of naphtha from the _kist_ where it had
lain--regretful thoughts of other beds came to her. She felt she had not
fully appreciated them--those warm, soft, embracing beds, with
satin-smooth sheets and pillow-cases smelling of lavender and other
sweet things, feather-light blankets, and rose-coloured eiderdowns.
She came downstairs in the morning to the bleak sitting-room filled with
a distaste for simplicity which she felt to be unworthy. For breakfast
there was a whole loaf on a platter, three breakfast rolls hot from the
baker, and the family toast-rack full of tough, damp toast. A large
pale-green duck's egg sat heavily in an egg-cup, capped, but not
covered, by a strange red flannel thing representing a cock's head,
which Pamela learned later was called an "egg-cosy" and had come from
the sale of work for Foreign Missions. A metal teapot and water-jug
stood in two green worsted nests.
Pamela poured herself out some tea. "I'm almost sure I told her I wanted
coffee in the morning," she murmured to herself, "but it doesn't
matter." Already she was beginning to hold Bella Bathgate in awe. She
took the top off the duck's egg and looked at it in an interested way.
"It's a beautiful colour--orange--but"--she pushed it away--"I don't
think I can eat it."
She drank some tea and ate a baker's roll, which was excellent; then she
rang the bell.
When Bella appeared she at once noticed the headless but uneaten egg,
and, taking it up, smelt it.
"What's wrang wi' the egg?" she demanded.
"Oh, nothing," said Pamela quickly. "It's a lovely egg really, such a
beautiful colour, but"--she laughed apologetically--"you know how it is
with eggs--either you can eat them or you can't. I always have to eat
eggs with my head turned away so to speak. There is something about the
yolk so--so----" Her voice trailed away under Miss Bathgate's stolid,
unsmiling gaze.
There was no point in going on being arch about eggs to a person who so
obviously regarded one as a poor creature. But a stand must be taken.
"Er--Miss Bathgate----" Pamela began.
There was no answer from Bella, who was putting the dishes on a tray.
Had she addressed her rightly?
"You _are_ Miss Bathgate, aren't you?"
"Ou ay," said Bella. "I'm no' mairret nor naething o' that kind."
"I see. Well, Miss Bathgate, I wonder if you would mind if Mawson--my
maid, you know--carried away some of those ornaments and photographs to
a safe place? It would be such a pity if we broke any of them, for, of
course, you must value them greatly. These vases now, with the pretty
grasses, it would be dreadful if anything happened to them, for I'm sure
we could never, never replace them."
"Uch ay," Bella interrupted. "I got them at the pig-cairt in exchange
for some rags. He's plenty mair o' the same kind."
"Oh, really," Pamela said helplessly. "The fact is, a few things of my
own will be arriving in a day or two--a cushion or two and that sort of
thing--to make me feel at home, you know, so if you would very kindly
let us make room for them, I should be so much obliged."
Bella Bathgate looked round the grim chamber that was to her as the
apple of her eye, and sighed for the vagaries of "the gentry."
"Aweel," she said, "I'll pit them in a kist until ye gang awa'. I've
never had lodgers afore." And as she carried out the tray there was a
baleful gleam in her eye as if she were vowing to herself that she would
never have them again.
Pamela gave a gasp of relief when the door closed behind the ungracious
back of her landlady, and started when it opened again, but this time it
was only Mawson.
She hailed her. "Mawson, we must get something done to this room. Lift
all these vases and photographs carefully away. Miss Bathgate says she
will put them somewhere else in the meantime. And we'll wire to
Grosvenor Street for some cushions and rugs--this is too hopeless. Are
you quite comfortable Mawson?"
"Yes, Miss. I 'ave me meals in the kitchen, Miss, for Miss Bathgate
don't want to keep another fire goin'. A nice cosy kitchen it is, Miss."
"Then I wish I could have my meals there, too."
"Oh, Miss!" cried Mawson in horror.
"Does Miss Bathgate talk to you, Mawson?"
