“Go away, go away, you taupies!” said Fleming; “go away to your wark;
what’s the use o’ a wheen women, girnin’ and greetin’ about the place?
It’s a’ I can to do to keep things gaun, saftly and steadily, for the
credit of the house, so long as my time lasts--without distraction from
you.”
“Whar’s Miss Marjory?” said the housemaid. “If you think it’s you we’re
wanting you’re far mistaken. Maister Fleming, it was ill done of you to
let her go away, and never to say a word. Eh, what changes in this house
since I came here! I’ve been here ten year come the term--”
“And me mair than that!” said Beenie, who was kitchenmaid under Mrs.
Simpson, and nearly as good a cook as her superior. “I mind her when she
was a bit lassie, and me no much mair myself. If any have reason to be
down-hearted about the family it’s me, that am the longest here, except
Mr. Fleming. Eh! but I’m wae no’ to have seen the last of her--as I’ve
seen the last o’ a’ the rest.”
“For guidsake, woman, dinna speak as if Miss Marjory was dead like the
rest!” cried another. They all stood round the door, gazing out after
the rumbling old carriage as it jolted along the drive. Mr. Charles had
turned from the door, and was visible in the distance, making towards
the side entrance into his beloved refuge. Marjory’s maid set up a
dismal cry at the sight of the departing vehicle. “Oh, my young leddy!
my bonny young leddy!” she cried. “I’m no so auld as some of you, but
that’s no my fault; and I’ve seen mair of Miss Marjory than the whole of
you put together. Eh! will I never see her mair? will she never come
back to this dreary house? We may get as good places, but there will
never be the like of her in Pitcomlie again.”
“Haud you your tongue, my woman!” said Fleming, patting her on the
shoulder. “If Miss Marjory had thought as much of you as you do of her,
she would have taken you with her. She’s no that ill left but what she
can keep her maid like any other leddy. Haud a’ your tongues--”
“What’s a’ this, Sirrs?” said Mrs. Simpson, suddenly appearing on the
field. “Miss Marjory? If Miss Marjory was gane twenty times o’er, is
that a reason for neglecting the wark? Wark maun be done, whoever goes
or stays. Death itself makes little difference. Mr. Fleming, it’s no
what I expected of you, to encourage those taupies in their idleness. Go
away to your wark, go away every one of you. I’ll speak to Miss
Marjory--Lord bless us! I’ll never mind that Miss Marjory’s nae longer
the mistress here. Now thae woman are gane, I’m free to say that it
makes a great difference to the place, Mr. Fleming. I’ve nothing to say
against English leddies; there are ower many of them in the country-side
for the like of us to find fault; but Mistress Chairles is no to my
taste--she’s no to my taste. I’ve learnt what it was to have leddies
over me that were grand at understanding, and I canna put up with a
whippersnapper like that.”
Fleming nodded his head in assent; he nodded so often that one of the
young maid-servants, lurking at a distance, had nearly betrayed herself
by laughter; but there was no merriment in his mind. “You’re in the
right of it there!” was all he said.
“It may be rather early to make up your mind what to do,” said Mrs.
Simpson; “and especially me as I have a kind of dependence upon Mr.
Chairles, that was the one, ye maybe ken that brought me here--”
“I’m leaving at the term,” said Fleming shortly.
“At the term?”
“Just that! I have sixpence here and sixpence there, laid out to
advantage. A man canna hear so much gude solid conversation as I’ve
heard at Pitcomlie table, without having his wits shairpened. I’m no
wanting to set up myself as mair clever than ordinary; but it’s weel
invested, weel invested. It would be a sin against my many mercies if I
did not acknowledge as much.”
“No doubt, no doubt!” said Mrs. Simpson, dazzled by this intimation, and
respectfully interested, as most people are in confidences respecting
money; “you’re so weel kent for a sensible man, that I can easy believe
that.”
“Yes, it’s weel invested,” said Fleming. “I’m no one to brag, but I’ve
had opportunities mair than most men can boast of, and I hope I’ve
profited. A nice quiet business now, either in the public line, or a
general merchant’s, might be very suitable to a man like me--that has
studied mankind a wee, and knows the world; but there’s mair than a man
wanted for setting up--there’s the wife.”
