THE MASTER OF ROSE HILL.
The following day, after I had presided at lunch, I set out with
great joy for Rose Hill, and spent a long afternoon among the books,
and though I had said, to quiet my scruples, that I would not go too
often, yet there did not seem a day of the days following that I
could bear to keep away. It changed all the face of my daily life
for me, to look forward to those quiet hours. As Mary O'Connor had
said, no one disturbed me. I went in by the garden and up the
rose-wreathed steps, and found the door standing invitingly open
every day. Then at four Mary would send me in a little tea-tray,
which I was usually glad enough to see after my climb up the hilly
road, and my rest among the books; and then after tea I would read
again till it was time to go home.
But after a good many days spent in sipping the honey of the books,
an eagerness came on me to arrange them in their shelves, so I asked
the pretty little English maid who brought my tea if she could fetch
me a duster and a feather-brush.
"Lawks, miss," she cried, "wotever for?"
"I'm going to arrange the books, Jane," said I. I never could bring
myself to call her "Jenkins", by which name she had been known in her
other situations, she told me, and Mary O'Connor was in sympathy with
me on this one point, though she could seldom be accused of
over-consideration to her subordinates.
"If I was in a place," Mary said, "and they called me 'O'Connor', I'd
ask them if it was a dog they were spakin' to, and take my box and
walk."
Jane was so perturbed by my desire for activity that she carried my
request to Mary herself, who came hurrying in.
"That omadhaun of a girl's after comin' to me with a story about your
wantin' a feather-whisk and a duster, Miss Hilda. I told her no
Brandon could want the like. They haven't got their hearin' right,
them cratures; often an' often when I do send them to turn out the
upper bedrooms, 'tis in the drawin'-room, where the painter-men are
workin', I'll find them. And then they'll say they didn't understand
me rightly. 'The shoe's on the wrong foot, my girl,' says I. 'If it
was myself didn't understand your outlandish up-and-down curlykews of
a way of spakin', there'd be nothin' wonderful in it'."
"But I do really want the feather-brush and duster, and a big apron,
if you will lend them to me, Mary. I do so want to get those books
in order."
"You'll be fallin' down an' breakin' your neck," said Mary doubtfully.
"I'll do nothing of the kind," I assured her. "I'll take my time
about it, and set up all the books by degrees. I shall love to do
it, and when the General comes home he'll think you and your
handmaidens have been so clever, Mary."
"You won't tire yourself, honey?"
"I'll leave off the minute I'm tired. I'll promise you that, Mary,"
cried I, all eagerness to begin.
So Mary brought me a big serviceable apron, and manufactured me a
mob-cap out of a piece of muslin, to keep my hair from the dust, and,
so protected, I began my labours. Mary had the remaining
packing-cases opened for me, so that I had all the books under my
hand. I said to myself that I was giving General MacNeill a _quid
pro quo_ for reading his books, but I really set out to arrange them
for the sheer pleasure the task gave me. It was slow work, but it
was quite delightful when one had got a comely shelf-full of them
together, to sit down and survey one's handiwork, and enjoy a
well-earned rest and recreation.
But between finding out the books and sorting them, and occasionally
altering the whole arrangement of them, things got on slowly. It was
nearing the month's end, and yet only one side of the library had
been done. I was beginning to grow hopeless about finishing the job
before the General should arrive and put a stop to my labours, but as
yet there was no word of his coming. I dreaded that coming, which
should shut me out of the library, and send me back to my former
loneliness.
I had gone over one afternoon, and entered by the garden as usual,
and, having donned my cap and apron, I was working away furiously at
an upper shelf. Suddenly I heard a cough behind me, and it startled
me so much that it was a mercy I didn't fall. But my lameness has
taught me caution, so I turned round very carefully and sat down on
the top step of the ladder to survey the intruder.
It was an old gentleman with a face the colour of mahogany and a
bristling white moustache--General MacNeill, of course. Neither of
us said anything for a minute, and then he coughed again, a short
sharp cough, exactly like a little bark. At the sound, Paudeen, who
had been eyeing him watchfully from the rug at the door on which he
lay every afternoon, responded with a bark which might have been an
echo.
The old fellow looked towards Paudeen irately, as if he suspected
mockery, then back at me.
"What is your name, my girl, and what are you doing with those
books?" he snapped.
"My name is Brandon, sir," said I meekly, "and I'm putting the books
in order."
"H'm! You'll be a strange kind of housemaid if you're able to do
that. Who put you to do it?--Mrs. O'Connor? Hey? What kind of a
fool is the woman to put you to such work?"
"If you please, sir," said I, "she didn't. I put myself to it."
