I
“Beef, sir,” said Mr. Bunkle, laying a slice caressingly upon Sir John’s plate, “cold roast-beef, sir, can be ate any’ow an’ anywhen, but sech beef as this ’ere is best took plain and ungarnished ... though I wun’t deny as a slice or so o’ b’iled-’am took therewith doan’t go oncommon well, t’other actin’ upon which an’ bringing out the flavour o’ both, sir, d’ye see! So shall us mak’ it beef-an’-’am, sir?”
“Assuredly!” answered Sir John, seating himself at the table.
“Sir ’Ector used t’ swear by my beef-an’-’am,’e did, but ’e doan’t tak’ ’is breakfast ’ere no more ... a changed man ’e be, sir.”
“How so, Mr. Bunkle?”
“Well, ain’t you noticed ’is wig, sir?”
“Not particularly.”
“’As it combed an’ curled reg’lar nowadays, ’e do ... sich a ’appy, careless gen’leman ’e used to be, but lately ... well, ’e was a-wearin’ ’is second-best coat yesterday! Ah, a changed man be Sir ’Ector.” And Mr. Bunkle nodded, winked and departed about his business.
His breakfast done, Sir John arose and, mindful of his promise to Herminia, took his hat and sallied forth for the matrimonial “prompting” of the devoted Sir Hector MacLean.
His reception was not propitious, for scarcely had he stepped across Sir Hector’s threshold than that gentleman’s voice hailed him reproachfully:
“Whisht, man—y’r boots!”
“What of ’em, Hector?”
“Ye’ve never s’muckle as wiped ’em, John! D’ye no’ ken wha’ yon mat’s for? Here’s Rose, sweet lass, slavin’ for an auld sojer-body’s comfort, here’s Wully Tamson workin’ himsel’ tae skin an’ bane—when her eye is upon him—an’ here’s ye’sel’, Johnnie, treading dust a’ aboot the floor! O man, hae a leetle conseederation!”
Sir John, having carefully wiped his boots under Sir Hector’s strict supervision, took occasion to glance round and behold the wonders achieved, for indeed chaos had given place to comfort and a dainty orderliness; it beamed and shone, it winked and twinkled in polished brass and silver, it stirred gently in the curtains at open lattice, it lay in the rugs upon raddled floor, it gleamed in the polished andirons on the spotless hearth, and breathed in fragrance from the bowl of flowers upon the mantel.
“’Tis marvellous what a woman can achieve, Hector!”
“Some women, John!”
“We be miserable creatures without ’em, Hector.”
“Aye, John, but woefu’ wretches wi’ ’em—generally.”
“Now, talking of Rose——”
“Man, she’s the exception! She’s like a beam o’ sunshine aboot the place ... sae neat, sae sweet ... an’ cook? Losh, Johnnie, she can roast or boil sae savoury ’twould mak’ a man wish he were a camel wi’ twa stomachs! An’ there’s Wully Tamson! Wully’s a changed man ... when fou, whilk is no’ vera often, he gangs aroond wi’oot his boots an’ sleeps i’ the woodshed. I’ fegs, Wully Tamson is——”
“But we are talking of Rose.”
“Aye, John, an’ ’tis a gey lucky man ye’ll be tae win sic a wife! She’s a walkin’ wonder!”
“Very true, Hector. And talking of wives, what of her aunt, the ... Mrs. Saunders?”
“Aye, an’ what o’ her, Johnnie?”
“Well, is it not reasonable to suppose that the so great virtues of the niece will be found intensified in the aunt?”
“An’ what then, John?”
“Why, then, seeing I woo the wondrous niece, why should not you woo the more wonderful aunt?”
Sir Hector very nearly dropped his cherished pipe.
“Me, is it?” he exclaimed—“me woo a wumman? Me—wi’ ane leg i’ the ... Losh, Johnnie man, are ye rin clean daft, whateffer?”
“She is a woman of refinement, Hector, and altogether charming, and as a wife——”
“Whisht, man, ye fair mak’ me blush!”
“And you, Hector, are none so ill-looking—‘when fresh shaved,’ and your wig combed and ironed. Thou’rt vigorous and strong as a bull——”
“Will ye no’ hae done, John!”
“And she a delightful creature with the very charmingest natural complexion and adorable eyes. You must ha’ noticed ’em when peeping at her.”
“Peeping!” gasped Sir Hector.
“Aye, over the wall.”
“John,” exclaimed Sir Hector, rising and drawing himself to his gigantic height, “I may, peradventure, have ... chanced to cast a—a neighbourly glance over the party-wall occasionally, but—peep, sir? I scorn the imputation!”
“But i’ faith, Hector, I vow she is well worth peeping at.”
“Sir,” quoth Sir Hector, reaching hat and cane—“sir, a MacLean never peeps!” Having said which, he clapped on his hat and stalked majestically away.