“Oh, ay, nae doubt ye’ll be thinking of a wife!” said Mrs. Simpson,
veiling under a smile of rustic raillery the palpitation of her matronly
bosom at this address. There is something in the aspect of a man who has
intentions, which betrays itself at once to the accustomed eye. Mrs.
Simpson recognized it by instinct, and she made violent efforts to
regain the utter unconsciousness which is the wisest attitude to be
maintained in such a case by every woman who respects herself. “You’ll
no be long a wanter when you have sic a story to tell,” she said; “and
nae doot ye have some bonnie lass in your eye.”
“Weel!” said Fleming, with that indescribable air of subdued yet
triumphant vanity which no woman ever mistakes, “maybe no just a lass;
nor maybe what you would call bonnie to them that looks but skin-deep;
but a real, honest, decent woman that knows the world--and that’s
better. I’m no just to call young nor bonnie mysel’; and if I maun speak
the truth, as is aye best, it’s just you, my woman--nobody but you.”
“Me! the man’s gane gyte!” said Mrs. Simpson, with admirable surprise.
She took him in from head to foot with one glance of her eye, and put
him into a mental balance, and weighed him in the course of one moment.
He was not young--nor yet bonnie; certainly not bonnie she allowed to
herself; but yet there was something to be said on his side of the
question.
“Na, no me,” said the old butler. “I’m but showing my sense. There’s
many a braw lad of my years, with guid prospects, excellent prospects,
and nae incumbrances, that would please his e’e with some bit gilflirt
o’ twenty, raither than satisfy his mind as I’m doing. Therefore, Betty
Simpson, my woman, if you’ve naething to say against it, there’s my
hand, I’ll ne’er beguile ye. As for the bairns, as there’s but two, and
them grown up, I’ll look over the bairns.”
“Lord bless the man, his head’s clean turned,” cried Mrs. Simpson. “Look
over the bairns! They’re nae sin that I should be excused for them. Na,
na. Naebody that’s no proud to have them--a callant that’s a credit to
a’ belonging to him, and as trig a lass of sixteen as ever steppit, and
extraordinary clever with her hands for her age--”
“I tell you I’ll look over them,” said Fleming. “I’ve nae incumbrances
mysel’; but since they’re there, and canna be made away wi’, I’ll put up
with them, my woman. Ye may take me or ye may leave me. I’m no forcing
ye one way or the other; but here I am, no an ill man, though I say it
that shouldna, and you’ll be a great fuil if ye dinna close the bargain.
That’s a’ I’ve got to say.”
“Ye’re but an auld haverel yourself to talk any such nonsense,” said the
housekeeper, beginning to melt. “But if I could be sure ye meant a’ ye
say----”
“A’, and mair, my deary,” said Fleming, advancing with antiquated
gallantry. “But it’s no the time nor the season,” he continued, making a
pause. “I’ll gi’e ye what proof ye like at a mair convenient moment. A’,
and mair.”
“If ye werena such an auld whillie-wha--” said the housekeeper; but she
finally withdrew, with a promise to turn it over in her mind. Fleming
was not tortured by any serious anxiety. He nodded his head when he was
left by himself with a satisfied smile. “That’s done!” he said to
himself decisively, and prepared to carry in the tray for the afternoon
tea, with sentiments of genial placidity and benevolence. These amiable
feelings, however, were doomed to be soon ruffled.
“Bring it here,” said Matilda, impetuously; “do you think I am going to
get up off my chair to go to the other end of the room? Wheel that table
up to the sofa and place it here.”
“The table will have to go back again, I’m thinking, Mistress Chairles,
when you’re done,” said Fleming. “It’s one that belongs to auld Mr.
Charles Heriot, no to the house.”
“Hold your tongue, Sir; I was not consulting you,” cried Matilda. “I
never heard a servant venture to talk so. You will please to recollect,
that sort of thing might do with Miss Heriot, but it will not do with
me. She might put up with it, but I shan’t. If you cannot be quiet and
respectful, you had better make up your mind to go at once.”
“I’ll do that, Mistress Chairles,” said Fleming. “You and me will never
’gree, I see weel. I’ve settled to leave at the term; but if it’s mair
agreeable to you to gie me board wages and so forth----”
“What do you mean by the term, as you call it?” said Matilda, beginning
to quake.