"Hoity-toity! Is this how discipline is kept? How do you suppose
that plan would work in the army, young woman, if every man put
himself to whatever work he liked?"
"Badly," said I.
"Badly is the word," he said emphatically. "And now if you'll please
to step off that ladder I'll see what kind of hay you've been making
of my library."
I came down meekly and stood watching him, while he went up in my
place and began examining my shelves.
"H'm, h'm!" he said to himself. "Æschylus, Sophocles,
Euripides,--not so bad, by Jove! It must have been a chance shot her
sticking them side by side. H'm, h'm,--Horace, Catullus,
Pindar,--couldn't have done it better myself."
He came down with great agility and faced me, frowning.
"Now, look here," he said gruffly, "are you a classical housemaid?"
[Illustration: "NOW, LOOK HERE," HE SAID GRUFFLY, "ARE YOU A
CLASSICAL HOUSEMAID?"]
His tone was so aggressive that Paudeen got up from his rug and came
towards us, growling suspiciously.
"Be quiet, Paudeen," said I; and then answering my interlocutor: "No,
sir, I'm not classical; I've only gone by what I've heard."
"Where did my housekeeper pick you up? Do you belong to the
neighbourhood?"
"Yes, sir."
I was beginning to wonder with some alarm how I should own up to this
very irascible-looking old gentleman, when Mary O'Connor came in.
She held up her hands, standing behind him, in amazement. Then she
came forward.
"Shall I bring your tea here, sir?" she asked, evidently under the
impression that there was nothing to be explained. "I see Miss
Hilda's been tellin' you that I allowed her to read among your books.
I told her, sir, that I knew you'd make her kindly welcome."
"Miss what?" he thundered, so suddenly, that Mary jumped.
"Why, Miss Hilda Brandon, sir," she answered stiffly. "Miss Brandon,
of Brandon. Miss Esther lives with Lady O'Brien,--an' a kinder an'
sweeter young lady than Miss Hilda--There,--she's give herself no end
of trouble over them books."
The old fellow whisked off his skull-cap and made me a somewhat
chilly bow.
"You've been laughing at me, young lady," he said.
"Oh no, indeed, General MacNeill!" I said; "it was you that took me
for a housemaid, and I was just making up my mind to undeceive you."
"But you called me sir."
"Only homage from a young woman to a famous soldier," said I
cheerfully.
"Very well," he said, his grimness relaxing. "Punishment--you'll
have to pour out my tea, and afterwards explain to me what in thunder
set you to doing my servants' work."
"You said before that no servant could do it."
"You are right. Well, my librarian's work, if I had such a
functionary?"
"Love of it, General."
"And you'll give it up now?"
"I suppose so," said I regretfully.
"I don't see why. If you loved it before, you love it now, and I
sha'n't interfere with you. A battered old hulk like me in the house
needn't make much difference. There's plenty for me to do getting
other things into order without my hindering you. You'll come, hey?"
"Yes, I think I shall," said I.
"That's right. And now pour out the tea."
I grew quite to like General MacNeill that very first day, he was so
kind and gentle in looking after my wants, and then he took my little
Paudeen on his knee and fed him with dainty little bits, so that I
began to suspect an unusually kind heart under the gruff exterior.
"And so you are great friends with my old flame, Molly O'Brien?" he
said.
"Molly O'Brien!" repeated I, wondering.
"Lady O'Brien, then, if it pleases you better. Of course I forget
she's an old woman, and the pretty name sounds odd to a young
creature like you. All the same, Molly was a pretty girl as I
remember her, and the soft name just suited her--a pretty, pretty
girl."
"So I've often heard her say."
"I've no doubt you have," he answered with twinkling eyes. "And how
is my old friend keeping? I haven't seen her for some years."
"Very well, indeed, General. And she's a very pretty old woman, you
know."
"Aye, I suppose she is. Molly'll be in her grave before she gives up
her claims to be a belle."
"And very witty and sharp and kind and good," I added--"sharp-sweet,
like a wholesome fruit."
"Oh, the very old Molly!" he chuckled. "You've just hit it off,
young lady. Well, Molly and I were young together, and both
handsome, though you'll laugh in your sleeve at my saying so,"
bending a somewhat fierce gaze upon me; "and here we are now, two
lonely old hulks cast high and dry, side by side, to moulder to our
last end. Ah! I remember Molly fresh as a rose in the dew. She
should have had a girl of her own to be as pretty as she was!"
"She has my sister Esther, General, living with her now. Esther is
her god-daughter, and she's as pretty as a picture--not the least bit
in the world like me," I added hastily.
"Oh, indeed! I'm glad Molly's got a young girl to live with her.
