Miss Robina on her side expressed other views. She had a soft, slightly-indistinct voice, as if that proverbial butter that “would not melt in her mouth” was held there when she spoke.
“It’s a great vexation,” she said, in her placid way, “that we cannot look out at our own windows without being affronted with the sight of that hideous house. It’s just an offence: and a man’s house that is shameless—that will come to the window and take off his dram, and nod his head as if he were saying, Here’s to ye. It is just an offence,” Miss Robina said.
Miss Robina was the youngest. She was a large woman, soft and imperfectly laced, like a cushion badly stuffed and bulging here and there. Her hair was still yellow as it had been in her youth, but her complexion had not worn so well. Her features were large like her person. Miss Dempster was smaller and gray, which she considered much more distinguished than the yellow braids of her sister.
“It’s common to suppose Beenie dyes her hair; but I’m thankful to say nobody can doubt me,” she would say. “It was very bonny hair when we were young; but when the face gets old there’s something softening in the white. I would have everybody gray at our age; not that Beenie dyes—oh no. She never had that much thought.”
Miss Beenie was always in the foreground, taking up much more room than her sister, and able to be out in all weathers. But Miss Dempster, though rheumatic, and often confined to the house, was the real head of everything. It was she who took upon her chiefly the care of the manners of the young people, and especially of Effie Ogilvie, who was the foremost object of regard, inspection, and criticism to these ladies. They knew everything about her from her birth. She could not have a headache without their knowledge (though indeed she gave them little trouble in this respect, her headaches being few); and as for her wardrobe, even her new chemises (if the reader will not be shocked) had to be exhibited to the sisters, who had an exasperating way of investigating a hem, and inspecting the stitching, which, as they were partly made by Effie herself, made that young lady’s brow burn.
“But I approve of your trimmings,” Miss Dempster said; “none of your common cotton stuff. Take my word for it, a real lace is ten times thriftier. It will wear and wear—while that rubbish has to be thrown into the fire.”
“It was some we had in the house,” Mrs. Ogilvie said; “I could not let her buy thread lace for her underclothes.”
“Oh ay, it would be some of her mother’s,” and Miss Robina, with a nod and a tone which as good as said, “That accounts for it.” And this made Mrs. Ogilvie indignant too.
The Miss Dempsters had taken a great interest in Ronald Sutherland. They knew (of course) how it was that Mrs. Ogilvie so skilfully had baulked that young hero in his intentions, and they did not approve. The lady defended herself stoutly.
“An engagement at sixteen!” she cried, “and with a long-legged lad in a marching regiment, with not enough money to buy himself shoes.”