“The Lord preserve us from these greedy men!” said Miss Jean. “The water’s in his e’en over his friar’s chicken; which is as wasteful a dish and as extravagant as any I know. You must try to put up with my poor Jess’s plain roast and boiled. It will be a trial, no doubt; but I must go and give her her orders,” said the old lady, marching downstairs with her cane tapping on every step. She went to the kitchen, and stirred up the artist there, whose powers were anything but contemptible, by sarcastic descriptions of her nephew’s tastes. “You would think to hear him that nobody could dress a decent dish but yon woman at Pitcomlie,” Miss Jean said, artfully, “and he’s very great on fish, and thinks none of us know how to put a haddie on the table. It’s not pleasant for an honest woman like you that have been born among haddies, so to speak, Jess; but you must not mind what an epicure like that may say. For my part, I’m always very well pleased with your simple dishes.”
“Simple dishes! my certy!” said Jess to herself, when her mistress had withdrawn; and being thus pitted against her important rival at Pitcomlie, the cordon-bleu of the High Street went to work with such a will, that Mr. Charles was smitten with wonderment and humiliation.
“It is wonderful the talent that is hidden in out-of-the-way places,” he said afterwards, when describing this feast; and when you reflect that he did not know what sort of cook was awaiting him in St. Andrews, and did know that the good woman in George Square was good for nothing beyond an occasional chop, it may be supposed that his pretensions in presence of Miss Jean were considerably lessened. This gave Mr. Charles more thought than that other matter of the necessity of marrying Marjory. Now that Marjory belonged as it were to himself, forming indeed the very first of his conditions of existence, he did not see the necessity of any change. He said to himself, as her father had once said, “No husband would be so considerate of her as I am. She will never get so much of her own way again,” and felt that the suggestion that Marjory should be married was an impertinence especially offensive to himself. That could be dismissed, however, with little ceremony. It was a more serious matter about the cook.
Some weeks, however, elapsed before the removal to St. Andrews was effected, and in those weeks things went very badly with the household at Pitcomlie. Fleming, being further aggravated after Mr. Charles’s departure, decided upon leaving at once instead of waiting for the term, which had been his first intention.
“A man may argufy with a man,” he said, when he announced his final decision to Mrs. Simpson, “but to put up with a wheen woman is mair than I’m equal to. Stay you, my dear, if you think proper; but I’m auld enough to take my ain way, and I’ll no stay to be driven about by these new leddies. If it had been Miss Marjory, it would have been another kind of thing; but, by George, to put up with all their tantrums, me an auldish man, and used to my ain way and very little contradiction, and a man engaged to be married into the bargain! I’ll no do’t.”
This was a serious blow to the house. The footman, who had been thereupon elevated by Matilda to Fleming’s place, was elated by his advancement, and conducted himself towards the maids in a way which produced notice of resignation from several of the women. And Mrs. Simpson, when it came to her turn to bear, unsupported by her Fleming, the daily burden of the “new leddy’s” unsatisfactory manners, struck work too, and decided that it was not worth her while to struggle on even for the short time that remained.
“I’m weel aware, mem,” she said to Verna, who had attempted a private remonstrance, “that we should act, no as ithers act to us, but as we would that they should do. That’s awfu’ true; but I canna but think He would have made a difference Himself, if it had been put to Him, in the case of a servant. You see, naturally we look up to them that are above us for an example; we dinna set up to give them an example, which would be terrible conceited. And a woman like me, with a’ the care of the house on her head, and slaving over the fire, dressing dishes that I have no heart to touch by the time they come to me—Na, na! it’s no from the like of me that a Christian example should be expectit. And then you must mind it’s said in the Bible as weel, ‘I will be good to him that is good, and froward to him that is froward.’ I humbly hope I’m a Christian woman, but I canna go beyond Scripture. And what is a month’s wages to me? I’ve been long in good service, and I’ve put by some siller, and I dinna doubt but you’ve heard, mem, that though I’m no so young as I once was, I have—ither prospects; and ane that will no see me want. So as for the month’s wages, I’ve made mair sacrifices than that.”
“The money is not much,” said Verna; “but the character, Mrs. Simpson. My sister will be very much put out, and she forms very strong opinions, and she might say——”
“Your sister, mem!” the housekeeper answered in a blaze of passion; but then feeling her superiority, paused and controlled herself. “When Mistress Chairles is as well kent in the countryside as I am, it will be time to speak about characters,” she said. “Characters, Lord preserve us! am I like a young lass wanting a character? You’re a stranger, Miss Bassett, and a weel meaning young leddie, that has nae intention to give offence, I ken that; and I think no worse of you for judging according to your lights; but when it’s said that Mrs. Simpson, housekeeper for ten years at Pitcomlie, has left her situation, who do you think will stand most in need of an explanation—Mistress Chairles, or me? If I wanted a new place, it would not be to her I would come to recommend me. And as it happens,” said the housekeeper with modest pride, “I’m no wanting a new place; I’m going home to my ain house.”
“But, dear Mrs. Simpson, it will be so very, very inconvenient for us; what shall we do?” cried Verna, driven to her last standing-ground.