“Not so bad as that,” said the minister, “unless perhaps you are going back to feudal times. Money has always had its acknowledgment in modern society—and has paid for it sweetly.”
“We will give it no acknowledgment,” said the old lady. “We’re but little likely to be the better for their money.”
This conversation took place at a little dinner in Gilston House, convened, in fact, for the settlement of the question.
“That accounts for the difference of opinion,” said the doctor. “I’ll be a great deal the better for their money; and I’m not minding about the blood—so long as they’ll keep it cool with my prescriptions,” he added, with a laugh. He was a coarse man, as the Rosebank ladies knew, and what could you expect?
“There is one thing,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “that has a great effect upon me, and that is, that there are young people in the house. There are not many young people in the neighbourhood, which is a great disadvantage for Effie. It would be a fine thing for her to have some companions of her own age. But I would like to hear something more about the family. Can anybody tell me who she was? The man may be a parvenoo, but these sort of persons sometimes get very nice wives. There was a friend of my sister’s that married a person of the name of Dirom. And she was a Maitland: so there is no telling.”
“There are Maitlands and Maitlands,” said Miss Robina. “It’s a very good name: but our niece that is married in the north had a butler that was John Maitland. I said she should just call him John. But he did not like that. And then there was a joke that they would call him Lauderdale. But the man was just very much offended, and said the name was his own name, as much as if was a duke: in which, no doubt, he was right.”
“That’s the way with all Scots names,” said her sister. “There are Dempsters that I would not hire to wait at my table. We are not setting up to be better than our neighbours. I’m not standing on a name. But I would not encourage these mere monied folk to come into a quiet neighbourhood, and flaunt their big purses in our faces. They’ll spoil the servants, they’ll learn the common folk ill ways. That’s always what happens. Ye’ll see the very chickens will be dearer, and Nancy Miller at the shop will set up her saucy face, and tell ye they’re all ordered for Allonby; so they shall have no countenance from me.”
“There is something in that,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “but we have plenty of chickens of our own: I seldom need to buy. And then there is Effie to take into consideration. They will be giving balls and parties. I have Effie to think of. I am thinking I will have to go.”
“I hope Effie will keep them at a distance,” said Miss Robina. Effie heard this discussion without taking any part in it. She had no objection to balls and parties, and there was in her mind the vague excitement with which a girl always hears of possible companions of her own age.
What might be coming with them? new adventures, new experiences, eternal friendship perhaps—perhaps—who can tell what? Whether the mother was a Maitland or the father a parvenoo, as the ladies said, it mattered little to Effie. She had few companions, and her heart was all on the side of the new people with a thoughtlessness in respect to their antecedents which perhaps was culpable.