The Miss Diroms were beginning to feel a little low; the country was more humdrum than they had expected. They had not been quite sure when they came to Scotland that there were not deer-forests on the Border. They had a lingering belief that the peasants wore the tartan. They had hoped for something feudal, some remnant of the Middle Ages.
But they found nothing of this sort they found a population which was not at all feudal, people who were friendly but not over respectful, unaccustomed to curtsy and disinclined to be patronized. They were thrown back upon themselves. As for the aspect of the great people, the Diroms were acquainted with much greater people, and thought little of the county magnates.
It was a providential suggestion which put that idea about the music under the cliff into the head of Doris. And as a garden party in September, in Scotland, even in the south, is a ticklish performance, and wants every kind of organization, the sisters were immediately plunged into business. There was this in its favour, that they had the power of tempering the calm of the Dumfriesshire aristocracy by visitors from the greater world at that time scattered over all Scotland, and open to variety wherever they could find it. Even of the Americans, for whom the young ladies had sighed, there were three or four easily attainable. And what with the story of Fair Helen and the little churchyard and the ballad, these visitors would be fully entertained.
Everything was in train, the invitations sent out and accepted, the house in full bustle of preparation, every one occupied and amused, when, to the astonishment of his family, Mr. Dirom arrived upon a visit.
“I thought I’d come and look you up,” he said. He was, as he himself described it, “in great force,” his white waistcoat ampler, his watch-chain heavier, himself more beaming than ever.
His arrival always made a difference in the house, and it was not perhaps an enjoyable difference. It introduced a certain anxiety—a new element. The kind and docile mother who on ordinary occasions was at everybody’s command, and with little resistance did what was told her, became all at once, in the shadow of her husband, a sort of silent authority. She was housekeeper no longer; she had to be consulted, and to give, or pretend to give, orders, which was a trouble to her, as well as to the usual rulers of the house. Nobody disliked it more than Mrs. Dirom herself, who had to pretend that the party was her own idea, and that she had superintended the invitations, in a way which was very painful to the poor lady’s rectitude and love of truth.
“You should have confined yourself to giving dinners,” her husband said—“as many dinners as you like. You’ve got a good cellar, or I’m mistaken, and plenty of handsome plate, and all that sort of thing. The dinners are the thing; men like ’em, and take my word for it, it’s the men’s opinions that tell. Females may think they have it their own way in society, but it’s the men’s opinion that tells.”
“You mean the males, I suppose,” said Doris. “Keep to one kind of word, papa.”
“Yes, Miss D., I mean the males—your superiors,” said Mr. Dirom, with first a stare at his critic and then a laugh. “I thought you might consider the word offensive; but if you don’t mind, neither do I.”
“Oh, what is the use of quarrelling about a word?” said the mother hastily. “We have had dinners. We have returned all that have been given us. That is all any one can expect us to do, George. Then the girls thought—for a little variety, to fill the house and amuse everybody——”