"Not to say talk, Miss. She don't even listen much; says she can't
understand my 'tongue.' Funny, ain't it? Seems to me it's 'er that
speaks strange. But I expect we'll be friends in time, Miss. You do 'ave
to give the Scotch time: bit slow they are.... What I wanted to h'ask,
Miss, is where am I to put your things? That little wardrobe and chest
of drawers 'olds next to nothing."
"Keep them in the trunks," said Pamela. "I think Miss Bathgate would
like to see us departing with them to-day, but I won't be beat. In
Priorsford we are, in Priorsford we remain.... I'll write out some wires
and you will explore for a post office. I shall explore for an
upholsterer who can supply me with an arm-chair not hewn from the
primeval rock."
Mawson smiled happily and departed to put on her hat, while Pamela sat
down to compose telegrams.
These finished, she began, as was her almost daily custom, to scribble a
letter to her brother.
"c/o Miss B. BATHGATE,
HILLVIEW, PRIORSFORD,
SCOTLAND.
"BIDDY DEAR,--The beds and chairs and cushions are all stuffed with
cannon-balls, and the walls are covered with enlarged photographs of men
with whiskers, and Bella Bathgate won't speak to me, partly because she
evidently hates the look of me, and partly because I didn't eat the
duck's egg she gave me for breakfast. But the yolk of it was orange,
Biddy. How could I eat it?
"I have sent out S.O.S. signals for necessaries in the way of rugs and
cushions. Life as bald and unadorned as it presents itself to Miss
Bathgate is really not quite decent. I wish she would speak to me, but I
fear she considers me beneath contempt.
"What happens when you arrive in a place like Priorsford and stay in
lodgings? Do you remain seated alone with your conscience, or do people
call?
"Perhaps I shall only have Mawson to converse with. It might be worse. I
don't think I told you about Mawson. She has been a housemaid in
Grosvenor Street for some years, and she maided me once when Julie was
on holiday, so when that superior damsel refused to accompany me on this
trek I gladly left her behind and brought Mawson in her place.
"She is really very little use as a maid, but her conversation is
pleasing and she has a most cheery grin. She reads the works of Florence
Barclay, and doesn't care for music-halls--'low I call them, Miss.' I
asked her if she were fond of music, and she said, 'Oh yes, Miss,' and
then with a coy glance, 'I ply the mandoline.' I think she is about
fifty, and not at all good-looking, so she will be a much more
comfortable person in the house than Julie, who would have moped without
admirers.
"Well, at present Mawson and I are rather like Robinson Crusoe and Man
Friday on the island...."
* * * * *
Pamela stopped and looked out of the window for inspiration. Miss
Bathgate's parlour was not alluring, but the view from it was a
continual feast--spreading fields, woods that in this yellowing time of
the year were a study in old gold, the winding river, and the blue hills
beyond. Pamela saw each detail with delight; then, letting her eyes come
nearer home, she studied the well-kept garden belonging to her landlady.
On the wall that separated it from the next garden a small boy and a dog
were seated.
Pamela liked boys, so she smiled encouragingly to this one, the boy
responding by solemnly raising his cap.
Pamela leaned out of the window.
"Good morning," she said. "What's your name?"
"My name's Gervase Taunton, but I'm called 'the Mhor.' This is Peter
Jardine," patting the dog's nose.
"I'm very glad to know you," said Pamela. "Isn't that wall damp?"
"It is rather," said Mhor. "We came to look at you."
"Oh," said Pamela.
"I've never seen an Honourable before, neither has Peter."
"You'd better come in and see me quite close," Pamela suggested. "I've
got some chocolates here."
Mhor and Peter needed no further invitation. They sprang from the wall
and in a few seconds presented themselves at the door of the
sitting-room.
Pamela shook hands with Mhor and patted Peter, and produced a box of
chocolates.
"I hope they're the kind you like?" she said politely.
"I like any kind," said Mhor, "but specially hard ones. I don't suppose
you have anything for Peter? A biscuit or a bit of cake? Peter's like
me. He's always hungry for cake and _never_ hungry for porridge."
Pamela, feeling extremely remiss, confessed that she had neither cake
nor biscuits and dared not ask Miss Bathgate for any.
"But you're bigger than Miss Bathgate," Mhor pointed out. "You needn't
be afraid of her. I'll ask her, if you like."
