There were no inspectors to look after the workrooms of the dressmakers
in those days, but perhaps also, at least with mistresses like Miss
Jean, there was little need for them.
If the young women in the workroom had sometimes to work for a part of
the night it was only what at that time everybody was supposed to do in
their own affairs or in their masters’, when business was very urgent,
or _throng_ as was said in Scotland. The head of the house sat up too,
there were little indulgences accorded, and when the vigil was not too
much prolonged, there was a certain excitement about it which was not
unpleasing to the workwomen in the monotony of their calling. One of
these indulgences was that something was now and then read aloud to them
as they worked.
Miss Jean herself had ceased to do much in the ordinary conduct of
business. She gave her advice (which the workwomen now considered of the
old school and wanting in sympathy with advancing taste), and now and
then suggested a combination which was approved. But on the whole she
took a less and less active share in the work during the morning and
evening hours in which she was not wanted in the show-room to receive
the ladies who were her patronesses, or whom she patronized (according
to Kirsteen’s new arrangements), with whom the younger partner had no
desire to supplant her. And when Miss Jean resigned the needle and even
the scissors, and no longer felt it necessary to superintend a fitting
on, or invent a headdress, she developed another faculty which was of
the greatest use especially at moments of great pressure. She read
aloud--I will not assert that she had any of the arts of the
elocutionist, which were much esteemed in those days--but in a
straightforward, plain way, with her Scotch accent, to which of course
all the young women were accustomed, her reading was very distinct and
satisfactory.
She read in the first instance stories out of the _Ladies’ Museum_ and
kindred works, which were about as absurd as stories could be, but being
continued from week to week, kept up a certain interest among the girls
to know what happened to Ellen as an example of youthful indiscretion,
or Emily as a victim of parental cruelty. What a jump it was when Miss
Jean brought in with triumphant delight a book called _Waverley; or,
’Tis Sixty Years Since_, I can scarcely venture to describe. No doubt
the young women accustomed only to Ellen and Emily were a little
confused by the new and great magician with whom they were thus suddenly
brought face to face; but they were greatly stirred by the Highland
scenes and Fergus MacIvor’s castle, and the beautiful Flora, for and
against whom they immediately took sides, a certain party hoping against
hope that she would finally marry the hero, while the other faction
strongly supported the claims of Rose Bradwardine. The humours of the
tale scarcely penetrated perhaps those unaccustomed bosoms, and nothing
in it was so important to the imagination of the workwomen as this. Miss
Jean finished the book one night when all were working very late, the
night before a state ball. It was an unusually heavy night because of
Lady Chatty, now an acknowledged beauty and leader of fashion, who had
invented a new mode a day or two before; that is to say Kirsteen, who
was entirely devoted to her beautiful friend, had produced an effect by
the looping up of a train or the arrangement of a scarf which had
dazzled all beholders, and had become at once the object of a rage of
imitation such as sometimes occurs in the not uneventful annals of
fashion. So many ladies had argued and implored, adjuring Miss Jean by
all her gods, pointing out to her the urgent duty of not leaving a
client or countrywoman in the shade; of not crushing the hopes of a
young _débutante_, perhaps spoiling a great marriage or bringing about
some or other catastrophe, that the head of the establishment had been
melted, and had indiscreetly consented to execute more orders than it
was possible to do. Miss Jean had been very shy of meeting Kirsteen
after, and had confessed her indiscretion almost with tears, but her
young partner with no further remonstrance than a shake of her head had
accepted the responsibility. To do something miraculous is always a
pleasure in its way, and Kirsteen laid the circumstances before the
young women and inspired them with her own energy. She herself was up
the whole night never flagging, while the others managed it by relays,
snatching an hour or two of sleep, and returning to work again. They had
a tea-drinking at midnight, when the fine-flavoured tea which Miss Jean
herself affected was served to the workwomen all round, with dainty
cakes and cates, and, highest solace of all, Miss Jean herself sat up
and finished _Waverley_, at the risk of making a few needles rusty by
the dropping here and there of furtive tears. The excitement about Flora
MacIvor and the gentle Rose, and the keen disappointment of Flora’s
partisans who had all along hoped against hope that she would relent,
kept drowsiness at bay. This was not the chief point of interest in the
book perhaps, but those young women regarded it from that point of view.
I tell this chiefly as an illustration of the manner in which Miss Brown
and Kirsteen managed their affairs. But as a matter of fact Miss Jean
often read aloud when there was no such urgent call for it. She read the
newspapers to the girls when there was any news of interest. She had
read to them everything about Waterloo, and all the despatches and the
descriptions of the field, and anecdotes about the battle, as they came
out bit by bit in the small square newspaper of eight pages, which was
all that then represented the mighty _Times_. One of the young women
lost a brother in that battle. This made the little community feel that
all had something special to do with it, and brought tears into every
eye, and justified them in shaking all their heads over the cost of
blood by which the great victory had been achieved, even in the midst of
their enjoyment of the illuminations and all the stir and quickened life
of town at that great moment.
