Mrs. Julaper's Room
Sir Bale Mardykes being now established in his ancestral house, people
had time to form conclusions respecting him. It must be allowed he was
not popular. There was, perhaps, in his conduct something of the caprice
of contempt. At all events his temper and conduct were uncertain, and
his moods sometimes violent and insulting.
With respect to but one person was his conduct uniform, and that was
Philip Feltram. He was a sort of aide-de-camp near Sir Bale's person,
and chargeable with all the commissions and offices which could not be
suitably intrusted to a mere servant. But in many respects he was
treated worse than any servant of the Baronet's. Sir Bale swore at him,
and cursed him; laid the blame of everything that went wrong in house,
stable, or field upon his shoulders; railed at him, and used him, as
people said, worse than a dog.
Why did Feltram endure this contumelious life? What could he do but
endure it? was the answer. What was the power that induced strong
soldiers to put off their jackets and shirts, and present their hands to
be tied up, and tortured for hours, it might be, under the scourge, with
an air of ready volition? The moral coercion of despair; the result of
an unconscious calculation of chances which satisfies them that it is
ultimately better to do all that, bad as it is, than try the
alternative. These unconscious calculations are going on every day with
each of us, and the results embody themselves in our lives; and no one
knows that there has been a process and a balance struck, and that what
they see, and very likely blame, is by the fiat of an invisible but
quite irresistible power.
A man of spirit would rather break stones on the highway than eat that
bitter bread, was the burden of every man's song on Feltram's bondage.
But he was not so sure that even the stone-breaker's employment was open
to him, or that he could break stones well enough to retain it on a fair
trial. And he had other ideas of providing for himself, and a different
alternative in his mind.
Good-natured Mrs. Julaper, the old housekeeper at Mardykes Hall, was
kind to Feltram, as to all others who lay in her way and were in
affliction.
She was one of those good women whom Nature provides to receive the
burden of other people's secrets, as the reeds did long ago, only that
no chance wind could steal them away, and send them singing into strange
ears.
You may still see her snuggery in Mardykes Hall, though the
housekeeper's room is now in a different part of the house.
Mrs. Julaper's room was in the oldest quarter of that old house. It was
wainscoted, in black panels, up to the ceiling, which was stuccoed over
in the fanciful diagrams of James the First's time. Several dingy
portraits, banished from time to time from other statelier rooms, found
a temporary abode in this quiet spot, where they had come finally to
settle and drop out of remembrance. There is a lady in white satin and a
ruff; a gentleman whose legs have faded out of view, with a peaked
beard, and a hawk on his wrist. There is another in a black periwig lost
in the dark background, and with a steel cuirass, the gleam of which out
of the darkness strikes the eye, and a scarf is dimly discoverable
across it. This is that foolish Sir Guy Mardykes, who crossed the Border
and joined Dundee, and was shot through the temple at Killiecrankie and
whom more prudent and whiggish scions of the Mardykes family removed
forthwith from his place in the Hall, and found a retirement here, from
which he has not since emerged.
At the far end of this snug room is a second door, on opening which you
find yourself looking down upon the great kitchen, with a little balcony
before you, from which the housekeeper used to issue her commands to the
cook, and exercise a sovereign supervision.
There is a shelf on which Mrs Julaper had her Bible, her _Whole Duty of
Man_, and her _Pilgrim's Progress_; and, in a file beside them, her
books of housewifery, and among them volumes of MS. recipes,
cookery-books, and some too on surgery and medicine, as practised by the
Ladies Bountiful of the Elizabethan age, for which an antiquarian would
nowadays give an eye or a hand.
Gentle half-foolish Philip Feltram would tell the story of his wrongs,
and weep and wish he was dead; and kind Mrs. Julaper, who remembered him
a child, would comfort him with cold pie and cherry-brandy, or a cup of
coffee, or some little dainty.
"O, ma'am, I'm tired of my life. What's the good of living, if a poor
devil is never let alone, and called worse names than a dog? Would not
it be better, Mrs. Julaper, to be dead? Wouldn't it be better, ma'am? I
think so; I think it night and day. I'm always thinking the same thing.
I don't care, I'll just tell him what I think, and have it off my mind.
I'll tell him I can't live and bear it longer."
"There now, don't you be frettin'; but just sip this, and remember
you're not to judge a friend by a wry word. He does not mean it, not he.
They all had a rough side to their tongue now and again; but no one
minded that. I don't, nor you needn't, no more than other folk; for the
tongue, be it never so bitin', it can't draw blood, mind ye, and hard
words break no bones; and I'll make a cup o' tea--ye like a cup o'
tea--and we'll take a cup together, and ye'll chirp up a bit, and see
how pleasant and ruddy the sun shines on the lake this evening."
