“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.”