Pamela heard him cross the passage and open the kitchen door and begin
politely, "Good morning, Miss Bathgate."
"What are ye wantin' here wi' thae dirty boots?" Bella demanded.
"I came in to see the Honourable, and she has nothing to give poor Peter
to eat. Could he have a tea biscuit--not an Abernethy one, please, he
doesn't like them--or a bit of cake?"
"Of a' the impidence!" ejaculated Bella. "D'ye think I keep tea biscuits
and cake to feed dowgs wi'? Stan' there and dinna stir." She put a bit
of carpet under the small, dirty boots, and as she grumbled she wiped
her hands on a coarse towel that hung behind the door, and reached up
for a tin box from the top shelf of the press beside the fire.
"Here, see, there's yin for yerself, an' the broken bits are for Peter.
Here he comes snowkin'," as Peter ambled into the kitchen followed by
Pamela. That lady stood in the doorway.
"Do forgive me coming, but I love a kitchen. It is always the nicest
place in the house, I think; the shining tins are so cheerful, and the
red fire." She smiled in an engaging way at Bella, who, after a second,
and, as it were, reluctantly, smiled back.
"I see you have given the raider some biscuits," Pamela said.
"He's an ill laddie." Bella Bathgate looked at the Mhor standing
obediently on the bit of carpet, munching his biscuit, and her face
softened. "He has neither father nor mother, puir lamb, but I must say
Miss Jean never lets him ken the want o' them."
"Miss Jean?"
"He bides at The Rigs wi' the Jardines--juist next door here. She's no a
bad lassie, Miss Jean, and wonderfu' sensible considerin'.... Are ye
finished, Mhor? Weel, wipe yer feet and gang ben to the room an' let me
get on wi' ma work."
Pamela, feeling herself dismissed, took her guest back to the
sitting-room, where Mhor at once began to examine the books piled on the
table, while Peter sat himself on the rug to await developments.
"You've a lot of books," said Mhor. "I've a lot of books too--as many as
a hundred, perhaps. Jean teaches me poetry. Would you like me to say
some?"
"Please," said Pamela, expecting to hear some childish rhymes. Mhor took
a long breath and began:
"'O take me to the Mountain O,
Past the great pines and through the wood,
Up where the lean hounds softly go,
A whine for wild things' blood,
And madly flies the dappled roe.
O God, to shout and speed them there
An arrow by my chestnut hair
Drawn tight, and one keen glittering spear--
Ah, if I could!'"
For some reason best known to himself Mhor was very sparing of breath
when he repeated poetry, making one breath last so long that the end of
the verse was reached in a breathless whisper--in this instance very
effective.
"So that is what 'Jean' teaches you," said Pamela. "I should like to
see Jean."
"Well," said Mhor, "come in with me now and see her. I should be doing
my lessons anyway, and you can tell her where I've been."
"Won't she think me rather pushing?" Pamela asked.
"Oh, I don't know," said Mhor carelessly. "Jean's kind to
everybody--tramps and people who sing in the street and little cats with
no homes. Hadn't you better put on your hat?"
So Pamela obediently put on her hat and coat and went with her new
friends down the road a few steps and up the flagged path to the front
door of the funny little house that kept its back turned to its parvenu
neighbours, and its eyes lifted to the hills.
In Mhor led her, Peter following hard behind, through a square,
low-roofed entrance-hall with a polished floor, into a long room with
one end coming to a point in an odd-shaped window, rather like the bow
of a ship.
A girl was sitting in the window with a large basket of darning beside
her.
"Jean," cried Mhor as he burst in, "here's the Honourable. I asked her
to come in and see you. She's afraid of Bella Bathgate."
"Oh, do come in," said Jean, standing up with the stocking she was
darning over one hand. "Take this chair; it's the most comfortable. I do
hope Mhor hasn't been worrying you?"
"Indeed he hasn't," said Pamela; "I was delighted to see him. But
please don't let me interrupt your work."
"The boys make such big holes," said Jean, picking up a damp
handkerchief that lay beside her; and then with a tremble in her voice,
"I've been crying," she added.