She was patting him gently on the shoulder, as she stood slim and stiff
in her dark silk by his chair, and her rosy little face smiled down on
him. She was, for an old woman, wonderfully pretty still. What a
delicate skin she must have had! The wrinkles were etched upon it with
so fine a needle, you scarcely could see them a little way off; and as
she smiled her cheeks looked fresh and smooth as two ruddy little
apples.
"Look out, I say," and she nodded towards the window, deep set in the
thick wall. "See how bright and soft everything looks in that pleasant
light; _that's_ better, child, than the finest picture man's hand ever
painted yet, and God gives it us for nothing; and how pretty Snakes
Island glows up in that light!"
The dejected man, hardly raising his head, followed with his eyes the
glance of the old woman, and looked mournfully through the window.
"That island troubles me, Mrs. Julaper."
"Everything troubles you, my poor goose-cap. I'll pull your lug for ye,
child, if ye be so dowly;" and with a mimic pluck the good-natured old
housekeeper pinched his ear and laughed.
"I'll go to the still-room now, where the water's boiling, and I'll make
a cup of tea; and if I find ye so dow when I come back, I'll throw it
all out o' the window, mind."
It was indeed a beautiful picture that Feltram saw in its deep frame of
old masonry. The near part of the lake was flushed all over with the low
western light; the more distant waters lay dark in the shadow of the
mountains; and against this shadow of purple the rocks on Snakes Island,
illuminated by the setting sun, started into sharp clear yellow.
But this beautiful view had no charm--at least, none powerful enough to
master the latent horror associated with its prettiest feature--for the
weak and dismal man who was looking at it; and being now alone, he rose
and leant on the window, and looked out, and then with a kind of shudder
clutching his hands together, and walking distractedly about the room.
Without his perceiving, while his back was turned, the housekeeper came
back; and seeing him walking in this distracted way, she thought to
herself, as he leant again upon the window:
"Well, it _is_ a burning shame to worrit any poor soul into that state.
Sir Bale was always down on someone or something, man or beast; there
always was something he hated, and could never let alone. It was not
pretty; it was his nature. Happen, poor fellow, he could not help it;
but so it was."
A maid came in and set the tea-things down; and Mrs. Julaper drew her
sad guest over by the arm, and made him sit down, and she said: "What
has a man to do, frettin' in that way? By Jen, I'm ashamed o' ye, Master
Philip! Ye like three lumps o' sugar, I think, and--look cheerful, ye
must!--a good deal o' cream?"
"You're so kind, Mrs. Julaper, you're so cheery. I feel quite
comfortable after awhile when I'm with you; I feel quite happy," and he
began to cry.
She understood him very well by this time and took no notice, but went
on chatting gaily, and made his tea as he liked it; and he dried his
tears hastily, thinking she had not observed.
So the clouds began to clear. This innocent fellow liked nothing better
than a cup of tea and a chat with gentle and cheery old Mrs. Julaper,
and a talk in which the shadowy old times which he remembered as a child
emerged into sunlight and lived again.
When he began to feel better, drawn into the kindly old times by the
tinkle of that harmless old woman's tongue, he said:
"I sometimes think I would not so much mind--I should not care so
much--if my spirits were not so depressed, and I so agitated. I suppose
I am not quite well."
"Well, tell me what's wrong, child, and it's odd but I have a recipe on
the shelf there that will do you good."
"It is not a matter of that sort I mean; though I'd rather have you than
any doctor, if I needed medicine, to prescribe for me."
Mrs. Julaper smiled in spite of herself, well pleased; for her skill in
pharmacy was a point on which the good lady prided herself, and was open
to flattery, which, without intending it, the simple fellow
administered.
"No, I'm well enough; I can't say I ever was better. It is only, ma'am,
that I have such dreams--you have no idea."
"There are dreams and dreams, my dear: there's some signifies no more
than the babble of the lake down there on the pebbles, and there's
others that has a meaning; there's dreams that is but vanity, and
there's dreams that is good, and dreams that is bad. Lady
Mardykes--heavens be her bed this day! that's his grandmother I
mean--was very sharp for reading dreams. Take another cup of tea. Dear
me! what a noise the crows keep aboon our heads, going home! and how
high they wing it!--that's a sure sign of fine weather. An' what do you
dream about? Tell me your dream, and I may show you it's a good one,
after all. For many a dream is ugly to see and ugly to tell, and a good
dream, with a happy meaning, for all that."