And your sister's very pretty, and not the least bit in the world
like you. Well, well, we can't all be pretty," he said, with a
humorous glint in his eyes, which, now I noticed, were quite
startlingly blue for the eyes of an old man.
"The Brandons are all handsome and strong except me," said I.
"And you're good, I suppose?"
"No, but I'm supposed to have the brains," said I.
"And which would you rather have, brains or beauty?" he asked, with
great gravity.
"Beauty," said I, "of course. But brains are a great comfort too."
"Now, I'm glad to hear you say that," he said. "I'd have distrusted
you if you'd said you'd rather have brains. But how do you use them?
Are you cramming that little head of yours with a lot of knowledge
that'll never be any use to you--examinations, degrees, all that sort
of thing?"
"If I were I should be almost afraid to tell you," said I, "while you
frown at me like that."
"Never mind my frowns," said he. "They mean nothing. My bark's
worse than my bite. See, your little dog has found that out!"
I looked at Paudeen, who was sitting with a confiding paw in one of
the General's palms.
"Paudeen's a very wise dog," said I; "but I don't think it takes much
wisdom to discover that."
"You saw it with half an eye, hey?" he said, frowning more fiercely
than ever. "So you don't think I'm an ogre that'll eat you up.
Well, I'm glad, as you're going to arrange my books for me. Still,
some that should have known better took me at my angry word and went
away from me. What would you think, young lady, of one who had known
me all his life, and yet knew no better than to go when I said 'Go,
and let me see your face no more'?"
"If it was a 'he'," said I, "that makes it difficult. If it were a
'she', I should say she was a dunderhead. But in a matter between
two men, there come in questions of pride and dignity on which I am
not able to speak. I don't know enough about it."
"Well, well, we won't talk about it now. I am glad Molly O'Brien has
your sister, though. And now tell me about yourself. You have other
sisters? Why, I remember your grandmother, my dear. You favour her
rather."
"Not a bit," said I, with some scorn. "Aline is like her, I believe,
but more like grandpapa."
"Oh, Aline is another sister, I suppose?"
"Yes," said I, "our eldest, dear sister, who has mothered all of us."
And then I found myself telling him everything about ourselves, as if
I had known him for years. I told him even about dear Pierce, at
least till the sobs came up in my throat, and I was obliged to walk
away from the table, and keep silence for a few minutes to recover my
composure. When I came back to the table I found the General sitting
as straight as a ramrod, and stroking Paudeen with great gravity, and
so we passed on to less trying topics.
"But you didn't tell me," he said, "how you propose to use those
brains of yours. Brains are given to be used, young lady."
"Oh, not in passing exams.!" said I. "I am not clever enough for
that, I suppose. I am trying to write," I said, looking down at my
hands, for I am shy of betraying my literary aspirations.
"Write!" he echoed. "What kind of writing?"
"Oh, novels, poems, plays," I answered.
"Well, well. So you would be an authoress? Have you published
anything?"
"Nothing yet."
"Ever tried?"
"Not yet: I've burned reams."
"Ah! not easily satisfied. That's the right way to do good work.
Well, the pen has a mission too, young lady. You won't forget that?
You won't strive only after worldly honour and success? You won't
forget the Giver of the gift?"
I was not long in finding out that General MacNeill, like many
military and naval men, was very strongly and simply religious in his
character, and his religion entered into all his life, even to the
extent of holding his naturally fiery temper greatly in check.
Though, as he told me afterwards, the struggle between the flesh and
the spirit was an ever-continuing one. I could not have imagined him
without his peppery temper, and I have often thought that I could not
be so fond of him if he had quite succeeded in driving out the old
Adam. Still, he was one of those essentially manly men who are
always soft and gentle towards women, so that his greatest
irascibility towards myself had a touch of tenderness in it which
took out all the sting. Yet I could imagine that with a man the dear
old man might have been trying. He was dictatorial, when the flesh
rather than the spirit had the upper hand, and I could well believe
what Hawkins, his soldier servant, said of him, half regretfully:
"Ah, Miss, the master isn't the man he was before he found religion!
He never has none of the old rages now, and the langwidge he'd
scatter in them days was--well, it was lively. Sometimes I do feel
sorry for him tryin' to satisfy himself with 'dashes' and
'bloomin's', and often I've thought he'd do himself a mischief
through not havin' the old words to let himself go on. Not but what
he did change the face of the rig'mint before he left, an' a good
thing too. An' terrible down on langwidge he was. Why, 'e got rid
of the rig'mintal parrot because it wouldn't change its ways."
But all this belongs to a later stage, when I had learned to
appreciate and love the dear old General, and to bless the hour he
came to settle at Rose Hill.