“It’s an awful pity when leddies do not understand the language o’ the
country they’re living in,” said Fleming, drily. “The term is
Whitsunday, Mistress Chairles, if you ken that. If no, I’ll bring ye the
date when I’ve lookit it up in the Almanack.”
“Leave the room, Sir, and go as soon as possible,” cried Matilda, in
wrath. It cannot be denied that the old butler of Pitcomlie was trying
as a servant to unaccustomed nerves and tempers. He drew the table she
had indicated, which was a heavy one, inlaid with marble, one of Mr.
Charles’s curiosities, with much trouble to the side of the sofa, and
arranged the tray very deliberately upon it. Then he walked slowly to
the fire and made it up, and for five minutes kept pottering about the
room, putting invisible trifles in order, and wearing Matilda’s temper
to a fierce and fine edge. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, go away!” she cried,
“and leave the house, you horrid impertinent---- Miss Marjory might put
up with you, but I shan’t. Send Mr. Charles Heriot to me directly. Go
and call him directly, do you hear, Sir? Will you go, or must I go
myself?” cried the impatient young woman, jumping up from her sofa.
“Ring the bell, Verna, ring the bell instantly! send for the old
gentleman. I suppose there are other servants in the house?”
“Oh, ay, Mrs. Chairles, plenty of servants,” said Fleming, making his
exit in a leisurely way, while the bell pealed through the house,
rousing all the maids.
“She’s fainted or something,” cried Mrs. Simpson. “She’s just the kind
o’ person to faint. Run you, Jenny, and get the English maid; and some
of ye flee with cauld water--and I’ll burn some feathers and come after
ye myself.”
“What’s the matter--what’s the matter?” said Mr. Charles, stumbling
through the women, who had crowded towards the drawing-room door, in the
pleasureable excitement of such an occurrence.
“It’s Mrs. Chairles that’s fainted. It’s the young leddy,” they all
murmured in tones of interest. Matilda, however, herself met him,
furious, on the threshold.
“Am I to have nothing but impudence?” she cried, “and people laughing at
me, and--and paying no attention to whatever I say? Is this my house or
is it not? I will not put up with it. I will pack them all out of the
house one after another. I will give them no characters; I will---- Oh,
you are all a set of barbarians!” cried Matilda, bursting into tears.
“Oh, if poor dear Charlie had been here, he would never, never have
allowed me to be used like this. And you--do you call yourself a
gentleman, and let them all insult me? Or perhaps you told them to do
it, because it is me, and not your niece that you are so fond of. Oh,
Verna, come and help me! Oh, isn’t there anybody? No man that is a
gentleman would stand and gape, and see me treated so!”
Mr. Charles did gape, there is no doubt. He was filled with the
profoundest consternation. In all his experience, such a thing had never
happened before. He did not understand the kind of creature thus
sobbing, raging, insulting everybody around her. He made a gulp to
swallow down his amazement, and waved his hand to the assembled
servants.
“Go away, go away,” he said. “Whisht--never mind--go away like good
creatures, like kind creatures. You see it’s a mistake, and you’re not
wanted. Mrs. Simpson, my good woman, there’s no need for your feathers
and your salts. Take them all away. There’s nothing wanted--nothing
wanted,” Mr. Charles repeated, closing the door upon the assistants.
It was rather terrible to confront the heroine of the scene himself; but
he had all a Scotchman’s terror of “exposure,” and shame of excitement,
and loud voices. At this moment, too, when the family was in such
trouble! Mr. Charles looked pale and limp as he closed the door behind
him, and faced, trembling, the clamouring newcomer, who made such claims
upon him. He kept his eye upon her, as he might have done upon some
unknown wild animal. And he cast a pitiful glance at Verna, who sat dumb
in his own particular corner--a fact which he did not omit to
note--working, as Mr. Charles described it afterwards, “at some
ridiculous woman’s work or other, and paying no more attention than if
it was not her concern.”
“Whisht, whisht!” said Mr. Charles; “don’t cry! It cannot be so bad as
you think. If anybody has done anything to disturb you, of course we’ll
put it all right--we’ll put it all right; don’t cry. Tell me what’s
happened, and no doubt we’ll be able to put it all right.”
“Oh! how can you ask me what’s happened--everything’s happened!” cried
Matilda. “There is not a servant in the house that does not insult us.
