May: Volume 1 by Mrs. Oliphant - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXIII.

“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.