It was long after Waterloo, however, when the incident I am about to
record occurred. Years had passed, and the newspapers were no longer so
exciting as in those days of the Peninsula, when a fight or a victory
might be always looked for. War died out from among the items of news,
and the long calm, which ended only after the Great Exhibition of 1851
had made as people thought an end of all possibility of fighting, had
begun--people had ceased to be afraid of the newspaper, and the tidings
it might bring. It is true there was always fighting going on in India
more or less, little battles now and then, skirmishes, expeditions of
which the world did not know very much, but in which, without any
demonstration, a few brave lives would end from time to time, and hearts
break quietly at home, all to the increase and consideration of our
great Indian territory, and the greatness of Great Britain in that
empire upon which the sun never sets.
Some six years had passed from the time when Kirsteen came friendless to
London knowing nobody but Marg’ret’s sister. She was now a power in her
way, supreme in the house in Chapel Street, Mayfair, feared and courted
by many people who had once been sufficiently haughty to Miss Jean. At
twenty-six, when a young woman has gone through many vicissitudes of
actual life, when she has been forced into independence, and stood for
herself against the world, she is as mature as if she were twenty years
older, though in the still atmosphere of home twenty-six is very often
not much more than sixteen. Kirsteen had become in some ways very
mature. She had that habit of authority which was so well set forth long
ago by the man who described himself as saying to one “‘Go,’ and he
goeth, and to another ‘Come,’ and he cometh.” She had but to speak and
she was obeyed--partly from love, but partly also from fear: for
Kirsteen was not the laird of Drumcarro’s daughter for nothing, and she
was very prompt in her measures, and quite indisposed to tolerate
insubordination. And her young womanhood was so withdrawn from the usual
thoughts and projects of her age that Kirsteen had put on something of
the dignified manners of a person much older, although her fresh
youthful colour, the milk-white brow and throat, the ruddy hair all
curly with vigour and life, showed no premature fading, and her person,
which was always beautifully clothed, and fitted to perfection, had
improved in slenderness and grace. It was not that propositions of a
sentimental kind had been wanting. Lord John (but his name always
brought a blush of displeasure to Kirsteen’s cheek) had done his best to
find her at unguarded moments, to beguile her into talk, and to use all
the covert arts which were still supposed to be part of the
stock-in-trade of a young man of fashion, to attain her interest if not
her affection. What he intended perhaps the young man did not himself
know, perhaps only to attain the triumph of persuading a young woman
whom he admired to admire him. But Kirsteen considered that it was
through his means alone that the difficulties of her position were
really brought home to her, and the difference between a mantua-maker
exercising her craft, and a young lady of family at home, made apparent.
This was a mistake, for Lord John would have considered himself quite as
free to attempt a flirtation with Drumcarro’s daughter in Argyllshire as
in London, and with as little intention of any serious result, the
daughter of a poor laird however high in descent, being as entirely
below the level of the Duke’s son as the mantua-maker. But it gave a
keen edge to Kirsteen’s scorn of him, that she would have believed he
was ready to take advantage of her unprotected state.
Also there was Miss Jean’s friend the doctor, who would very willingly
have made a sensible matrimonial alliance with a young person getting on
so very well in the world--while Miss Jean’s nephew, he who had already
calculated how many years it would take him to reach the elevation of
Lord Mayor, worshipped in silence the divinity whom he durst no more
approach than he durst propose for one of the princesses, knowing well
that Miss Jean would bundle him indignantly out of doors at the merest
whisper of such a presumption. But none of these things touched
Kirsteen, nor would have done had they been much more attractive. “Will
ye wait for me till I come back?” was the whisper which was always in
her ears. And since the arrival of Robbie’s letter there had come a
certain solidity and reality to that visionary bond. A man who was so
near on the verge of return that in a year or two, “in two-three years”
he might be back, was almost as close as if he were coming
to-morrow--for what is next year but a big to-morrow to the faithful
soul? The only feeling that ever marred for a moment the anticipation in
Kirsteen’s mind was a fear that when he came he might be wounded a
little by this mantua-making episode. It vexed her to think that this
might be the case, and cast an occasional shadow upon her mind from
which she was glad to escape as from the sight of a ghost. He might not
like it--his mother, who was a proud woman, would not like it. Kirsteen
did not, if she could help it, think of this possibility, yet it crossed
her mind from time to time.
And in the meantime in those weary years, the fortune that was for
little Jeanie, and that which would make Ronald at ease even in his
half-pay when he came back, was quietly growing.
With such a business, the most fashionable in London, and customers
praying almost on their knees to be put on the lists of Misses Brown and
Kirsteen, how could it do otherwise than grow?
Kirsteen was twenty-six, the season was at its climax, the workroom very
_throng_ when Miss Jean came in one morning with the newspaper in her
hand. Her little air of satisfaction when there were news that would be
interesting to read was very well known. Miss Smith touched Miss
Robinson with her elbow saying, “Look at ’er,” and Miss Robinson
communicated to Miss Jones her conviction that there was something
stirring in the paper. Miss Jean came in and took her seat at the lower
end of the table with her back to the broad uncurtained window by which
all possible light was admitted. She liked to have the light falling
well upon her paper. “Now, my dears,” she said, “I am going to read
something to you--it’s very touching, it’s an account of a battle.”