They say disagreeable things to Elvin; they hate the poor Ayah, though I
don’t mind that so much, for I want an opportunity to send her away. I
am sure they pinch poor Tommy when they have a chance, for the child’s
arms are black and blue. And as for me!” cried Matilda, rising into
renewed excitement; “it’s all because they think we’re interlopers, and
because the other Heriots, the old family, have gone and twisted their
minds. They think no more of me than if I was the dust below the feet of
that Marjory. Marjory, indeed! an old maid, as that old witch said, that
never had any right to be mistress--that was never anything but the old
gentleman’s daughter--”
“Hem--ahem!” Mr. Charles made a great sound of coughing; it was the only
thing he could do to drown all this, and to keep himself from getting
angry. (“I was very near getting into a passion,” he said afterwards; “I
was very near speaking sharp, as I would have been sorry to have
spoken.”) To prevent this, he coughed so much that Matilda’s voice was
drowned, and his own angry feelings cooled down.
“You will excuse my cough. I have got cold, it appears,” he said,
pleased with his own skill in having devised this expedient; and then,
when a momentary pause had been obtained, he added, “We’ll not discuss
Marjory, if you please. The servants here have been good kind of
creatures; faithful and honest, so far as I’ve seen. You must excuse
them if they feel the change. Some of them have been long here, and are
used to--to the old family, as you say. But if there’s been any real
insult, any disrespect, no doubt you have a right to my services; I
cannot think, however, that any one in this house has been guilty of
that. Miss Bassett--”
“Oh, don’t ask anything of me,” said Verna, turning her back. “She
chooses to manage her own affairs herself. I don’t mean to interfere.”
“Oh! you wicked, cruel girl!” cried Matilda, throwing herself, sobbing,
on the sofa. “Oh! why was I spared from the voyage, or from my
confinement--the one coming so close on the other? Why was I made to
live after my poor Charlie--my Charlie, that never would let any one
worry me? If he were here, none of you would dare--you would all be
trying which could be kindest--you would, every one! Oh! what shall I
ever do in this hard-hearted place? Why didn’t you take me and leave me
with Charlie, and be done with it, rather than kill me an inch at a
time, as you are doing now?”
Mr. Charles walked about the room in confusion and dismay, and heard a
great deal more of this, before he could get free to inquire into the
real causes of the fray. When he escaped at last, the confusion of his
mind was such that he stepped into the middle of Fleming’s tray full of
glasses for dinner, and broke several before he could pull himself up.
When the further perturbation and excitement consequent upon this crash
had been dispelled, and the pieces of broken glass carefully picked up
and disposed of, Mr. Charles, still tremulous, swallowed a glass of
sherry, and opened his mind to the old retainer of the house.
“Fleming,” he said, “we’ve had a great and blessed dispensation in our
ladies, in this house. They’ve been free of the follies of their kind in
a way that’s quite extraordinary to think of. But we must not expect
that we’re always to be so fortunate, or that Providence has just
singled us out, you know, for special favour. We must try and put up
with what’s sent, and do our duty to the best of our ability--”
“‘Deed, Mr. Chairles,” said Fleming, “I have nae doubt it’s real
important to you to be able to take that comfort to yoursel’, being one
of the family, and in a manner bound to do your best; but as for me, I’m
but a servant. I’ve served my forty year, which is long enough to gi’e
me the best of characters in ony place; and I’ve saved a pickle siller,
and invested it--by your advice, Sir, and that of ithers--in a very
advantageous manner; and if I’m ever to mairry a wife, and hae a
fireside of my ain, I have nae time to lose. I’m no saying but what
you’ll make a great hand o’t, and carry the leddies through and break
them in; but for me at my age to stand yon bit creature’s temper and her
ignorance, and haud my tongue and clip my words to please her--by
George! it’s what I’ll no do! And when I’m driven to sweer, Mr.
Chairles--”
“And, by George! I’ll not do it either!” said Mr. Charles, smiting his
lean thigh. He was so roused up and stimulated by this valiant
resolution, that he took another glass of sherry on the spot, a thing he
had not been known to do for years. “I wish ye joy of the wife, &c.,” he
said. “I’ll not follow your example in that; but why I should make
myself miserable and ridiculous, for an idiot of a strange woman, at my
time of life! By George! I’ll not do it, any more than you!”
END OF VOL. I.
* * * * *
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
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February 1887.
Tauchnitz Edition.
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