"So I see," said Pamela. "I'm sorry. Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing in the least wrong," Jean said, swallowing hard, "only that I'm
so silly." And presently she found herself pouring out her troubled
thoughts about David, about the lions that she feared stood in his path
at Oxford, about the hole his going made in the little household at The
Rigs. It was a comfort to tell it all to this delightful-looking
stranger who seemed to understand in the most wonderful way.
"I remember when my brother Biddy went to Oxford," Pamela told her. "I
felt just as you do. Our parents were dead, and I was five years older
than my brother, and took care of him just as you do of your David. I
was afraid for him, for he had too much money, and that is much worse
than having too little--but he didn't get changed or spoiled, and to
this day he is the same, my own old Biddy."
Jean dried her eyes and went on with her darning, and Pamela walked
about looking at the books and talking, taking in every detail of this
girl and her so individual room, the golden-brown hair, thick and wavy,
the golden-brown eyes, "like a trout-stream in Connemara," that sparkled
and lit and saddened as she talked, the mobile, humorous mouth, the
short, straight nose and pointed chin, the straight-up-and-down belted
brown frock, the whole toning so perfectly with the room with its
polished floor and old Persian rugs, the pale yellow walls (even on the
dullest day they seemed to hold some sunshine) hung with coloured prints
in old rosewood frames--"Saturday Morning," engraved (with many
flourishes) by T. Burke, engraver to His Serene Highness the Reigning
Landgrave of Hesse Darmstadt; "The Cut Finger," by David Wilkie--those
and many others. The furniture was old and good, well kept and well
polished, so that the shabby, friendly room had that comfortable air of
well-being that only careful housekeeping can give. Books were
everywhere: a few precious ones behind glass doors, hundreds in low
bookcases round the room.
"I needn't ask you if you are fond of reading," Pamela said.
"Much too fond," Jean confessed. "I'm a 'rake at reading.'"
"You know the people," said Pamela, "who say, 'Of course I _love_
reading, but I've no time, alas!' as if everyone who loves reading
doesn't make time."
As they talked, Pamela realised that this girl who lived year in and
year out in a small country town was in no way provincial, for all her
life she had been free of the company of the immortals. The Elizabethans
she knew by heart, poetry was as daily bread. Rosalind in Arden, Viola
in Illyria, were as real to her as Bella Bathgate next door. She had
taken to herself as friends (being herself all the daughters of her
father's house) Maggie Tulliver, Ethel Newcome, Beatrix Esmond, Clara
Middleton, Elizabeth Bennet----
The sound of the gong startled Pamela to her feet.
"You don't mean to say it's luncheon time already? I've taken up your
whole morning."
"It has been perfectly delightful," Jean assured her. "Do stay a long
time at Hillview and come in every day. Don't let Bella Bathgate
frighten you away. She isn't used to letting her rooms, and her manners
are bad, and her long upper lip very quelling; but she's really the
kindest soul on earth.... Would you come in to tea this afternoon? Mrs.
M'Cosh--that's our retainer--bakes rather good scones. I would ask you
to stay to luncheon, but I'm afraid there mightn't be enough to go
round."
Pamela gratefully accepted the invitation to tea, and said as to
luncheon she was sure Miss Bathgate would be awaiting her with a large
dish of stewed steak and carrots saved from the night before--so she
departed.
* * * * *
Later in the day, as Miss Bathgate sat for ten minutes in Mrs. M'Cosh's
shining kitchen and drank a dish of tea, she gave her opinion of the
lodger.
"Awfu' English an' wi' a' the queer daft ways o' gentry. 'Oh, Miss
Bathgate,' a' the time. They tell me Miss Reston's considered a beauty
in London. It's no' ma idea o' beauty--a terrible lang neck an' a wee
shilpit bit face, an' sic a height! I'm fair feared for ma gasaliers.
An' forty if she's a day. But verra pleasant, ye ken. I aye think there
maun be something wrang wi' folk that's as pleasant as a' that--owre
sweet to be wholesome, like a frostit tattie! ... The maid's ca'ed Miss
Mawson. She speaks even on. The wumman's a fair clatter-vengeance, an' I
dinna ken the one-hauf she says. I think the puir thing's _defeecient_!"