“I thought all the battles were done,” said the forewoman who ventured
to speak on such occasions.
“Oh, yes, on the Continent, heaven be praised--but this is in India,”
said Miss Jean as if nobody could ever expect battles to be over there.
Kirsteen was at the other end of the table arranging some of the work.
She was working with the rapidity of an inventor, throwing a piece of
stuff into wonderful folds and plaitings of which no one could say what
the issue was to be. She knew herself what she intended: but even when
one knows what one means to do, the hand of genius itself has sometimes
a great deal of trouble before the meaning can be carried out. She
glanced up for a moment at the name of India, but only for a moment: for
indeed there was always fighting in India, yet nothing had happened to
any of those she cared for during all these years.
Miss Jean read out the details of the fight in her steady voice. It had
been intended for nothing more than a reconnaissance and it turned into
a battle which might have very important and momentous results. She read
about the swarms of a warlike tribe who had been engaged by the Sepoys
and a few British troops--and how well all had behaved--and how the
enemy had been driven back and completely routed and dispersed, and the
authority of the Company established over a large region. “Now,” said
Miss Jean looking up over her spectacles, “this is the interesting bit--
“‘The victory, however, was a costly one--the casualties among the
officers were unusually great. Out of nine actually engaged no less than
five brave fellows were left on the field dead or seriously wounded. One
young officer of the greatest promise who had led his battalion through
a great deal of hot work, and who was down for immediate promotion, is
among the number of the former. He was found lying struck through the
heart by a native weapon. A curious and affecting incident is recorded
of this unfortunate gentleman. After he had received his death-stroke he
must have found means of extracting a handkerchief from the breast of
his uniform, and lay when found holding this to his lips. The
handkerchief was extricated from his grasp with some difficulty and was
sent home to his mother, who no doubt will cherish it as a most precious
relic. It was slightly stained with the brave young fellow’s blood.’”
Miss Jean’s voice faltered as she read that the handkerchief had been
sent to the young man’s mother. “Poor leddy, poor leddy!” she said, “the
Lord help her in her trouble.” And little exclamations of pity and
emotion rose from various voices--but suddenly they were all stilled. No
one was aware how the consciousness first arose. By means of a
communication swiftly and silently conveyed from one to another, the
eyes of all were suddenly turned towards Kirsteen who, with the light
from the large window full upon her, sat surrounded by trails of the
beautiful silk which she had been manipulating. She had looked up, her
lips had dropped apart, her hands still holding the silk had fallen upon
her lap. Her face was without a trace of colour, her bosom still as if
she were no longer breathing. She looked like some one suddenly turned
into marble, the warm tint of her hair exaggerating, if that were
possible, the awful whiteness. They expected her every moment to fall
down, like something inanimate in which no life was.
But she did not do this--and nobody dared interfere, partly from fear of
this sudden catastrophe whatever it was, partly from fear of her. They
all sat not venturing to move, looking at her, ready to spring to her
assistance, not daring to take any step. After a moment, she drew a long
breath, then with a little start as of awakening raised her hands and
looked at them, all enveloped as they were in the silk. “What--was
I--doing?” she said. She moved her hands feebly, twisting the silk round
them more and more, then tore it off and flung it from her on the floor.
“I can’t remember what I was doing,” she said.
“Oh, my dear,” cried Miss Jean, coming towards her putting down the
paper, “never mind what you were doing--come to your own room.”
“Why should I come--to my own room? What’s there?” A gleam of
consciousness came over her colourless face. “It’s not there!--it cannot
be there!”
“Oh, my darling,” cried Miss Jean, “come away with me--come away, where
you can be quiet.”
Kirsteen looked up in her face with quick anger and impatient sarcasm.
“Why should I be quiet?” she said. “Have I nothing to do that I should
be quiet? That’s for idle folk. But read on, read on, Miss Jean. It’s a
bonny story--and there will be more?” Miss Jean retired again to her
seat, and all the workers bent over their work but not a needle moved.
Kirsteen picked up the silk again. She tried to restore it to its form,
plaiting and twisting with swift impatient movements now this way and
now that. All the young women watched her furtively, not losing a
movement she made. She twisted the silk about, trying apparently to
recover her own intention, pulling it here and there with impatient
twitches and murmurs of exasperation. Then she piled it all upon the
table in a sort of rage, throwing it out of her hands. “Go on, go on
with your paper,” she cried to Miss Jean, and took up a half made dress
from the table at which she began to stitch hurriedly, looking up every
moment to cry, “Go on, go on. Will ye go on?” At length Miss Jean,
exceedingly tremulous and miserable, began to read again in a broken
voice. Kirsteen stitched blindly for half an hour, then she rose
suddenly and left the room.